Page 8

By the time Morgan was done, Ollie sat hunched on the towel-covered toilet, legs bound, wrists tied behind him, chest rising in quick, uneven gulps. Just breathing look like it hurt.

The sheet cut into his skin. Red where it had been pulled tight, turning a mottled blue-gray at the ends.

“If your fountain of bright ideas has dried up,” Morgan muttered, knees cracking as he stood. “We are going to have many choice words. What now.”

Lex watched from the doorway, crouched low, phone warm in his palm.

He tilted his head to the side. “Do you know what I thought was fun?”

Morgan shot him a look that screamed teetering on thin ice again.

“The games we played last year,” he continued. “Truth or dare… things like that.”

“ Lex.” The warning in Morgan’s voice was unmistakable.

“Let’s play Simon Says with Ollie.” Lex turned the phone, zooming in a little more on Ollie’s face. “You know how to play that, right? You probably played it as a kid.”

Ollie didn’t respond. He just stared at the floor tile like it might tell him something.

Lex flicked his gaze up—over the edge of the phone—to Morgan.

Testing the waters.

He expected pushback, more chiding .

But Morgan didn’t snap. Didn’t dismiss it.

Instead, Morgan’s eyebrows raised, eyes flicking to the ceiling.

Good. He was thinking about it. Actually considering the idea.

The little smile that started at the corner of Morgan’s mouth was all the confirmation he needed.

Leaving the bathroom, Morgan touched Lex’s shoulder as he passed.

Gentle. Light.

Absolutely fucking horrifying for a split second.

Ollie looked up at Lex, blinking fast. The camera lens pulled into focus—every red line, every trail down his face, tears dripping off his chin.

“I don’t want to die,” he mumbled, voice cracking, quiet like Morgan was the only damn threat in the room. “Please. I—I’m so grateful you sav—”

Lex sighed. “No one saved you. You’re just alive.”

“Y—you have to help me, my—”

Whatever he was about to say died mid-syllable. Because Morgan came back in. No footsteps. Just presence.

He pulled the knife from the travel case again with that same disinterested precision, like he was picking out a pen. Then he tossed it. Casual as hell.

The knife didn’t skid far.

The hilt clipped Lex’s sneaker with a dull thunk and spun in a lazy circle on the tile—glinting under the light as it rotated, slow and theatrical.

“Simon says, get out. ”

Ollie’s eyes jumped—knife, Morgan, Lex, knife again. Trapped in the loop.

Morgan took a sip of the drink, ice cubes swirling in the glass. “You want to leave, don’t you? Get out. There’s your way.”

Ollie stared at the knife.

“I—” He licked his lips. “I can’t move.”

Morgan didn’t answer.

Lex adjusted the angle of the phone slightly, framing it better. Centering Ollie. The shredded sheet wrapped around his ankles. The expression on his face like he was choking on the weight of the moment.

The tension in his spine looked like it hurt—taut and shaking, bones trying to hold something up that wanted to fall.

“I’m numb,” Ollie whispered. “I can’t feel my hands—”

“Get. Out.”

Not cruel. Not even angry.

Just instructional.

Like a teacher with all the patience in the world for the dumbest kid in the room.

Ollie shifted forward, winced.

The moment his knees hit the ground, he whimpered. However Morgan had tied those sheets looked even more painful than Lex had originally thought—the struggle made them tighten. Ollie’s fingers splayed out, shoulders shaking.

Lex watched Ollie jerk forward, then freeze—like his spine had locked up mid-spasm.

Back arched. Head down.

Was he trying not to scream?

And what the hell did that even accomplish ?

Every movement was the wrong one… like watching someone walk themselves into a trap they already knew was there.

And god—it was kind of beautiful.

This was something uniquely Morgan.

The kind of torment that made the victim hurt themselves better than anyone else could.

Props.

Morgan walked forward, crouched again.

“Simon said get out.”

“I’m trying,” Ollie whispered, those huge tears coming faster. “ Please , I’m trying—”

He twisted sideways this time, trying to get closer to the knife. There was resistance. Then something popped.

The sound of pain came after.

A choked, half-swallowed cry that wasn’t a sob but wasn’t not one either.

Lex zoomed in.

There was a flush blooming across Ollie’s neck. Not embarrassment. Not yet. But the edge of it. The shame of not being good enough, fast enough, useful enough to even obey a simple fucking command.

One elbow scraped forward, inching toward the knife.

His whole body bowed with the effort. Shoulders trembling, bones stiff with tension. His fingers twitched on the tile—searching.

The knife sat less than a breath away. Maybe an inch. Maybe less.

Ollie stretched .

The sheets around his wrists pulled tighter, cruel and unrelenting.

He screamed.

Not loud.

Thin. Weak. The kind of sound that didn’t travel. It barely made it past Lex’s ears before dying in the sterile bathroom air.

But Morgan?

Morgan propped an elbow on his knee and sighed like he was doing all the work.

“That’s all?”

Ollie gasped. Strained.

“Try again," Morgan said.

“I—I can’t—”

“You can and you will.”

The flatness in Morgan’s tone wasn’t anger. It was something worse. Certainty.

Ollie shook his head, hiccuping.

Morgan waited.

And when Ollie didn’t move—when his hands balled into fists, his back curved around the pain, his body trembling like a leaf caught in a storm—Morgan set his drink on the edge of the sink and stood.

“Then let me help you.”

Lex sat up straighter.

He kept the camera running.

And waited.

Morgan didn’t raise his voice.

He crouched beside Ollie like a surgeon checking for rot—precise, cold, not a damn ounce of sympathy—and then grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up by the fabric alone.

The sound Ollie made wasn’t even a scream.

Just this awful, hiccuped exhale. Like his lungs gave up first. Like his knees didn’t get the memo.

It wasn’t defiance.

It was just instinct . The kind of noise bodies made when they didn’t know what else to do.

Been there. Done that.

“Back on the seat,” Morgan said.

Ollie scrambled. Panicked, jittery. A bug stuck on its back—arms flailing, knees sliding, zero fucking coordination.

Lex didn’t move.

Camera steady.

Heart pounding too damn hard.

God , he loved this part.

“You had one command,” Morgan said. “One.”

Ollie shook his head, voice cracking. “I—I was trying, I really—”

Morgan hit him.

Not like some bar fight. Not messy or emotional.

A punch . Brutal. Clinical. Right into his ribs .

Lex clenched his teeth, the weird, little laugh coming out of nowhere.

That’s going to leave a mark in the morning.

Ollie made a sound like he’d come unzipped—half cough, half cry—curling over, legs jerking like his nerves misfired.

“You don’t try,” Morgan said. “You do what’s asked.”

Morgan hit him.

Again.

And again.

The sound ?

Holy shit .

That sick, wet slap of raw meat on tile. Fuck .

He forgot how quiet Morgan got when he was focused.

Ollie gasped, eyes wide and wet and nowhere near present. His breath came all wrong. Shallow. High. Fast.

How he was still fucking awake? No clue.

Morgan leaned closer. One hand in the sheet, twisting like he was wringing out a dishrag.

“Simon says,” Morgan whispered. “Beg.”

Ollie made a noise. Maybe a word. Maybe just static.

“Louder.”

“I’m—I’m sorry—”

“That’s not what I asked for.”

Morgan’s fingers dug into something soft. Already tender.

“Beg.”

“Please,” Ollie gasped. “Please, I’ll do better, I—I’ll try—”

“Louder.”

More crying. Not cute, teary-eyed stuff. The kind that clogged his throat and made everything too slippery to speak. Lex zoomed in on his jaw. The way it shook. The way his mouth tried to work faster than the sounds could keep up.

“Please,” Ollie sobbed. “Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do whatever you want, please, I can do better, I swear—”

“Louder.”

And then—

It tore out of him.

One long, ripped open sound, like everything inside was trying to claw its way out through his throat. Blood showed up next—Lex couldn’t even tell where from. Mouth? Nose? Who knew. It mixed with the snot and spit, pink and too-shiny on his screen.

Morgan stood.

Just stood there, looking down. Head tilted like he was evaluating something.

Ollie curled again, the sheet biting rings into his skin. Ankles. Wrists.

Knotted up. Shaking hard. Still breathing.

Barely.

Still conscious. Somehow .

Jesus.

Ollie was either stubborn on a different level, or had the pain tolerance of god himself.

“See how much simpler it is when you listen?” Morgan asked. “Much better.”

Lex clicked stop. Saved the video to the hidden folder.

His cheeks hurt. Took him a second to realize why.

He was smiling. Hard. Didn’t even mean to. Just—fuck. It rose up from somewhere deep and stuck , like it belonged .

This was better than some quick bathtub bleed out. Better than screaming. Better than everything .

Morgan picked up his empty glass. Shook it. “I’m out of ice.”