"Let me take over," Tyson said coldly, his voice slicing through the stale air. He shrugged off his coat, rolled up his sleeves with the slow deliberation of a man unbothered by consequence. His presence alone shifted the temperature of the room—commanding, terrifying, familiar.
Tesmee looked up at him through soaked strands of hair, her dress clinging to her skin, tracing every breath her bruised chest struggled to take. Her body was bound, but her eyes still burned.
Tyson stepped forward and stood directly in front of her, towering above her in a way that felt almost ceremonial. He leaned down, gripping the sides of her head and forcing it back against the iron frame of the chair. His fingers were steady. His smirk was razor-thin.
"It's been a while since I did this," he murmured, almost fondly. But there was nothing soft in his voice—only the ghost of old sins returning.
The other men in the room stepped back, the unspoken hierarchy making itself known. This wasn't just about extracting information or breaking an enemy. For Tyson, this was personal—an old war bleeding into the new.
And Tesmee… Tesmee did not scream. Not yet.
"You will beg," Tyson said in a voice so quiet it chilled the air more than any scream could. Cold. Final. Certain.
Tesmee scoffed, her lip twitching in defiance despite the bruises already beginning to paint her skin.
The first slap came fast—sharp, slicing across her face and snapping her head to the side, her wet hair flinging like a whip.
The second followed almost instantly, crashing from the opposite direction with a crack like a thunderbolt. The room echoed with it, and silence followed—except for the low hum of her labored breath.
Then his hand closed around her throat.
Hard.
He gripped with purpose, pressing her down into the chair, her back arched by the force, her oxygen thinning like a retreating tide. Her body jerked slightly, but her eyes—those storm-grey eyes—never left his.
Struggling. Not breaking.
Tyson leaned in close, his forehead almost brushing hers, his hand unmoving.
Tyson finally loosened his grip and stepped away.
Tesmee coughed, her chest heaving as air rushed back into her lungs. Her skin glistened with water and sweat, her strength drained but her spirit unbroken.
He walked over to the metal table, his fingers trailing across the cold surface until they curled around a solid, black bat. He weighed it in his hands, rolling it slowly—almost thoughtfully—like a sculptor choosing his next stroke.
He returned to her, standing just in front of the chair, casting a long shadow over her slumped figure.
"Let's have a real talk, Tesmee," he said calmly, eyes flicking to the bat. "Is it the dead ones you can't bring back that made you such a busy bitch?"
Tesmee's head tilted upward, her eyes narrowing with restrained fury.
"There were easier ways to get through to the Hales," she muttered through clenched teeth. "Be grateful I didn't use them."
"You should've," Tyson replied coldly.
And with that, he swung the bat into her side—fast, brutal, calculated.
CRACK.
Tesmee screamed, a raw sound ripped from deep inside her as the pain tore through her ribcage. Her body arched violently against the chair, chains rattling as she yanked them in agony.
Her breath came in gasps, her head bowed forward as pain radiated from her side.
Tyson watched her. No words. Just the silence of control.
Tesmee leaned back in the chair, every breath a blade cutting through her lungs. Her jaw clenched tight, muscles twitching from the pain as she let out a guttural groan.
"F–fuck…" she hissed, her voice cracking as she tried to process it all—her mind reeling, her body screaming, but her will refusing to snap.
She looked up at him through wet strands of hair, her glare molten with fury. Every breath she took was a war.
Tyson stepped closer, the bat still in his hand—steady, purposeful.
He lowered its tip slowly, deliberately placing it against the already-damaged side of her rib cage.
Tesmee's eyes widened in anticipation—
Then he pressed down.
A sharp scream tore out of her, raw and unfiltered, echoing off the concrete walls. Her body writhed against the chains, muscles jerking as pain pulsed through her like fire in her veins.
"Still think you're in control?" Tyson asked coldly, not moving the bat.
Her breathing was shallow, strained. But even as her body trembled, her voice managed a whisper through gritted teeth—
"Go to hell."
"I pity you," Tyson muttered, almost like a curse under his breath—low, cruel, and devoid of mercy.
Then he swung.
The bat came crashing down against her right rib cage with brutal force. A sickening crack filled the air.
Tesmee's scream was muffled at first, like her breath had been stolen before it even left her throat—then it broke loose, fierce and agonizing.
Her body buckled against the chains, legs kicking helplessly as her torso twisted with the blow. Blood touched her lip from biting down too hard, and her vision blurred for a second—but still, she didn't beg.
She growled instead, the sound low and guttural from deep within her throat.
Tyson tilted his head, watching her. "Still holding on?" he asked, almost amused. "You always were stubborn."
He swung again—this time with no hesitation, no restraint.
The bat collided with the lower ribs on her left side, and a brutal snap echoed through the dimly lit room. The pain shot through her like fire, sharp and merciless. Tesmee screamed, the sound ripping from her throat, raw and trembling.
One tear escaped her eye, trailing down her cheek, catching in the wet strands of her hair. But her head didn't fall. Her eyes, half-lidded and glazed from pain, still locked onto Tyson with a defiant fire that refused to die out.
She panted heavily, the chains rattling softly with every shallow breath. Her voice came out cracked but cold.
"You'll need more than that… to bury me."
Tyson stared at her, lips curling in a twisted smirk—not of satisfaction, but challenge.
"You're still fighting. Good."
He raised the bat once more.
He laughed—a low, cruel sound that filled the room with something darker than just malice.
Then he swung again.
The crack of bone was sickening—four ribs on her left, shattered. Another strike—three on the right, broken like twigs beneath the weight of his rage. Tesmee's body convulsed, her chains rattling violently as she leaned back in the chair, breath hitching, jaw clenched so tight it might've cracked too.
Her eyes shut tightly, brows furrowed in excruciating pain. Blood slipped from the corner of her mouth.
"You such a motherf*cker, Tyson," she spat out, voice hoarse, filled with both agony and venom.
Tyson leaned in, his face inches from hers. "And yet… I'm still not done."
She looked at him, eyes half-lidded but burning. "SO AM I, DAMMIT," she hissed through clenched teeth, her body trembling, breath ragged.
Her words hung in the air, defiant and sharp. Tyson pressed the bat against her chest, pinning her back against the cold metal chair. The pressure made her groan, the pain flashing like lightning through her fractured ribs.
"You expect me to beg now?" she muttered, her voice low but unshaken. She drew a painful breath, each inhale a dagger to her side. "This pain… it screams, yes—but not the kind that bends my will. Not the kind that wins."
He pulled the bat back slowly, eyes fixed on her like a predator watching prey resist the inevitable.
Tyson's voice sliced through the silence, cold and knowing. "Someone has fears that bend them to their weakest forms of nature."
He placed the bat down on the metallic table with a dull clink, its presence replaced by something far more sinister. He reached for a jar, its contents hidden by a dark, cruel glass. As he held it up, the faint shift of movement inside made Tesmee's breath catch—black widow spiders.
A shiver ran down her spine, not from the cold, but from the terror that clenched her chest. She recognized them, those nightmares in tiny legs. They were the one fear that had always haunted her, long before this night, long before her body had become a battleground.
Tyson watched her, his smirk growing wider as he saw the change in her eyes, the way her heart seemed to skip a beat. He remembered that night, nine years ago, the one where she had been most vulnerable. She hadn't known then that fear could leave scars as deep as any physical wound.
Slowly, her throat tightened, and she swallowed, trying to force the panic down, but it came rushing back like a flood she couldn't stop. Tyson's eyes never left her, watching, waiting. The jar in his hand felt heavier than it should, and Tesmee knew that every second of silence, every moment that stretched between them, was a game he had already won.
Tyson's eyes glimmered with a twisted amusement as he continued to roll the jar between his hands. He could see the flicker of fear in her, the way her breath hitched when she spoke. It was a small victory, but one he savored.
"You won, Tyson," Tesmee said with a resigned sigh, her voice steady despite the chaos in her chest. It wasn't defeat that lingered in her words, but something colder, something far more dangerous.
Tyson raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Where does that come from?"
She locked eyes with him, unflinching despite the weight of her vulnerability. "I'm sure it's from those crawling beasts." Her tone was flat, but the tension between them was palpable, thick in the air.
He scoffed, the smirk never fading as he glanced at the jar, almost as if he were admiring the creatures inside. "They are cute though." The words hung in the air, taunting, a mockery of her fear.
Tesmee's eyes narrowed. "Tyson, please..." She spoke the words casually, but there was a faint tremor behind the quiet plea, a crack in her armor, barely noticeable.
Tyson paused, studying her face as he tossed the jar lightly from hand to hand. "Please what, Tesmee?" he asked, his voice low, curious. "Beg for mercy? Or maybe for a way out?"
She didn't answer, but the tension in her body was clear. She wasn't done yet—not with him, not with herself. But she wasn't going to beg, not yet.
Tyson let out a dark chuckle, setting the jar gently on the edge of the table, letting the faint skittering of the spiders inside echo like a slow drumbeat in the room.
Tesmee sighed heavily, her voice laced in sarcasm, "Ohh Tyson, bare with me in this situation." Her tone mocked the gravity of it all as she gave him a tired look, every breath dragging pain across her chest.
"I'm sure you quite understand that my ribs are broken," she added dryly, her jaw tightening, "Shaking rapidly, moving those beasts off me... is another thing. C'mon."
Her breath hitched—half a laugh, half a groan. "At least give me a damn fighting chance if you're going to stage a nightmare."
Tyson leaned forward, resting his hands on either side of the chair, his shadow swallowing the dim light between them. "Fighting chance?" he murmured, voice as smooth as it was lethal. "You gave me none nine years ago."
The jar clicked as his fingers twisted the lid.
"Wait..."
The word left her mouth in a cracked whisper, strained but clear enough to make Tyson pause. His hands froze on the lid of the jar. Slowly, he leaned forward again, planting his palms on either side of the chair, his eyes narrowing with quiet suspicion.
"You do know," she murmured, voice low and ragged, "I would choose that night... over this." Her gaze held his, unwavering despite the pain.
Tyson smirked, a hollow thing. "Tesmee, you're not the only person who can manipulate people," he said with a bitter scoff. "Nice try—"
"I'm not manipulating you," she cut in, her voice more firm this time. "It's the truth, Tyson."
He stared at her for a long, silent moment, his expression unreadable. Then he scoffed, stepping back with a half-laugh devoid of humor.
"Do I look like I care?" he said coldly.
She narrowed her eyes, her voice laced with pain but steady. "Yes, you do, Tyson."
He let out a dry chuckle and leaned back in again, his expression hardening. "Have you ever wrapped your mind around the concept that men can fuck you with no emotions?" he said, his tone biting. "While women—" he tilted his head, "—they tend to lace it with feelings, strings, hope." He paused, the silence growing heavier between them.
"I quite pity you," he added coldly, "if you've never learned that."
She looked at him, eyes scanning his face—searching, digging, desperate to unearth anything human buried beneath the cruelty. A flicker of something. A pause. A lie behind the eyes. But it slipped away like smoke.
She leaned back, her ribs screaming with the movement, and exhaled sharply. "You think you're a man now?" she said quietly, voice low but cutting. "Fuck and forget?"
Tyson cleared his throat, the sound echoing with disdain. "Do I really have to respond to a to-be-corpse?" he said mockingly, then turned to the three men. "Finish her up." Without another glance, he stepped away, leaving behind the scent of steel and control.
Tesmee watched him go, the door closing behind the shadow of his retreat. The room was still again—except for her pulse, thundering in her ears. Back to reality. Back to pain. But in the silence between breaths, her mind screamed one thing louder than the agony in her body: You have to survive.
Escape wasn't just unlikely—it was a riddle wrapped in chains and blood. But impossible? Not for her.