Page 179 of Sin Like the Devil

“Argh!” he startles as I press the blade to his throat.

“Warden. Where are Lennox Nash and Ripley Bennet?”

“Step away from me.”

“No. Answer the fucking question before I make this throat a gaping smiley face.”

“Think about what you’re doing,” Davis attempts.

Pausing, I take a moment. “Alright. It’s thought about. Now answer.”

“They’re dead by now!”

Pressing the blade in, I feel his skin begin to part. “You continue to underestimate us all, Warden.”

I can feel a weak tremble running over him. The mighty warden of Harrowdean, sweating like a pig in a butcher shop. Men like him shouldn’t have power. Yet they always seem to covet it.

“Where is the Z wing?”

“You’re on camera,” he gasps. “Walk away now, and I won’t report this.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” I slash deeper into his throat. “Oh, wait. I did. The moment I cut the CCTV camera’s power supply.”

“Please…”

“Where is it?”

“I can’t tell you! I won’t!”

“Then what use do I have for you?”

“Please,” he tries again, holding up his hands.

“Still begging, Warden?” I lean closer, scenting his sweat and fear. “Didn’t you know I have no humanity to appeal to?”

His throat cuts like warm butter left out in the sun for too long. I ensured to sharpen my blade as I plotted overnight, preparing for whatever price finding Ripley and Lennox would demand.

The glinting steel slashes him wide open like a fucking piñata. Warm blood gushes forth in a hot, sticky spray. It pours from the deep wound and splashes all manner of paperwork, framed photographs and incident reports.

No doubt forged documents that are all dipped in the blood of Harrowdean’s stuffed suit. His essence now stains the lies he’s been paid to perpetuate.

Holding him close despite the spray, I watch every last droplet. Each satisfying spray and gargle. The agonal breath of a dying soul. Holding Davis as he bleeds out stirs some internal bloodlust that only grows.

When I release him, he thuds against the desk with an audible smack. Eyes blown wide. Mouth hanging open. Face waxy and a yawning gap where his throat should be. I can’t help but stare for several peaceful moments.

The sound of distant shouts breaks my reverie. It floats through the stained glass window, emanating from the institute’s gates. From the warden’s office, I have a better view of what’s unfolding.

A quick look outside reveals something I never expected to see. Elon’s description was a gross underestimation.

“Holy shit,” I mutter.

He was right about one thing—it sure looks like a protest. Reporters and press vehicles blur with the enraged general public. Placards are being waved, accompanied by shouts and screams.

Harrowdean’s security is struggling to hold the protest at bay. Heading down the paved path beyond the gates, I recognise Bancroft’s shrivelled form with Elon and a multitude of guards in tow.

He’s dolled up in a fine suit, silvery hair slicked back and game face on. The crowd’s rage only heightens at the sight of his approach. My attention is pulled from him as the emergency alarm blares.

It shatters the still air of the office and slams me back into reality. Davis’s corpse is slowly cooling. But his orders still stand. A lockdown has been called.

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