Broken Hands

127. More pieces-Escape.

The door burst open, and the bitter winter wind howled through the room as a small figure was hurled inside. Grayson hit the cold, hard floor with a sharp thud, the impact rattling through his bones. Pain shot up his elbows, but he barely winced—he had learned not to give them the satisfaction.

He pushed himself up, limbs trembling, and glared at the man who had thrown him in. De-Bunki smirked, the dim light catching on his crooked teeth.

Then—footsteps. Grayson turned, and there he was. Charlie.

A shadow against the weak yellow glow of the hallway. His scowl was carved deep, his dark eyes colder than the wind outside.

"Where have you been, little bastard?" Charlie's voice sliced through the air, sharp and venomous.

Grayson didn't answer. He didn't need to. Charlie already had his answer—he always did.

Grayson spun on his heel, lunging for the door, but it slammed shut before he could reach it. The sound echoed in his ears like a death knell. De-Bunki stood on the other side, blocking any chance of escape.

Then came the sound—the slick, familiar hiss of leather slipping through belt loops.

Grayson turned just in time to see the belt slice through the air. It struck fast, biting into his skin like fire. He flinched, throwing his arms over his head, but the blows came relentless and unforgiving.

Don't cry. Don't cry. He'll stop when he gets tired.

The belt struck again. And again. The sting turned into searing pain, each lash branding itself into his body. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, curling up against the door as Charlie beat down on him.

"Ungrateful bastard!" Charlie's words dripped with poison, each syllable punctuated by another strike.

Grayson clenched his teeth, swallowing back the groan clawing up his throat. The lashes stopped, and for a fleeting second, he thought it was over—Then a boot slammed into his ribs.

A gasp ripped from his chest. Blood filled his mouth. More kicks followed, brutal and unrestrained, the pain blooming like fire beneath his skin.

"You can never escape from me," Charlie snarled, his voice ringing through the house, drowning out Grayson's ragged breathing. "Run, and I'll find you. And you'll wish you had never dreamed of leaving in the first place."

Another kick—this time to his face. A sharp crack. The world tilted sideways.

"You're useless," Charlie spat, his voice a cruel whisper now. "Just like your mother."

And then—Grayson's eyes snapped open.

His chest heaved. Sweat clung to his skin, his body stiff with tension. The darkness of the room pressed in around him, but it wasn't the same.

No cold floor. No belt. No Charlie.

Just a bed. Soft covers.

His breath came in quick, sharp gasps, but his ribs screamed in protest when he tried to move. A fresh bandage wrapped around his torso, pressing against the deep ache in his bones. His head pounded with the same horrible migraine.

Russell was dead.

That was his first thought. His first reality.

His stomach twisted. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. Russell died. Because of him.

Then—the next thought hit like a wrecking ball.

Charlie was alive.

His breathing picked up again. His chest tightened. He struggled to push himself up, but every muscle in his body screamed in protest.