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"Stop. That’s enough. Get cleaned up," I command, my voice echoing slightly in the sparsely furnished room. This place, reserved for the ones not quite adept enough with their hands, mouths, or other more intimate talents, is designed for pain—either giving or receiving. The beds are stark, clad in hospital-grade sheets, and the floors are bare, hard, and cold, stained with countless drops of blood.
I glance around, my gaze lingering on the door for a moment. Beyond it, rooms hold horrors that most can't fathom. But for me, the real terror has shifted—it’s no longer just the Pain Room. It’s Wolf’s bedroom that haunts my thoughts now.
The makeup on my face feels thick, plastered over every visible inch of skin to cover the bruises and the secrets beneath. My collars ride high, and my sleeves stretch long down my arms, hiding more than just flesh.
Lately, I've been taking the drugs Wolf pushes at me. It’s easier that way. Pain, after all, is only real when you're sober.
The girl in front of me is barely a woman, her body marked by shallow curves and a childish fullness in her cheeks. Once, curiosity got the better of me, and I dared ask Wolf if any of our "cargo" were minors. His response was a beer bottle hurled at my head.
She takes the towel I offer, dabbing at the blood on her stomach with shaky hands. Wolf’s voice suddenly bellows from his corner, a deep, grating sound that used to make me flinch. But not anymore. I stand still, unaffected, and I can feel his anger boiling over. It infuriates him that I no longer react, that I don’t show fear. He thrives on the fear of others, sees it as a tribute to his power. But my defiance seems like a personal affront, a challenge to his authority.
As I watch the girl clean herself, a part of me wonders just how much more of this life I can stand. How much longer can I wear this mask, dance to Wolf's twisted tunes? But then, what choice do I have? This isn't just about survival anymore. It's about revenge.
“I saved you,” he constantly reminds me, his voice dripping with a twisted sense of benevolence. I don't look at him, don't give him the satisfaction of seeing my response.
Wolf thumps on the wall twice with his fist, a signal I’ve become familiar with. A hidden door swings open, and two young women step out, their eyes wide, uncertain. “Not you,” he growls, pointing at the redhead who hesitates, then steps back. “Her.” His finger shifts to the other girl, one with brown hair, much like my own.
It’s a cruel tactic, a new game he’s devised. He’s been choosing girls that look like me, as if to replace or replicate me. A few days ago, it was a woman with warm brown eyes—eyes that mirrored mine before he had them blinded. His actions are a message, a warning of what he could do to me.
Now, in this stark room, he instructs the chosen girl to lie down beside the one still trembling from her own cuts. “Cut her,” he commands the bleeding girl.
“She hasn’t been trained yet to do it to others,” I intervene quietly, watching the new girl’s chest rise and fall rapidly with fear.
“That’s what I’m doing,” Wolf snaps back, dismissive, his patience wearing thin. I glance at him, taking in the signs of his recent indulgence. The dried blood inside his nostrils isn't from a fight—it’s from his latest binge on cocaine. The drug makes him even more unpredictable, less human.
Wolf barks at the girls, his voice sharp and unforgiving. "Do it!" he commands the bleeding girl, pointing at the one who looks like me. As she starts to cry, Wolf is upon her in a flash, his hand raised, striking her face repeatedly.
Without thinking, I lunge forward and grab his arm, stopping him mid-swing. Time seems to freeze as he turns his furious gaze on me. I know I've crossed a line. Panic seizes me, but my survival instincts kick in. With nowhere to run, I press my lips to his in a desperate act of diversion.
My heart races as I use every trick I've learned to keep his attention on me, giving the other girls a sliver of a chance to escape the room. It’s a grim dance, far from the violence of that day in the hallway, yet devoid of any real affection. My clothes take the brunt of his rough hands. He doesn’t bother undressing, only bends me over a bed and attacks me from behind. I moan at the right time, not wanting to anger him. As he pumps viciously into me, I tighten my eyes, and my moans are released through gritted teeth. When he slams into me and cries out his own release, I do the same, pretending that I’m not sore, pretending that I don’t feel like a disgusting creature. Instead, when he pulls out of me, I glance over my shoulder and offer him a sweet smile.
He smiles back and pulls me onto the closest bed that still has stains of blood beneath us. He doesn’t seem to notice.
As we lie side by side, Wolf kisses my hands gently, as if we are lovers basking in the afterglow. "You are so good at this," he murmurs, his voice soft.
"Only with you," I reply, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. I say what he wants to hear, inflating his ego, making him feel revered. It's a dangerous game, but it's one that keeps me marginally safer.
Lying there, Wolf's expression turns distant as he stares at the ceiling, lost in memories. He begins to speak of his father, how he was brutally killed, his bones broken long before his death. "Andrew O’Sullivan was a King in the order," he says, his voice tinged with a mix of reverence and pain. "They should have torn the world apart to find his killer."
"And they haven’t," Wolf muses aloud, his voice turning cold. "That means the command had to come from the top. From Victor." His words hang in the air, a dangerous implication that could seal our fates.
This is insane, I think to myself. As much as I try to play my cards right to stay alive, speaking ill of Victor Madigan isn't just dangerous—it's a death sentence for anyone who hears it and doesn't report it. With every word, Wolf draws us closer to the edge.
He's going to get us both killed.
Desperate to shift his thoughts, I lean in to distract him with my body once more, but he kisses me back fiercely, a wild light burning in his eyes. "No, I have a better idea for fun," he says, his grip tightening around me.
Dread pools in my stomach as he leads me from the room. I don't need to ask where we're headed; the destination is clear and filled with dark memories. We're going to see my mother, to the room that reeks of death despite the life-preserving fluids dripping into her veins.
"My enemies are still out of reach, but we can have fun with yours," Wolf snarls as we approach the door.
Only, it isn't fun. Not anymore, if it ever was. I still hate my mother, perhaps more than anyone else in the world. The bitterness toward my parents festers deep within me—they deserve every torment they encounter, or so I've told myself.
But seeing her like this, used as a pawn in Wolf's cruel games, stirs something unexpected in me—a flicker of conflict, a question of whether anyone truly deserves this kind of hell.
As I stand at the threshold of the room, the stench of despair and decay hits me like a physical blow. Inside, my mother is barely recognizable—her speech reduced to garbled cries and screams, her condition worsened by the constant torture Wolf inflicts using a cocktail of hallucinogens and stimulants. Her face, no longer pale but tinged yellow with jaundice, contorts unnaturally. Her movements are more akin to a wounded animal than a human.
As Wolf revels in his cruelty, I watch, detached, aware that any plea for mercy would only redirect his wrath toward me. Instead, I bide my time. He has consumed a lot of drugs today, and I wait until they claim him.
