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I strain my ears but hear nothing. He clicks his tongue, an annoyed hint in the sound. “No sense of hearing,” he mutters before continuing further into the warehouse.
My confusion mounts as I jog to keep up with him, wondering what he heard that I couldn’t. We make our way over to a room in the back of the warehouse. He pushes the door open, motions for me to follow, and goes in. As I enter, he flips on the light, and I see a man I don’t know, tied to a chair.
“What the fuck?” I mumble as the stranger blinks awake, his scream muffled by the gag tied around his head.
My killer shuts off the flashlight and goes over to the desk nearby, its top cluttered with sharp instruments caked with rust. I cock my head as I step closer—and realize those aren’t just your typical tools you’d find in a normal garage.
This is no ordinary warehouse, I think, the sobering reality crashing into me all at once.It’s a goddamn torture chamber!
“This sketchy little fuck is Colton Avender, freelance photographer for the Fallbank Chronicle,” he says, taking one instrument from the desk.
My heart races as I slowly back away, my breathing growing shallow. But before I can make a move for the door, he grabs me by the arm and pulls me close, his grip unyielding. The mask is expressionless, eyes empty and black like the void as he stares at me.
“Help!” Colton yells through the gag. His eyes are bloodshot and wide with terror.
“Don’t even think about running away,” my killer says, his low voice a warning. “You won’t make it out alive if you try.”
I’m trembling now, my mind spinning as I try to make sense of this horrifying situation. Colton pleads, but my killer ignores his cries and goes over to him.
“Colton here has a particular hobby,” he says, kneeling to grab one of Colton’s fingers. “One that you should be quite familiar with.” He breaks the finger with a loud snap, making Colton howl in agony.
A bead of sweat forms on my forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say as calmly as possible, not daring to make a move.
“He’s the one, you know.” He positions the pliers—and rips the nail from Colton’s digit. Tears and snot stream down his face as he wails, blood flowing from the wound. “That’s five.”
I clench my fists, confusion transforming into anger. “Stop it with the cryptic bullshit and tell me what the hell is going on here!”
He huffs like a parent frustrated their child doesn’t understand such a simple concept, and strides over to the desk. Opening one of the boxes, he pulls something out and shows it to me. As I take in what he’s presented to me, my mouth falls open, my stomach bottoming out as things fall into place.
“He’s your stalker,” he states, showing me the pale imitation of my father’s mask—the same one I saw that night in front of the apartment building. “He’s the one who left you the rose, the threatening notes. Destroyed your things.”
“As if what you do is any better,” I snap.
He shrugs, unfazed. “I’m just doing what needs to be done. Someone has to make sure he doesn’t bother you anymore. That’s where I come in. He won’t be able to hurt you again—not if he wants to stay alive.” He unsheathes his knife, the blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. “So, the question is, do we let him off easy?” He forces the weapon into my hands. “Or do we make him pay for all the pain he’s caused?”
I stare at him, my brows knitting in bewilderment. Is he testing me? I didn’t expect to walk in here and be offered revenge on a platter. But now that it’s presented to me, I can feel it bubbling underneath the surface.
After a few tense moments of contemplation, he says, “This guy has quite the history of stalking and being a creep to women.” That gets my attention. “Oh, don’t you know? You’re not the only one who’s experienced his twisted affection. At least you didn’t end up six feet under like some of the others.”
Malice and hatred boil within me. I draw a steadying breath, trying to control the tide of fury that threatens to overtake me. “What do you suggest we do?” I ask, my knuckles turning white as I grip the handle of the knife.
He snakes an arm around my waist, while the other tightens against my hand, keeping my grasp firm on the hilt. “I think it’s time someone put a stop to it.”
Colton squirms, trying to escape his bindings. I step forward, giving him a bitter smile. He gulps, the fear in his eyes palpable. I untie the gag and tear it from his mouth.
“Oh my God! W-what the fuck are you gonna do to me?!” he babbles, probably pissing himself.
“I’m here to make sure justice is served,” I say, feeling myself slip into a haze.
“Fuck you,” he snarls, spitting blood at me.
Crimson tinges the edges of my vision. My killer appears behind me, guiding the knife forward. I press the tip into Colton’s throat. Then push it more, indenting his flesh painfully slow. I pause to watch him. He’s pale. Shaking. Terror clouds his gaze.
I feel powerful.
“Any last words?” I ask him.
Colton shakes his head, a sob escaping his throat. As I lift the blade, a flash in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I crane my neck to see what it is—and there, in the shadows, I see him. My stepfather stands there, his eyes narrowed in disgust, a can of beer in his hand. He comes closer, his features clear as day underneath the flickering bulb. My heart leaps into my throat, his gaze never leaving mine as I lower the knife.
