ZAYAN — POV
"Do you know what I'm doing in your case?" I ask.
He looks at me.
Really looks this time.
Eyes searching my face like maybe there's a loophole hidden there. Like maybe I'll blink and this turns into a deal instead of a sentence.
I smile.
"I'm transferring all of it," I say softly, "in your name."
For half a second, he doesn't get it.
Then it lands.
Hard.
His breath stutters. A sound crawls out of his throat, half laugh, half panic.
"But that doesn't mean you'll go to heaven or die a saint."
I shake my head slowly.
"No," I say. "Don't get it twisted. You're not going anywhere nice because you signed a few digital papers."
I stand.
The chair legs scrape. The sound carries. He flinches even though I'm not touching him yet.
"You don't get absolution," I continue. "You don't get forgiveness. You don't even get remembered correctly."
I start walking.
Slow.
Around him.
Predator pace. Let him hear the steps. Let his body track me even when his eyes can't.
"I'm going to mislead everyone," I say casually. "I'll make the world think you're still alive. I'll turn the kidnapping into a lie and make them doubt it ever happened."
He swallows. I see it in his throat.
"They'll say you liquidated everything yourself," I go on. "They'll ask why a criminal suddenly emptied his empire into orphanages and shelters. Analysts will argue. Journalists will write stupid think-pieces."
I stop behind him.
"And no one will ever land on the truth."
His voice comes out thin. "You're a monster."
I smile wider.
"I didn't finish, dude."
I step back into his line of sight.
"After the misdirection settles," I say, calm as a weather report, "after the money's moved and the story's boring—"
I lean down, close enough that he smells me.
"I kill you," I say. "Slow."
His whole body shivers. Not from the room. From the certainty.
I straighten.
Let it sit.
He breathes hard. Then he laughs. Desperate people always try one last swing.
"You said you're married," he spits. "Does your little wife know she's bouncing on a monster?"
Something in me snaps.
Not loud.
Not messy.
Clean.
Dark.
I don't think.
I move.
My fist connects with his face.
Thwak.
The sound is solid. Satisfying. Bone on bone. His chair tips. Metal screams as it hits the floor. His head cracks against concrete and the air punches out of him in a wet gasp.
I step forward.
My boot meets his face.
Thwak.
Once.
Again.
Thwak.
I crouch down.
Grip a fistful of his hair and wrench his head back so hard his neck strains. His mouth opens in a scream that never finishes.
I punch his nose.
Dead center.
The crack is loud. Wet. The kind you feel in your own teeth. Blood explodes down his face.
He howls.
I don't stop.
I hit his eye.
Once.
Twice.
Knuckles burning. Breath steady.
I tilt my head, studying the damage like it's a draft I'm editing.
Then I lean in close.
"You don't get to talk about my wife," I say quietly, "with that filthy mouth."
I let go.
He slumps. Crying now. Broken. Finally aware of where this ends.
I stand over him, chest barely rising, and feel nothing but calm.
This is who I am when mercy runs out.
And for him—
It ran out a long time ago.
He's still breathing wrong.
That wet, broken sound people make when their pride is gone but their mouth hasn't learned the lesson yet.
He groans.
Low. Stupid. Like he's trying to crawl back into consciousness and can't decide if it's worth it.
I run a hand through my hair.
Hard.
Drag my fingers back until my scalp burns. Exhale through my nose. Slow. Controlled. Like I'm the one keeping this civilized.
Didn't I give you enough mercy already?
I look at him again.
Blood-slick face. Swollen eye barely open. Chair twisted on its side like it tried to escape with him and failed.
"Was I not merciful?" I ask quietly.
My voice doesn't rise. That's the worst part.
"Is that why you had the audacity," I continue, stepping closer, "to talk about what's mine?"
He whimpers.
Actually whimpers.
My jaw tightens. The calm cracks at the edges. Not exploding. Folding inward. Sharpening.
I reach behind my back.
Metal meets my palm.
The weight is familiar. Comforting. Honest.
His eyes lock on it.
Pure panic now. No sarcasm left. No last jokes.
I don't warn him.
I snap forward and bring the butt of the gun down on his forehead.
The sound is dull.
Heavy.
His scream tears out of him like it's been waiting its turn. High. Ugly. It scrapes my nerves raw.
"I'm sorry," he sobs immediately. "I'm sorry, please—please stop—"
I laugh.
Short. Breathless. Mean.
"Beg, Damien," I say. "Fucking beg. But don't get confused."
I tilt the gun in my hand, watching his eyes follow it like it's the only thing in the room.
"I'm not being nice anymore."
I fire.
Not to kill.
Never to kill.
The sound punches the walls. The bullet goes straight into his arm. His scream is instant and unbearable, shrill enough to make my teeth grind. He thrashes, chains rattling, voice breaking into nothing but noise.
"I won't ever be nice to you," I say over it. Calm. Certain.
I turn away while he's still screaming.
The door opens. Cold air hits my face. I walk out like this is finished business.
"Cut off his fingers," I tell the guard without looking back.
Behind me, Damien's voice collapses into pure panic.
"No—no—no—please—please—"
The door shuts.
The sound dies.
Silence settles around me again, thick and obedient.
I take three steps.
Then it hits.
Sharp. Clean. A thought sliding into place like it was always meant to be there.
I stop.
Izar is standing down the corridor, already watching me. He knows that look. The one that means something worse just formed.
"What?" he asks cautiously.
I turn my head.
"Take a photo of me."
He blinks. "What?"
"In this uniform," I clarify. My mouth curves. Not kind. "Take a photo."
"For what?" he asks, genuinely confused now.
I look back once at the closed door.
Then I smile.
"To give my wife a present."