As she starts screaming on instinct, he grabs her by her throat and cuts off her airflow. His other hand grabs her wrist and bends it into an unnatural position until the loud sound of a bone breaking fills the room.
She continues to fight, kicking him with her feet, but it’s useless.
Once the first wrist falls limp, he does the same with the other hand, leaving her helpless. After he’s done, he lets her fall to the floor, clutching her useless arms to her chest.
He crouches beside her, eyes level with hers and gently kisses her forehead.
“You can scream now,”
And she does, for the entire duration of his eight-hour session.
Subject 738 took his time. He broke her down the way I’d taught him until there was nothing left of her. Literally. Just a pile of something in the corner of the room.
He made her beg. Then he made her lie. Then he made her choose death.
As he completes his task, I take the file and label it: “Subject 738—Success.”
I leave the Facility right when the alarms start, notifying the guards that an inmate is trying to escape. He’s on his own now. The government will probably shut down the project, yes, but that is irrelevant.
My work here is done. I’d created my own monsters.
I am a God.
CHAPTER 17
AZRAEL
DAY ONE.
Iwake up at six o’clock sharp, like always. My body remembers how things should be, even if my brain might not seem to care. I force myself to get out of bed and continue with my day, but something doesn’t sit right. The way the experiments go is simple: I have a plan, I execute it, and then I simply forget it ever existed. But this time, all I can think of is the image of Victoria, pinned against the wall, helpless.
“You don’t care about subjects.” I scoff, like that will help make it true. It doesn’t, and I refuse to admit what this means.
I continue my day, run five miles through air so cold it feels like it cuts my lungs open, but I barely notice the pain under the burning sensation throughout my body. I’m not even sure what is happening or why.
This is exactly what I wanted, to break her, which is just one failed step away from ending everything or making her devoted to me. Just like Vincent, just like anyone else who completed orfailed my experiment. But why do I feel like I’m the one devoted to her?
I scrub myself under scalding water until my skin looks like it’s begging for mercy, but that’s just another fact my brain refuses to process. I eat two eggs and drink the fucking black coffee, but all I taste is bitterness. Tasteless. Meaningless. A one-man-show for no audience, just to prove I still hold control. I answer emails with perfect grammar and zero comprehension while preparing materials for my classes today without even realizing what I am doing until the papers are stacked and ready in front of me, all this while checking my phone for the 183rd time.
By noon, there is still no message from her, but I’ve already cleaned the kitchen twice, sterilizing every surface even though I can’t remember the last time the stove was turned on. Then I alphabetize the spice rack—because everyone does this, right?— rearrange the pots, and deep clean again because I forgot I already did it the first time. Very normal behavior.
So what if I chose the most distressing narrative with her? That’s what I do best. I’ve always created the experiment’s framework to destroy the subject, and this time she finally broke. She fled. This is the undeniable proof, proof that my design works exactly as intended. Her silence isn’t a failure this time. It’s just the endpoint of a perfectly constructed experiment.
It’s almost time for my evening classes when I decide she is gone for good. I open the file and seal Victoria’s experiment as a failure. She would not be coming back, not after what I did to her. Not after what she saw in herself once she laid alone in her bed. That kind of trauma doesn’t heal, and my little ember will spiral with her demons forever.My little ember.
“Yes,” I say aloud, talking to the nothingness again. “This is how it ends.”
I say it again, quieter this time, even though my mouth tastes like literal ash: “I won.”
For a second, I almost believe it. I try to feel proud, even managing a shaky smile. But there’s this nagging feeling deep down that won’t let me enjoy it. I’ve spent so long convincing myself that hurting her is just part of the process that I don’t even know how to feel about it actually happening.
The first day almost feels like relief and validation. Victoria was never special. Just another name, another failed human pretending she’s more than mediocre.
Day Two.
I didn’t intend to open our messages. It just… happened. Muscle memory, perhaps. Like scratching an old wound to make sure it still hurts. I scroll and reread everything, as if that could explain why she’s still stuck in my brain.
To solve this, I restrict her profile, watch the setting change and see the way our messages vanish. A forced silence. My choice.