Page 122 of The Psychopaths

As they face each other, the air between them practically crackles with years of hatred. I’ve achieved my immediate goal—forcing them to confront each other directly. All I can do now is hope they don’t kill each other in the process.

The transition from words to violence happens in an instant. Something in Aries’s smirk—some particular angle of his mouth or glint in his eye—triggers Arson’s already tenuous control. He lunges forward, crossing the small cell in two strides, and throws a punch, his fist connecting with his brother’s jaw before he can fully prepare.

Despite his restraints, Aries manages to roll with the impact, using the momentum to drive his shoulder into Arson’s midsection. They crash into the cot, the metal frame screeching against concrete as it slides several inches.

“Stop it!” I shout through the intercom. Nothing I say matters, not when they’re beyond hearing, locked in the physical manifestation of years of hatred.

Arson recovers quickly, driving his knee up into Aries’s ribs with brutal efficiency.

The chains connecting Aries’s wrists to his ankles limit his defensive options, but he compensates by head-butting Arson. Blood instantly starts to flow from Aries nose, and the sight makes my stomach churn.

“Enough!” My words echo uselessly as they grapple on the floor, identical faces twisted with identical rage, blood smearing between them until it’s impossible to tell whose is whose. I back away from the observation window, panic rising as I realize I may have miscalculated.

They might actually kill each other, trapped in that cell with years of resentment finally finding physical expression.

Think, Lilian. Think.

My eyes scan the corridor, landing on a control panel farther down—more sophisticated than the simple door lock. The security hub Arson showed me once, explaining how the entire facility could be managed from multiple access points.

I rush to it, key card swiping across the scanner with trembling fingers. The screen illuminates, displaying a complex array of options—surveillance, environmental controls, communications.

Behind me, the sounds of violence continue—grunts of pain, the thud of fists on flesh, the rattle of chains as Aries fights despite his disadvantage. I need to interrupt them somehow and break through the fog of rage that’s consumed them both.

Communications—there. The speaker system. I tap the icon, opening a submenu of options. Internal speakers, volume control, pre-recorded messages for emergencies.

I hit the emergency alarm button without hesitation.

A klaxon blares through the entire facility, the sound amplified to painful levels inside the cell. Through theobservation window, I watch both brothers recoil, hands instinctively moving to cover their ears.

Then I press the microphone icon, activating the direct communication channel.

“STOP FIGHTING!” My voice booms through the speakers, distorted but unmistakable. “BOTH OF YOU, JUST STOP!”

The alarm continues its ear-splitting wail as I search frantically for the volume control. Finding it, I dial it down to a more manageable level but leave it running—an auditory barrier between them, preventing the resumption of violence.

“I swear to God,” I continue, voice carrying clearly through the speaker system now, “if you don’t stop acting like animals, I’ll leave you both in here to starve to death.”

An empty threat, perhaps, but the sheer exasperation in my tone seems to reach them. They separate, bloody and panting, identical glares now directed at the speakers rather than at each other. At least they’re no longer actively trying to kill each other. Progress, of a sort.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” I announce, while silencing the alarm but maintaining control of the communication channel. “You two are going to talk. Actually talk. Not fight, not manipulate, not threaten. Talk.”

Arson wipes blood from his nose with the back of his hand, eyes narrowed at the speaker. Aries shifts to sit with his back against the wall, chains rattling with the movement.

“This is ridiculous,” he snaps. “We’re not children you can put in a time-out.”

“No, you’re grown men acting like children,” I counter. “Worse than children. At least children eventually learn better.”

Aries laughs, the sound genuinely amused despite his split lip. “She’s got a point, Brother.”

“Shut up.” Arson paces the small cell like a caged predator. “This isn’t a game, Lilian. Let me out, and we can discuss this rationally.”

“No.” The refusal comes easier each time I say it. “The only way you’re getting out of that cell is together, after you’ve figured out how to exist in the same space without trying to kill each other.”

“That’s never going to happen,” Arson says flatly.

“Don’t care. That’s the only way you’re getting out.”

“Be reasonable,” he tries again, voice modulating to something more persuasive. “You know what he did to you. What he’s capable of. He’s dangerous?—”

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