Page 36 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

“But here’s the thing about hydrofluoric acid,” I said. “It doesn’t just destroy tissue. It absorbs into your bloodstream. Attacks your nervous system. Your heart. Your lungs.”

Six inches.

Their feet were almost touching the surface now.

“So, even if I pulled you out after thirty seconds,” I said, “you’d still die. Just slower. More painfully.”

I looked at each of them in turn.

“You betrayed me,” I said simply. “You took my money. My protection. My trust. And you sold it to a man who’s been trying to kill me for six years.”

The first man’s foot touched the acid.

The scream that came out of him wasn’t human.

It was primal. Animalistic. The kind of sound that came from a place deeper than thought or language.

His shoe dissolved first—the rubber melting away like sugar in hot water. Then his sock. Then his skin.

The smell hit a second later.

Burning flesh mixed with the sharp chemical tang of the acid. It was thick. Cloying. The kind of smell that coated the back of your throat and made you want to vomit.

Syx took another bite of his Hot Pocket, completely unbothered.

The man was thrashing now, his whole body convulsing as the acid ate through his foot and started on his ankle. The flesh bubbled and peeled away in strips, exposing white bone underneath.

Now, two of them were touching the acid. Then three. Then all seven.

The warehouse filled with screaming.

High-pitched. Desperate. Inhuman.

One of them was begging God. Another was begging me. A third had stopped making coherent sounds entirely—just raw, guttural shrieks that echoed off the concrete walls.

The drums started turning pink as blood and liquefied tissue mixed with the clear acid. Then red. Then a dark, murky brown.

I pulled out my phone. Checked the time.

11:43 PM.

I had a meeting at 7:00 AM. Needed to be home by one to get at least a few hours of sleep.

The screaming was getting quieter now.

Not because the men had stopped—but because their vocal cords were giving out. Shredded from the force of their own screams.

One of them had passed out. His body hung limp in the chains, still being lowered inch by inch into the acid. His legs were gone up to the knees now. Just ragged stumps of bone and dissolving tissue.

Another was still conscious but had stopped screaming. His mouth was open. His eyes were rolled back in his head. Shock, probably. The body’s last mercy before death.

I looked at Syx.

He’d finished his Hot Pocket and was scrolling through his phone.

“You good?” I asked.

He glanced up. Looked at the men. Shrugged.