The Darkness Within

Chapter Twenty Two

Trigger warning: explicit torture

Chapter Twenty Two

The warehouse is in a rural, abandoned part of Moscow, an hour and a half drive's away from Sergei's home.

During the drive, he gave me a broad overview of interrogation torture techniques. Now, standing inside the damp interior of the warehouse that caries acrid scent of burnt flesh, blood, death, and pain, we're flanked by Igor and six others, facing a man tied to a metal chair bolted to the ground.

He's stripped down to his boxers, and has clearly already received a sizeable beat down by whoever transported him—as evidenced by the blooming bruises on his face and torso. His hands are strapped to the arms of the chair, his legs strapped likewise to the legs of his chair—he's totally immobile. He's a stocky man that I'm sure has made others tremble in fear, but is currently trembling in fear underneath Sergei's blistering gaze.

I get the sense that Sergei's particularly pissed because I was subject of attack along with him. If it was just him and his men who were attacked, I don't believe fury would be rolling off him in palpable waves—that would be just another day in the business. But the fact that I was endangered really boils his blood.

I glance around the walls of the warehouse—all of which carry an impressive amount of torturous implements. There are blades of all different shapes and sizes, hammers, pliers, power tools, and more objects suitable to subjecting someone to sheer agony, waiting to be used.

"Raphael, is it?" Sergei drawls in Russian, his voice carrying an eerie calm as he strolls over to a wall, retrieving pliers and a power drill. His eyes flick briefly to Igor, who steps out of the line of guards and walks up to the man tied to the chair—Raphael—and stands behind him.

Sergei approaches Igor, hands him both implements, and then stands right in front of Raphael, clasping his hands behind his back.

His tone thoughtful, Sergei says, "There have been hundreds of men in your exact position, Raphael. Or is it more, Igor? I confess, I've lost count."

Igor's smile is feral, though Raphael can't see it. "Five hundred and twelve, if I'm not mistaken."

Five hundred and twelve men. A number as impressive as it is daunting. After so many times, it's no wonder Sergei's known as a master interrogator. He once told me that everyone breaks when he's the one asking questions, and I have no doubt it's true.

I wait for some sort of revulsion to move through me at the prospect of witnessing a mans torture and subsequent death, but it simply doesn't come. Just like how I felt nothing at taking a life outside of grim satisfaction, I feel nothing in this moment—outside of a small sliver of anticipation. And perhaps even a touch of morbid interest.

"Five hundred and twelve," Sergei repeats slowly with a low whistle.

I recognize what he's doing as an intimidation tactic. The more eager Raphael is to give answers, the better. I still have the feeling that Sergei will spend an ample amount of time torturing him to death, simply to burn off the anger that was sparked when we were attacked, but the sooner he has answers, the sooner his men can hopefully track down the Rostov bratva and end them.

"You're a scholar in the art of torture," Igor chimes in, a note of glee in his tone.

A tremor of fear begins to run through Raphael's body, and it seems like his fate truly starts to sink in. He looks frantically from Sergei, to the guards behind me, and back again, his terror growing by the second.

"I have simple questions," Sergei says, enunciating every syllable. "I'll expect simple answers to each of them. Are you prepared to give them?"

Raphael straightens slightly, makes a visible effort to stop his trembling, and defiantly shuts his mouth.