TORTURE, SUPERNATURAL

ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ. ʀᴀɢᴇ

I don't remember falling.

But the world shifts.

One moment I'm in my room—my prison—with Crowley's smirk still echoing behind my eyes. Next, I'm stumbling onto solid ground, cold and uneven beneath my boots. The air hits my lungs like ice, stealing my breath and replacing it with dread.

I catch myself against a crumbling stone wall, blinking in the dim light. The smell hits me first—iron and mildew, old rot, something sharp and coppery that makes my stomach twist. It's underground, wherever we are. A basement, maybe. Dungeon-esque, but modern. Concrete walls. Chains bolted into the floor. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like dying insects.

"Welcome to one of my less public locations," Crowley says casually, stepping in beside me like he's giving a house tour. His voice is unbothered, silk threaded with shadow. "Bit of a fixer-upper, but it does the job."

I turn slowly. The room is empty—almost. A man is slumped in a chair across the room, wrists bound behind him with something black and glistening. Demon binding rope. I can smell it from here. His shirt is stained with blood and sweat, his chest heaving. His face is swollen on one side, and one eye is nearly closed.

He groans, lifting his head weakly. When his gaze locks onto me, there's a flicker of confusion, then something darker. Predatory. Crowley sees it, too. He grins like he planned it.

"Say hello to James Mortem Bailey."

The name hits like ice water. That was the man he mentioned in my room? My heart picks up pace.

Crowley circles the man slowly, like a lion assessing whether to maul or monologue.

"Rapist. Serial killer. Two in one. Likes them young. College-aged, mostly. Preferred weapon was chloroform and a broken bottle." Crowley gestures at the bruises like he's highlighting a fine wine's label. "Disappeared before the authorities caught on. Changed names. Faces. Addresses. Quite slippery, our James."

My throat tightens. The man glares at me, tongue sliding across his bloodied lip. I feel sick.

"I didn't do anything," he mumbles.

Crowley barks a short, humorless laugh. "Oh, darling. You did everything. You just got caught."

I fold my arms across my chest. It's the only thing keeping me from shaking. "Why am I here?"

Crowley steps closer, eyes gleaming. "To learn. To observe. Perhaps even to participate."

"No," I say immediately.

"Oh, Aderyn," he sighs like he's disappointed, then smirks. "You say that word like it means something. No. As if you're the one in charge. It's cute."

He takes another slow step, voice like velvet dipped in venom. "You want justice, don't you?"

I stiffen.

"You were raised to hunt monsters. You've killed werewolves for less. Vampires who never touched a human. You draw the line here?"

I stare at the man, bound and trembling, his chin wobbling now that he realizes I'm not here to save him.

"Don't play games with me," I snap. "This isn't justice. It's... it's performance."

"It's consequence," Crowley corrects. He glances at me from the corner of his eye, amused. "Though I do appreciate a good performance. Especially when there's blood and moral conflict involved."

My stomach churns.

Crowley steps around to the table beside the chair. There's a tray there. Steel. Polished. Surgical tools arranged neatly across the surface—alongside things that make me want to vomit. Blades. Vials. A branding iron still faintly glowing.