The panic registers immediately.
“You… you can’t do this. People will know I’m missing. I have contacts—I—”
“No, you don’t.” I raise his phone and give it a slow wave. “This? Already wiped. Factory reset and will be tossed into a shredder before breakfast tomorrow.”
His breathing shifts—shallow now.
“There are no cameras on this road. None on the one you came in from, either. You don’t exist here. Just a bad choice in the wrong place.” I lean in slightly, voice cooling. “Tell me—did you really think you could lay hands on a defenceless girl and walk away without consequence?”
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t need to.
The realisation is hitting home.
It’s been a long time since I had blood on my hands.
Too long.
I’d almost forgotten the way adrenaline sings through my veins—sharp and completely intoxicating. And if I’m honest, I’ve missed the buzz of it. I’ve missed the focus it brings.
But this one?
He’s a footnote. A consequence. Adam’s the one that matters.
Still, I take my time.
I reach for the mallet, fingers wrapping around the grip like reuniting with an old friend. I give it a casual swing, slow and deliberate, letting the weight settle, the threat speak for itself as I line it up just shy of his forehead.
“Please—don’t do this,” he stammers, voice cracking. “I won’t tell anyone I was here. I swear.”
Of course you won’t.
A dark bloom spreads across his crotch, soaking through the fabric.
He’s pissed himself.
Funny how the body cuts through bravado the moment it meets death face to face. But he doesn’t even get the chance to be afraid—a mercy he doesn’t deserve.
The mallet connects with a sickening crack, metal meeting bone in a way that reverberates up my arm and echoes off the cement walls. The chair skids sideways under the force, toppling him in a graceless sprawl.
I don’t stop.
Two more strikes—clinical, precise—until what’s left isn’t recognisable as a face. Just pulp and breathless silence.
He’s done. I turn to Adam but he’s still out cold, slouched in his restraints. I must have nailed the dart gun right in the sweet spot—lucky hit or muscle memory, it’s hard to tell. But he doesn’t get the luxury of dying in his sleep.
Either way, I’m not wasting the downtime.
I kneel beside his friend’s limp body, untie the slick ropes, and roll him into a heavy-duty body bag. The cell floor is already streaked with crimson and something greyer—bits of bone and brain matter. It’ll all come up. This room was built for this kind of cleanup.
Efficient. Contained. Forgettable.
Just like him.
I even have time to make a coffee.
One slow walk back upstairs. One methodical pour. The hiss of the kettle. The quiet hum of the house around me like nothing’s wrong.
