Page 57 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

H e’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.

“You remember me?” I say quietly. My voice doesn’t shake. “You ruined my vacation. And you hurt someone I care about very much.”

His eyes widen.

“You watched.”

I let the pillow slide off.

He chokes in a breath like it’s his last favor.

“Not only do I take my vacations very seriously—she looked at me,” I say. “While you let them do that.”

His lips move. Trying to speak. Trying to reason. Maybe he thinks he can buy his way out. Call someone. Threaten me. Doesn’t matter. There’s no market for this kind of revenge. No transaction. Just debt.

I grip his hair. Slam his head against the wooden frame.

Once.

Twice.

Third time draws blood.

He wheezes something. Maybe an apology. Maybe an offer. Wrong answer either way.

I pull the knife.

His eyes go wide again. Not fear—recognition.

Good.

I press it into his thigh first. Deep. Slow. Twist.

He screams.

Finally.

“That’s for her throat,” I say. “Where she learned not to speak.”

Another slice, shallow, across the chest.

“That’s for her lip. The one your man split open.”

Another. Down the side of his arm. I go slow, like I’m teaching him something.

“That’s for the look in her eyes.”

He begs now. Mouth moving fast. Words tumbling out too quick to land. Promises. Excuses. A plea bargain with no audience.

“You kept her,” I say.

His good eye flickers.

“Not for a week. Not for three thousand dollars. For years .”

I reach down, grab his shoulder, and haul him upright. His legs buckle. I let him fall again.

“You told her stories, didn’t you?” I say. “Said she was lucky. Said it could’ve been worse. That the others—what? Fought back too hard? Didn’t listen?”

He’s crying now. Not loud. Just leaking. Like the body knows it’s over, but the ego’s still catching up.

I shove open the drawer of the nightstand. Inside: two sets of keys. A gold money clip. A copy of 1984, bookmarked halfway.

I toss the book onto his chest.

“You made her read it,” I say. “Told her she was the experiment. That this was about order. Control. That pain makes people civilized.”

I grab the lamp cord, rip it loose.

“You told her she was different , right? Not like the others. Smart. Grateful. Lucky to be chosen.”

I wrap the cord around his neck. Not tight. Not yet.

“Then you let her clean the sheets after.”

He shakes his head. I tighten the cord.

“You built a cage and called it shelter. Broke her down, then asked why she was so fragile.”

Tighter now. His eyes bulge.

“You didn’t just imprison her. You taught her to thank you for it.”

His heels kick the floor.

“You want me to stop?” I say.

He chokes, nods frantically.

I lean in close.

“She said the same thing.”

“And you didn’t .”

Then I pull.

The cord goes taut. He spasms once, then goes limp. Not dead—just out. A break in the nerves, not the neck. He’ll wake. I make sure of it.

I drop the cord, reach for the drawer. Not for a weapon—for the scarf. Silk. Monogrammed. Men like him never run out of ways to tie something up.

I use it to gag him.

Then I take his hand.

Hold it like I’m about to ask for a favor.

“Let’s pretend this was a choice,” I say.

I press his palm flat to the edge of the nightstand. Grip two fingers in mine.

The knife isn’t clean anymore. It doesn’t matter.

One slice. Quick.

The scream hits the gag like a crash test.

“That one’s for telling her she was safe.”

Second finger.

“For calling her ‘girl’ like it was a compliment.”

Third.

“For every time you said love, when you meant leash.”

He jerks now. Eyes wet. Glassy.

“This one?” I say, leaning close. “This one’s for me.”

I keep going. Until there’s nothing left to count.

I strip the sheet off the bed. Tie one end around his wrist. The other to the bedpost. Repeat for the other arm. The bindings pull tight. He thrashes like a fish left in the sun.

I take my time.

I let him bleed.

Let the sweat slick his forehead, pool in his eyes.

Let him feel what it’s like to be at someone else’s mercy and know they don’t have any.

I don’t cut his throat.

Not yet.

I lean close again.

“You don’t get to die before you understand.”

He tries to shake his head. I force it still.

“You took something. You wrecked her. Made her small. Made her afraid.”

He tries to deny it. But I’m not listening.

“And then you dragged her out like a trophy you didn’t earn.”

Another cut. Across the stomach. Deep enough to make him shake.

“You didn’t just break her,” I whisper. “You paraded the damage like it was a win.”

His eyes are full of blood and salt and something like understanding.

“This,” I say, raising the knife one last time, “is me breaking you back.”

The blade slips in under his ribs.

Up.

Twist.

He jerks once. Then goes still.

This time, I let the blood spread.

No confession.

No redemption.

Just consequence.