Page 103 of Scarred in Silence

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The basement smells like blood and mildew. It always has.

The holding room’s concrete walls are stained with secrets—most of them mine. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, flickering just enough to make Miles flinch. He’s chained to the floor in the center of the room, wrists shackled behind his back,shirt soaked in sweat and piss.

Good.

I take slow, deliberate steps toward him, letting my boots echo in the tight space. Astra trails behind me, barefoot. Her steps are silent, like death itself. She says nothing, just stands with her arms folded, wearing one of my black shirts that hangs off her like a veil. The collar’s ripped. She did that herself. Said it made her feel like she could breathe.

Miles lifts his head. He can’t see her yet, but he knows. His body goes rigid. His lip’s split.

I crouch in front of him, close enough that he can smell the gun oil on my jacket.

“Long way from California, huh?”

His tongue pokes out, blood-slicked. “Lucien, I—”

“Don’t say my name.”

He nods quickly, eyes darting like bugs in the light. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know she was yours—”

Wrong answer. He did fucking know. That’s why he left. Fucking asshole.

I grab a fistful of his hair and slam his face into the concrete. His bone cracks. And blood spatters across my boot.

Astra doesn’t flinch.

“You knew exactly what she was,” I growl. “You filmed her while you raped her, told everyone she was begging for it, then sold her out to Nicolette like she was nothing but cargo.”

“She was cargo,” he chokes, face pressed into the floor. “That’s what Nicolette said. I was just…transport.”

Wrong again.

I pull him up by the collar and turn him to face her.

“Say her name.”

His eyes go wide. His lips tremble.

“A-Astra.”

Her jaw tightens.

“I want his eyes,” she says quietly, stepping beside me. “He doesn’t get to see anymore.”

I nod once.

Miles thrashes. “Please. Lucien. Please—don’t let her—”

I draw the scalpel from my boot sheath and press the blade under his left eyelid. His screams bounce off the concrete walls as the first orb comes free in a sick, wet pop. Astra watches without blinking. No tears. No fear.

Just justice.

“Other one,” she whispers.

I oblige.

The second eye comes out harder. He bucks like a dying horse, screaming into the stale basement air. I toss the eyeballs in a metal bucket and kick it toward the corner. They land with a dull clink.