Page 2 of Viper’s Reign
Not today, you bastard.
I manage to wriggle myself free just enough to drive my elbow back into the stranger’s stomach. I put my entire body into it, and hear a deep grunt in response. But the grip only tightens.
Fuck.
I keep fighting, thrashing, trying to scream. Then, suddenly, the hand slips from my mouth. I take a big gulp of air, preparing to screech at the top of my lungs. But before I can utter a single sound, the sharp edge of a knife kisses my throat.
I freeze.
My lips remain parted as dread coils deep in my stomach. Slowly, saliva starts pooling in my mouth, but I don’t dare swallow. I’m not sure if my attacker is aware, but that knife rests right over my carotid artery—one wrong move from either of us and it’s all over. For me.
“I see I have your attention.” The man’s voice is rough with frustration—like he wasn’t expecting me to struggle so much. “Good.”
He eases the knife back a fraction, and I gulp, my head spinning with relief.
“I–I don’t have any money,” I stammer, trying to manifest anything but the worst-case scenario. “I-I have a phone. Take it. It’s—”
“I don’t want your phone,” he scoffs in disgust. “I’m here to talk about your friend.”
“M-My friend?”
“Millicent Wilson.”
The name cuts sharper than the knife.
“Millie?” I whisper. “What about her?”
He twists the blade at my throat. “Are you going to cooperate, or would you prefer to see her in a body bag?”
I inhale sharply, my head racing. “I’ll cooperate.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, his grip loosens. When he steps back, I hesitate to turn and face him. But thinking of my best friend in danger forces the courage into me.
I’m surprised by what I find waiting.
He’s an older man, probably in his mid to late forties, with streaks of grey in his hair. Average build. Clean clothes. He looks… normal. The kind of man you’d pass on the street without noticing. That somehow makes him scarier.
Without another word, he pulls a phone out of his pocket, taps something on the screen, and hands it to me. Again, I hesitate. The device seems to pulse with a dark energy. But what choice do I have?
Frowning, I take it and wince down at the bright screen. A video is already playing. At first, my brain struggles to process what I’m seeing, but when it finally does, the nausea hits like a wave, sudden and scalding.
Millie—my best friend, practically my sister—is bound to a chair. Her entire body is slack, her face swollen almost past recognition, the skin around her eyes deep purple and broken open, her lips split.
A cold sweat breaks out over my body, and the phone starts slipping from my trembling fingers. Before it can fall, he snatches it back.
“Your friend fucked up. She fucked up real bad, and you’re going to fix it, or she loses her life.” My throat closes, eyes stinging with tears as I stare up at him, my mind reeling. “You remember the job your friend was given?”
I swallow hard.
Is that what this is about? My temples throb as I try to remember the details.
A few months ago, Millie and I started working part-time at an underground clinic—Dr. Lenz’s consultation room. It’s a discreet place where criminals go to get patched up. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, injuries people don’t want recorded anywhere official. It’s shady as hell, but it paid well, and we needed the money. Even together, we weren’t making enough to keep up in a city as expensive as New York, especially not with student loans hanging over us.
The pay was enough to keep our heads above water, and despite the discretion around the clientele, most of the injuries we treated weren’t so much worse than what we’d occasionally deal with at the hospital—there were just more of the violent ones. But there were other dangers… and temptations.
Not long after we started working there, we were approached by a man we hadn’t seen before. He said he was recruiting strong, ambitious nurses for some freelance work, and that it paid heavily.
In this industry, we can deal with some… stubborn men, he’d explained, glancing around the clinic. As you two must know full well by now.
