Page 105 of Bad Luck, Hard Love
The cold satisfaction in my voice makes Hero's grin widen. “Pathetic fuck's been cycling through the five stages of grief on repeat. Right now, he's somewhere between bargaining and acceptance.”
“Come on. Let's get this over with.”
The interior of the mining structure is a monument to decay—rotting support beams, rusted equipment, and shadows that seem to swallow light whole. Our footsteps echo off the wooden walls as Hero leads us deeper into the building. The air grows cooler as we descend, thick with the smell of dust and something else. Fear.
“Down here,” Hero says, gesturing toward a narrow staircase that disappears into darkness. “We've got him in the old ore processing room. Concrete walls, good acoustics.”
Charlotte's hand finds mine as we descend, her grip steady despite what we're walking into. Each step takes us further from the world above, deeper into a place where justice wears a different face.
The basement opens into a large room carved from solid rock, illuminated by a handful of work lights strung from the ceiling. Mining equipment rusts in the corners—conveyor belts, sorting tables, things I can't identify. But my attention focuses on the center of the room, where a single chair sits beneath the brightest light.
Terrance is bound to it with zip ties, his once-pristine suit now torn and stained with blood and dirt. His head hangs forward, dark hair matted with sweat, but he lifts it when he hears our footsteps.
“Charlotte, Thank God. Tell them this is a mistake. Tell them?—”
“Shut up,” I growl, stepping between them. “You don't speak to her unless she wants you to.”
A harsh laugh escapes him, blood bubbling at the corner of his split lip. “Still hiding behind your attack dog, Charlotte? Some things never change.”
Charlotte steps around me, her movements deliberate as she approaches him. The room falls deathly silent. Even themen stationed around the perimeter—Karma, Priest, Judge, and several Heaven's Rejects I recognize—seem to hold their breath.
“You know what hasn't changed, Terrance? Your delusion that I ever belonged to you.”
He flinches as if she struck him, then recovers with a sneer. “You crawled back every time. Every. Single. Time.”
“Because you threatened to kill anyone who helped me,” she says, stopping just out of his reach. “Because you isolated me from everyone who cared about me. Because you made me believe I was nothing without you.”
The mine's shadows deepen the hollows of Terrance's face, making him look already half-dead.
“But I was wrong,” Charlotte continues. “I'm not nothing without you. I'm everything without you.”
Terrance tracks her, his composure cracking like cheap veneer. “This is ridiculous. You think these criminals will protect you? You think this—” he jerks his chin toward me “—this animal loves you? He only wants what I had.”
I start forward, but Raze's hand on my shoulder stops me. This is Charlotte's moment. Her reckoning.
“What you had?” She laughs, the sound cold and sharp as broken glass. “You never had me, Terrance. You held a hostage.” She stops in front of him, leaning down until they're eye to eye. “And now, you have nothing.”
For a moment, genuine fear flashes across Terrance's face. Then his mask slips back into place, that practiced corporate smile I've come to hate.
“You're bluffing. You don't have the stomach for this. You never did.”
Charlotte straightens slowly, her face impassive. “You're right. I don't have the stomach for torture. For prolonged suffering. For making someone beg.” She turns to me. “But I have the stomach for justice.”
I step forward, pulling the Glock from my holster. Terrance's eyes widen as I check the chamber, the metallic click echoing off the stone walls.
“Wait,” he gasps, struggling against his restraints. “Charlotte, please. I can change. I can get help. Therapy, medication, whatever you want. Just don't?—”
“Where was that offer when you were choking me unconscious? When you were breaking my ribs?” She stops, jaw clenching. “When you were doing things to my unconscious body that I still can't remember?”
Terrance's face goes pale. “That wasn't...I didn't mean...”
“You meant every second of it. Just like you meant every bruise, every threat, every time you made me feel like I was nothing.”
I raise the gun, pointing it at his chest. “Any last words?”
“Charlotte,” Terrance whimpers. “Don't let him do this. We can?—”
I lower the gun suddenly, tucking it back in my holster. Terrance's breath hitches, relief washing over his face.
