The Scars He Left: A Second Chance At Happiness

Elizebeth Rice POV

The air in the warehouse tasted of rust and stale gasoline.

It was a violent shift from the lavender tea I had spilled only an hour ago.

My knees were raw, grinding against the unforgiving concrete floor.

Two of Floyd's soldiers pinned my shoulders.

These were men I had once made sandwiches for during long stakeouts. Men whose coffees I had poured.

Now, they held me like livestock waiting for the slaughter.

Floyd stood before me.

The brazier of coals from the terrace had been dragged in here.

It glowed in the dim light, a menacing, unblinking orange eye staring me down.

The heat radiating from it was already drying the tears on my face.

"You have a choice," Floyd said.

He sounded bored.

He sounded like he was ordering dinner, not orchestrating the mutilation of the woman he had promised to marry.

Jaylah stood behind him, checking her reflection in the dark screen of her phone.

"She doesn't deserve a choice, Floyd," she said, not bothering to look up. "She tried to burn my mother. She should lose the hands that did it."

Floyd looked at me, his expression unreadable.

"Jaylah is right. But I am a fair man."

He crouched down.

His eyes were empty. The man I knew was gone, completely hollowed out and replaced by this cold kingpin.

"Confess," he commanded softly. "Tell me you did it on purpose to sabotage the alliance. Tell me you are a rat working for the Russians."

"I'm not," I sobbed, my voice trembling. "It was an accident. She kicked me!"

Floyd sighed, a sound of pure disappointment.

He pulled his phone out.

He dialed a number and set it to speaker.

"Hello? This is Green-Wood Nursing Home."

Ice flooded my veins, stopping my heart.

"This is Mr. Meyers," Floyd said, his eyes locking onto mine with predatory focus. "I'd like to arrange a transfer for Mrs. Rice. To the street."

"No!" I screamed.

I lunged forward, surging against the grip of the soldiers, but they yanked me back effortlessly.

"Floyd, please! She's sick! She'll die without the machines!"

"Then confess," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Or she dies tonight."

I looked at the phone.

I looked at the glowing coals.

I looked at my hands.

My fingers were long and slender.

They were calloused from holding pencils, from the friction of drafting rulers.

They were the hands that had designed the library Floyd claimed to love so much.

They were the only thing I had left that was truly, undeniably mine.

"I did it," I whispered.

The lie tasted like ash in my mouth.

"Louder," Jaylah demanded.

"I did it!" I screamed, my voice cracking under the strain. "I tried to burn her! I hate you! I hate all of you!"

Floyd nodded to the person on the phone. "Cancel the transfer."

He hung up.

Then, his gaze shifted to the brazier.

"The debt for the attempt must still be paid," he stated. "An eye for an eye. A burn for a burn."

He gestured to the coals.

"Do it yourself, or my men will hold you down and keep you there until the bone shows."

I stood up.

My legs were shaking so violently I could barely maintain my balance.

I approached the fire.

The heat was intense, instantly singeing the fine hair on my arms.

I looked at Floyd one last time.

I was searching for a flinch. A hesitation. A flicker of humanity.

He just checked his watch.

I closed my eyes.

I thought of my mother, safe and warm in her bed.

I thought of the sketches I would never draw again.

I thrust my hands into the orange heart of the fire.

The sound came first.

A wet, searing hiss.

Then the smell.

Sweet, cloying, and sickening-like pork left too long on a grill.

Then the pain.

It wasn't a sensation. It was a white noise that swallowed the entire world.

I didn't scream.

My brain couldn't process the signal to scream.

I just opened my mouth and let out a silent, broken gasp as my future turned to ash.