"I hope you find some p...🎶
The bass rattled faintly through the floorboards, the volume high but not loud enough to drown out the tension in the room.
A wireless speaker sat on the kitchen counter, playing an old Chemdric song. The track had soul, rhythm, and meaning, but none of it fit the current scene.
"Man, I fucking love this song," the man said, nodding along. He sat on the armrest of the living room couch, one foot tapping, a black pistol resting in his lap.
Across from him, a family of three sat tied to dining chairs. Thick ropes held their arms and legs, and duct tape covered their mouths.
The mother looked terrified. The daughter stayed still, breathing carefully. The son, already in his thirties, kept his eyes down, jaw tense.
The man looked at them like they were guests he hadn't quite decided what to do with. His face was clean-shaven, but he hadn't slept.
His eyes gave that away. They were slightly red, with that dry blink of someone who'd been awake too long and still didn't care.
"I know what you're thinking," he said, pointing his chin at the son. "You're thinking, 'This bastard better not hurt my family.'"
He grinned, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. The pistol dangled in one hand.
"I get that. I respect that. You're doing what a man's supposed to do. Even if you're useless right now."
The son jerked against the ropes. The chair thudded once. He tried to say something, but the tape muffled it into a low grunt.
The man raised a hand. "Easy. Don't make me nervous. I don't like nervous energy."
He stood up slowly and stretched his arms. The pistol stayed loose in his grip. He walked over to the window and peeked out through the blinds.
He turned back around and looked at the son.
"What's your name, kid?"
The man didn't answer. His fists clenched against the rope.
The visitor sighed. "Fine. Don't talk. Smart."
He walked over and stood in front of him. The son looked away, but the man didn't touch him. He just stared, like he was trying to figure something out.
"You know," he said calmly, "when I was your age, I used to wish someone would break into our house. I used to lie in bed thinking about it. About what I'd do. About how I'd protect my mom."
He walked to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Grabbed a bottle of water and took a sip. Then he looked at the family again.
"I'm not gonna hurt you. That's not why I'm here." He pointed the bottle at the son. "But I do need your attention."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He tossed it on the coffee table.
"That's a list," he said. "Names, places, amounts. Look familiar?"
The son's eyes narrowed. The sister's face changed—confusion turning into fear. The man saw it and nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "Now we're on the same page."
He glanced at the clock on the wall. 2:17 a.m.
"You've got one hour to explain every name on that list. Where they are. What they owe. And who's still alive."
He raised the pistol slightly, not pointing it, just reminding them it was still there.
"After that," he said, "I'm gone. And you get to go back to being a regular, boring-ass family."
The music kept playing. He took another sip of water and smiled.
"Let's talk business."
The family's tape was never removed. No words were exchanged. The man kept vibing to the song, head bobbing slightly as he took another sip from his water bottle.
After a while, he turned toward them again. The look on his face had changed. There was something almost pitiful in his expression, though it didn't feel kind. It was the kind of look that made your skin crawl.
"Well," he said casually, "I have to be honest with you guys. None of these names here exist."
He pointed at the folded paper still sitting on the table.
"You know, I like giving people hope. Giving them a rope to climb on… and then hang them with it."
He chuckled lightly and leaned his back against the table.
"I saw that look in your eyes," he said, nodding at the son. "You hoped one of you knew at least one name. It's sad, really. You guys' death was decided before I even knew of your existence."
All three of them started panicking. Their chairs rattled. The sister tried to scream through the duct tape. The mother was shaking violently. The son tensed his arms, trying to fight the ropes.
The man walked over to the girl. His face shifted. The relaxed tone vanished, replaced by something sharp and cold. He pointed the gun at her head without hesitation.
BANG.
Her head snapped back, and the chair tipped slightly as her body went limp. Blood splattered behind her. The sound echoed, cutting through the music for a second. The panic in the room exploded.
The mother broke into tears, her eyes wide and fixed on her daughter's lifeless body.
The young man was worse. He froze, staring at his sister's body like his brain had shut down. His breath came in short bursts, but his face didn't move.
The man turned and walked over to the mother.
"I like to believe I'm giving you a break from life."
BANG.
She slumped instantly. The room fell silent except for the low hum of the speaker and the ticking clock on the wall.
And then there was one.
The man moved toward the son but didn't raise the gun.
Instead, he sat down across from him on the table, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared for a while.
The son didn't say a word. His body was trembling, but his eyes were locked forward. He was forcing himself not to look at either body.
The man leaned in closer.0
"I pity you. Imagine having a father that's as useless as yours. I would die, actually."
He smiled faintly.
"Well… at least you can take up that problem when you guys meet in hell."
The young man's eyes widened—
BANG.