Rule 7 : Rage

CHAPTER 46: The Siren's Call.

ZAYN'S POV

The memory of a child's laughter, once a melody that softened the sharp edges of my soul, now grated against my mind like nails raking across slate. My hands, once steady with the weight of compassion, trembled as I yanked a helm of bone free, the sickening crunch reverberating through the dead air.

The world around me was a blur of silent screams and echoes of the empathy I once held dear, but there was no turning back now. My only chance of survival was to let go of my old self—was there even anything left to be kind about?

The orphanage, once a refuge, now felt like a distant dream, dismissed by the Shaque. Yet, despite my resistance, they were the only family I had left.

Sweat beaded on my brow as I gulped down lukewarm water, the metallic tang of the gym filling my senses. Stoney sauntered in, his usual cocky grin plastered on his face. He tossed a pack of smokes and a lighter my way, a casual gesture that belied the tension I sensed in him.

I caught the stuff, the familiar ritual a brief escape. As I inhaled, I noticed a different edge to Stoney. He was usually all bravado, but now, there was a quiet intensity I couldn't quite place.

He plopped down on a punching bag, propping his chin on his hand, staring at me like he was trying to solve a complex equation. "Ever been in love, man?" he asked, his voice low.

I scoffed, trying to hide the unexpected jolt of the question. "Are you kidding me?" I retorted, but my tone lacked conviction.

Stoney smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Trust me, it's something you'd wanna experience." He pulled out a joint and lit it, the smoke curling around his face.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, right. In this place?" My fingers unconsciously traced the outline of a scar on my forearm.

"No matter how tough a guy is, love can soften him," Stoney insisted, exhaling a plume of smoke.

"Spare me the poetry, Stoney," I shot back, irritation creeping into my voice. "This place is a meat grinder, not a love nest."

Stoney's grin widened. "I'm talking about real love, not sex. The kind that can change everything." He paused, his gaze intense. "You never know when your number's up. We're all just ticking time bombs here. Why not experience something real before it's too late?"

My chest tightened. "The Midnight Consortium," I spat out, my voice low. "What do you know about them?"

"You don't want to go there," Stoney warned, a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. He gave my shoulder a rough pat. "Listen, girls love tattoos. I'm getting another one from Mog."

The name hit me like a ton of bricks. Imogen. My heart leaped into my throat. As he turned to leave, I grabbed his arm, my voice urgent. "Is she here? Now?"

Stoney's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized me. "You want a new tattoo?" His question felt like a noose tightening around my neck. A cold sweat broke out on my brow as I realized I wasn't ready for this, but I couldn't afford to show it.

"Yeah, sure," I forced out, my voice shaky. "Maybe I'll steal your ideas."

A sly smirk crept across his face. "Be my inspiration, you go first," he said, his gaze sharpening with a dangerous glint. "That's the only reason Imogen's with the Shaque—she's just a tattoo artist."

His words were a gauntlet thrown down, a dare I couldn't ignore. A tense silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the rapid thud of my heart.

My voice, a hoarse whisper, cut through the stillness. "Imogen's talent extends far beyond mere skin-deep artistry," I replied, my tone firm. My forehead creased as I fought to maintain composure. "Answer me," I demanded, my voice rising to a growl.

Stoney's face hardened. "Mog is not here," he spat out, his eyes cold.

He spun on his heel and disappeared through the door, the slam echoing in the quiet room. My shoulders slumped as I turned to the punching bag.

My fists connected with the leather, a raw fury propelling each blow. The bag thrashed wildly, its stuffing shifting and groaning against the air. It was a grotesque, inanimate target for my mounting anger.

A low growl rumbled in my throat as I unleashed a furious barrage on the punching bag. Abruptly, the rhythmic thunder of my fists was silenced by a soft murmur seeping through the door. My head snapped up, my ears straining to catch the faint sound.

A familiar melody drifted through the air, like a siren's haunting call, sending chills down my spine. My heart pounded in my ears as I crept closer, palms slick with sweat.

Peeking through a crack in the door, I saw her—Imogen—laughing and gesticulating wildly with a woman I didn't recognize. My stomach lurched with a sickening twist. Who was this woman, and what dark secret was she sharing with Imogen?