Page 113 of Peak Cruelty

She starts to plead—something about protocol, about being just the intermediary.But I’ve read her file.And Rachel told me too much to change course—or to care if she started begging.

I shoot the other leg.

Her scream cracks raw.Loud enough to rattle the frame.

She tries to crawl, but the limbs won’t work.I let her drag herself halfway to the door before her elbows give out.A blood smear fans behind her like a failed rescue attempt.

“You know what the body does under stress, don’t you?”I ask.“You documented it.Signed off on it.”

She sobs.“Please?—”

“Balance.That’s what this is.”I grind my boot into the wound, slow and deliberate.“You made her watch,” I say.“Strapped down.Naked.And you took notes.”

She shakes her head, but not to deny it—just to escape the memory.But that’s the part I’m here for.

“You called it exposure therapy.”

I pull the file from the nightstand, flip through pages.Her handwriting, neat and dispassionate.

Subject exhibits elevated cortisol.Severe trembling.Persists in refusal to comply with directives.

“Elevated cortisol,” I echo.“Let’s see if we can match it.”

I press the muzzle to her hand and fire.Bones crack.Her body seizes, mouth open, soundless now.

“You dosed her with something that paralyzed her vocal cords.That wasn’t a mistake.That was the point.”

She shakes, lips moving.No words come out.

I lean down.

“Still feeling like the intermediary?”

She tries to say something.Her jaw quivers.Maybe sorry.Maybe please.Doesn’t matter.

I take the knife from my belt.

Not fast.Not clean.

Across the belly.Up.Then again, lower.I don’t rush it.I let her feel what she made others feel.That slow horror of knowing the body’s breaking and no one’s coming to help.

Blood pools, dark and sticky.She twitches, not from will—but from failing nerves.

“You watched her suffer.You called it catharsis.”

She chokes.Fails to blink.

“Let’s hope you find peace in that.”

I press the barrel to her throat.Let her stare down the dark.

Then I pull the trigger.

She slumps, blood soaking into the designer bedding, cheap perfume curling under the metallic scent.

I wipe my hands on her robe.

Then I walk out.

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