My bare feet on the floor didn't sound like footsteps anymore, more like a body being dragged.
Tyler had hauled me up so quickly my knees gave out, and now I was stumbling beside him, half-supported by an iron grip around my upper arm. His fingers dug into my skin, not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to say, 'You have no choice.'
I was still soaked in blood. My arms dripped steadily, leaving a red trail behind us, the only proof I was still moving.
Part of me knew what was happening, even if I didn't want to admit it. I knew where I was going, where he was taking me, and I had to brace myself.
I tried to remember the way I'd asked for it. "I want Dylan dead."
I'd been so determined, I'd lost sight of who I was actually dealing with — a man who was always three steps ahead, according to James.
Tyler didn't speak, and I didn't ask him to. His silence was the worst part. We turned a corner into a corridor I didn't recognise. My legs buckled again, but he didn't slow down. He just tightened his grip, yanked me upright like I weighed nothing. I felt the tendons in my shoulder pull taut, a flare of pain slicing through the numbness.
This was the price, wasn't it? The cost of asking someone like Tyler to do what I couldn't. I hadn't thought he'd say yes. I hadn't thought past the rage, the hate, the blind need to make Dylan stop breathing.
And now here I was — not in control, not in charge, not even in the room where decisions were made. I was just being moved .
I hadn't walked into a trap; I had built one, step by step, with my own damn hands, and now Tyler was dragging me through it.
The hallway blurred, lights overhead blinking in and out of my periphery. The walls pulsed — not literally, but my eyes were so unfocused it all breathed. Every few minutes, the pain flared back up, cutting through the haze.
My own words echoed in my head like they came from someone else. Someone colder. Someone who didn't shake like this. I'd said it like a threat, like a command, like I meant it . But saying it and surviving the fallout were two very different things.
He didn't look at me. He hadn't said a word since the Act room. I tried to ask, 'Where are we going? What are you going to do to me?' But my mouth didn't move. The words stuck to the back of my throat like phlegm does when you're trying not to choke on it.
The lights overhead flickered faintly as we passed beneath them, one by one. Long, wide, clinical hallways gave way to narrower, colder ones. The air changed. Less filtered. Stale.
Down a flight of stairs, and another.
With each step, my heart climbed higher into my throat. My pulse throbbed behind my eyes. My body trembled.
Suddenly, we stopped.
I looked up, or tried to. My head lolled weakly on my shoulders until I forced it upright.
The door was simple, metal, painted grey. There was a single word on it, stencilled in black:
ISOLATION
Tyler finally released my arm, let me fall to my knees, then bent down to pull me back up.
"Know where we are?" he asked, voice low and emotionless.
I nodded, just barely. The blood was starting to dry by this point, making my skin crusty. A sudden shiver ran through me. The goosebumps intensified.
"Good."
He tapped a card on a scanner beside the door. It opened inward with a loud groan and a clang that echoed eerily down the hallway.
I hesitated as he held out his arm. "Ladies first."
I wanted to bolt, scream, fight. But my body wasn't responding, and his presence was too close.
I reluctantly stepped inside.
The temperature dropped instantly. It was freezing down here, like someone had turned the thermostat all the way down and forgotten about it.
The lighting was dimmer too — industrial, flickering, buzzing like flies in the silence. This part of the facility didn't belong to the rest. It was older, untouched. The corridor beyond was short and lined with heavy steel doors, some with cards slotted into holders. Patient numbers written in pen, people who'd been thrown in isolation.
Tyler stopped at one of the doors. But this one was different. No cardholder. A plaque.
The Slaughter
Tyler finally turned to me, those black eyes boring into me in a way that wasn't friendly, but wasn't hostile either. It was more of a knowing look, saying he knew he was winning.
"You've been so righteous lately," he said softly. "That little speech you gave me. That promise you made. That conviction in your voice... when you asked me to kill him."
I said nothing.
He smirked and stepped closer.
"Lucky for you," he murmured, a finger ghosting my chin, "I'm in a generous mood today."
Pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.
I held my breath.
The door creaked open on stiff, rusted hinges.
The room beyond was dark, except for a single overhead bulb casting long, distorted shadows on the walls. Whitewashed concrete walls, no windows, a padded floor.
And someone in the centre — chained, restrained, gagged.
Dylan.
He was on his knees, wrists shackled high above his head, chained to the ceiling. His shirt was gone, his torso marked with bruises, cuts, grime, and dried blood.
He was gagged — not by a cloth but a fitted metal muzzle, strapped around the back of his head, which hung low, chin resting on his chest.
It was overkill.
But he was still breathing. His chest rose and fell in short, uneven bursts. Like it hurt. Like every breath scraped his lungs raw.
I couldn't look away.
This was what I'd asked for.
Dylan, reduced to something barely human, locked in a room nicknamed "The Slaughter," breathing shallow through a busted nose and a muzzle, like a rabid thing too dangerous to be let free.
His eyes snapped up the moment I entered — bloodshot and blazing.
Pure, unfiltered, unbroken rage.
Even through the swelling, through the cracked skin and the bruises that half-closed one eye, that fury burned clear. It was a wildfire behind his gaze. He couldn't move, but every muscle in his body tensed and vibrated like he wanted to lunge, to kill.
Not beg. Not plead. Not even ask why.
Just destroy .
The gag didn't muffle the sound that came from his throat — a low, animal growl, thick with hatred and pain. His fingers clenched, trembling, scraping against the rusted cuffs that held him aloft. The chains rattled. His breath came faster. It was like watching a volcano try to erupt through a steel trap.
And all of it was aimed at me.
My stomach dropped. I couldn't speak, couldn't blink, couldn't move. Just stood there, caught in the storm of Dylan's eyes, unable to breathe.
Then Tyler stepped in behind me.
And everything changed.
Dylan's eyes widened, just a fraction, but I saw it. The rage didn't vanish, didn't cool, but something else crashed over it.
Fear.
It was like watching fire doused with ice water, the hiss of panic beneath anger. His breath hitched. His body flinched back despite the chains, shoulders hunching slightly, as if bracing for impact. His gaze darted to Tyler's silhouette in the doorway.
He knew that sound. That shape. That presence. He knew what followed.
His fury didn't leave, it just... folded in on itself. Became quieter, tighter, more desperate. Still burning, but now beneath a layer of dread.
His gaze flicked back to me, and for one awful, lurching second, I saw it.
A plea. Not forgiveness. Not understanding. Just one word, unspoken and strangled behind steel.
And whether he meant "help me" or "end it," was unclear.
Tyler chuckled behind me, low and amused, like he saw it too. "Looks like someone remembers his manners."
I couldn't breathe. And then I heard him.
Dylan whimpered.
Actually whimpered.
His whole body recoiled.
"What is this?" I rasped, backing into the doorframe.
Tyler didn't answer, just walked past me, slow and casual, and entered the room like a tour guide. He stopped beside him and crouched, resting his elbows on his knees. That smirk told me he'd done this.
"He was still fighting when we brought him in," he said casually, cupping Dylan's face. "Took two of my guys and a tranquilliser."
Dylan whimpered again, like Tyler was the only person who could ever terrify him.
And I felt that.
Tyler stood, glanced at me. "You should say something. Tell him what you told me."
I couldn't. My throat felt like I'd swallowed gallons of sand. The words weren't even there anymore.
He tilted his head, amused. "You're the one who asked for this."
Silence.
I looked at him, shook my head, and pressed my back to the wall.
My terrified gaze then turned to Dylan. And suddenly I wasn't looking at the man who'd hurt me or Tom.
I was looking at someone who used to be human. Who used to be a boy before the corruption took hold. Who used to have real fears before Tyler 'cured' him.
I had wanted him dead. But now he was here, and something inside me was... different. Did I still feel angry about his treatment of Tom? Yes. Did I still want him to pay for what he'd done? Yes. But was I angry now, or pitiful ?
Tyler's voice cut through again, quiet but stone cold: "Still want it done? Or is this the part where you start to back out?"
He was testing me. And I didn't know the answer. Not anymore.
"I thought you deserved a chance to finish what you started," Tyler said, grinning like a madman. "You asked me to kill him. But where's the fun in that?"
He stepped away, turned, and strode back towards me. I watched his hand move to his hip.
He pulled something out from his belt.
A pistol.
A fucking gun.
I gasped as he stepped behind me. Hands on my shoulders forced me to stand in the middle, right in front of Dylan. Then, cold fingers wrapped around my wrists.
And slowly, deliberately, he pressed the pistol into my hands.
It felt... heavy. Dangerous. That's the only way I can describe it.
"Go ahead," Tyler whispered against my ear. "Now's your chance. Kill him."
"Ty—" I begged.
He leaned closer, breathing into my neck. "You wanted this, remember? You said so. You begged for it. And I said I'd grant you a favour."
His hands wrapped around mine, guiding the gun into position. Guiding my finger to the trigger.
I didn't even know how to fucking use it.
I was trembling more than ever now.
Dylan stared back at me, blood running down from a cut above his eye. His chest rose and fell in shallow, terrified heaves.
His eyes met mine.
And I saw something there I didn't expect.
Not hatred anymore.
Not defiance.
Not even an apology.
Just fear.
It wasn't right. My grip faltered.
"I thought you said he deserves it," Tyler murmured. "He put his hands on you. Lied to you. Hurt your friend. Or have you forgotten already?"
I shook my head. Barely.
"Then do it."
My hands trembled violently. I felt like I was about to pass out. "I—I can't—"
"You asked for this!" Tyler's voice was suddenly sharp. "Don't disappoint me, Emily."
The weight of the gun. The sweat on my palms. My knees almost buckling.
I looked at Dylan again — bruised, chained, beaten. I remembered the sound of his voice when he shouted at Tom in the ward. I remembered his hands around my neck. The threat. And I remembered his scream as they dragged him away.
I remembered liking that scream, deep down.
Now Tyler was using it against me, breaking me further. And I couldn't stop it.
"I'm not a killer," I whispered, now sobbing, tears streaming down my face.
"But you could be."
I shook my head vigorously. "I won't be like you."
Tyler didn't reply.
He just released my hands and stepped back.
The gun stayed in my grip.
And for a few unbearable seconds, it was just me, Dylan, and silence.
Then my legs gave out.
My vision went black.
I fell.
The gun slipped.
BANG.