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Carver suddenly moved.
He flung the tire iron aside with lightning speed. But instead of striking, his thick arm shot around the prisoner's neck from behind, muscles bulging as he tightened the hold like steel.
"Ugh—!"
The prisoner's eyes bulged instantly. His face shifted from red to purple as desperate choking sounds rattled from his throat. His legs kicked wildly, but he couldn't break free even an inch.
The agony of suffocation and the terror of imminent death swallowed him whole.
Calista's eyelashes trembled slightly. She suppressed the strange emotion that had surged up inside her and watched coldly from where she stood.
It wasn't fear.
It was something darker. A twisted sense of exhilaration… even satisfaction.
God, she had spent years being a model student. Could there really be some hidden streak of cruelty buried somewhere inside her?
Leah remained expressionless.
Rickson had taken over Bossie's role, recording notes on the tactical tablet.
Everyone had their part to play.
Just before the prisoner lost consciousness, Carver suddenly released his arm.
The prisoner collapsed forward, gasping like a fish thrown onto dry land. He coughed violently, tears and mucus running down his face. Nothing remained of his earlier bravado—only raw, instinctive fear.
Carver walked back around to face him.
The faint politeness from earlier had vanished. What remained was a cold, evaluating gaze.
"So. Can we talk properly now? Or do you want another round… maybe something different?"
"I've got plenty of little toys I haven't used yet."
He lightly patted the prisoner's trembling cheek.
"I…" The man's voice was hoarse and broken.
"Name." Carver's tone was quiet, but impatience had already crept in.
The prisoner suddenly spat a mouthful of bloody saliva and forced out a twisted grin.
"Fuck you! My people will find this place soon enough. They'll drag you rats out one by one and crush you!"
Instead of getting angry, Carver relaxed again, that roguish look returning to his face. He even let out a whistle.
He slowly bent down, picked up the heavy pry bar, and weighed it in his hand.
"Tsk. Looks like you're refusing the drink and asking for the punishment."
Carver strolled back over.
Using the curved hook of the pry bar—still smeared with dirt—he lifted the prisoner's bound left hand from the chair arm like he was teasing a pet. The metal tip tapped lightly against the man's index finger joint.
Tap. Tap.
"Ever heard the saying that your ten fingers are connected to your heart?" he asked with a cheerful smile, sounding like he was discussing dinner plans.
"I'm betting this little finger of yours can't handle even a gentle press from this piece of iron."
"Care to gamble?"
The prisoner's face went pale.
His body began trembling uncontrollably.
Carver's casual smile while talking about torture was far more terrifying than outright brutality.
"I—I…"
"Looks like you want to take the bet."
Carver's grin widened.
Without another word, he hooked the pry bar beneath the finger joint and began applying slow, steady pressure.
"AH—!!! Stop! Stop!!"
The pain made the prisoner scream like a slaughtered pig. His body thrashed violently, trying to break free, but the ropes held him firmly to the chair.
Carver eased the pressure slightly, though the pry bar remained wedged in place.
He leaned closer to the prisoner's distorted face, his voice almost coaxing.
"Tell me something I want to hear, and I'll take this off."
"Simple, right? Just a name. A location."
Calista watched the scene.
She thought she would turn away.
But she didn't.
She simply watched.
She realized she didn't feel the strong physical disgust she had expected. Instead, there was a strange sense of control.
That realization stirred something unsettling in her chest.
Carver stopped pressing, though he didn't remove the pry bar.
"Name. Base. Numbers."
The prisoner gasped for breath, sweat and tears mixing on his face. The ferocity in his eyes had mostly faded, replaced by pain and fear—though a trace of stubbornness remained.
"K-kill me… They'll avenge me…"
Carver nodded calmly, as if he had expected that answer.
He removed the pry bar and ground his molars slightly in annoyance before gesturing to Rickson.
Rickson wordlessly drew a knife from his waist and handed it over.
The blade gleamed coldly in the dim light.
Carver accepted it and spun it lightly between his fingers, the motion smooth and oddly elegant.
Then he crouched down again so they were face to face.
That unsettling smile returned.
Under the prisoner's terrified gaze, Carver tapped the man's cheek gently with the flat of the blade. Then the knife slid slowly downward—across his chest, past his arm—until it stopped at the little finger of his bound left hand.
"We're not going to kill you," Carver said with a smile.
"We're just… going to start taking a few things."
"This is actually my favorite part."
"Maybe it'll help you remember something."
"If one finger isn't enough, we'll try two. Then toes. Ears."
"We've got plenty of time. And plenty of tools."
The tip of the knife pressed against the base of the little finger, where the skin was thin and nerves packed densely together.
"No… don't! Wait!"
The prisoner's mental defenses finally shattered.
"They… they won't let me live!"
"They?" Carver scoffed. "Where are they now? Are they here helping you through this?"
The prisoner blurted out his name.
"Jason! Jason Morris!"
Seeing Carver pause, Jason's eyes flickered nervously. He hesitated, testing whether he could stop there.
Carver shrugged regretfully.
He didn't wait.
The blade flashed.
A short, piercing scream tore through the room. Blood sprayed as a pale severed little finger dropped to the floor, twitching once… twice.
"AAAH—!!! I'll talk! I'll talk!! Stop cutting! Please! I'll tell you whatever you want!!"
Jason sobbed uncontrollably, snot and tears streaming down his face.
"Jason, right?" Carver said casually, tapping his cheek with the same knife that had just cut off his finger.
"See? Would've been much easier if you'd cooperated earlier."
"So. What's your position in the Red Scarf Gang?"
"I—I oversee a production team!" Jason blurted out, practically crying. "I supervise the workers!"
Only then did Carver lower the knife and step back.
He gave Rickson a nod.
Rickson immediately began typing rapidly on the tablet.
But Carver still didn't look fully satisfied.
"Good, Jason. See? That wasn't so hard."
His tone softened slightly, though his eyes remained cold.
"Now tell me about Lorenzo."
"What kind of man is he?"
Jason trembled as he spoke, his words tumbling out in panic.
"He's… he's a devil! Smart—very smart! He likes watching people suffer. He says order is everything, but his order…"
"His word is the order."
"Before the apocalypse, Lorenzo was already a big shot. An Italian arms dealer."
"When the outbreak happened… he just happened to be here… 'doing business.'"
...
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