Page 114 of Peak Cruelty

Down the hall, I reach the door I’ve been avoiding.

The one I came here for.

But I don’t open it.

Because something else—is calling my name.

56

Vance

He’s not even awake.

That’s what gets me.

Not the thread count on the bedding, or the antique clock ticking too softly in the corner.Not the brass lamp on the nightstand or the book he never finished, spine cracked but barely touched.It’s the sleep.The unbothered sleep of a man who thinks no one’s coming for him.

He’s on his back.Mouth slack.One arm thrown over the covers like he owns the air.

And for now, he does.

I shut the door behind me.Quiet.Controlled.The lock clicks with a soft mechanical hum.No one hears.No one comes.

The room smells like lotion and old leather.The kind of man who makes women say he has “presence.”Who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

I move to the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t stir.

I wait.One full minute.Just watching him breathe.Shallow and even.Innocent, if you don’t know better.

But I do.

I saw the nod.

I heard the tone.

I watched the way his men touched her like she was nothing, like they’d done it before.

And he let them.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t beg, because she knew he’d kill us both.So she just took it.Gave the rage somewhere to go until it dissipated.

He starts to shift.Maybe he senses something.Maybe he doesn’t.Doesn’t matter.I already know what’s coming.I already know how this ends.

The pillow muffles the first scream.

I press down hard, elbow locked, all my weight behind it.His legs kick.His arms thrash.He doesn’t know who I am yet.Just that the air won’t come.That this isn’t a nightmare.That death is in the room, and it brought its own hands.

I let him gasp.Once.Just enough.

Then I flip the pillow, clamp it down again, and drag him half off the bed.

He claws at my arm.Feeble.Old man weak.I could break his wrist with a twist, but I want him to try.

I want him to think he might get out of it.

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