Page 12 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

"Stupid," I mutter, my voice a blade in the quiet.

"He walked straight into the lion’s den and didn’t even realize it," Riven adds.

Satisfaction settles into my gut. "Then let’s make sure he understands where he is now."

The warehouse looms ahead—one of the older ones, steel bones wrapped in concrete, reeking of rust and old blood. It’s not a place meant for second chances. It’s a place where mistakes come to die.

By the time we arrive, the shooter has already been delivered. My men work fast. Efficient. He’s been waiting—bound, beaten, bloodied. Just the way I like them.

I climb out of the SUV, the frosty night air biting against my soaked shirt. The gauze beneath it is damp, the bandage strained with blood, but I don’t care. Pain is secondary now. Vengeance is everything.

Inside, the warehouse basement is lit with fluorescent lights and quiet menace. The shooter is slumped in a steel chair at the center of the room, his hands bound behind his back. One eye is already swollen shut, lip split open. He breathes in harsh rasps, a smear of blood trickling down his chin.

I walk slowly toward him, letting the echo of my boots fill the quiet.

"You tried to kill what belongs to me," I say.

The man doesn’t lift his head.

Riven steps forward and slams his fist into the shooter’s face. The crack of bone echoes. The man groans, head snapping sideways.

"Names. Motive. Who paid you?" Riven growls.

Still, no answer. Just clenched teeth and a trickle of blood.

I roll up my sleeves.

"I can prove my point just as easily with you dead," I say. "But I’m offering you a chance to speak. Use it."

The man looks up, spits blood on the floor.

Wrong answer.

Riven grabs the man by the collar and slams his head back against the chair. I pull a blade from my belt—nothing fancy, just steel honed to a whisper-thin edge.

"You know how many men have bled in this room?" I ask as I trail the tip of the blade across the man’s cheek. "Your screams won’t echo long."

He winces but still says nothing.

"First finger," I say.

Riven reaches for the pliers on the table. The shooter tenses.

"Wait," he mutters. "Wait—please."

"Too late," I say flatly.

The first finger breaks with a sickening crunch, the sharp sound echoing off the walls like a gunshot. The man’s scream bursts from his throat—raw, unfiltered agony that pierces the room and scrapes against the nerves. It’s not just loud—it’s animalistic, a desperate, guttural cry that rises in pitch as pain takes over. Blood pours from the mangled digit, splattering onto the floor, dripping down his hand in messy rivulets. He thrashes, chair legs screeching against the floor, but there's no escape. Only agony.

"Still feel like staying quiet?" I ask.

"Go to hell," the man spits, somehow managing the words through clenched teeth and broken breath.

I tilt my head, genuinely impressed. "Resilient little bastard," I murmur. "But don’t worry—you’ll break soon enough."

I then plunge the blade into his side, shallow but purposeful. My arm throbs beneath the dressing from the bullet I took, but I keep my expression blank. The steel parts flesh with a sickening resistance, and the man's body jolts violently. He screams again—this one sharper, higher-pitched, ragged with panic. Blood seeps around the blade, soaking his shirt and dripping to the floor in a crimson trail. The sound is nauseating—a wet, tearing hiss followed by his choked sob. He thrashes against the bindings, but all it does is smear more blood across the chair and floor.

"Who sent you?" Riven barks.

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