Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 73

I'm sorry for updating late, Watpad logged me out

Wang's POV

Let's have a yacht party. Zhan breathes.

The idea of a yacht shifted the whole room, softer lights, open water, a place where people let their guard down, and everyone thought they were only there to party. Zhan's suggestion slid into my head like I'd been waiting for an answer.

"That can be arranged," I said, feeling the plan lock into place.

Wen Mao jerked, hands clawing at the straps as if the nightmare hadn't let go. For a beat the room held its breath, every face turned toward him, waiting to see whether the needle had taken a life or given one back.

He rasped out, "Please... make it stop."

The sound of panic was almost laughable now. I kept my voice flat. "Sorry. There's nothing I can do."

He is alive. Wen Chao breathes.

Death is too easy. Dre hiss.

He gulped air like a drowning man. "Please—I'll do anything."

Zhan's suggestion—yacht party—had already curled into the plan in my head. I let it sit there like a promise. "How about you tell Lusi to come visit you guys," Zhan said.

Wen Mao's eyes lit with ugly hope. "I can do that." His hands were still tied but his fingers trembled toward Ezra's phone when the man thrust it forward.

I unbuckled the cuffs enough to let him fumble the device, then steadied his wrist so he could dial. His fingers shook as he thumbed Lusi's number. Before he could work himself into a new panic, I slid a syringe into his thigh, just enough to steady him, not to sleep him out again. A tiny mercy to keep him talking.

"Put it on speaker," I said, and Ezra obliged, flipping the phone to loud.

The line clicked, and Lusi's voice came bright and distracted through the speaker. "Hey, Mao! What's up?"

Wen Mao's voice came out thin, relieved. "Hey, Lusi... we're having a yacht party. You wanna come?"

There was a pause, the kind that tastes like a decision. Then Lusi laughed, light, careless, the exact sound of someone who thinks the night is hers to spend. "A yacht? Sure, why not? Who's going to be there?"

Wen Mao inhaled like he'd been given air. "Just friends. Come down, bring anyone tight with you." His words stumbled but he was saying them. He wanted the comfort of familiar faces, and he wanted them to be the proof that he'd survived.

I let the smile creep out, slow and small. "Perfect," I said, more to myself than to anyone else.

On the speaker, Lusi asked, "Cash? Gifts?" and Wen Mao, still panting, still on the edge promised whatever it took.

When he hung up, relief washed over his features so obvious it was almost pathetic. For a second he truly believed he'd bought a lifeline.

I watched him, feeling that old, cold satisfaction settle in my chest. We weren't just punishing them. We were dismantling their lives piece by piece, luring their network in one by one until there was nowhere left for them to hide.

Three hours bled into each other and Ziyi never ran out of venom. She ranted until her throat was raw, accusations, slurs, memories recited like trophies. At first, we listened because every sound she made was intel. After a while, we stopped pretending to care. Her voice became background noise, like a radio left on in another room.

But Jin hadn't tuned out. He glared at her like she'd spit in his face. "You're a sick psycho," he hissed, low and hard.

She snapped back like a viper, hurling every name and insult she had stored, cheap, vicious, personal. The words were meant to wound and were. They landed on Jin; they landed on Wen Chao and the rest. The room buzzed with the impact.

Jin moved abruptly, chair scraping, face raw. For a second it looked like he might lunge. Wen Chao spat and cursed, claws flexing against his straps. Dre's hand tightened on the bottle at his knee. Even Ezra's practiced smile thinned.

I didn't shout. I didn't need to. I walked over, slow, and set a palm flat against the table. The movement pulled the room's attention like tidewater. "Enough," I said, voice low and cold. The single syllable snapped the air taut.

Ziyi's mouth twisted into a new kind of smile, smaller, crazier. "Oh, I haven't started," she said. "You've seen nothing yet."

"You've said a lot already," I replied. I met Jin's eyes for a moment, then his shoulders sagged as if someone finally closed a valve. He sat, face white, the fight drained out of him. The spectacle of rage had given him nothing but fresh shame.

Ziyi's laugh came brittle, sharpened by bile. "I feel sorry for you," she spat, delighting in the sting of it.

"Sorry?" I echoed, slow and flat.

She shrugged, all venom and pretense. "Yes. I won't tell a thing, until Lusi gets here." Her laugh bubbled up again, high and cruel, as if she'd just dealt us the last card.

"Nothing Lusi can do will surprise me," I muttered, voice low, more tired than defiant.

Wen Chao laughed, a wet, humorless sound that scraped the floor. "Oh no," he said, eyes glittering. "This one will shock you to your bones."

We had time to prepare. The yacht wasn't going to be a celebration—it'd be a goodbye.

In the room, the air felt cold and heavy as I made the calls. Arranging a rental at the last minute costs more than it should, but money wasn't the problem. Time was. By 6 p.m., we'd be on the water. By 11, when Lusi arrived, everything would already be set in motion.

When I walked back into the living room, the noise hit me again—Ziyi's bitter laughter, the sound of Dre's lighter clicking open and shut, Ezra scrolling through something on his phone. Zhan looked up when I entered, his eyes searching mine for an answer I couldn't yet give.

"It's done," I said. "The yacht's ready. We sail at six."

No one spoke for a few seconds. Then Dre nodded slowly, his voice low. "So... this is it?"

"This is it," I replied, sitting down beside Zhan. "Tonight, it all ends."

"We can also make it worthwhile," I said, pushing back my chair and standing. The others nodded absently, but only Dre followed suit. Ezra stayed glued to his seat, pretending not to know what to do with himself.

I left them there and headed to the room. The silence in the hallway was a relief after hours of tension. I opened the wardrobe and stared blankly at the clothes inside, not sure what to wear or what tonight would even become. My body moved automatically, shirt, pants, watch, but my mind was still spinning.

The door opened behind me, quiet but sure. Zhan walked in without a word and went straight for the bathroom. A second later, I heard the soft metallic slide of his zipper.

For a heartbeat, I froze. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I stripped too. I didn't know what I was doing, or maybe I did and just didn't care anymore.

The sound of the shower filled the room, steam curling out from the open door. I stepped inside.

He didn't look at me. Didn't flinch. Just kept washing, calm and distant, like the night before never happened.

So I respected the silence, turned toward the water, and bathed beside him. The warmth didn't wash away the guilt, but it dulled it for a moment, and that was enough.

He finished rinsing off and stepped out of the shower, water trailing down his skin. He brushed his teeth without a word, the mirror fogged between us. I did the same, trying not to look too long, trying not to remember the way he used to lean into me.

When I came out, he was already in the room, towel slung low around his waist, the light catching on every sharp line of him. He looked... unbothered. Untouchable. And yet everything about him still pulled at me.

"Zhan," I said quietly, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. "Can we talk when all this is over?"

He didn't turn around. Just reached for his shirt and said, "Sure."

No anger. No softness. Just distance.

And I couldn't even be mad. I earned it.