He woke tied to a steel chair.
At first, he sensed only pain—dense, hot, unforgiving pain, pulsing through every nerve in his body. Then came the ringing.
A violent, high-pitched shriek in his left ear, where Elena's bullet had torn through him.
Every breath felt like inhaling crushed glass.
He shifted.
Instant regret.
The ropes weren't just ropes.
They were coarse, industrial, and vicious, cutting into the open wounds on his arms. When he tried to move, they scraped deeper, reopening what had barely begun to clot.
He groaned..a raw, broken sound..then forced himself to look around.
Concrete walls.
No windows.
A single flickering bulb overhead. Its erratic swing casting jittery shadows that crawled across the floor.
And then he saw her.
Elena.
Standing perfectly still as if she had been waiting for him to wake.
Her white hair shimmered under the wavering light, giving her an almost supernatural glow. Her face was unreadable.
She had changed clothes. Black gloves. Apron. Boots. She was Prepared.
"It was a terrible pain in the ass dragging you here," she purred.
Her voice was soft, almost musical. Disturbingly gentle.
He swallowed, throat dry and tight.
"What… what the hell do you want?" he rasped.
Every word vibrated through the ringing in his skull.
Elena smiled—slow and patient.
"Isn't it obvious?" she whispered. "I want to kill you."
She walked to the corner.
Flipped a switch.
An old industrial heater, square and rusted, roared to life. The coils glowed a deep, angry red. The room filled with the low, hungry hum of heat.
"It's ancient." she whispered as if discussing a kitchen appliance. "Farmers once used this to brand cattle. But humans…"
Her eyes lifted to him.
"Humans feel pain much, much deeper."
He began to shake. It wasn't fear at first, it was disbelief.
He was a trained hitman. A man who had taken lives without blinking.
And yet here he was, tied up by a woman half his size.
"Why—why are you doing this to me?" He stammered.
Her smile vanished.
"I thought we already passed that part."
She stepped closer, her face inches from his.
"On the 14th of May, ten years ago, you murdered my parents."
He froze.
"My father," she continued, her voice trembling with rage. "His face was shattered by a baseball bat until he wasn't recognizable anymore. And my mother…"
Her jaw tightened.
"…my mother was raped and killed. Her throat and wrists cut open like she didn't matter."
He swallowed. Hard.
"Do you remember them now?" Elena asked softly.
"Or were they just another set of unimportant people you slaughtered without blinking?"
"Listen," he whispered, shaking. "It wasn't personal. It was just a job."
Elena's expression darkened. But then she began to laugh.
Not a normal laugh.
A cracked, fevered, unhinged sound that bounced off the walls and made the room feel smaller.
"Just a job," she repeated.
"Just a job. My parents were just a job?"
Her laughter dissolved into a hollow breath.
She picked up a long metal rod resting against the heater.
The tip glowed bright orange.
He panicked instantly.
Straining violently against the ropes—only to feel them dig deeper into torn flesh.
The pain was so sharp he gagged.
"Please," he begged. "Please—I needed the money. I'm sorry—God, I'm sorry."
Tears mixed with sweat on his face.
"And I wasn't the one who assaulted your mother. I swear—I swear I tried to stop him. I wanted everything clean and quick. But my partner—he—"
His breath hitched.
"He had other plans."
The way his voice trembled…
Elena tilted her head. She could tell he wasn't lying.
But she also knew he wasn't telling everything.
"What's your partner's name," she asked coldly, "and where can I find him?"
"I—I haven't spoken to him in years," he said quickly. Too quickly.
"I don't know where he is. We never told each other our real names. We only used code names."
Wrong answer.
Elena smiled.
The kind of smile that meant nothing good.
"You know," she said softly, lifting the glowing rod, "it's interesting."
Her voice lowered to a whisper.
"Your mouth lies. But your lips twitch right before you do."
Before he could speak—before he could beg or scream—she pressed the heated rod against the shot wound in his arm.
His entire body convulsed.
The scream that tore out of him wasn't human—it was something primal, something ripped from the darkest part of a dying soul.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air, thick and chemical.
Elena didn't flinch.
Didn't look away.
Didn't blink.
"Stop—STOP—PLEASE—" he shrieked.
"I'LL TALK—I'LL TALK—"
She lifted the rod.
Silence crashed down.
He panted like he was drowning.
Tears streamed down his cheeks.
His body trembled uncontrollably.
"He—he's in a small town called Blackridge," he gasped. "Exit 19 off the highway… a small rented house… that's where he hides…"
His voice cracked.
"Please… no more… please…"
She simply tilted her head.
"His name." She commanded.
He squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving.
His throat bobbed.
"Elijah. His name is Elijah Creed."
Elena's gaze sharpened.
"Elijah Creed," she repeated quietly, like tasting poison on her tongue.
"Good."
She stepped closer, the sound of her boots echoing against the concrete. She bent down slowly, until her lips hovered beside his ear—close enough that he could feel her breath, cold despite the heat roaring from the industrial heater.
"If you're lying," she murmured,
"I will come back for you."
He whimpered.
"And next time…"
She glanced at the humming heater.
"…I won't stop at pain."
His whole body seized with terror.
Elena wiped a fleck of his blood from her cheek with a calm elegance that made his stomach twist.
Then she turned.
Walked toward the door.
Opened it.
The cold air from outside swept in like a ghost.
The door slammed behind her.
He sagged forward, sobbing with relief.
But relief was a lie.
Because Elena wasn't done.
Not even close.
And Blackridge was about to become a graveyard.