Chapter 9

He continued, his voice dripping with disdain, “My name is of no concern to you, and you’ll never learn who sent me.”

“Enough of this bullshit. Bring me my tools,” I commanded, my voice a low growl that left no room for argument. Mitchel, ever the eager accomplice, handed me my bag of instruments, a sinister grin creeping across his face as he remarked, “This is going to be so much fun. Get ready to scream, no-name.”

“Do your best shot, buddy. I’m not spilling regardless,” the man replied, a hint of bravado lacing his tone.

“That's fine with me,” I countered, a dark thrill lighting up my core at the prospect of unleashing my wrath. This was my favorite part of the day: the moment I made my enemies scream for their lives just before snuffing them out.

Rummaging through the bag, my fingers closed around my weapon of choice: a fish knife. Its design was cruel and efficient, meant for piercing flesh and causing maximum agony. I relished the thought of the pain it would inflict, the slow, torturous process of extracting information.

“I’ll ask you one last time: who sent you?

What’s your name?

Why were you following Shelly?” I demanded, my voice a menacing whisper, the air thick with tension.

He met my gaze, his silence a defiance I could not abide. The seconds stretched like an eternity, and just when I thought he would hold firm, the tension snapped like a brittle thread. Three seconds later, the blade sank into his upper thigh, and a horrific scream erupted from his throat, reverberating off the cold, concrete walls of the warehouse. I yanked the knife out, only to plunge it into his other leg, the act a visceral dance of torment that I orchestrated with grim satisfaction. Each thrust was a note in my symphony of pain, and I savored the moment, letting it wash over me like a dark tide.

He howled, his cries echoing in the empty space, but I was relentless, driven by the need for answers that danced just out of reach. The thrill of inflicting pain surged through me, an intoxicating rush that urged me to continue, to push further. It was in these moments that I felt alive, the chaos of the outside world fading away as I focused solely on the pathetic creature before me.

“Wait! I’ll tell you! Just stop, please!” he finally sobbed, desperation flooding his voice.

“Tell me what you know,” I urged, my voice low and menacing. “My name is James. I was tailing Shelly because that was my task from my boss. He made me do it.”

The way he uttered his name sounded weak, like the last gasp of a dying animal, and it only fueled my desire to dig deeper, to rip apart the layers of deceit that surrounded him. “Go on,” I pressed, leaning closer, my eyes locked onto his with an intensity that could have burned through steel. “Who is your boss? You know him. You know him very well.”

His voice trembled as he began to reveal the identity of the person who had sent him. “His name is Mr..