The rope burned deeper into Allen's wrists as he twisted against it. Each jerk sent a white-hot lance of pain up his arms, but he didn't care. The sight of Catherine standing beside Damien—calm, composed, almost tender—had ignited something savage in him.
He could taste blood now, from biting his cheek so hard to keep from shouting. He didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him plead.
Damien watched him with the faint smile of a man who already knew the ending of the story. "You think you can break out of that?" He stepped to the table, picking up the curved blade. "That rope can hold a man twice your size. I've tested it."
"Let him try," Catherine murmured, her voice low but sharp. "He'll tire himself out faster."
Allen's chest tightened at the sound of her voice—familiar, yet utterly foreign now. He remembered that same voice whispering his name in the dark, laughing over shared secrets in the kitchen at midnight. Now it was just cold metal sliding into his ears.
Damien traced the blade along the table's edge, the steel making a faint shhhk sound. "You know, Allen… when Catherine and I first talked about you, I thought you'd be a problem. She spoke of your temper. Your stubbornness. She said you were unpredictable."
"I still am," Allen growled.
Damien's smirk widened. "Good. Unpredictable makes the art more… interesting."
Before Allen could move, Damien stepped behind him. The cold blade kissed the side of Allen's neck—not cutting, not yet, just resting there, heavy with promise.
"I want you to listen very carefully," Damien said, his breath warm against Allen's ear. "This is not about killing you. Not yet. This is about changing you. Breaking you open to see what's inside."
Allen jerked against the ropes again. The chair creaked beneath him. His pulse was roaring now, every beat a hammer in his skull.
And then—he felt it. The fibers around his right wrist, fraying. One more twist. One more.
Damien moved away, circling the table. "Catherine," he said, "show him what you brought me."
She reached into the pocket of her tattered dress and pulled something out. It took Allen a moment to recognize it. His watch. The silver one Catherine had given him for his birthday, engraved with her initials.
The face was cracked. Dark flecks stained the metal.
"I found it," she said softly, "in the river."
Allen stared at it, confused—until he remembered. He'd been near that river the night she vanished. Drunk, stumbling, calling her name. He'd thought he'd just dropped it.
"You planted it," Allen said, his voice low.
Catherine smiled faintly. "We made it a part of the story."
Something inside him snapped—not a rope, not yet, but something deeper. The sound in his ears changed from a roar to a steady, cold hum.
Damien saw it and tilted his head. "There it is. That's the look I was waiting for."
Allen twisted his wrist hard. The rope gave way with a muffled snap.
He didn't think—he lunged.
The chair splintered as he surged to his feet, swinging the jagged armrest like a club. Damien reacted fast, stepping back, but not before the wood caught him across the cheek. The blade clattered to the floor.
Catherine screamed—high, sharp, almost thrilled.
Allen grabbed the blade and turned, but Damien was already on him. They collided, the knife between them, the two of them straining for control.
Damien's strength was brutal—his hands like iron on Allen's wrists. The knife wavered, the tip inches from Allen's throat, then Damien's.
Allen slammed his knee upward, catching Damien in the ribs. The bigger man grunted, but didn't let go.
Then Allen saw Catherine move—fast, too fast. She snatched something from the table. Not a knife. A hammer.
She swung it.
The blow caught Allen on the shoulder, pain exploding down his arm. He stumbled, and Damien shoved him hard against the wall. The knife skittered across the floor.
Allen's vision blurred. He could hear his own heartbeat, frantic now. The copper tang of blood was thick in the air.
Damien stepped in close, one hand clamping around Allen's throat. "You're not ready to die yet," he said, his voice almost gentle. "We've only just begun."
Allen's vision dimmed at the edges—but his free hand groped blindly until his fingers closed around something cold and heavy. The saw.
He swung it upward, teeth first.
Damien roared as the blade bit into his forearm, tearing flesh. Blood sprayed—hot, wet, vivid against the cold air.
Damien staggered back, clutching his arm, his face twisted in pain and fury.
Allen didn't wait. He turned on Catherine.
She didn't move away. She just stood there, watching him, the hammer still in her hand, her lips curved in something between a smile and a dare.
"Go on," she whispered. "Do it."
Allen froze—not because he couldn't, but because in that moment, he realized something terrifying.
She wanted him to.