“Spare me your words—I have no patience left for your hypocrisy."                                      – A weary soldier on the eve of retirement

  I sat in Richard’s office, calmly enjoying one of the chocolate-dipped shortbread cookies he had laid out earlier—crisp edges, rich cocoa, a pleasant contrast to the tension in the room. Across the desk, Richard clutched his temples, massaging them in slow, deliberate circles as though trying to ward off an impending migraine.

  How had it come to this?

  The morning after my leisurely outing, I had entered his office bearing news of the remaining member from apartment 22E—the man whose shadow now carried my phantom. I explained, with polite precision, how the phantom proved not merely a tracker but an excellent spy: every whispered conversation and every vile plan were relayed to me in real time.

  That was when Richard began rubbing his head.

  I decided—perhaps unkindly—to add a little more fuel to the fire.

  “The man has just abducted several women from a brothel,” I continued, voice even. “Five accomplices assisted. They are en route to their hideout as we speak.”

  He sighed heavily, shoulders slumping.

  “Oh, and it appears they intend to sell the women to an underground ring,” I added. “The proceeds will fund the continuation of their ritual.”

  Richard muttered something about incomplete paperwork, my name surfacing more than once amid the grumbling. I kept my smile fixed, serene. It was hardly my fault the man in question had raped children, tortured an elderly man, purchased almond milk (a curious detail), shaved, slept, and now orchestrated this latest abduction with his equally reprehensible companions. Particularly the one who had detailed—aloud—his plans to defile a young girl.

  My smile remained, but beneath it anger simmered—slow, cold, precise.

  A few seconds later, the phantom delivered fresh intelligence: thirty additional people had entered the hideout, and the number was climbing.

  Richard seized the phone, dialling with sharp, economical movements. “We’re going to need backup—a full containment team,” he said into the receiver, voice clipped with urgency. He ended the call abruptly, rose from his chair, and met my gaze with a look of profound weariness. “Lead the way.”

  I rose with a small nod and followed him out, my cane tapping softly against the tiled floor.

  In the parking lot, a compact strike team awaited: Mary and Claude among them, plus six unfamiliar faces—hard-eyed and geared for action. I raised an eyebrow at the modest size.

  “Strike team goes in first,” Richard explained. “Backup follows. We contain, neutralise, and extract survivors.”

  I inclined my head in acknowledgement and provided the exact location. We loaded into bureau vehicles—sleek black sedans reinforced with subtle wards—and departed.

  Forty minutes later, we arrived. The building squatted in an industrial district: low brick, windows boarded, and graffiti scarring the walls. Few pedestrians passed; those who did quickened their pace at the sight of us.

  The unlocking spell took but a moment; the door yielded with a click. I adjusted a stray lock of hair with calm precision, then entered without pause.

  Someone behind me hissed about stealth. I ignored it. Stealth was optional.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Inside, the air hung thick: stale sweat, musk, coppery blood, the faint rot of old meat. Water dripped steadily from cracked pipes overhead. Graffiti scrawled across the walls—crude symbols, gang tags, obscene drawings. Muffled mutterings drifted from deeper within, punctuated by occasional screams.

  A hand gripped my shoulder. I turned, mildly annoyed. Richard.

  “We go in quietly,” he whispered. “Surprise them. Not charge blindly.”

  I smiled politely, gently disengaged his grip, and continued forward.

  He nearly shouted after me and then caught himself. Surprise, he had said. Very well. A blind charge it would be.

  The corridor opened into a large, sunken hall—perhaps fifty people now, far more than the initial thirty. Many had not yet noticed me; they were occupied defiling the kidnapped women on the filthy floor. The ground glistened with excrement, urine, and blood—streaks and pools of it. Severed limbs lay scattered like discarded refuse.

  At the far wall stood the monument—worse than apartment 22E. Living victims hung from hooks like slaughtered livestock, throats slit but still twitching. Fresh corpses slumped in heaps of crushed flesh. A woman had been torn in half at the waist. Nearby, a man—still conscious—had mismatched limbs stitched grotesquely to his torso; his lips were sewn shut, muffling his agonised attempts at sound.

  The altar dominated the back: it was larger and more elaborate. Skeletal hands clutched rotting hearts; severed heads rested beside them, as if to mark ownership. A fresh sacrifice lay atop the slab—blood still dripping onto the Heartkeeper’s insignia and pooling in the carved grooves.

  Those nearest me noticed first. Eyes widened. Whispers spread. Soon every head in the hall turned.

  I offered a small, courteous bow.

  “Greetings, gentlemen and ladies,” I said pleasantly. “I was enjoying a rather relaxing walk when I somehow found myself here. It appears I have wandered into an exceptionally distasteful gathering.”

  Murmurs rose. Several began chanting—arcane syllables forming on their lips.

  I gave them no chance.

  I commanded the phantom still lurking in the leader’s shadow: 'Paralyse all nearby enemies.' Tendrils of darkness erupted from his form, locking limbs and freezing throats mid-incantation.

  Simultaneously, I cast a full darkness spell. Pitch black flooded the hall—it was absolutely suffocating, swallowing light and sound.

  An arcanist among them tried a counter: a weak light spell flickered to life. I snuffed it instantly—darkness clung to the spell like oil, smothering it before it could spread.

  In the confusion I moved. Swift, silent. I extracted surviving victims one by one—women bound and bleeding, half-conscious and trembling. I carried them to the entrance where Richard’s voice barked orders: “Get them out—medical now!”

  All the while I worked. Arms snapped with precise twists. Spines cracked under focused pressure. Lungs collapsed as darkness forced its way in, squeezing until breath became impossible. I savoured the small, controlled violence—each break, each gasp, a measured response to the horrors they had wrought.

  After a time—long enough to vent the anger without losing control—I released the spell.

  Light returned in thin, sickly slivers—filtering through high windows and cracked bulbs overhead. Bodies lay scattered across the filth-slick floor: limbs twisted at impossible angles, chests rising and falling in shallow, panicked gasps, spines arched in futile resistance. Paralysed, yet alive—every one of them. A few still clawed weakly at the darkness that clung to their forms, fingers scraping uselessly against their own elongated shadows as though the black tendrils were living things burrowing beneath the skin. The air tasted of copper and fear-sweat; low, animal whimpers rose from several throats. None screamed outright. Not anymore.

  Richard exhaled heavily behind me. “Are they dead?”

  "No", I replied without turning. “Not yet.”

  I recalled the phantom, dragging its host—the leader—back toward the entrance. The man had suffered most: lungs crushed and heart briefly constricted. I cast a quick healing spell to restore his breathing just enough, then forced darkness down his throat—flooding lungs and heart for a few agonising seconds before withdrawing it.

  “Answer Richard’s questions,” I told him calmly. “Or the next experience will be worse.”

  I left him gasping at Richard’s feet and turned my attention elsewhere.

  The man who had spoken of defiling children.

  Fae holds children in particular reverence—innocence is sacred and untouchable. To witness humans violate that sanctity… well. They could forgive my forthright actions. Or not. It mattered little.

  I approached him slowly, cane once more in hand. He lay on the floor, arms twisted at unnatural angles, eyes wide with terror.

  I knelt beside him, my voice soft, almost kind.

  “You spoke of certain acts earlier,” I said. “Against children.”

  He tried to speak but couldn't. His throat was raw from the darkness.

  I smiled—gentle, patient.

  “Allow me to demonstrate why such words are unwise.”

  The darkness rose again—this time personal, intimate.