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The hinges creak as the door opens, spilling a wedge of yellow light into the dark room. Ash and dust drift through the beam, settling on the dirt-caked carpet, while the rest of the filthy room stays smothered in thick shadow. It smells like piss.
Dax holds the door half-open with his shoulder, looking at the shape lying on the middle of the floor.
The lawyer.
He's naked, hands cuffed behind him, raw steel biting into his wrists, dark stains spread out beneath him. His eyelids flutter in the light, but don't open. His face is a mess — one eye puffed up and swollen, and his lips split and smeared with red. Vicious welts stripe his ass and thighs, clearly the work of a belt, and little red marks dot his flesh where someone has put cigarettes out, over and over again.
His breathing is the worst of it. Ragged. Bubbling. Something is punctured inside. Every inhale sounds like slow drowning.
Dax has seen plenty of beaten bodies before, but there's something about this one. Something that makes his stomach tighten. He doesn't have a word for it and isn't sure he wants one.
Behind him, a voice drifts from an adjacent room. "Took you long enough to get here. The rest of the crew have gone."
Dax turns to see Parker, a fellow debt collector, in a cloud of cigarette smoke. "I was busy on another job." He nods his head to the lawyer whose chest is rising and falling in shallow jerks. "He's already finished."
Parker scoffs. "Finished? Nah. Orders are clear. He's supposed to be raped, suffer, then die. That's the list."
"Looks like he's suffered plenty already."
"Pissed off you missed your go on him, you big faggot?" laughs Parker. "If you were here earlier you could've got in line before Rose raped him. He did it with the baseball bat after three or four of us had fucked him, so fuck knows what damage that did. You could still take a turn though. He's breathing."
Dax ignores the insult. "Dead men don't leave messages."
"This isn't about messages," says Parker, rolling his eyes. "Moretti doesn't care about scarin' anyone. Everyone who matters is plenty scared already. This is about settling the score. That lawyer put Police Chief Gant in a cage and the Boss wants him to bleed for it."
"Gant dug his own grave. He was dirty, everybody knew it."
"Yeah. But he was Moretti's friend. That means something. The Boss shows loyalty. He don't forget who's in his corner, so when his guy goes down, somebody has to pay. Probably why that frilly asshole Prosecutor skipped town. But this one..." Parker pauses and flicks the dog end of his cigarette into the room. The lit end bounces off the lawyer's bruised thigh, causing no reaction at all. "This one wasn't smart enough to run."
Dax sets his bag down on the floor and crouches, opening it. His tools gleam under the hallway's buzzing bulb. His fingers brush over his branding iron and his blowtorch, but he leaves them where they are. He shakes his head. "He's too far gone. He won't last through it."
"Maybe," Parker shrugs. "But taking your time and making sure someone's last hours are the worst of their life is your speciality. That's why Moretti called you in."
Dax turns to study the lawyer again. The man twitches once and coughs, nasty and wet. The sound bubbles up from deep in his chest and fresh red spills from his mouth. Dax's stomach knots tighter. It isn't pity but something sharp and unwelcome all the same. He tells himself it's just bad business that makes him hesitate. Torturing a man in a state like this is a waste of time and effort. That's all.
But it doesn't sit right.
Parker frowns. "What's the problem?" he asks.
"Nothing."
"Then get on with it. I've been here for fucking hours. Let's finish this."
"Alright."
Dax closes his bag and stands up. He walks into the room and looks down at the lawyer's bruised-up face, taking in his dark eyelashes and smooth skin. He's attractive, despite the dried semen and dirt. Dax slides a hand into his pocket and feels the sleek weight of his gold lighter, warm and polished.
Parker leans back against the wall, watching.
Dax flicks open the lighter and watches the flame dance. He crouches a little, eyes on the lawyer's long legs. "If the Boss wants it to last, you gotta start slow," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Wake him up with a little heat to the feet. Make him feel it."
He shifts the lighter closer. The flame trembles in the air.
