Page 18 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S he doesn’t move when I come in.

She hears me—she wants me to know she hears me—but her eyes stay closed. Hands relaxed. Face turned toward the light like she’s auditioning for serenity.

I let the door shut behind me.

“Sleep well?”

Her eyes open slowly. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

Of course not.

I cross to the table. No tray this time. No food. Just a single, leather-bound book. Blank. No title. No marks. I set it on the table between us and take the seat across from her.

She glances at it. Then at me. “Journaling now? That’s new.”

“It’s not for you to write in.”

She tilts her head, the faintest curl at one corner of her mouth. “Let me guess. You’re going to read to me. Something ominous and metaphorical.”

“No.”

“Shame. I was starting to get comfortable.”

That’s the problem.

I open the book. The inside is hollowed out—precise, clean—and inside is a silver object. Oval. Compact. Familiar.

She sees it. Still doesn’t react.

I hold it between two fingers and set it down gently beside the book.

A pillbox.

I open it. Two white capsules.

“I’m offering you a choice.”

That gets her attention.

She studies me. Then the pills. Then me again. “You don’t strike me as a man who offers anything.”

“Which is why it matters.”

She lets her gaze rest on the pills. “You're offering me a way out.”

I nod once.

“Why?”

“Because some people talk. Others don’t. You?” I tap the table gently. “You perform. And I’m not interested in theater.”

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t smile. Just watches me the way you’d watch a bomb you haven’t decided whether to disarm or detonate.

“I don’t bluff. If you take them, you don’t wake up. If you don’t, we keep going. It’s not going to be comfortable, I’m sorry to say.”

She lets that sit for a beat.

“So it’s suicide,” she says finally. “With branding.”

“Call it what you want—take them or don’t. If you don’t—we’ll try something less civilized.”

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s your selling point?”

“No,” I say. “That’s a guarantee.”

I hold the bottle out like it’s a peace offering.

“You’ll take them,” I say. “Or you’ll wish you had.”

She glares at me. “What is this supposed to be? A project? A fix?”

I don’t t answer. Just watch her, waiting.

“I’m not going to be just a footnote in your life,” she says. “Whatever story you think you’re writing—I won’t be the part you forget.”

I shrug and then stand. Let the silence work. Let her feel the weight of having no one to argue with.

She doesn’t ask how long she has. Smart.

I reach the door. Rest my hand on the frame.

“You’ve got one decision left. Make it count.”

“Wow, you really rehearse this stuff.”

“Sounds like you prefer pain. That’s fine. But just so you know—it’s not going to be the kind you’re used to. It won’t be pretty or marketable. Definitely not the kind that photographs well.”

I can see that she wants to say something cruel. Something she thinks will make me bleed a little on the inside.

But she doesn’t.

Because she’s not trying to win.

She’s trying to survive.

So she says the thing she thinks will throw me off just enough.

“You sound like you’ve been waiting your whole life to say that.”

For a second, I go still. It’s rare I’m surprised anymore.

Then—I smile.

But there’s nothing behind it.

Just teeth.

I turn and walk out.

No slam. No lock.

Just her. The pills. The only mercy she’s going to get.