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“She loved me once as well.” I go still at his words. “She said it and meant it. Whatever she has told you.”

I slash the paper across his face and tilt my head, watching as the little beads of blood bubble on his skin while he hisses.

“She did love you,” I say, taking a seat on the chair opposite him. “I believe that. She would not have stayed as long as she did if she didn’t—she isn’t one to say something she doesn’t mean. But here’s the thing,” I say, picking up a bottle of homemade vodka. “I know a lot about love. I have been in love my entire life with various things, including but not limited to: sugar, and a certain marker pen—it just glides across the page, and it was my favorite when I was a kid. But love doesn’t make someone yours. It’s not ownership, and it doesn’t mean when they leave it’s wrong—I just learned that one. You probably think you loved her too. That’s the part I believe the least, but I’m going to give it to you, and look at what you did with it.”

He says nothing as I lean forward.

“The forearm, good surface area,” I quip.

“You think she is going to stay with you,” he says in a calm voice. “You know what you are and what happens when⁠—”

“I do know what I am. I have a very detailed understanding and lots of time to think about it—more time than most people.” I look at him and smirk. “She also knows, and still she chooses to stay. Does it hurt knowing that she loves who I am, but she ran away from you?”

I slash the paper across his arm again, and he doesn’t react. “You put her in a fucking box in the ground, and she still made it out. So if I were you, I wouldn’t be talking about what she will or won’t do. Because you clearly don’t know her as well as you think you do.”

I laugh when his face drops. He didn’t know Kayla made it out alive, and the look on his face is so worth it. She is alive, but he won’t be by the time I’m done with him. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, his mask is back in place.

I work in silence for a few minutes, slicing more lines up his arm. I ran out of room on his other one. Thankfully, the human body has a lot of surface area.

“You said you didn’t want him to die of an infection,” Cipher mentions from the workbench.

I look at him, then back to Luca’s hands, which look a little gross. I started there after I gave myself a paper cut.

“Do you have more isopropyl?”

“Cabinet above the sink.”

I find the bottle and come back, crouching down in front of Luca. His eyes drop to the bottle and then flick up to me. His hands have been my favorite part. He likes to make noise when I cut them, and it makes me happy to hear him scream.

“I’m not a monster, but I want this to take a long time. An infection would be counterproductive and so unfair,” I tell him.

Then I pour the isopropyl, but he doesn’t give me the satisfaction of making any noise this time, which annoys me. I put the cap back on and set it down on the floor. I stand up and stretch, then glance over to where Cave, the freaky fucker, is sitting in the corner, and this time he is staring back at me.

“He told me she uses people,” I say, and he remains silent. “Can you believe that?”

He tilts his head, so I at least know he understands what I’m saying.

“I think he’s wrong, but I also think he believes it, which is really interesting. Seems he has built that version of her in his head to justify his own behavior. Probably made him sleep better at night.”

I pick up another piece of paper—every time I run out, a new piece magically appears—and this time I move to his knee, wondering if it will hurt more or less.

He grunts as I slice him, which I have down to an art now. I am super good at giving paper cuts, and I can’t wait to tell her that I am good at something. Crocheting is stupid, though my noose would come in handy right now. Cipher makes a sound of satisfaction, and I hear the radio crackle to life in a burst of static, then nothing. A second later it crackles again, and he stops adjusting it.

“She screamed for me,” Luca says. I pause and spin around to face him. “The first time, she was loud about it. She isn’t shy—you would know that.”

I move my arm and slash the paper across his neck.

The asshole hisses and then laughs. “She used to beg me for it.”

My hands move faster, back and forth, not even worrying if I hit the same place twice anymore.

“She has a scar inside her left hip. Do you want to know what she did to deserve that?”

In my periphery, Cipher has placed his screwdriver down, so I move to the workbench and pick it up. I move it around in my hand, spinning it. The screwdriver has the same thought as my hand, and my brain is just along for the ride. It plunges into his shoulder, and the sound he makes is the best since we have been here—even the last time he didn’t sing this sweet.

“Hey,” Cipher grumbles from the workbench, turning around this time. “I was using that.”

“Sorry.” I pull it out and hold it out to him, handle first.