Page 120 of The Psychopaths

His eyes meet mine, identical to my own yet fundamentally different. For a moment, understanding passes between us—recognition of a shared impulse, however differently expressed.

“The difference,” he says finally, checking the new chain connecting wrists to ankles, “is that I’m not lying to myself about what I am.”

The words hit with unexpected precision, striking a truth I’ve buried beneath years of justification. I’ve told myself the distance was protection—for her, from the family’s manipulations. But perhaps it was also protection for me—from vulnerability, from the possibility of caring for someone enough to be destroyed by losing them.

As Arson performs a final check of the restraints, I find myself watching him with new perspective. We are reflections, identical yet reversed. Both keeping Lilian at arm’s length through different methods—his through possession, mine through rejection.

Both, perhaps, equally destructive.

“She deserves better than either of us,” I say as he moves toward the door, words offered not as a weapon but as a simple truth.

He pauses, back to me, shoulders tense. “On that, Brother, we finally agree.”

Lilian

Time slows as my mind races through possibilities. Arson’s attention is wholly consumed by Aries—by the threat his brother represents and his need to neutralize that threat. His normal hypervigilance has narrowed to a laser point, creating a blind spot.

Me.

He’s forgotten that I might be a player in this game rather than just a piece on the board.

The security key card hangs from his back pocket, partially visible as he steps into the cell. So close. If I can just?—

Aries lunges forward, and the Taser deploys with a sharp crack. He goes down hard, body convulsing as electricity courses through him. The violence of it is shocking, but it creates the perfect cover for what I’m about to attempt.

I curl into myself on the floor, summoning tears that come more easily than expected. My body still aches from the rough handling of Aries’s performance—genuine discomfort I can amplify into something more convincing.

“Please,” I gasp between sobs, making my voice small and broken. “Don’t let him hurt me again.”

The words are calculated to reinforce Arson’s protective instincts while disguising my true intentions. I press my hands to my face, peeking through splayed fingers to track his movements as he steps carefully around Aries’s twitching form.

“Get out,” Arson orders, voice clipped. “Wait upstairs.”

I don’t move immediately, manufacturing visible hesitation. The more helpless I appear, the less he’ll perceive me as a threat.

“Now, Lilian,” he says, softer but still commanding.

I push myself to my feet with deliberate unsteadiness, swaying slightly as I move toward the door. As I pass him, I let myself stumble, brushing against his side—a moment of seemingly accidental contact that allows my fingers to slip the key card from his pocket in one smooth motion. The card slides up my sleeve as I continue forward, head down, shoulders hunched in apparent defeat.

Every step toward the door is measured—not too fast to seem suspicious, not too slow to give him time to reconsider. My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain he must hear it, but his attention remains fixed on Aries.

At the threshold, I cast one final glance back—a look that Arson will interpret as fear or concern, but that carries a silent message to Aries: I’m not as helpless as either of you thinks. Then I’m through the doorway, key card burning against my skin, opportunity unfolding before me, its possibility pulsing with each heartbeat.

I have perhaps seconds before Arson realizes what I’ve done—before he remembers that I’m not just a victim in their twisted game, but someone capable of making moves of my own.

Behind me, Arson is already hitting the door closure button. I need to be clear of the sensors before it activates and appear to be following his instructions while executing my own plan. I step fully into the corridor, moving just far enough that the door begins its hydraulic slide closed. Arson’s attention remainsinside the cell, on his brother, believing me safely dismissed and obedient.

His mistake.

The door isn’t fully closed yet when I make my decision. Logic says to run—to take the key card and flee the warehouse entirely, to find help, to escape this toxic triangle of violence and manipulation. Self-preservation demands it.

But something deeper, more defiant, pushes me toward a different choice. I’m done being pushed around, done being a pawn in their game. It’s time they understand what it feels like to be trapped, controlled, and manipulated.

I turn back, holding my breath as I watch the door’s agonizingly slow progress. Through the narrowing gap, I can see Arson producing new restraints, his back to the exit, attention fixed on Aries, who is still recovering from the Taser.

The moment the door locks fully into place, I swipe the key card against the external panel. The light flashes green, confirming the security override. My fingers fly across the keypad, entering the code I’ve memorized from watching Arson—the one that activates maximum security protocols.

Another green light confirms my command has been accepted. The display changes to read “LOCKED - OVERRIDE DISABLED,” meaning the door can now only be opened from the outside with the proper credentials.

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