This time the skin split open completely, a ragged tear exposing bone and gum beneath. Blood and saliva poured out, dripping down his chin and onto his chest.
He collapsed sideways, writhing like something electrocuted, legs kicking uselessly against the chains, breath coming in panicked, choking bursts.
The room went deathly still.
Every bound figure watched—eyes wide, breaths shallow, terror etched into every face. They knew. They all knew.
This wasn’t chaos.
This was judgment.
I stood over him, baton slick with blood, my breathing finally steady for the first time since I’d crossed the border.
And for the first time since they’d taken me—
I felt powerful.
I turned toward Dmitri, my chest heaving, the baton heavy in my hand, slick with blood that wasn’t enough—would never be enough.
“Can I have the gun?” My voice came out rough, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest.
He didn’t hesitate.
“No.” He crossed the space between us with unhurried steps, calm and deliberate in a way that was far more terrifying than rage. “You can punish them however you want. Break them. Humiliate them. Make them remember your face.” His eyes flicked briefly to the rows of bound bodies, then back to me—cold, precise. “But I want them to burn alive.”
I stiffened.
“I want them to feel the heat before it touches them,” he continued quietly. “To smell the fire as it creeps closer. To understand—minute by minute—that there is no escape. I want them to smell their own flesh cooking before the flames finally take them.” His jaw tightened. “They don’t deserve a quick end.”
I shook my head, breath shaking. “I want this one dead. Now.”
For a moment, he studied me—really studied me. Not judging. Measuring. Then he nodded once, as if conceding a small point in a larger war.
He drew his pistol.
Silenced. Matte black. Efficient.
He didn’t aim at the man’s head.
The first shot punched clean through the man’s left foot.
The sound was dull, contained—but the reaction wasn’t.
The man’s body jerked violently, chains clanging against the floor as a shrill, muffled scream tore out of him. His eyes rolled white with shock, veins standing out on his neck as blood poured onto the concrete.
The second shot came a heartbeat later.
Right foot. Same place.
Bone shattered. Blood sprayed in a red arc, splattering the floor and the legs of the man beside him. The victim thrashed wildly now—pure, instinctive terror—every muscle straining against restraints that did not give.
Hands pinned behind his back.
Mouth sealed.
Feet destroyed.
No way to crawl. No way to run. No way to beg.