Page 45 of Ruthless Kings of Vengeance
I walk towards the side of the wall, the chains rattling behind me as I close in on the device that displays the view of static like a channel is attempting to be found.
The white noise hisses and spits, occasionally coalescing into almost recognizable shapes before dissolving back into chaos. Voices mumble in the background of the screen, but nothing clear for me to grasp — just enough to know that preparations are underway, that wheels are turning without my input or consent.
A sudden cry of agony echoes from further down the hall, piercing through the static with terrible clarity.
The screams of a man cursing and saying "No! Don't kill her!" reverberate through the stone corridors.
The raw desperation in that voice sends ice through my veins despite my determination to remain detached. I try to ignore the nervousness that pounds through me, my heart accelerating painfully against my ribs.
The idea of Eva being put in the wrong situation and confronting death before I can see her again would drive me mad—and they know it. That's precisely why they've arranged for me to hear these sounds, whether real or fabricated.
That's the point. The ruthless part of it all.
The cruelty is methodical, and calibrated for maximum psychological impact. Break the mind first, and the body follows more easily.
I lean my forehead against the cool stone, seeking some small relief from the heat of anxiety building within me, forcing my breathing to slow and deepen despite the tightness in my chest.
It's finally coming together, the pieces in the puzzle that I've been studying since I first set foot in Leighton's hallowed halls.
The pattern reveals itself in all its horrific elegance. From students hoping to be royalty and waltzing into this prestigious academy in hopes of status that will shine so brightly would be the end game you'd wish for—except the light blinds them to the true nature of what they're entering.
It's what Domino thought he was walking into with Zander and Ares, a golden ticket to power and privilege without understanding the price tag attached.
They had no idea what the rooted focus of Leighton Royal University was designed to make. Not leaders, not innovators, but perfect weapons—forged in trauma, tempered in adversity, sharpened against one another until only the most lethal remain.
To shape those with rooted trauma that would never heal, perpetuating cycles of pain and power that sustain the institution itself.
The TV screen flickers again, static temporarily resolving into what might be a glimpse of an ornate chamber — golden columns, crimson draperies, faces in shadow — before dissolving back into electronic snow.
Not yet…
My reflection stares back at me from the glass, a ghost of myself with hollowed eyes and a tensed jaw.
Keeping the truth I discovered long ago has probably been the hardest part of this adventure, carrying the weight of knowledge that would have changed everything if shared.
Especially from the moment I met Eva.
My Sweet Precious Gem, walking into this labyrinth with determination burning in those unique eyes, never suspecting she was following a path laid out long before she arrived.
She had no clue how the odds were already stacked against her, those in power watching from afar, orchestrating for her to fail on so many levels. The careful cultivation of obstacles, the strategic positioning of allies and enemies, the deliberate exposures to precisely calibrated dangers — all designed to test, to break, to transform.
They were grooming Domino to be a contributing part of that trauma long before Eva ever set foot on campus, planting seeds of cruelty and entitlement that would blossom into the perfect antagonist for her journey.
His role was written before he understood he was even in a play, just as mine was, just as all of ours were. And it has led us down this final path, inexorable as gravity, to the steps needed to reach victory.
The ultimate test of everything we've become through this twisted process of becoming.
As long as I don't die...
The thought brings a bitter smile to my lips.
Survival has always been the baseline goal, hasn't it? But now, with everything at stake, mere survival seems insufficient. If I'm going to face the ring — face whatever the Blind One has prepared as the culmination of his grand design—I need more than survival instinct.
I need strategy.
I need rage.
I need the absolute conviction that they have underestimated exactly what they've created in us.
