CHAPTER 188: HER JUSTICE, MY VENGEANCE [II]

Anya worked with the detached efficiency of a mortician preparing a corpse for viewing. She wiped away the blood without meeting his eyes, the cool cloth dragging over raw skin, then cleaned the wound with careful, deliberate swipes.

"Hold still," she murmured, her tone almost polite. "If you move, the coverage will look uneven."

The man flinched at her touch anyway, breath ragged. She ignored him, unscrewing a small concealer pot and dabbing over the cut. The color matched perfectly. In the dim light, the injury all but vanished, replaced by an eerily pristine cheek that looked as if nothing had happened.

I stepped closer, my shadow falling over him. His gaze darted to me, confusion creeping in alongside fear.

Cam gestured to another man, who brought over a camera on a tripod. He set it up with meticulous care, the tripod legs clicking into place, the lens facing directly at the prisoner. A faint red light blinked to life.

I didn’t speak right away. Instead, I reached down and adjusted the man’s chin, forcing it toward the lens. His skin was clammy beneath my fingers.

"Better," I murmured, as if approving a portrait setup.

For a moment, I just let the silence breathe—heavy, stretching, broken only by the faint hum of the camera. The red light blinked again. And again.

"The camera is rolling." Cam said.

"Look into the lens. Imagine it’s her. Now... apologize."

The man’s jaw flexed. A muscle jumped in his cheek. Then he bared his teeth in something between a grin and a snarl.

"I ain’t apologizing for shit."

The words hung in the air like a lit match over dry kindling.

No one spoke. No one moved.Even Cam, who’d been leaning lazily against a crate, straightened a little.

I kept my eyes on him, my face a mask of quiet consideration, as if I were weighing whether I’d heard him correctly.

Cam scoffs. "Why you trying to rush your death, dude?" His tone is almost amused, as if this was the most obvious move the prisoner could make.

Then, without a word, I reached forward, gripped the armrest of his chair, and leaned in until our foreheads were almost touching. He could smell my cologne, my breath, the faint metallic tang still clinging to me from the blade.

"You’re certain," I said softly. It wasn’t a question—it was an invitation to reconsider.

The man’s eyes flickered, searching my face for a flicker of doubt, a sign that I was bluffing. There was none. My gaze was steady, unwavering, filled with a glacial impatience.

I straightened up, a subtle shift in posture that nonetheless broadcast a finality. My hand, still holding the razor-sharp blade, dropped casually to my side. For a long moment, I simply stood there, my breathing even, while the man’s own breaths grew shallow and quick, his eyes darting from my face to the knife.

Then, slowly, deliberately, I raised the blade again. Not to his cheek this time, or his throat. My gaze was fixed on his left ear.

He hadn’t seen it coming. His eyes widened, a fresh wave of terror washing over him, but it was too late.

The blade moved with surgical precision. Not a hack, not a tear, but a clean, swift cut. The tip of his ear, the lobe, detached with a soft snick

that was horrifyingly audible in the silence. It fell, a small, fleshy crescent, onto his lap, followed immediately by a gush of dark blood.

The man didn’t scream immediately. He gasped, a guttural, choked sound, his eyes locked on the severed piece of himself, then on the blood blooming on his trousers. The shock held him mute for a second.

Then the pain hit, a blazing, agonizing fire that ripped through him. He threw his head back, letting out a shriek that was pure, animalistic agony, raw and desperate. His body convulsed against the restraints, his chair scraping loudly on the concrete.

Anya stepped forward, unfazed, with a fresh cloth.

"Tip your head toward me," she said softly, as though coaxing a reluctant child.

He tried to jerk away, but the straps held him in place. She pressed the cloth to the wound, firm enough to staunch the bleeding, her other hand steadying his jaw. The man whimpered at the contact, his breath hitching with each pulse of pain.

"This will sting," she murmured, soaking another pad with antiseptic. "But it’s important you look presentable."

The liquid touched raw flesh, and he hissed, teeth bared, eyes watering. She worked with detached efficiency—wiping, blotting, dabbing—until the blood slowed. Then came the concealer again, a careful sweep of beige over the angry red.

When she stepped back, the injury was still there, but muted, tamed, almost civilized. Anya’s gaze flicked to me for approval, and I gave her the faintest nod.

"Apologize."

"I... I’m sorry."

"For what?"

"For... for what happened."

I sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. "That’s an apology for being caught. Try again."

"I’m sorry for... touching her," he stammered, his voice cracking.

"No, you’re not," I said calmly. "You’re sorry you’re tied to this chair. You’re sorry I’m standing here. Your regret is selfish. She deserves better."

I stepped forward again and took his left hand, which was strapped firmly to the armrest. He tried to pull it back, a useless, panicked reflex. I ignored it, placing the tip of the blade against the nail of his index finger.

"What did you touch her with?" I asked softly. "Was it this hand?"

He started sobbing now, a pathetic, wet sound. "Please... please don’t."

The other man, the one with black hair, started whimpering across from him, his eyes squeezed shut as if that could make it all disappear.

"Adrien..." Cam’s voice was a low warning from behind me.

I didn’t turn.

I pressed the blade down. Not fast. Slowly. I pushed it under the nail, into the soft, sensitive quick. He let out a shriek that was nothing human, a raw nerve screaming into the vast emptiness of the warehouse. His body convulsed against the restraints, his head thrashing from side to side.

I pulled the knife out, the movement clean and precise. Blood welled instantly, thick and dark, dripping onto the concrete floor.

"Let’s try this one more time," I said, stepping back into the camera’s line of sight. "Feel that? Think about all this stings you are feeling─ compared to her’s. And then, you fucking apologize."

His head was bowed, his body trembling uncontrollably. Tears and snot streamed down his face, ruining Anya’s careful work. He lifted his head, his eyes blown wide with agony and terror, and stared into the lens.

"Miss Isabella," he gasped, the name ripping from his throat. "I am so sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I touched you. I’m sorry I scared you. We shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have... Please..." His voice broke completely, dissolving into a wretched, guttural sob. It was genuine now. Raw. Stripped of everything but the pure, animal terror of understanding.

"Good," I said softly. The man with the camera nodded, and the red light went out.

I wiped the bloody blade on the man’s own shirt, the crimson smear a stark contrast to the sterile environment. I gave the knife to gray and turned my attention to the second man.

He was a sculpture of terror. His face was chalk-white, his body rigid, and his eyes were locked on his partner’s bleeding hand and ears.

I walked over to him. He flinched so violently the chair rattled on the concrete.

"Now, you," I said, my voice gentle. "You saw how that went. Let’s see if you can be a faster learner." I looked at cam. "Bring the camera over here. And Anya? You’ll have to do that one’s makeup all over again. He’s ruined the first take."