Page 4 of Remi's War (Four Dark Horsemen 2)

After all, the devil will express way more mercy and compassion than I ever will.

Clapping my hands two times, I open my arms wide when the projector lights hanging on the ceiling turn on one by one with loud snaps, brightening the entire space in all its majestic and hideous glory.

Ah, does a greater beauty exist in this world?

The rectangular-shaped dungeon is enormous, spreading horizontally and showcasing the mazelike perimeter where one might easily get lost and find no way of escape, their exhausted bodies leaving bloody imprints on the perfectly polished parquet. Some prey love to think I’ll let them go, when in fact their running around this place while whimpering in despair serves as amusement to the willing onlookers in the viewing area located right in the middle.

The area is separated by four glass-like walls where two leather couches stand, brought here straight from France, and a small bar with countless bottles of expensive whiskey reside.

Various tables made out of the finest oak glisten in the light, bringing attention to the beauties occupying them—from rare poisons that have the ability to kill someone with one drop, to steel blades drawing blood with just a slight nip.

People might think I’m a cruel bastard who thrives among the gore he creates around him and has no compassion toward those he hurts… and they’re right.

Empathy, mercy, remorse.

They do not exist inside this place where my mind, which screams at me every single day while flashing unwanted memories I wish to forget, temporarily finds peace.

A man whimpers again and tries to speak through the tape stuck over his mouth, and I shift my focus to the left to a tall metal pole stand where the man is attached, several ropes wrapped around his body so tight, they’ve rubbed the skin and drawn blood.

He breathes heavily, gulping air into his lungs while the blood slides down his forehead from the beating he received prior to arriving here.

Several deep bruises mar his skin, only intensifying my amusement. I slowly walk toward him, making sure my heavy boots alert him to my every step. I don’t speak, knowing my silence is one thing they all hate.

Because the unknown scares people and prey alike far more than the evilness lurking in the shadows, ready to claim any soul and never let go.

For if you are smeared in darkness, nothing and no one will be able to clean you of it.

He scrunches his eyes under the harsh light, blinking two times before focusing his gaze on me, and his face brightens. An emotion I’m all too familiar with crosses it, as it always sparks nothing but rage within my soul.

Hope.

Sadly for him, hope has the tendency to crush like the finest of crystals under the harsh reality that’s life.

Because sometimes no one gives a fuck about you or the nightmares fate have dumped you in, even divine intervention itself.

Putting my gloved hand to his chin, I grin at him; adrenaline rushes through my veins in anticipation of my next move.

Tears form in his eyes, and his body almost sags in relief, clearly expecting me to save him from this, only for his loud cry to echo in the space when I roughly tear the tape away, dangling it in the air in front of his nose, showing the torn skin on the edges of it.

His chapped lips create a pathetic view, blood coming from the open wounds, and tears start to fall down his cheeks. “Please,” he whispers, spitting blood on the floor by my feet, and I clack my tongue.

“Now, James. Why are you behaving like a coward?” He freezes at the sound of his name on my lips, his eyes widening while realization slowly creeps into his stare, and his breathing becomes even more ragged.

“Please,” he repeats, probably too scared to utter anything else, because compared to most other victims, he used to be one smart fucker who got off on the power he possessed and learned to recognize the likes of him.

Vicious monsters surviving only on the blood and suffering of those around him.

A chuckle emerges from my throat.

Memories are such a complex thing in one’s life; they always amaze me, because their contradicting qualities make them a golden token with two sides.

Their existence ensures we remember all the happy moments with our loved ones, filming a movie in our mind that we can turn off or on again, serving as witness to our existence and emotions.

Ironically though, sometimes memories became a curse, shattering someone beyond repair because there is no reprieve from them.

And as such, one resides in darkness where evil desires rule and nothing human remains.

I go to the nearby table, running my fingers over my favorite collection of canes in different shapes and materials, gathered from all over the world. I find beauty in each piece, predicting with touch alone how much pain it could bring.

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