"Well, that was fucking pathetic."
My eyes snapped open.
Everything hurt. My chest, arms, and neck ached. My vision swam. The room was spinning and lopsided.
I was still in The Slaughter.
The floor was damp beneath me. My palms were sticky. And close by, I could hear the low, ragged breathing of someone else.
Dylan.
I turned my head slowly, the pain in my neck flaring.
Dr. Thorne was here now, crouched in front of him, pressing gauze to a deep, bleeding wound in his thigh. Dylan's eyes were half-closed, wincing in pain. He looked worse than before.
But when his eyes flicked towards me, the rage returned.
He lunged, gagged and snarling, the chains biting into his wrists as he threw his body forward. Sam snapped upright to hold him still.
I scrambled away, colliding with the concrete wall behind me with a thud.
Tyler was standing in the doorway, arms folded, a cigarette burning lazily between two fingers. He took a long drag and exhaled slowly, the toxic fumes spiralling in the air.
"You know what I hate more than disobedience, Emily?" he asked, voice level. "Wasted opportunities."
I blinked hard, my eyes flitting between his and Dylan's, breathing shallowly.
He took a step towards me, smoke lingering around his head like a cursed halo. "I gave you the perfect chance. A gift. And you ruined it."
"I didn't mean to—" I croaked.
"You missed." He snapped, throwing the cigarette on the ground. "You dropped the fucking gun, and now I have to clean up your mess. Again."
I couldn't respond. I think I cowered in the corner, but my memory hasn't stretched that far.
There was nothing to say. He was right.
He watched me for a long, heavy pause — then turned to Thorne.
"It's not fatal. You should go," he muttered. Sam hesitated. Tyler's jaw clenched. "I said go, Thorne."
The doctor stood, didn't argue, just nodded stiffly. He glanced at me, only briefly, and left.
Then it was just us.
Me. Tyler. Dylan, bleeding on the chains.
"Right, I think we're done here. Come on," Tyler said.
He reached down and yanked me upright, gripping my upper arm like he had before. I cried out, stumbling to my feet.
His hand tightened as he dragged me from the room, out into the freezing corridor.
My legs barely moved. My body was limp. He half-dragged me down the hallway like I weighed nothing at all.
The place was mostly silent, save for the echo of our footfalls and the hum of vents struggling to breathe life into the dead air. The soles of my feet were raw, grazed and painful on the concrete, making me wince with every step.
He didn't speak at first.
We turned a corner sharply.
I stumbled.
"Keep up," he growled without looking back. His voice had lost its earlier calm, now thinner, sharper, stretched taut. He was irritated, but I couldn't tell if it was at me or himself.
I tried to say something but all that came out was a rasp. My throat felt raw, and I couldn't summon the strength to argue. I forced myself to keep up with him. Barely.
We passed empty rooms — some with doors ajar, revealing cracked tiles, overturned furniture, heavy shadows — others sealed shut. I remember hearing someone scream.
Up ahead, there was a flight of stairs, lit only by another flickering light.
Tyler didn't pause. He yanked me forward, up the first step. My knees buckled.
"Move," he snapped.
"I tried ," I croaked out, surprising myself. My voice cracked mid-word. I wasn't talking about the step.
He stopped two steps ahead of me, hand still gripping my arm, turning to face me. His expression was unreadable in the dim light. Not rage. His eyes narrowed. Lips pressed into a thin line.
"You hesitated," he said. "And it almost got you both killed."
I swallowed. I was trembling but met his eyes.
"I couldn't shoot him," I whispered.
His mouth twitched into a snarl, nose wrinkling slightly. "You think this is me letting you off?"
He turned back and continued dragging me upward.
More stairs soon after. The silence returned. I could feel the pressure behind my eyes now — a building ache, like my skull might split open.
Finally, we reached the corridor where his office was. I tried to look at his face but couldn't see him clearly.
He shoved open a heavy door with one shoulder and dragged me into a different hallway.
Tyler's office was at the end of the hall.
The door was already open.
Then we saw why. Jack was inside, pacing with a folder in his hands. "Boss, about the contract—"
Tyler didn't slow down. He sounded almost rabid now. "Get the fuck out of here!"
Jack froze. His eyes landed on me. Whatever he saw made his mouth drop open. He nodded, silent, and slipped out without another word.
The door slammed shut.
Then I was against the wall, thrown against it with a force that knocked the air out of my lungs.
Tyler's hand slammed beside my head. His other wrapped around my neck, forcing me to look at him.
He was so close I could feel his breath on my face. He was panting, breathing heavily and shaking slightly.
His hand crushed my neck, cutting off my air supply until my face went blue. Close enough to death to make me panic.
My hands flew up, scrabbling at his wrist, nails digging into skin, but he didn't flinch. He held me there, back to the wall, his face inches from mine. His eyes were wild, blazing. Not angry anymore. Fractured. On the edge of something bottomless.
"You had one job," he hissed, his breath hot against my cheek.
I tried to speak, but no sound came out. Just a strangled noise.
Then, once I was blue, he released me. I was thrown to the ground, collapsing in a heap at his feet, gasping. My lungs spasmed, dragging air in like they didn't know how. I coughed violently until I thought I might throw up.
Tyler didn't stay.
He crossed the room in three fast strides, tearing open the drawer of his desk. Papers scattered. Something clattered inside.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, my vision swimming. I could barely keep my head up.
But then I saw it.
The vial. A familiar purple liquid in a glass bottle, the label half-worn from use.
IPD.
I froze, my heart pounding in my chest.
He didn't stop, rushing like time was running out. He pulled the cap off with his teeth, grabbed a syringe from the drawer, and filled it quickly, methodically. Then loosened his tie with one hand and yanked it off completely, wrapping it around his arm above the elbow, tightening it with his teeth like a heroin addict.
His breathing was rough now. Ragged. Like whatever rage, fear, or desperation had taken over was rotting him from the inside.
I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just shuffled backwards until my spine hit the wall, knees curling up to my chest.
He slid the needle in. The vein bulged. The plunger depressed. His eyes fluttered shut for a brief second.
Then, silence.
No explosion. No collapse. Just the heavy, exhausted exhale of someone barely keeping himself together.
He stayed there, at the desk, hand still gripping the edge, head bowed slightly, shoulders hunched. I didn't ask why. I already knew.
Finally, after a solid few minutes, he spoke again.
"You think this is a game?" he said quietly, his voice deep and crackling. "You think you can just march into my office, beg for a man's death, and then flinch when I hand it to you?"
"I—"
"You passed out." He laughed once, humourless. "You couldn't even stomach what you’d asked for."
"I didn't know it would be like that—" I gasped, clutching my stomach. My chest rose and fell too fast. I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
"What will Tom think, huh? That you're another loser who tried to help him?" He chuckled, stalking back towards me, taunting me.
I shook my head, dazed. "No—"
"You failed to kill Dylan. But I still held up my side of the favour."
The favour.
I'd almost forgotten about it.
I stayed curled on the floor, forehead pressed to my knees, trying to keep the world from tilting again. My skin stung where the blood had dried, flaking and itching.
Tyler didn't move for a while.
The sound of the empty syringe being tossed into the bin cut through the silence with a metallic clink.
Then:
"Get up."
I didn't move.
I wasn't being defiant, I just couldn't. My muscles ached. My body didn't feel like mine.
I heard his footsteps cross the room, slow and deliberate. His shadow fell over me. He didn't immediately touch me, just stood there. Breathing.
"Emily," he said again, softer now, but it didn't sound kinder. "Get up."
I raised my head slowly, jaw clenched, trying to hold myself together. I tried to move. My arms trembled.
Tyler crouched in front of me. His voice dropped to a low, measured tone — the one he used when coaxing something.
"You owe me."
My lips parted, then closed. I nodded slowly. I don't know why, but I did.
"Then stand."
I couldn't tell if he was asking or ordering. Either way, I staggered to my feet. My legs barely held, but I pushed off the floor, dragging myself upright like a puppet on worn-out strings. I reached out to touch the wall for balance.
Tyler stood slowly too.
He took a step closer. His eyes never left mine. "You think you're scared now?" he murmured. "You should be terrified."
I nodded again, not trusting my voice to speak.
"No." His voice was quieter now. "You're confused. Still trying to figure out what's happening."
He leaned in, one hand resting beside my head against the wall. He licked his lips slowly. "But deep down, you know. Don't you?"
I swallowed. My throat burned.
"W-What do you want from me?"
His eyes flicked across my face — searching, scanning, hungry. Then laughed under his breath. "That's the wrong question."
He reached out, brushing a knuckle against the dried blood on my cheek. "I should break you for failing me."
My stomach twisted.
"But you've had enough today, haven't you?" he murmured. "So I'll settle for collecting what I'm owed."
His hand slid to my waist. I didn't move. Couldn't move. Couldn’t breathe properly.
"You said anything," he said softly. "You said I could have anything."
I don’t remember nodding.
But that was all he needed.
And I hated myself for it.
His hand on my waist tightened. His gaze dropped to my lips — then snapped back to my eyes, as if checking for resistance.
"I want you..."
I froze.
The words were whispered, barely, but I heard him. And he meant every word.
His forehead pressed to mine, slow and deliberate. A gesture that looked intimate — but wasn't.
It was a claim.
He closed his eyes. Inhaled slowly. "That's the problem."
His thumb brushed under my chin, tilting my face up ever so slightly.
"I should scare you more than I do," he whispered.
"You do," I croaked back.
Something flickered in his eyes as they opened.
Anger.
Ache.
Obsession.
Then I said it.
The thing I shouldn't have.
The thing that pushed it too far.
"You're obsessed with me."
The moment broke.
Something snapped inside him.
His hands seized my face, rough and desperate.
He kissed me.
Not sweetly. Not tenderly.
Like he'd been drowning in it. Like he'd been holding it in for too long and now it was too late to stop.
It was fire. Teeth. Hands. A growl low in his throat.
He crushed me to the wall, devouring my mouth with his, fingers tangled in my hair, body trembling like he hated this, hated me for making him feel it.
I gasped, but there was no air between us. No space. No room to breathe. His lips were on mine. His hands framing my face.
It was pain, need, guilt, and fury all tangled together.
And it didn't feel like control.
It felt like collapse .
When he broke the kiss, it wasn't slow. He tore away from me, chest heaving, stumbling backwards.
His mouth was still parted, eyes wide, hands dropping like he was afraid of what they'd done.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck!"
He staggered further, putting distance between us.
He couldn't meet my eyes. Like he didn't trust himself not to do it again.
He turned to the desk, gripped the edge with both hands, and lowered his head, breathing too heavily.
I was still pressed against the wall.
Both of us gasping.
And the worst part?
I didn't know what to do.
Because part of me wanted more.