Adrian Kael
I torture and laugh at the same time, and that, to me, is natural.
“I–I…” His voice trembles, interrupting my daydream.
His nervousness is so intense I can’t help it: I feel pity.
“It’s okay; you don’t have to answer now.”
I give him a light pat on the shoulder, an almost paternal gesture.
“Relax. I like you. That’s why I won’t hurt you, unless you touch what
belongs to me.”
He nods hurriedly, agreeing.
“The Enforcer is yours. I have no desire to mess with him.”
I smirk.
“Right. I have some sons of bitches to take out of the way.” My voice
is calm, unhurried. “When I’m done with them, throw them off the
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cliff and say they tried to escape.”
He agrees without hesitation.
I step into the cafeteria and immediately locate the targets. I walk
slowly, without looking away. To blink? For me, that’s losing the prey.
The laughter echoes through the hall and feeds a cold pleasure that
runs down my spine. I imagine fear invading everybody, breath
turning into a plea, and voices cracking.
I want to hear groans begging for mercy.
I want to see them shrink, withering until they are nothing more than
flickering shadows before me.
One notices my approach and nudges the others. They all notice the
weapon in my hand. They swallow hard.
“Hello, boys. How are we doing?” I greet them with a cold smile; the
sound of their swallowing becomes louder.
They shift, as if trying to flee, but they know they cannot.
“W–We’re fine… what do you want?” The tallest one asks, his voice
trembling.
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I tilt
my head and study every reaction, every muscle. Their
nervousness draws maps that I read with pleasure.
“What are your names?” The question comes out calm but firm.
They look at me, confused, not knowing the reason. I respond only
with a serene smile–the kind of smile that looks more like a
disguised threat.
“They call me Branco,” he stutters through the words. “The others are
Rasga, Teco, Garra, and Navalha.”
He points to each of them, and I watch them shrink under my gaze. I
smile, savoring the weeping I know is coming.
“Do you
know why I’m here?” I ask, my voice low and lethal.
They deny it in unison, their heads shaking like dry leaves.
“Because you dared to humiliate my beautiful husband. Now you’re
going to pay with your lives.” The sentence comes out casually, like
someone commenting on the weather.
Their eyes open like windows to terror; a shiver of pleasure runs
through my body, cold and urgent. Fear is so good–I almost want to
smell and taste it. Like those creatures from the movies Jeepers
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Creepers or IT, they savor the dread, and it must be delicious.
The sight of men so large reduced to ruins intoxicates me. I want
them to tremble, to scream, to become nothing but sound, and to
succumb to what I give them.
“P–Please… we didn’t know!” Rasga’s voice fails, broken by panic. “We
thought it would be… funny to mock him, since you carried him
through the hallway yourself that day, showing his miserable state.”
I don’t hesitate. I point the gun at his forehead and pull the trigger. The shot is dry–a sound that cuts through the air and ends everything in an instant. Rasga collapses, motionless; blood splatters onto the faces of the others. The silence that follows is heavy,
stunned.
“I didn’t order anyone to humiliate what is mine, did I?” The question
is soft, cutting like a blade.
Branco collapses to his knees, his entire body shaking; despair tears at his voice in an almost beautiful way. He can’t form anything more
than mangled pleas.
“Please… have mercy. I’ll do anything, I swear. Please, Adrian…”
I stand still, every syllable of his vibrating in the air like grotesque
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“I… I’m sorry.” His voice falls apart, barely able to sustain the words.
Instead of giving up, he grabs a random knife from the table. The gesture is desperate and irrational. On an impulse, he lunges at the
others. The cafeteria turns into chaos: screams, pleas for them to
stop, and the sound of glasses falling. Those present draw back, too
shocked to intervene.
I feel the laughter rising, first a thread, then invading me. The scene
fascinates me–the complete transformation of men who were laughing and are now bleeding. Beside me, I notice David’s nervousness; his body shakes, his face is pale. This only fuels my
pleasure.
Branco does not waver.
He continues to mangle his own companions, each strike plunging him deeper into the carnage, all for the meager chance to survive.
Fascinating.
When silence returns, he is standing, panting, his clothes and hands stained. The air is impregnated with blood, and the scent is divine, inebriating, and almost sweet. The others watch him as if they see a defeated animal and, at the same time, something terribly human.
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I hand the weapon to David with an almost ceremonial calm. Then, I
begin to clap–one, two, three times–the sound echoing through the
cafeteria like a mockery.
A huge smile opens on my face, satisfied with the show.
“Very well, Branco. Excellent. As I promised… you live.”
He falls to his knees, his body wracked by uncontrollable sobs. Pain
and relief mix in a short breath. I approach slowly and place my hand
on his head in a gesture that borders on the paternal.
“I know,” my voice becomes soft for a second. “It’s sad.”
He turns his face, staring at me full of hatred.
“You are a monster.”
My smile opens naturally.
“Yes,” I reply, without embarrassment. “We are all monsters inside.”
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
