Pyro

III

TW: Violence + body-shaming

Sunny

Consciousness returns with brutal efficiency as Tomas yanks me upright. The chains bite deeper into my wrists as he tightens them, sending lightning through nerve endings already screaming from yesterday's abuse. A hiss escaped me before I could catch it, teeth sinking into my lips to trap any further sound. I won't give him the satisfaction.

"Listen here, you worthless bitch" His breath hits my face, reeking of expensive scotch and cheap rage. "I don't believe for one fucking second you don't know what dear daddy does. Not one person in your family is that fucking clueless." His voice carries barely contained rage, chest heaving with it.

The fluorescent light flickers to life as he shuts the door, revealing my concrete prison in harsh detail. Tomas shrugs off his suit jacket with deliberate slowness, each movement a promise of coming violence. The soft whisper of expensive fabric against chair leather somehow sounds more threatening than a scream.

His shirt sleeves roll up with surgical precision, exposing forearms corded with muscle and scarred from what I assume are other 'conversations'. The table beside him holds an array of implements I can't quite see from my position on the floor, but his smile as he surveys them tells me everything I need to know.

When he turns back, brass knuckles gleam dully on his right hand. He flexes his fingers, metal catching harsh light - a conductor preparing for his symphony of pain. A few strands of black hair have escaped his usually perfect coif, giving him an unhinged edge that terrifies me more than any weapon could.

His hand rakes through his hair before turning slightly, maintaining a perfect view of his tools. The pause stretches, psychological torture before physical begins. The matching matte black knives catch dim light as he lifts them, and something in my stomach turns to ice.

The smirk that curves his thin lips says he caught my involuntary swallow. His eyes hold the kind of darkness that enjoys breaking beautiful things.

"Oh, I must say," that boyish grin spreads across his face, a mockery of charm. "I love that fear in your eyes, little bird." He moves from wrist to wrist, tightening chains until metal bites deep in bone. I can't stop the hiss of pain, or the curse that follows.

His chuckle carries no warmth. "This will be so much fucking fun." He drops into a squad before me, bringing those honey-brown eyes level with mine. Eyes that hold too much excitement for what's coming. "Don't you agree?"

Terror freezes every muscle, every thought, locks my joints. My mind whites out, body remembering other men, other pain. Even if I wanted to answer, my throat's sealed shut with fear.

"Now," metal scrapes against metal as he adjusts the brass knuckles, "let's try this again. What does your father do?"

I don't know, I want to scream. But my cracked ribs from yesterday's 'questioning' suggest that the truth isn't what he's looking for.

The real question is: how much more can I take before I start making up lies he might believe?

The brass knuckles connect without warning - a thunderclap of agony against my ribs. No warning, no wind-up - just an explosion of pain as metal meets bone. The impact tears fabric and flesh, my body jerking left while chains hold fast. Something in my shoulder protests as joints strain against metal.

My scream echoes off concrete walls until his hand crushes my jaw, fingers digging into pressure points. His breath, smelling of mint and violence, floods my mouth. "When I speak to you. Answer. When I don't, shut the fuck up. No unnecessary screaming, understood?" Each word drips venom, his proximity making the air thick and unbreathable. The closeness amplifies his threat, his rage, my helplessness.