ARSHILA POV
Zayan sits in a chair, his posture relaxed in a way that feels wrong in this place, one arm resting loosely as if he has all the time in the world, his head slightly tilted like he has been waiting.
And in front of him—
Ares Vance.
My hand flies to my mouth before I can stop it, pressing hard against my lips to trap the sound that almost escapes.
My heart slams violently against my ribs, so loud it feels like it might give me away as I stumble half a step back, flattening myself against the wall beside the doorway.
I shouldn't be here.
I shouldn't be seeing this.
But I don't move.
I shift just enough to peek again, my breath shallow, uneven, my fingers digging into my own skin to keep myself silent.
Ares is tied to a chair.
Not loosely.
Not carelessly.
His arms are bound tight against the backrest, his body slumped slightly forward like whatever fight he had is already beaten out of him.
His face is… ruined. Bruises spread across his skin, dark and swollen, his lip split, dried blood staining his chin and collar.
His head hangs low for a second before it lifts weakly, like even that takes effort.
Zayan watches him like he is nothing.
Like this is nothing.
"How are you holding up, Mr. pop artist?" Zayan's voice is smooth, almost polite, like he is asking about the weather instead of looking at a broken man.
Ares lets out a dry, cracked sound that might be a laugh, but it dies halfway through.
His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, each word dragging like it hurts to even exist. "You're… sick."
Zayan hums softly, like he is considering that, then pushes himself up from the chair with unhurried ease.
He drags it forward, the legs scraping faintly against the floor before he turns it and sits down again, this time directly in front of Ares, close enough that there is no space left for dignity.
He leans forward slightly, resting his arms over the back of the chair, completely at ease.
"You look dehydrated," Zayan says calmly. "That ruins the voice. And your voice is the only thing people care about, isn't it?"
Ares swallows hard, his throat moving painfully as his eyes flicker up to meet him. There is fear there now. Real fear.
"Why are you doing this?" he forces out, his voice cracking under the weight of it. "Just… let me go. I'll give you anything you want."
Zayan's lips curve slowly, not into a smile, but something colder. "Anything?"
"Money," Ares says quickly, desperation bleeding into every word. "I'll give you money. As much as you want. Just—"
"Don't insult me." The words cut through him before he can finish, sharp and quiet and absolute.
Ares flinches.
Actually flinches.
Silence stretches for a second before his voice breaks again, weaker this time. "Then… what do you want?"
Zayan tilts his head slightly, studying him like he is deciding how to answer that. Then his gaze darkens, something deeper settling into it, something that makes my stomach twist.
"Your soul," he says softly.
My fingers press harder against my mouth, my body going colder than the night outside as my eyes burn, tears gathering without permission.
They slip anyway, silent and hot against my skin, but I don't dare move to wipe them.
Ares stares at him, and then something inside him cracks completely. A broken sound leaves him, turning into quiet, shaking sobs that fill the room in a way that feels too human for what is happening.
Zayan watches him.
Unmoved.
"Men don't cry," he says, almost bored.
Ares lifts his head again, something desperate and furious twisting through the fear. "Fuck you."
Zayan laughs.
Low.
Soft.
Dangerous.
It doesn't sound amused.
It sounds entertained.
He stands again, slow and deliberate, turning toward a cabinet set against the wall.
The room is too clean, too expensive, everything in place like this is just another space he owns, another place he controls. He opens it without hurry and reaches inside, his movements precise.
My head shakes slightly before I even realize I am doing it, a silent, frantic denial that means nothing.
He turns back.
There's something in his hand.
A pair of scissors.
My breath stutters, my chest tightening painfully as I press myself harder against the wall, willing myself to disappear.
Zayan walks back to him and sits again, closer this time, the scissors resting casually between his fingers like they don't belong to something violent.
"Sing for me," he says quietly.
Ares freezes.
Zayan leans in just slightly, his voice dropping, turning softer in a way that feels far worse than anything loud.
"A melody. Something beautiful. Make it worth remembering." His gaze holds him in place. "It's your last performance. Don't disappoint me."
Ares's head shakes weakly, tears mixing with the blood on his face as his breathing turns uneven, panicked.
Zayan sighs softly, like this is becoming inconvenient.
Then he lifts his hand and presses the cold edge of the scissors lightly against Ares's neck, right where his voice lives.
"Sing," he murmurs, his tone almost gentle now, which somehow makes it worse. "Or I take the only thing that makes you valuable."
My entire body trembles, silent and uncontrollable, tears falling faster now as I stand there, frozen, watching the monster I am married to hold a man's life between his fingers like it means nothing at all.
Zayan's head tilts slightly, as if something just occurred to him, his gaze dragging slowly over Ares's ruined face with a kind of thoughtful cruelty that makes my stomach twist harder.
"Aah," he murmurs, almost lightly, like he is discussing something trivial, "people care about your face too, don't they?" His lips curve faintly. "Maybe I should start there."
Before Ares can react—
Zayan's hand moves.
Fast.
Precise.
The scissors slice across Ares's cheek in one clean motion.
I flinch violently against the wall, my entire body jerking as a broken, guttural sound rips out of Ares, his head snapping to the side as fresh blood spills instantly, bright and unforgiving under the dim light.
He starts crying again.
Not quietly this time.
Not controlled.
It's raw, shaking, desperate in a way that fills the room and suffocates everything else.
Zayan watches him like it's music already.
"Sing," he says again, softer now, like a command wrapped in silk.
Ares chokes on a breath, his chest heaving, his entire body trembling against the restraints before the sound finally comes out.
It's broken at first, uneven, dragged through pain, but it forms into something familiar, something haunting, the melody of his own song spilling out between sobs and blood.
It's wrong.
Horribly wrong.
The notes crack and tremble, his voice catching, slipping, but he keeps going, forced by the cold edge still resting at his throat.
The song fills the room, distorted by fear, twisted into something unrecognizable, and still—still—it holds that same beauty people worship.
Zayan leans back slightly, listening.
Enjoying.
His fingers move again, dragging the scissors lightly across Ares's face, tracing lines that shouldn't exist, turning every note into something uglier, something desperate.
Blood follows the metal, thin at first, then heavier, streaking down over skin that was once flawless.
Ares hits a high note.
It breaks halfway through, turning into a sob that echoes too loudly.
And something inside me snaps into place.
A memory.
Not clear.
Not detailed.
Just his voice.
Calm.
Cold.
Asking me if I liked Ares's songs.
Offering me a rare chance to hear a beautiful melody.
My breath stutters.
This—
This is the melody.
The sound in the room snaps me back.
Ares is still singing.
Still breaking.
Still trying.
Zayan's head tilts slightly again, like he is studying the performance, weighing it, judging it with a kind of attention that feels worse than anything else he has done so far.
Then his hand moves.
Not slow.
Not hesitant.
The scissors drive forward, straight into Ares's throat.
Right where his voice lives.
A wet, choking sound tears out of him as blood spills instantly, thick and unstoppable, his body jerking violently against the chair, the song cutting off into something gurgled and broken and final.
My entire body shakes, uncontrollably now, my head moving in a silent, frantic no as my vision blurs with tears I can't stop.
Zayan pulls the scissors back slowly, watching him, completely composed.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost absentmindedly. "Nice song, by the way."
Ares convulses, his body trembling, choking, fighting for something that is already gone, his voice nothing but a ruined sound now, wet and useless.
I can't breathe.
I can't move.
I can only watch.
Zayan tilts his head slightly, like he is observing something interesting, then shifts his gaze.
Over his shoulder.
And he fucking smirk.