Page 83 of Ghosted

Like he knows he just ruined me and wants a front-row seat for the fucking fallout.

“Aw come on, little brother.”

I don’t look.

I fucking don’t.

The guy in front of me throws another punch, sloppy and wide. I catch it this time, twist his wrist, and shove him back hard enough that he stumbles. I’m about to follow when Johnny’s hand slips into his jacket and something white flashes between his fingers.

Two photos.

Glossy and fresh.

My whole body locks.

No.

Not here.

Not in front of him.

Not where that sick fuck gets to watch me see it.

Johnny presses them against the chain-link.

“Just look at her,” he says softly.

The world narrows.

Red light. Silver chains. Alice.

My fucking Alice.

In the first photo, she’s hanging from the ceiling fixture by her wrists, hair a mess, face flushed, tights torn open, her body caught under that ugly darkroom glow like Johnny staged her there just so I’d know exactly where my hands weren’t.

The second photo is worse.

Closer.

Crueler.

Not her face this time. Not the chains. Just the intimate proof of what he did to her. What he left behind. What he wanted me to see.

My stomach turns so hard it almost takes me with it.

For one second, there’s no warehouse. No crowd. No opponent breathing hard in front of me. No cage under my feet.

Just proof.

His proof.

The sick fuck didn’t just touch her.

He made evidence.

Johnny’s voice cuts through the noise, calm and amused and so fucking proud of himself I want to rip his tongue out through the fence.

“Pretty, isn’t she? Strong one, too. I’ll give her that.”