Grayson's POV
I've been at this for four hours straight. No breaks. No distractions. Just footage, maps, enhanced stills, and a growing pit in my stomach that nothing can fill.
Every image, every frame, I know where they've been. I've tracked them through alleyway reflections, dust patterns on the floor, light filtering through boarded windows. I've ID'd hideouts I've bled in, hurt people in, left bodies in. I know these places like muscle memory.
And still, it's not enough.
Hunched over the table, my eyes burn as I zoom in on another blurry frame, just a faint street sign in the corner, and run matches through my mental archive. The blood pounding in my ears is the only sound until the door creaks behind me.
I don't look up. "If it's not a lead or location, don't waste my time."
It's Arnaldo. I feel him before I see him.
No answer at first. He moves closer, slow, uneven, and sets a tablet beside my hand. His fingers tremble on the edge.
I lift my eyes.
The man who never flinches. The man who made me what I am. His eyes are red. Wet. Jaw clenched tight. He's barely holding it together.
"Play it," he says.
I do.
The screen blacks for a moment, then flashes on.
Joe's face fills the frame, too close, smirking as he adjusts the camera. Fingers brushing the lens. Lips twisting into that cruel grin like it's some sick home movie.
"Alright, let's get started," he mutters, backing out of frame.
And then I see her.
Aven.
My whole body locks.
She's in a small, windowless room. A filthy cot beneath her. Hands free, no bindings, but she might as well be chained. Trembling so hard it looks like her bones might shatter. Bruises streak her arms. Her dress is torn at the shoulder, her lip split and swollen.
But it's her face that undoes me.
Not just fear, pure, gut deep terror. Silent tears track down her cheeks like she doesn't even realize they're there.
She whispers something. I lean closer.
"I'll be good. I promise I'll be good this time... I won't cry. I won't scream. I'll do better... I swear."
A prayer. The last thing she has.
Joe edges closer, whispering things I can't quite catch.
She tries to run. Not far.
Joe's arm snakes around her waist and slams her back onto the cot. It scrapes across the floor with a scream of metal. She scrambles to rise, but he's on her in a blur, fists, muscle, weight.
I grip the desk until my knuckles ache.
His voice drops, cold and low. Words I won't repeat. His hands tear at her dress, exposing skin she desperately shields. She begs. Sobs. Screams.
YOU ARE READING
Shattered Asylum
RomanceShe escaped a house full of monsters... but she never stopped being hunted. I thought I escaped the worst of it. But some monsters don't stay in the past. After years of surviving in a house that only knew cruelty, sixteen year old Aven is sent to l...
