Page 116 of His Hell Girl

Going to his fireplace, he extends the metal into the fire, watching as it becomes hot, the material turning a deep red.

"You've officially completed your one hundredth kill, my little miracle. It's time to celebrate," he drawls, taking the hot poker and motioning me to show him my skin.

I don't even flinch as I tear down my neckline, grabbing onto my shirt and directing him to place it right in the middle of my chest.

With a satisfied smile, he does, his happiness only growing as the smell of burned flesh permeates the air.

As usual, there's a slight echo of pain, but I thrust it aside, focusing on this important day.

It's late when I made it back to the sleeping quarters.

Vanya is on her back, as usual, her stomach wounds still giving her trouble from the last experiment.

Weak.

I can't help it as my mind hones in on those words.

She's weak. Not worthy.

"V." I nod to her when she raises herself on her elbows to peer at me.

"You were gone a long time, brother," she says in that sweet voice of hers and for a moment I feel an unfamiliar—almost forgotten—pang in my chest.

"I won." I shrug, proudly showing her my brand.

She doesn't react as I expect her to. She barely glances at me as she gathers her knees to her chest, placing her cheek on top of them and sighing deeply.

I take a seat too, laying down on my side of the mattress.

"I'm scared, brother," she whispers, her voice barely audible.

Scared. Fear. Weakness.

"Why?" I ask mechanically.

"Change." She takes a deep breath, turning her eyes toward me. "Change is scary," she notes.

"It's not," I answer a little more aggressively than intended. "Being static is scary. Change is good," I point out.

"Until it's not…" she trails off, "Because it doesn't have to be a good change. It can also be a bad change."

"What are you getting at, Vanya?" I snap.

"You, brother. You're changing. And I don't know if I like it," she murmurs, her voice small as she looks away from me.

Without saying another word, she turns with her back to me, promptly ending the conversation.

I stare at the ceiling of our still dirty cell, counting the spots of mold as I listen to Vanya's even breath as she sleeps.

Change…

Maybe she has a point. There are some moments of lucidity where I ask myself what I'm doing. But then I'm once again embroiled in Miles' fascinating world of science, murder, and morbid curiosities.

And I let myself slip.

VLAD