Jonathan Roy

"You couldn't control yourself, could you?" I lift my eyes from the documents the accountant had sent me, stopping at Baby, who enters my office angrily.
"What do I owe this outburst to, Baby?" I return my attention to the tax charges, hearing her steps getting closer.
"Don't be cynical, Jonathan!" Her hand slams down on the desk, red nails digging in as she punches the wood.
My lips twitch as I grip the pen in my fingers. My attention shifts to the row of pencils in the corner of the desk, now out of order due to Baby's abrupt movement. I reach out, aligning them again. I drape my arm over the back of the chair, letting it hang as I lean back, crossing my legs and checking if they're perfectly aligned. I twirl the silver pen between my fingers, playing with it little by little.
"Choose your words carefully, Baby, while I'm still in a good mood." I look at her face, setting the pen down on the documents, centering it perfectly.
"There's no calculation when we're talking about lives, Jonathan. People aren't numbers and graphs; they're not pieces in a Machiavellian chess game." My hands rest on the desk, using it to push the chair back as I avert my gaze from Baby's hysteria.
"You're getting emotional, Baby. Emotional people are weak, and when we're weak, we bleed. When you bleed, predators smell it." I walk over to the wall shelf, open the access doors, pull out the whiskey glass stored in the corner, and open the bottle.
I hear the second slam on the desk, along with the sound of a pencil rolling on the floor, letting me know the others are out of alignment again. I crack my shoulders, shifting them to the side, trying to ignore the rapid pulse in my neck.
"I knew it! I was sure of what you were planning when you showed me the video of her." Baby's trembling voice whispers, almost choked.
"The pencil," I say quietly, knowing it's on the floor without needing to turn around.
"As much as I wanted to believe it was for Jon. But deep down, I knew it wasn't. Her eyes, her hair, every bit of Gim made you see only..."
"Shut up!" My loud voice comes out as a growl, silencing her. My fingers turn red as I crush the glass in my hand. "Pick up the pencil from the floor." I tilt my head back, moving my neck from side to side, breathing slowly.
"Screw the damn pencil!" Her angry scream bursts from her throat as she throws everything on my desk to the floor.
"Watch your words, Baby. There won't be a third warning." I grip the bottle tightly. My fingers itch as if ants are crawling on my skin, biting me, and the vein in my neck pulses high and fast, my blood flow increasing.
The damn pencil is still on the floor.
I fill my glass, putting the bottle back in its place, and turn to Baby. I bring the drink to my lips. I unbutton the blazer and push it aside as I slip my fingers into my pocket. My eyes focus on the documents I had neatly arranged in alphabetical order, now scattered on the floor, with the pencil lost among them. I down the whiskey in one gulp, swallowing slowly, feeling the drink burn inside me, just like the sight of the disordered documents does.
"I don't understand the reason for your outburst. Days ago, I saw you right there, in that same spot," I point at her, holding the glass in my hand, "asking permission to let her into our world."
"That's different! It never crossed my mind to drag her into my personal hell. Playing with a novice is madness, even for you." Baby rubs her face, pushing her hair back. Her feet move, kicking the pencil under the desk. My mouth goes dry as I swallow the remaining saliva, not taking my eyes off the floor.
"God, this is totally different. Ginger is different." Her strangled voice reveals her shaken state.
"I've made my decision, Baby." I lower the glass, placing it on the desk. "Pick up the documents you threw on the floor." I pull my hand from my pocket, clasping it with the other behind my back.
"What?" She glances at the floor, cursing quickly. "Are you paying attention to what I'm saying, Jonathan?" My fingers clench as I lift my gaze to her, a twitch pulling at the corner of my mouth.
"Pick up my documents from the damn floor!" Her face twists with anger as she quickly bends down, snatching the papers in her fingers.
Baby throws them on the desk in frustration, mixing up all the pages, before glaring at me with hatred when she's done.
"At what point, Jonathan?" She steps toward me, her chest heaving with nervous breaths. "When, exactly, did you decide to play with her mind and life? When you opened your email and saw her face, or when you fucked her like an animal in Sodom?"
My teeth clench, my jaw tightening under Baby's interrogation. And the damn pencil is still on the floor, driving me crazy.
"I don't recall Miss Fox complaining," I smile sarcastically at Baby, lifting my gaze to her. "She knew that if I allowed her in, it would be under my rules, not yours."
I remember the scene of little Ginger. My cock felt good when I fucked her tied to that chair, her legs lifted and bound, unable to move, just lying there, ready to take me.

"The question wasn’t that, Jonathan," Baby says, clenching her fists by her sides. "How do you think she’ll feel when this is over? How do you think you’ll feel when this is over? You’re playing with dangerous things, Jonathan."
"You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Baby." I lower my eyes, knowing the pencil is still there. "That’s our difference—I have control. I’m the master of this game. Miss Ginger is smart, curious, and shrewd. You’re underestimating her."
"No, Jonathan, you’re underestimating yourself." She steps closer, just a few feet away from me. I can hear her breathing, her anxiety. "You’re digging into pasts that should stay buried, and you’d be a demon for wanting that. Just because Gim makes you see—" Baby’s voice cuts off as my hand grips her throat, my fingers crushing her windpipe.
I silence her for a second, while the damn pencil remains on the floor. I lift my head, focusing on her face. Her eyes widen, nearly bulging, as they dilate. I slowly pull her closer, dragging her body until her face is just inches from mine. Her hands grasp my wrist, keeping herself upright to breathe.
"Don’t forget who you’re talking to." I move my head slightly closer, grinding my teeth, making sure she understands what’s coming from my lips. "Don’t forget who I am, Baby."
"Jona... than," she gasps, her face growing redder by the second. "I need... AIRRR." My fingers tighten further, the vein on the side of her forehead swelling, pulsing visibly.
I bring my face to her ear, my lips brushing against it. "I made you. It’s because of this demon that you’re here today," I whisper angrily, slowly squeezing her throat. "Don’t forget that, Baby. Without me, you wouldn’t exist; you’d be nothing."
I release her neck, letting her body slide down as she gasps for breath. Her hand clutches my blazer, holding on as she coughs in pain. I take a step back, removing her fingers from me and straightening my suit once more.
"Remember that the next time you enter my office questioning my decisions." I clasp my hands behind my back, twisting my fingers together again. "While you’re down there, pick up the pencil from the floor."
Baby lifts her flushed face to me, her frightened eyes wide, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her trembling fingers push her hair out of her eyes, tucking it back. Her hand reaches under the desk, retrieving the fallen pencil. She holds it in her hand, glancing at it for a moment before looking back at me. She presses it against the thin wood, and my jaw tightens with anger as she snaps it in half.
"My God, what have you become?" Her lips, tinged purple from the lack of air, press together as she shakes her head in disbelief. "What you’re about to do is cruel, Jonathan, even for you. It’s abominable."
I turn away, facing my back to her, regaining control of my emotions. I fix my gaze on the painting on the wall.
"Well, at least now we know we share something other than blood. We’re both freaks."
Her rapid, labored breathing slows. I hear the sound of her getting up, her slow steps crossing the office, and the creak of the door as it opens slowly.
"I just hope you don’t feel any remorse afterward."
The door closes. I remain silent, still staring at the painting—a dark, empty swamp, devoid of life. It’s almost like looking inside myself: quiet, dark, and hollow, with no trace of emotion, just the abyss of my empty soul. Baby, more than anyone, should know that I feel nothing.