DANCE WITH THE DEVIL

CHAPTER 33

[warning: heavy torture]

Time turned cruel and slow in the confines of Jaemin's personal prison, where Dawn was at his mercy. Weeks stretched into months as Jaemin returned to visit, each appearance casting a dark shadow over Dawn's existence. The once cocky man was slowly withering, but Jaemin made sure he wouldn't break too soon; he wanted Dawn to last as long as possible, suspended between life and death, suffering with the memory of what he'd tried to take from Jaemin.

Each visit followed a chilling ritual. Jaemin would show up, impeccably dressed and carrying an arsenal of methods in his mind, ready to torment Dawn in ways the Cartel leader could never have imagined.

Jaemin walked into the room, his footsteps echoing on the cold concrete floor as he dragged a chair to sit directly in front of Dawn, who hung limply, bound by his wrists, and barely conscious. Dawn's face was swollen, bruised, with a cut running along his jaw from Jaemin's last visit.

"Good evening, Dawn," Jaemin said with a chilling politeness, his tone barely masking the malice beneath.

Dawn's eyes cracked open, barely focusing. "Let me go, you sadistic bastard," he spat weakly, his voice raw from days of dehydration.

Jaemin only smiled, unbothered. "You think I'd let you off that easily?" He reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a small, silver scalpel. "No, I think you'll be here a while longer."

He held the scalpel up, turning it so the blade caught the dim light, and then he pressed it against Dawn's shoulder. With a deliberate motion, he dragged it down, a thin line of blood trickling as Dawn hissed in pain, his fists clenched.

"See, I don't need to kill you," Jaemin whispered in his ear, as if sharing a secret. "I just need you to feel a fraction of what you put me through."

Jaemin continued slowly, each cut a reminder of his anger. His strokes were methodical, tracing out symbols and words in Dawn's flesh. He carved intricate lines and shapes along Dawn's arms, chest, and back, ensuring they left scars that would never fade, a permanent reminder of this nightmare.

After each session, he'd leave Dawn to heal, to stew in his helplessness, to remember that each moment of reprieve only meant Jaemin would come back.

Jaemin's next visit was darker. Dawn had barely healed when Jaemin returned, this time with a toolbox in hand. Dawn's expression twisted in horror as Jaemin began opening it, revealing pliers, hammers, and a variety of tools Dawn recognized from the darkest corners of his own organization's practices.

"I hear," Jaemin said, rolling up his sleeves, "that fingers are quite sensitive."

Dawn's eyes widened as Jaemin took the pliers, clamping them around one of Dawn's fingernails. Slowly, Jaemin pulled, the sickening sound of the nail lifting from flesh filling the room. Dawn screamed, thrashing against the bindings, but Jaemin held firm, pulling until the nail came free. He let it fall to the ground with a small, satisfied smile.

"That's for running in my mind all day," he said coldly.