I move to her face, bending down over the table until her eyes meet mine: “You’re paying for my little ember’s sins. You might die tonight.”
The shift in the air is almost instant, as her previously excited demeanor turns into pure fear.
“You—you’re not allowed to kill me.” She tries to counter, like this would ever be a reason for me to stop.
“Let’s verify that theory, shall we?”
She doesn’t know that I am the whole reason this place exists. I created it, I created Vincent—subject 139—and I might as well turn her into something new as well. I’m the one that creates the rules here, and if I say she must die, she will.
She whimpers as the first cut slices into her abdomen, carving the skin superficially. Millimeter by millimeter, blood unfurls, and her screams fill the room, louder by the minute.
“She shouldn’t have made me lose control, that’s not what good subjects do.”
Her uncontrollable sobbing doesn’t stop, just pauses every time I remove the blade for a second, interrupting the beautiful melody of desperation that reverberates through the room.
“Keep going, I’ll only make the bleeding worse if you stop showing me how bad it hurts.” I whisper.
Down her side, deeper this time. Her body writhes. I grip her face, forcing her to look at me.
“That’s all she did, provoked me, confronted me, and beat me at my own game.” I tilt my head to the side, trying to read something in her face’s expression. “Now tell me, what should I do with her?”
She shakes her head.
“I don’t know what you—” Wrong answer. I slam my fist into her cheek, and a crack echoes.
“What do you think? Maybe I was too weak?”
I go to the corner, bringing a posture collar back with me.
The collar makes her body stay put in an unnatural position, pinned by the back of her head. She is almost out of breath, but not remotely close enough to release her from this hell. Her screams are nothing more than whispered sobs now, but that’s not important.
“She made me want to kneel, so now I must own her.”
I drag the blade along her torso—engraving her name, letter by letter.
V. I. C. T. O. R. I. A.
I turn her head toward the mirrored wall on the left that lets her see her new tattoo on display.
“Do you think she’ll like that I put her name on your skin? She might actually kill you for it.”
She faints, but it doesn’t matter. It was never about her.
I put the dirk down, take my jacket and leave the room.
“Call a doctor. She’s done here. Pay her what she asks and fire her, nobody is allowed to touch her again,” I say in passing to Vincent. He may not like it, but nobody is allowed to touch her, even if she’s just the pretend Victoria.
“Doctor?”
“Talk.”
“They sent you a message.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“But this one is not like the others. It says,Leave her.”
Well, at least there’s been one interesting piece of news today.