I didn't move. Couldn't.
The room was thick with blood and something worse—silence. Not the kind that soothes. The kind that breathes. Watches. Waits.
Nine stood above them.
Barefoot. Bare-chested. Chains still hanging from his wrists like ceremonial ribbons, rusted red with what was left of the last man who tried to break him.
His breath came in soft, fragile bursts. His shoulders trembling. Not with fear, no—not anymore. But with something rawer, something more primal. Pain. Fury. Grief that had calcified.
Tears streaked silently down his face.
But his hands didn't shake.
Not when he knelt beside the boss and grabbed his arm.
Not when bone cracked under the slow, methodical bend of his fingers.
Not even when the boss screamed and screamed, then begged, voice breaking like brittle glass.
Nine didn't say a word at first.
He just kept going.
One joint at a time.
Every finger.
Every elbow.
Every knee.
Every rib.
Like he had memorized them. Like he'd counted them in the dark, every night he was touched and caged and called less.
And maybe he had.
The Supreme Leader tried to crawl. Drag himself toward the door, his leg trailing uselessly behind him.
Nine caught him by the ankle.
And then the process began again.
Snap.
A sob slipped from Nine's lips, but not from weakness.
He was still crying.
He never looked away.
Didn't flinch.
Through the bond, I felt everything. Not just pain. Not even just vengeance. But confusion, sadness, and something sharper—resolve.
A quiet scream buried under years of silence, finally given a voice.
"Why," Nine whispered, more to himself than to them. His voice cracked, barely a thread of sound. "Why did you do that to me?"
No answer came.
The boss just groaned, a wet, rattling noise. His arms hung limp, bent the wrong way. Broken.
Nine gritted his teeth. "I didn't do anything wrong."
He pressed his knee into the man's chest.
"You made me think I was born wrong."
Crack.
A rib shattered.
Nine didn't stop. His tears fell steadily, soaking his cheeks, his chin, his chest. His mouth twisted, like every word hurt worse than the bones he broke.
"You could've let me be something."
His fingers closed around the Supreme Leader's shoulder, and he twisted.
There was a pop. A shriek.
"You could've let me live."
The man writhed. Screamed until his throat went hoarse.
But Nine—Nine just watched. Eyes glazed with tears. Lips trembling.
He leaned down, mouth close to the Supreme Leader's ear. "You don't get to touch anyone else. Not ever again."
Then, almost gently, he picked up the man's hand.
Broke each finger.
One by one.
Slowly.
Methodically.
The man sobbed. Kicked. Begged.
Nine didn't stop.
He was quiet. Focused. Drenched in tears and silence and justice.
And I…
I was in awe.
Not because of what he was doing.
But because after everything, after all the ways they tried to strip him down to nothing—
He still cried.
He still felt.
And somehow, he still stood.
The boss wheezed now. Blood dribbling from his mouth. His limbs twisted in ways no longer human. His power had bled out onto the floor.
I thought Nine might stop there.
But then he turned, slowly, toward the third man. One of the ones who'd been waiting. One of the ones who hadn't had his "turn" yet.
He was crawling backward, trying to disappear into the wall, pants soaked. The smell of urine was sharp in the air.
"No," he whispered, staring at Nine with wide, glassy eyes. "No, no, please—please—"
Nine's lip curled. Just slightly.
"You were going to watch."
The man shook his head frantically.
"You were going to wait your turn."
Nine stepped forward.
"Tell me why I shouldn't."
He didn't yell. Didn't roar. Just asked, quiet and broken and terrifying.
The man didn't answer.
Nine didn't need him to.
He lunged.
A wet crunch.
Another.
And another.
Until the man stopped screaming. Until the floor was slick with blood. Until silence swallowed the room again.
When it was done, Nine dropped to his knees.
Shaking.
Sobbing.
I crossed the room in two steps, catching him before he could fall. My arms wrapped around him, pulling him to my chest, chains and all. His body felt so small like that, even though I knew it wasn't.
He buried his face against my shoulder.
"I didn't want to be like them," he whispered. "I didn't want to be like them, Alpha."
"You're not," I whispered back, tightening my hold. "You're nothing like them."
He was still crying. Still trembling. But he hadn't let go of me.
Not yet.
And I wouldn't let go of him.
Not ever.