Page 30 of The Arbiter
“You’ll destroy yourself eventually.”
The unnatural calmness in my voice terrifies him more than a scream ever could. He searches for a flicker of mercy, a hint of hesitation, but finds only a void.
“And by the time you start begging me to end it…”
A small, sharp smile touches my lips.
“I might consider it.”
After a long, heavy pause, I reach for a pair of black surgical gloves and slide them slowly over my hands. The snap of the latex against my wrists sounds like a gunshot in the silent room.
“Enough of the chitchat.”
My expression turns cold. The same face I wear when I do my work. Jake already looks like he's given up. For a police officer, he broke remarkably fast, but I know his type. He will fight again. His survival instinct hasn't quite realized it's already dead. I can see the impending agony reflected in the pallor of his face. He still has no idea how far I'm willing to push this.
The full setup takes some time. And he watches every single move I make. I’m not only going to destroy his body. Not exactly. I’m going to betray his biology.
“You’re bracing yourself.”
I murmur, my fingers dancing over the IV manifold.
I can smell the salt of his sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline. I tape the first bag.
The Anchor. The fluid inside is crystal clear, shimmering with a synthetic, jagged energy.
“This is going to pin your consciousness to the front of your brain. It’s a cage of hyper-awareness. You won’t be able to blink, you won’t be able to faint. And you certainly won’t be able to die.”
My hands move with precise calm.
“And then,” I continue, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as I adjust the second dial.
“The Razor. It’s a beautiful little neuro-sensitizer. It’s going to peel the insulation off your nerves, one by one. Right now, these straps feel like a dull pressure. In five minutes?”
I glance at him.
“They’re going to feel like they’re made of rusted saws. Your own heartbeat is going to sound like a sledgehammer inside your skull.”
I check the third line.The stabilizers. I need his heart to keep pumping. To keep the substances circulating through hismuscles. I’m not going to let him slip into shock. I’m going to keep him vital. Functional. Alive.
I pick up the needle. Steel. Cold. Unforgiving. And press the tip against the bulging vein in his forearm, feeling the frantic heat of his blood beneath the skin.
I slide the needle with a slow, agonizing precision. Then I watch the first tremor ripple through his frame. It’s subtle at first. A tightening of the jaw, a sharp hitch in his chest. And then the chemicals take hold.
The Anchor hits his system like a live wire. His eyes snap wide. Pupils blowing out until the iris is nothing, but a thin, suffocating ring of color. He’s not just awake. He’s hyper-alive.
“There you are,” I whisper, leaning in close.
“Stay with me now. Don’t you dare blink.”
With the second dial. The fluid merges into the line. His reaction is violent. His spine arches against the chair. Muscles cording into knots so tight they look like they might snap the bone beneath them.
Every nerve ending is screaming now. Stripped of its armor. To him, the air in this room must feel like a thousand needles. The weight of his clothes feel like a shroud of lead.
Before my final touch, I need to make this fucker pay for the nickname he used for Madeline. For the way he thought he could possess her.
So I slowly drag the small scalpel through the muscle and flesh of his tongue. He vomits almost immediately, the iron scent of blood and bile spilling onto the floor. I step back just enough to avoid the mess, watching with clinical detachment.
I let him feel it. All of it. He can still scream, a wet, gargling sound, but now he’s more focused on the copper-tasting heat filling up in his mouth.
