"And yet," Reaper continues, "she's standing while you're tied to a chair. Interesting how things work out."
"I tell you nothing," she hisses. "You think you scare me? I work for people who would make you piss yourself."
Reaper smiles, and it's the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. "Let's test that theory."
He moves with the calculated precision of someone who has done this before. Too many times. He pulls on a pair of black leather gloves, the soft leather creaking as he flexes his fingers.
"You have information we need," he tells Naomi, his voice eerily calm. "The faster you provide it, the easier this goes for you."
Naomi's eyes dart to me, then back to him. "I don’t know what she told you, but she’s wrong. Stupid girl. She doesn’t know anything and neither do I!"
"That's where you're wrong," Reaper says. "She knows plenty. And so do we. We know about Charles. We know about the warehouse by the railway. We know about the shipments from Eastern Europe."
Fear flickers across Naomi's face before she masks it with defiance. "Then what do you need me for? Kill me and get it over with."
"We know the outline," Reaper continues, ignoring her question as he selects a knife from a table that I hadn't noticed before. "What we need are the details. Names. Contacts. The entire network."
He tests the blade against his thumb, and I flinch at the casual display of what's to come.
"Last chance to cooperate," he says.
Naomi spits again, this time aiming for his boots. "Fuck you."
Reaper's expression doesn't change as he moves toward her. "Your choice."
What happens next unfolds with a methodical horror that makes my stomach turn. He doesn't start with the knife as I expected. Instead, he begins with questions—specific, targeted questions about names, locations, contacts—punctuating each refusal with a small but precise act of pain.
A finger bent back just to the breaking point. Pressure applied to nerve clusters I didn't know existed. The flat of the blade pressed against her skin, not cutting, just threatening.
Naomi's defiance crumbles faster than I expected. She begins answering, names and locations spilling from her lips between sobs and pleas.
"The Chicago connection—who runs it?" Reaper asks, his voice still unnervingly calm.
"Charles's nephew. He handles all midwest distribution."
"The buyers at the auction. Were they regulars or new clients?"
"Mix. Some regulars. Some new. Rich men from all over who pay premium for young girls."
I feel bile rising in my throat as she continues, describing the operation with the detached practicality of someone discussing a legitimate business. Girls categorized by age, appearance, virginity status. Price points. Special requests.
"She was bottom tier," Naomi says, nodding toward me with contempt despite her situation. "Too old. Too damaged. Not obedient."
Something in me snaps at her words. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. I can't breathe. Can't watch thiscontinue, even though part of me—a dark, vengeful part I don't want to recognize—wants to see her suffer more.
"I need air," I manage to say, turning toward the door.
Reaper glances at me, something like concern flickering across his face, but he doesn't stop me as I push past the guards outside and gulp in the cool evening air.
I make it several yards before my legs give out and I sink to my knees in the dirt, retching though there's little in my stomach to expel. Tears burn my eyes. Not for Naomi, but for myself, for what I've become. For wanting to hurt her the way she hurt us.
I don't know how long I kneel there, shaking, before I sense a presence behind me. I don't need to look to know it's him.
"You shouldn't have come out alone," Reaper says, his voice gentler than I've heard it before. "The compound is secure, but still."
"Is she—" I can't finish the question.
"Alive. Talking. She'll face justice, Evelyn. Not just ours."
