Page 51

M y phone vibrated against the metal table, the buzz echoing through Hellbound's basement. Overhead light stuttered across the concrete—sharp angles and flickering edges that didn't belong to anything alive. My bloodstained wooden club rested within reach, its worn grip familiar in my hand.

The crematorium glowed low and orange in the corner, its open mouth radiating purpose. Knowing Oakley was gardening at her mother's house with Nyla and Joslyn gave me the freedom to focus on tonight's task.

My phone rang–my vows to Oakley filling the swirling air. I already knew who it was.

Law.

Again.

There was better things he could do than annoy the fuck out of me.

The bat shifted to my left hand as I raised the phone to my ear. "What?"

"Where the fuck are you?" Law screeched. "I've been calling for twenty minutes."

"I know." And I've ignored every single one.

"Jesus Christ," Law let out a frustrated breath. "We need to talk."

The orange glow danced through the distorted air. "About?"

"What the fucks taking you so long to track these fuckers down? It's been a week."

That was what he thought.

Every night, I circled tighter. Security cameras glitching for seven minutes. Windows cracked open. Watches turned, photos flipped. Just enough to infect them with dread before I ever laid a hand on them.

I'd left Jensen's front door unlocked three nights in a row. Left a single bloody fingerprint on Tyler's bathroom mirror—not my blood of course. I wasn't a fucking idiot. Rearranged Karson's carefully organized desk while he slept fifteen feet away.

Each time I entered their homes, I carried Oakley with me—her image burned into my mind like a brand. The thought of her gave my hands purpose, steadied my breath. These men had touched what was mine, had broken something precious. They'd seen her vulnerability and hadn't recognized it as sacred. For that alone, they deserved everything coming to them.

It wasn't enough, but it was necessary—the fear before the end, the understanding of what was coming. They'd installed new locks. Karson had even gotten a gun. Fucking dumbass, a gun wouldn’t stop me.

The crematorium door eased shut, maintaining optimal heat before Law spoke again, "Clubhouse. Fifteen minutes."

"No."

"Do you want to hear what I got to fucking say or not?"

"Depends."

"I found them."

"So did I."

He chuckled, "So you have been busy this week."

Of course I'd been busy looking for them. Who the fuck did he think I was? No one hurt my fucking wife and lived with the memories of her suffering. Everyone needed to remember Oakley as she was—the best fucking thing to ever happen to the world.

"We go tonight ? —"

Not good enough. "We go now."

A sigh. "Do you not know how to be stealthy?"

"I don't hide." My fingers tightened around the bat, knuckles blanching. "I want them to see me." I wanted them to believe in the Devil before he took their life.

"I'm at the clubhouse." He told me. "Get here or I'm going without you."

He hung up. I lifted the bat, turning it slowly, reverently—memorizing every clean patch like a map of restraint. By the time I was done, there wouldn't be an inch left to repent.

Maybe I would fuck Oakley again with it when the blood dried.

That thought pissed me off. Not even their blood deserved to dry where my mouth had been. Oakley was too pure for that, too good. Even in my darkest moments, she remained untainted. Her body was mine to worship, mine to protect. I'd memorized every curve, every freckle, every sound she made when I touched her. The softness of her beneath my hands was the closest thing to peace I'd ever known. One thought too far and I wanted to lobotomize myself. I slammed the bat into my temple—deliberate, controlled. Warm liquid trickled slowly down my cheek.

Shut the fuck up, brain. If you think of Oakley with any other man, I'll cut you out of my fucking skull myself.

Droplets crusting on my temple, I walked out. The path through the trees from Hellbound to the clubhouse on the same land. The parking lot was nearly empty when I emerged from the tree line, save for a few bikes. Chet leaned against the side by the front doors, cigarette dangling from his lips, his greying hair pulled back from his face in a messy knot.

"Well, if it ain't the boogeyman himself," Chet called, flicking his cigarette. The ember arced through the darkness, scattering sparks across the asphalt before dying. "Grim called me in for a chat, but Law says you two are going hunting. Sounds like my kind of night. I'm coming with."

I didn't answer as Law emerged, shirt wrinkled, tie gone. Whatever he'd been holding together was unraveling. His focus flicked to Chet. "Put that shit out."

"Sorry, didn't realize I was fucking up your murder aesthetic." Chet threw it on the ground, putting the ash out with his boot.

Law's eyes narrowed. "What did Grim want with you anyway?"

Chet waggled his eyebrows, a grin spreading across his face. "I'll tell you after this murder spree. Priorities, right?"

"Yeah." Law's eyes darkened to emeralds. "Nothing more important than this."

"Then let's fuckin' go already." Chet said, rolling his shoulders with a series of pops and cracks. His fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his thigh.

Law checked his watch. I checked my bat. Chet checked his knife.

Time to hunt.

They'd never touch her again.

Not in memory. Not in photographs.

Not even in the afterlife if I had to follow them into hell with my bat and keep killing them for eternity.

J ensen fell first. Found him in his penthouse, surrounded by wealth that couldn't save him. His kneecap exploded beneath my bat like kindling, expensive Italian wool soaking up what spilled from him. He tried to bargain with broken words, but money meant nothing when weighed against what he'd stolen from her.

Michael was drunk when we arrived at his house, hurling bottles and curses in equal measure. He didn't even remember her face, didn't recall the damage he'd done. When Law stepped into the light and told him whose father he was facing, Michael spat defiance even as his bones shattered. Some men die with honor. Others die screaming about lawyers and rights that no longer existed.

Tyler ran through his darkened mansion. Glass rained from overhead lights he'd smashed, thinking shadows would save him. But I was born in those depths. I caught him crawling across hardwood, nails breaking, animal sounds tearing from his throat. The bat ended his desperate pleas as we secured him for Hellbound.

And Karson—who was studying to be a therapist. He preached healing while creating wounds that would never close. His hand barely grazed the gun in his nightstand before my bat introduced itself to his skull. That was when Law's control snapped completely. This man had worn the mask of a healer while poisoning his daughter's mind, had taken her trust and turned it into something that made her flinch at sudden movements.

I had to watch Law’s soul fracture. His fists found Karson's face again and again, methodical as a blacksmith working steel. Each impact carried years of helpless rage, of therapy sessions that left Oakley hollow-eyed and shaking, of watching his daughter blame herself for what this monster had done. Karson's degrees and credentials meant nothing beneath a father's fury. His white coat would never be white again. Chet had to drag Law away before he beat the therapist into pieces too small to burn.

Four men who had torn pieces from her soul. Four men who thought their status, their wealth, their positions made them gods. Four men who discovered that gods bled just like everyone else when you knew where to cut.

Law put his hands on his hips when he calmed down enough. "Looks like that's it?—"

It wasn't. "One more stop."

Law quirked an eyebrow at me, but didn't say anything further.

Dr. Marshall's modest colonial stood dark and silent, nestled in an upscale neighborhood far from the homes we'd already visited. His Mercedes sat in the driveway, shining under the moonlight. No cameras. No security system. The house of a man who believed his reputation was enough protection.

The van stopped at the curb, engine idling. Law's expression twisted with confusion.

"Robert Marshall?" Law gestured to the back of the van. "I've known him for over twenty years."

I stepped out of the car. "Stay here."

Law gripped the car door handle, knuckles white. "He's my friend. I want to know what the fuck's going on."

"Too personal for you." I opened the side door, stepping out with my bat.

"Make it quick." Chet nodded from the driver's seat. "These four in the back are getting restless."

I moved across the perfectly manicured lawn, silent despite my size. No need for the key he'd offered. The lock on the back door gave way with minimal effort.

The house was quiet, tasteful, and expensive. Medical journals stacked on coffee tables. Awards displayed in glass cases. The home of a man who believed himself above consequences.

I found him asleep in his oversized bed, reading glasses still perched on his nose, an open medical journal on his chest. No wedding ring. No photos of partners or children. Just diplomas lining his walls.

I stood over him for a full minute, watching his chest rise and fall. His eyes opened when I tapped the bat against his nightstand.

"Wha—" His confusion quickly hardened into professional indignation. "You have absolutely no right to be in my home. I'll have you arrested for this."

He reached for his glasses, pushing them up his nose. No fear. Just entitled outrage.

"Do you have any idea who I am? I have patients who depend on me. Important patients." His voice remained clinical, controlled—the voice of a man who expected deference even from intruders. "Whatever you want, it's not worth the trouble you're making for yourself."

"Oakley."

Confusion flickered across his face, then recognition, then the shift in his posture was almost comical—shoulders straightening like credentials might protect him. "Trevor's daughter? Is she having medical issues? This is highly irregular, but if it's an emergency?—"

"She came to you for help. Pain. Irregular cycles. Weight she couldn't control." My fingers flexed around the bat, the wood creaking softly.

The doctor's expression shifted, professional detachment hardening into something dismissive. "Ah. Yes. I explained to her that her condition is largely lifestyle-related. If she would just exercise more, control her diet?—"

The bat connected with his hands first—a clean strike that shattered the delicate bones. His scream filled the bedroom, high and shocked. He hadn't expected violence. Not in his home. Not in his world of peer-reviewed journals and country club memberships.

"You called her a liar."

"I never—" His protest died as I raised the bat again. "I was simply explaining medical facts. Sometimes psychological factors manifest as physical symptoms. That's established science. Any physician would tell you the same."

"She's not defective." A growl slipped past my teeth, too quiet to be safe. "You are."

I struck his jaw, bone giving way with a wet crack. Blood sprayed across his expensive cotton sheets.

"She has PCOS." I set the bat against the wall and moved around his bed, collecting items as I spoke. Alcohol from his bar cart. Silk ties from his closet drawer. A book of matches from the bedside table. "A real condition you missed because you judged her weight instead of running tests."

He tried to pull himself up with his shattered hands, face contorting with pain. I pinned him with a stare, and he froze. Two quick motions and his wrists were bound to the headboard with his own monogrammed ties. Another secured his ankles.

Through broken teeth, he gasped. "The statistical likelihood?—"

Ignoring him, I picked up a letter opener from his nightstand. Solid silver. Heavy. Sharp enough. I held it up, letting the dim light catch the edge—just like Mother's sewing needle had.

"Do you feel this?" The silver tip pressed into his thigh without warning.

He screamed, pulling against his restraints.

I withdrew the letter opener, ran my finger along its edge. "And this?" I traced it along his forearm, just enough to draw blood.

His eyes bulged, the whites turning red. "Stop!"

"Why should I believe you?" My head angled to the side, studying his response. "It's all in your head."

I pressed a finger against his shattered jaw, applying precise pressure to the broken bone as I leaned in closer. "I can't feel your pain. But it's real." I moved the letter opener to his stomach, letting it rest there. "If I cut you open, would I see it?"

His body shook beneath the blade. "I don't understand," he gasped through broken teeth. "Who are you?"

"I'm Oakley's husband." I took the decanter of bourbon from his side table. "And I kill anyone who makes her feel anything less than beautiful."

"W-What are you going to do?" he whispered, eyes tracking me as I tucked the stethoscope into my pocket and retrieved my bat. I poured the alcohol in a trail around the bed, connecting back to where I stood at the doorway.

I struck a match against the doorframe and tossed it onto the alcohol-soaked carpet. Flames erupted instantly, racing along the liquid trail, catching the curtains, the bedding, everything I'd prepared. The doctor screamed and thrashed against his silk restraints as the fire climbed the walls.

"W-Wait! You can't just leave me here!"

I picked up my bat and walked out, locking the bedroom door from outside with the key I'd found on his dresser. Fire would erase the evidence, leaving only ashes and unanswered questions. I hadn't wanted Law or Chet to come inside with me. If anything was left behind, it would only trace back to me. Never to the club. Never to her.

Outside, Law watched from the van as orange light began to flicker behind the second-story windows. His face remained impassive as I climbed back into the van, bat in hand.

The smoke began to escape through the cracks. "Did he hurt her too?"

I remained quiet, looking at him. He closed his eyes with a sigh, giving me a respectable nod before driving away.

Five murders in one day–not my best but it would do.

Inside the house, fire alarms began to sound—high, insistent wailing that would alert neighbors, but not in time to save the man inside.

Law stared at the flames, jaw tight.

We drove in silence. Chet at the wheel, Law staring out the window, and me watching the glow of doctor dicks house disappear in the flames through the mirror.

W e reached Hellbound with our cargo. Tires crunched over gravel as Chet drove around to the front door. Inside my head, fragments of Oakley's confession replayed. I remembered each tear that fell as she told me. The tremors in her hands. How she couldn't meet my eyes. Like she was fucking ashamed of herself.

Hellbound's basement loomed dark as we descended. Ancient wooden stairs groaned beneath our weight. Water dripped, each drop a metronome counting seconds until judgment.

The crematorium radiated silently, waiting. Its blackened facade had absorbed years of bodies, holding memories of what had been fed inside. Brick door hanging open like a hungry mouth. Heat shimmered around the oven, bending the room into distorted shapes.

The basement had been my home for years before Oakley. The concrete floor had been my bed, the distant drip of water my lullaby that barely kept my sanity in check.

Four chairs arranged in a circle, facing inward—heavy wooden ones with sturdy arms, perfect for restraints. Against the far wall sat a metal gurney with leather straps, positioned within pushing distance of the crematorium's mouth. The apparatus I'd built for occasions like this, when suffering needed precision.

We arranged the semi-conscious men in the chairs, securing them with zip ties. Each one bleeding, terrified, fully aware of what was happening.

Just how I wanted them. I loved playing with my toys.

I walked slowly around them, their fear palpable as they realized what was about to happen.

“Betcha wondering why you’re here today,” Chet grinned when all the attention turned to him. “You motherfuckers can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

My bat scrapped the concrete floor as I dragged it behind me walking in circles around them. “You hurt my fucking wife.”

Karson gulped. “W-Who?”

“You knew them better than anyone, Karson.” Law’s voice was steady, but the red blooming on his face showed me he was about to lose his shit. “My daughter, Oakley. Her best friend Anne.”

Karson's eyes locked on him, his mouth opened, but no sound came. Understanding dawned in their eyes, horror blooming as they realized there would be no mercy.

Chet worked silently, stoking the heat in the furnace. The rake scraped against brick and coal, sending sparks spiraling upward each time he thrust it deeper into the glowing mass. His face illuminated in stark relief with each movement—angles and edges catching fire glow, his usual smirk replaced by focused concentration. Law's shirt collar darkened with sweat as the light transformed the scene—painting us all in shades of orange and red.

I moved toward Tyler without a word. His expensive shirt darkened with sweat, revealing each panicked breath. Chet noticed my approach, glancing between me and Tyler. "Which one are we starting with?"

I didn't answer. Just cut Tyler's zip ties and hauled him upright.

He bucked wildly as I grabbed him, a desperate strength fueling his resistance. His heel lashed out, catching Law's jaw with a sharp crack. Blood sprayed as Law staggered back, hand flying to his face.

"You fucking animals!" Tyler screamed, voice climbing to an unfamiliar register. "This is kidnapping! Assault! You'll all go to prison!"

I slammed the bat into his shin. Bone snapped like dry wood. Tyler's scream echoed off concrete walls. I raised the bat again, bringing it down on his shoulder. The crack was wet, final.

Chet stepped forward, knife glinting. "Ever wonder where your voice goes when it can't scream anymore?"

I squeezed Tyler's broken wrist. Bone fragments shifted beneath my touch. His scream transformed into something primal—pure animal sound. The fight drained instantly, consciousness flickering as pain overwhelmed him.

Law exchanged glances with Chet, hesitation clear in his stance. Blood trickled from his split lip where Tyler's heel had connected. "So how do we?—"

I was already moving Tyler toward the crematorium's open mouth.

Tyler's body went rigid, a choked sound escaping from his throat as I positioned him directly in front of the blazing heat. The blast melted the pomade in his hair, sending dark rivulets down his temples. His skin reddened instantly in the thermal assault, blistering visibly even from three feet away.

A guttural noise escaped his body. His legs thrashed wildly. Beside me, Law's face remained impassive, blood still seeping from his injured mouth.

I shoved Tyler into the crematorium without ceremony. His expensive watch melted into his wrist as his body disappeared into the fire, gold and steel becoming molten. The smell of burning hair and flesh filled the basement. His screams echoed off the concrete walls before cutting off abruptly.

The basement temperature rose noticeably. Sweat began to bead on our foreheads. The others watched in horror as the crematorium door sealed shut with Tyler inside.

They hurt my wife. They made her bleed. They laughed while she cried. Each death was a note in the symphony of justice I composed for her.

Without waiting for discussion, I moved to Jensen. I cut his restraints and dragged him toward the gurney. His pleas became nonsensical babbling about his life, his career, his regrets.

"Did Oakley and Anne beg?" Law asked, voice raw, dabbing at his split lip. "Did you listen to them when they cried?"

I strapped Jensen to the gurney, cinching the leather restraints until they bit into his flesh, leaving bloodless white lines across his wrists and ankles. He fought harder than Tyler had, his banker's physique revealing unexpected strength as he bucked and twisted against the bonds.

"In the barn," my fingers tightened in his hair, forcing him to look at the flames, "did Oakley beg you to stop?"

His knuckles whitened. Jaw locked. "Yes! God, yes, she begged!" His voice fractured. "She kept saying she'd never tell. That she wouldn't say anything if we just stopped. But we didn't stop. We took pictures. We laughed." Tears streamed down his face. "Please—I've changed!"

I drove the bat into his ribs. Once. Twice. Each impact produced a satisfying crack as bone gave way. Blood foamed at his lips.

"You hurt my fucking wife." The words came out like venom. My grip tightened until his scalp began to tear. "I'm going to burn you alive and listen to you scream until your lungs collapse."

"My parents!" he screamed, desperation making his voice crack. "Someone will look for me!"

"We've already taken care of that. A very convincing suicide note. Financial fraud uncovered at your firm. Couldn't face the disgrace." Law's voice was detached. "No one will look for you. No one will find you. No one will remember you."

"Please–"

"Dead rapists don't reoffend." My voice cut through his pleas.

Jensen's howls redoubled as I pushed the gurney forward. The wheels caught in a crack on the concrete floor. I strained against the suddenly immobile stretcher, Jensen's pleading eyes locked on mine. With a final heave, the gurney lurched forward, the front wheels clearing the threshold of the crematorium.

The heat hit him in graduated waves—first his legs, then torso, then face. His expensive leather shoes curled and blackened first, then his tailored pants ignited along the cuffs. The brick frame conducted heat so efficiently that his back began to blister before his head even reached the smoldering glow.

My eyes locked with his as his hair burst into flames. His mouth opened in a final scream as the crematorium door sealed shut.

The basement had become a furnace. Sweat poured from Law’s face. Chet had stripped to his undershirt. The remaining two men had stopped struggling—the heat sapping their strength.

Inside my head, something began to fracture. The heat, the smell, the screams—it was all bleeding together into something else. Something familiar. Each scream they made echoed hers. Each plea reminded me of her broken voice confessing what they'd done.

Michael was next. I cut his restraints and dragged him directly to the crematorium's mouth—no ceremony, no gurney. Just feeding flesh to flames. He was beyond coherent speech now, just animal whimpers and desperate movements.

"Please," he gasped as the heat hit him. I slammed the bat into his skull. Brain matter splattered the wall. He dropped like a stone, convulsing.

The flames took what remained of him screaming. The whistle around his throat was the last thing I saw before the crematorium door closed—a small metallic glint disappearing into orange light.

The heat was becoming unbearable. Law's face was flushed, sweat streaming down his cheeks. Chet leaned against the wall, breathing hard. The concrete itself felt hot beneath our feet.

Inside my head, the walls began to whisper. Oakley's voice mixed with Mother's. The heat made everything shimmer, reality bending at the edges. I could taste copper in my mouth—not blood, something older.

Karson watched it all, his body convulsing in the chair. His eyes had gone wide and empty, shock setting in. When I approached him, he didn't fight anymore.

I knelt in front of him, catching his gaze. He was beyond words now, his mind already broken by what he'd witnessed.

Something shifted inside me again. A fracture spreading wider. Behind my eyes, images flickered—Oakley pinned down, Oakley crying, Oakley broken. I hadn't been there, but her words painted it vividly enough. My mind filled in what she couldn't say.

"Do you remember her face?" My voice lowered as I leaned closer to him. "When you held her down?"

"Every day." He nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I see them every day."

Each tear that slipped from her eyes played behind my eyelids. The tremors in her hands. The way she couldn't meet my stare. Her whispered apologies—like the scars on her soul were her fault.

"She begged you to stop." My hand found his throat, squeezing just enough to feel his pulse. "She cried until she couldn't breathe."

Law stepped forward, his calm lawyer facade completely gone. Blood had dried on his split lip. "They trusted you."

"We were just kids—" Law silenced him with a boot to the face. Blood sprayed across concrete.

"Oakley is my kid." His hand went to his waistband, pulling out a gun I hadn't seen before. It wavered in his grip, barrel inches from Karson's forehead. His finger unsteady on the trigger. I thought he might do it—pull the trigger, claim vengeance himself. Instead, he lowered the gun and stepped back.

"She was sixteen," Law said, voice barely above a whisper, fists shaking at his sides. "You broke my fucking little girl."

Law crumpled to his knees, his knuckles split and bleeding. He didn't cry. Just stared at the floor like he was waiting for his daughter's voice to fill the silence. It didn't.

I cut Karson's restraints, walked him to my inferno and fed what remained of him to the flames.

The crematorium sealed shut for the final time. Six hours of burning. Four men reduced to charred bone and blackened flesh. The basement reeked of death and heat.

Law worked silently beside me, both of us drenched in sweat, breathing the poisoned air. When it was done, nothing remained but smoldering remnants and the smell of charred flesh.

Something snapped within me, a cable severed under too much tension. Not grief. Not rage. Just certainty. The walls of the basement began to breathe. In and out. Slow and wet like lung tissue.

Charred bone fragments scattered across the floor like broken prayers. For a second, I thought I saw her outline in the smoke—Oakley, made of embers. Fragile. Burning. Beautiful. I reached for her, but the heat turned her to soot between my fingers.

Law exhaled sharply, hands shaking, eyes fixed on the cooling crematorium.

Chet leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Blood speckled across his face and neck. His usual manic energy seemed subdued, replaced by something contemplative.

"You know," Chet said, breaking the silence, "Grim asked me to join the MC." His voice carried an unfamiliar weight. "Officially."

Law glanced up, not surprised. "You've been hanging around enough."

Chet's mouth lifted in that familiar half-grin, but his eyes remained serious. "Yeah, well. Some men take longer to save than others." He turned to me, something vulnerable shifting across his features. "What do you think, V? Think I'm worth saving?"

I kept my focus on the cooling crematorium. The question wasn't worth answering. No one was worth saving. Not him. Not me. Not anyone except Oakley.

Law shifted, recognizing the moment for what it was—Chet searching for approval where there would be none.

"Maybe after tonight, we'll be brothers soon enough." Chet's voice rose with conviction, echoing against the concrete walls. "Then I'll get to say 'Hey, brother' to you too."

He studied me for a reaction I wouldn't give. I stared back, unmoved. After seventeen seconds, his shoulders dropped slightly.

"Let’s get outta here," Law shook the collar of his shirt. “It’s fucking hot.”

The first step sent splinters of memory into my feet. Wooden creaks echoed through fog that thickened with each inch upward. Second step—metal tang flooded my mouth, copper coins dissolved under my tongue. Third step—yellow fingernails against blue thread, the curved needle coming closer to my face.

Fourth step—the walls whispered my name in Oakley's voice, but twisted wrong, vowels stretched until I couldn't recognize it. Fifth step—my heartbeat grew irregular, missing beats, then doubling back on itself. Sixth step—my skin felt too tight, like something underneath was trying to push through.

Law spoke. His mouth opened, but Mother's voice leaked out. Her teeth behind his lips, grinning. "Such a special boy." Her fingers reached from his throat, blue thread winding between them.

The walls pulsed with each heartbeat. Inhale, expand. Exhale, contract. Floorboards writhed underfoot like living tissue. The staircase stretched impossibly, each step farther from the last.

Oakley's voice leaked through the walls. Small. Broken. "Please stop."

A camera flash blinded my left eye. Oakley pinned to the barn floor. Her tears caught light, transformed to crystal, shattered across concrete. I blinked—Chet was on the floor. Was he? Was he breathing? I blinked again. Oakley's body swung from the ceiling. Click. Flash. Laughter.

"She promised she wouldn't tell." Karson's voice bled through the wall. No—it was mine. My voice, shaped like his. My hands, stained like theirs. I couldn't tell where I ended and they began.

The walls were no longer walls but flesh stretched taut, bulging with shapes trying to push through from the other side. I tasted her heartbeat. I heard the smoke whisper. I watched my skin remember things I hadn't touched.

Something in my head split cleanly, like bone beneath my bat.

A needle wove between my lips, blue thread catching light. Mother humming as she worked, her hands steady. I couldn't scream—not then, not now. The threading never stopped.

Oakley sobbed in the walls, under the floor, inside my skull. Blood leaked from the wood grain, pooled at my feet. I stepped in it. Another step. Their hands on her became phantom weights on my own skin.

I reached the top of the stairs, but my head remained in the dark. The fracture widened, bone splinters scraping against each other inside my skull. The basement followed us up, clinging like smoke that wouldn't disperse. Something essential had finally broken, a vital piece sheared clean away—leaving only hollow certainty behind.

Through the growing madness, Oakley remained my only fixed point. Without her, I had no purpose, no direction. She'd given meaning to my empty existence. Her smile was the only warmth I'd ever known. Her touch was salvation. I would tear the world apart to keep her safe, would bathe in oceans of blood to see her happy. She was the only thing that mattered in this life or any other. Mine to possess. Mine to protect. Mine forever.

The walls crawled with faces. Oakley's. Mother's. All the men I'd killed. All the men who'd hurt her. Their smiles stretched too wide, teeth too sharp, eyes blinking in unison. The floor rocked beneath my feet—not solid anymore. Nothing solid. Nothing real except the bat in my hand.

Law moved toward the living room, its furniture covered in years of dust. Hellbound had been my home once—just a bare mattress in the basement, bare walls, bare existence.

"Jesus fuck," Chet muttered, leaning against a wall. Blood and ash smeared his clothes. His fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against his thigh—adrenaline still spiking through his system. "Those sick fucks deserved worse."

In my head, the images wouldn't stop. Oakley crying. Pictures being passed around. Laughter echoing against barn walls. Oakley hiding beneath her hands. Flesh exposed. Judged. Broken.

"V?" Law called, voice heavy with concern, not fear. "Everything okay?"

I didn't answer. Inside my head, Oakley's voice played on loop.

My bat whistled through the air, crashed into Chet's shoulder. His body jerked backward, stumbling but staying upright—staring at me with something that looked almost like pity.

Wrong. All wrong. They needed to understand what happens when you say her name. When you breathe the same air as the men who hurt her.

"V, stop!" Law shouted, stepping forward. "This isn't going to help her!"

I drove the bat into Chet's ribs. He doubled over, gasping, but managed to stay on his feet. "Jesus Christ, V?—"

Law raised his hands, trying to create space. "V, listen to me. Oakley needs you calm, not like this."

The bat caught Law across the shoulder. He spun, crashing into the desk but stayed conscious, groaning as he pressed his back against the wood.

For a breath, I saw her. Oakley. Not crying. Not broken. Just staring at me like I was one of them. Her lips forming my name like a question. Like she didn't recognize me.

I didn't know how long I stood there with Law clutching his shoulder and Chet doubled over, both of them breathing hard. My hair hung in front of my face, my mind floating outside my body.

Ready to destroy anyone who hurt my wife.

Knight burst through the door, hands raised—no weapon. "Whoa, whoa! V, we're your brothers!"

I swung at him. The bat caught his arm, sending him stumbling backward into Tyrant, who grabbed him before he could fall.

"Fuck!" Knight gasped, cradling his arm. "V, what the hell?"

Tyrant pushed Knight behind him, facing me with his palms open. "Brother, you need to breathe."

"Don't fucking touch me!" I snarled, advancing. "You all watched. You all let them?—"

"Let them what?" Grim demanded, positioning himself between me and the others. "What are you talking about?"

Husk appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene. "Jesus. V, put the bat down."

I drove the bat toward Husk's stomach. He jumped back, the wood missing him by inches.

Law's face was in front of me, then it wasn't. His features melted, reformed—Mother's eyes looking through his. Mother stood behind the men, needle raised high. " They're just like you," she whispered. "They wanted to hurt her. You wanted to hurt her. You're the same."

"V!" Multiple voices called my name, but they sounded distant, echoing.

My reflection caught in shattered glass—fractured, wrong. The mask moved when I didn't, the eyes behind it showing nothing human. Mother stood behind me in the mirror, her needle poised. Beside her, Oakley bled from invisible wounds.

"V," Tyrant said softly. "This isn't you, brother."

The mirror whispered in Oakley's voice, but it was wrong—too slow, vowels elongated. "You're just like them, V," it said with Mother's twisted expression stretching Oakley's lips.

"No," I whispered, then louder. "No!"

The mask spoke to me without my lips moving. "Now you see," it whispered from inside my head. "Now you understand."

I blinked. The mirror bled. Letters cut themselves across the surface: SQUEAL PIGGY. Each letter pulsed with its own heartbeat.

Sarge didn't react.

My hand moved without command. The bat felt lighter than before, almost weightless. Everything slowed. I watched it rise, watched it stop at the apex, watched it descend toward my own skull.

Law lunged forward despite his injured shoulder. "Don't you fucking do this!"

I need to stay here. To stay real. The bat cracked against my temple—controlled, measured, but harder than before. Liquid warmth traced down my skull. Pain was the only thing I hadn't lied about.

"V!" Knight shouted. "Put it down."

I lifted the bat again, bashing my head over and over. Each impact sent fractures through the madness, keeping me tethered to something real. Her voice slipped between the cracks in my skull—softer now, quieting the screams.

I spun away from his reach, my consciousness fracturing into shards, each one reflecting a different truth. In one, I was still a child, mouth sewn shut. In another, I was burning men alive. In a third, I was holding Oakley. In the end, I was nothing but an empty vessel.

Mother's laughter came from inside my skull now. The needle found its way home. The thread pulled tight. I tried to scream but I couldn’t. Not with my mouth sewn shut.

All their voices blended together as I fell upward into the dark.

Around me, my brothers closed in—Law still gripping his shoulder, Knight cradling his arm, Chet holding his ribs, all of them calling my name. Sarge reached for me again without speaking.

In the moment before consciousness fled, Oakley's face appeared before me—her soft curves, her chestnut hair, her jade eyes that saw something in me worth saving. She was the only pure thing I'd ever touched. My obsession with her wasn't just desire—it was worship.

In the moment before madness swallowed me whole, Mother's hands covered my face as she whispered, "Look what we made of you."

It was what I’d always been.

A fucking monster.