CHAPTER 271

**ZION**

“You’re already dead,” I whisper, the words brushing his ear like a noose. 

“You just haven’t stopped breathing yet.”

I pull back.

His tough-guy mask is gone. What’s left is a twitching, sweating animal that finally understands the cage door just slammed behind him.

He swallows hard, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, and forces the last scraps of bravado out like broken glass.

“You… you can’t do shit,” he rasps, voice cracking in half. 

“You’re not the law. I’ll be out in twenty-four hours. Good lawyer. You’ll see. I’ll be free in no time… just you fucking wait.”

It’s supposed to sound like a threat.

It sounds like a prayer.

His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, darting to every shadow like he’s already seeing ghosts that wear my face. His bravado is paper-thin now, trembling with every syllable.

I let the silence stretch until it cuts.

Then I smile (slow, lazy, the kind that makes graves open on their own).

“Free?” I echo, tasting the word like poison. 

“Sure. For a minute. Maybe two.”

I lean in again, slow enough that he flinches when my shadow swallows him whole.

“You’ll walk out of the booking. You’ll crawl back to whatever roach-infested hole you call home. And that first night you’re out, when you finally dare to close your eyes…”

I drop my voice until it’s nothing but breath and death.

“…I’ll be the last thing you ever feel.”

His breath hitches. A small, pathetic sound.

“I don’t need a badge,” I murmur. 

“I don’t need a courtroom. I just need you to believe (and you already do) that one morning you’re not waking up. One shower you’re not walking out of. One dark alley you never see coming.”

I straighten, rolling my shoulders like I’m loosening up for the main event.

“Keep telling yourself you’ll be free,” I say, almost kindly. 

“Tell yourself that every night when you triple-check the locks. Every time you hear a floorboard creak. Every time you see a shadow that looks a little too tall.”

I turn my back on him (slow, deliberate) because he’s not worth watching anymore.

“Enjoy those twenty-four hours, princess,” I call over my shoulder. “Make them count.”

Behind me, his breathing turns into short, panicked gasps.

The confidence is gone.

Only terror left.

Exactly how I want him.

I’m three steps toward the ramp when the rage flares again, hotter, meaner.

I stop.

Roll my neck.

Turn back.

“But…”

The single word drops like a guillotine.

I walk back to him, each bootfall a slow, deliberate hammer strike against the concrete. The air turns thick, syrupy, like the garage itself is holding its breath. Harry, Ro, and Clark all feel the shift. Shoulders lock. Jaws tighten. No one breathes.

I stop directly over him, close enough that my shadow swallows what’s left of his light.

I tilt my head, slow, studying his swollen, bloody face like I’m an artist sizing up a ruined canvas.

“You know what…” My voice is velvet dragged over broken glass. “I don’t like your face.”

I let that sit there, soft and sweet, while his eyes go rabbit-wide.

“It’s missing something,” I continue, conversational, like we’re discussing the weather.

I crouch slowly, bringing us eye to eye.

“You watched her sleep,” I whisper. “You stole the dark from her. You turned her bedroom into a place she’s terrified to close her eyes in. You put your diseased fucking gaze on the one person in this world I would kill God to protect.”

My smile is small. Slow. Absolutely devoid of humanity.

“So no,” I breathe, “I can’t let you walk out of here with that face intact. It offends me. It offends her. And I’m feeling real fucking offended right now.”

I reach out, almost gently, and brush a thumb across his split cheekbone, smearing the blood like war paint.

“Let’s fix it,” I say, voice dropping to something dark and reverent. 

“Let’s carve a reminder into you that even a mirror will scream at. Something she’ll never have to see again… because you’ll be too ashamed to ever show your face in daylight.”

“Hold still, princess. This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”

I crack my knuckles (slow, loud pops that echo like gunshots off concrete).

“So a couple hits? Call it interest on the debt you ran up. Seems fair, right?”

His swollen eyes go huge. He jerks against the zip-ties so violently that the chair legs screech.

“N-no, wait—”

My fist is already rising, cocked, every ounce of fury coiled into one perfect swing.

Clark and Ro slam into me from both sides like freight trains, boots scraping, arms locking around mine.

I roar (raw, guttural, inhuman).

Harry’s in my face in a heartbeat, both hands on my cheeks, forcing eye contact.

“Zion! Don’t!”

I’m thrashing, snarling, spitting, a feral thing that only speaks in violence.

I will make him choke on every syllable he ever dared to speak about her.

Harry’s voice cracks again, desperate, cracking.

“Zion, look at me! We’ve got him. He’s not going anywhere. Roxy’s coming. We do this right or he walks on a technicality!”

The words hit like ice water.

My fist is still shaking an inch from the bastard’s already-busted nose.

Harry doesn’t let go.

“Don’t give him the satisfaction,” he mutters, voice shaking. 

“Don’t give the cameras anything they can use to keep you away from her tonight.”

The guy’s panting, tears cutting pink rivers through the blood on his cheeks.

I can feel the punch in my knuckles already.

I want it so bad my teeth ache.

Harry’s grip tightens, grounding.

“She’s waiting for you, Z. Clean face, clean hands, coming home to tell her it’s over. That’s the win he can’t take from you.”

My fist unclenches, one finger at a time.

Fuck!

I lean down instead, until my lips almost brush the guy’s ear.

I let the silence hang so long that he starts shaking.

Then I speak, soft as a lullaby, sharp as my blade.

“Remember this moment,” I whisper. 

“The moment you realise I could’ve ended you… and I chose to let you live.”

I pull back just enough to watch the hope die in his eyes.

“Every day you keep breathing after this is a gift from her. Don’t waste it.”

I straighten.

Harry loosens his hold, testing. I don’t move. Clark and Ro stay half a step behind me, ready.

Good.

I take one slow step forward. Harry lets me.

The guy’s eyes flick to the cut on his arm, then back to me. Whatever’s left of his grin is gone.

I stop just outside his reach. Close enough he can smell the violence rolling off me.

“Why Winter?”

My voice is flat. Almost curious. Like I’m asking about the weather.

He blinks. Swallows.

I wait.

“Why her?” I ask again, softer. 

“What the fuck did she ever do to you?”

Silence stretches, thick and ugly.

He licks his cracked lips, glances at Harry, at Clark, at Ro, then back to me.

“I’m not saying a fucking thing,” he spits, but the bravado is hollow now. 

“I want a lawyer. I know my rights.”

I nod. Slow.

“That’s fine,” I say. 

“You’ll get your lawyer. You’ll get your phone call. You’ll get your Miranda rights read nice and pretty by Detective Roxy when she walks in here in…” I glance at my watch. 

“Ninety seconds, maybe less.”

I take another step.

The zip-ties creak as he tries to shrink away and can’t.

“But right now,” I continue, voice dropping into something quiet and intimate, 

It’s just us. No cameras rolling yet. No badges. No rules.”

I crouch down, slow, until we’re eye level.

His pupils are blown wide.

“You don’t have to say a word,” I tell him, almost gently. 

“I’m not the police. I’m not here to build a case.”

I lean in until our foreheads almost touch.

“I’m here to understand.”

He tries to laugh (high, nervous). It dies in his throat.

“Understand what?” he sneers, but his voice shakes.

“Why her,” I repeat. 

“Why Winter. Why, my girl? Out of every person on this planet, why did you pick the one person I would burn the world down for?”

His mouth opens.

Closes.

I wait.

He glances at the cut again, as it might save him.

It won’t.

I reach out (slow enough he sees every inch) and flick the torn sleeve higher, exposing the full length of the gash. Deep. Ugly. Still oozing.

My work.

“You felt this,” I say, conversational. 

“Two nights ago. You felt my knife go in. You felt me drag it slow so you’d remember.”

His breath hitches.

“You ran. You bled. You hid. And still (still) you came back today. Sat at her table. Smiled at her.”

I tilt my head.

“That’s dedication,” I murmur. 

“Obsession. Love, maybe. Hate. I don’t know yet.”

My fingers hover over the wound, not touching.

“Tell me which one it is.”

He jerks against the zip-ties, chair legs scraping.

“Fuck you,” he hisses. 

“I want my lawyer.”

I smile.

It’s not nice.

“You’ll get him,” I say. 

“But first you’re going to sit here and look at me while I figure it out myself.”

I stand slowly.

Harry shifts behind me, uneasy. 

Clark and Ro watch the entrance for Roxy.

I don’t care.

I start circling the chair.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Like a shark that’s tasted blood and knows the water’s about to turn red.

“Option one,” I say, voice calm. 

“Random psycho who saw a pretty girl and decided to play stalker.”

I pause behind him. He tries to twist. Can’t.

“Option two,” I continue. 

“Someone paid you. Someone wanted her scared. Wanted me distracted.”

I stop at his left side, crouch again, eye-level with the cut.

“Option three…” I let it hang. 

“You know her. Really know her. Old boyfriend. Old friend. Someone she forgot and you never did.”

His breathing goes shallow. Fast.

I watch his face like I’m reading tomorrow’s obituary.

“Which one is it?” I ask softly.

He clamps his mouth shut.

I nod.

“That’s okay,” I say. 

“We’ve got time.”

I stand, roll my shoulders.

“Harry. How long?”

“Thirty seconds max.”

“Plenty.”

I pull the knife from my waistband (slow, ceremonial) and flip it open with a soft, metallic snick.

His eyes lock on the blade. Whatever’s left of his courage cracks clean in half.

“Still not talking?” I ask, almost gently.

I press the flat of the blade against the cut (cold steel on raw flesh).

He jerks so hard the chair rocks, a strangled sound tearing out of his throat.

“Last chance,” I whisper. 

“Why Winter?”

His mouth opens (panic, terror, something raw).

Headlights flood the garage. 

Tires screech. Doors slam.

Roxy.

Too late.

He clamps his jaw shut again, tears mixing with sweat and blood.

I smile.

I lean in until my lips almost brush his ear.

“That’s okay,” I breathe. 

“I’ll find out anyway. And when I do…”

I press the knife harder (just enough to make the wound scream).

“…I’ll come back. No zip-ties. No witnesses. Just you, me, and this blade.”

I pull back.

His face is the colour of old paper.

His body is shaking uncontrollably.

And for the first time all day, I feel something close to peace.

Because whoever he is, whatever sick reason brought him to her…

He just looked into my eyes and saw his future.

It’s not pretty.

It’s not quick.

And it’s not over.

Not until I say it is.

I force one breath in.

One breath out.

I look him dead in the eyes and smile, slow, cold, and utterly calm.

“You just signed your death warrant,” I tell him, voice soft as silk, sharp as my blade. 

“Lawyer or no lawyer. Cell or no cell. One day soon you’re gonna close your eyes… and I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”