Guns And Laces (Sinbound Series) ✔️

Guns And Laces: Chapter 36

Guns And Laces

Sacred Space

Chapter Thirty-Six

"I will burn you, inch by inch, if you so much as think of harming her. I am restrained only as long as she's breathing. After her, I don't guarantee you shit."

-Angelo

Have you ever found yourself in a state where your vision is flooded with flashing red, as if the world has been consumed by an angry, flickering flame? Your body tightens, muscles clenching as a thin, molten thread of rage begins to seep through your bones, inching its way upward with agonising slowness, each pulse burning hotter than the last.

It’s like a fire that begins in your core, searing its way outward, until it consumes every rational thought, every shred of control you once had. You can feel it crawling through you, this primal hunger for vengeance, gnawing at you with a relentless need.

Your senses sharpen, each detail magnified — the thrum of your heartbeat, the prickling tension in your skin, the pit of fury growing in your gut. Your brain, now a battlefield between reason and rage, urges you forward, telling you that now is the time. Now is when you can act, when you can let go. The animal instincts rise up, pushing against the dam of restraint, demanding release. And for a moment, nothing exists but the desire to strike, to satiate that unyielding thirst for revenge, until the world feels whole again. Until you’ve had your fill.

Satisfied.

Because that's exactly how I felt when I murdered those eighty-seven people with my bare hands. One by one.

I watched, standing in their own house, as the light slowly faded from their eyes. In that quiet, sacred space they once called home, the life drained from them, one breath at a time, until there was nothing left but hollow, staring silence. The walls around me held the echoes of their existence—framed pictures, a clock ticking far too loudly, the faint smell of something familiar, something human—but none of it mattered now.

It was just me and them, in the end. And with every final breath, every blink that stilled, I felt a strange, twisted satisfaction coil within me. As their eyes glossed over, as their bodies slumped, the weight of their lives slipping away, I couldn’t help but feel as though I was reclaiming something that had long been lost—something that could never be restored.

I stood there, as if time had stopped, watching it all, knowing I was the one who had brought it to this. And in that moment, it felt right.

But for some twisted reason that satisfaction did only last for a brief period of time.

I wanted to shed blood. More blood. I wanted to paint the entirety of Athens red, if it were possible. Every single living soul who had breathed the same air as Papadopoulos became an enemy in my eyes. Their existence, however distant, automatically meant that there was no room for innocence, no forgiveness for proximity. To be near him was to be tainted.

I almost laughed when I heard the news that Rheannon had stumbled upon a few days ago. The newscaster was warning people to be wary of their surroundings, as if a serial killer was on the loose.

Serial killer. What a laughable label.

Because the truth is, I wasn’t a serial killer. I was something far simpler, far more human in the eyes of the world—a mere drug lord, a businessman in the eyes of society, no more dangerous than any other man trying to make a living. The people didn’t know. They didn’t see the full picture. They didn’t understand the depth of the rage driving me, the hunger for payback that had consumed me.