~~Elena~~
I'm almost out of words. Part of it is the silver weight of the gun he's so comfortable with, but another part—a part I'm ashamed to admit—is a growing ache of empathy. I lost my father early, but I was raised in the warmth of my mother and Nana. I can't even fathom witnessing their deaths, let alone at eleven years old. I understand the urge to avenge a mother, but why didn't it stop there? Why did it turn into a lifestyle?
"Then what happened?" I ask. Curiosity is a professional hazard for a therapist, but right now, it feels like a lifeline. Maybe if I let him finish this dark pilgrimage through his past, he'll finally satisfy whatever twisted need brought him to my door and just... leave.
"I stayed in prison for three more years," he says, his voice as steady as the drizzle tapping against my window. "And after that, my father intervened then I was freed."
The room feels smaller now, the air heavy with the scent of rain and the expensive, sharp metallic edge of his presence. I look at him and the question burns in my throat until I can't hold it back.
"Why do you keep doing it?" My voice is barely a whisper, but in the quiet of the apartment, it sounds like a shout. "Why do you keep killing people? Isn't your family worth hundreds of billions?"
I don't get it. If I had a father with that kind of power and wealth, I'd be traveling the world, seeking out every beautiful thing I could find to make up for the years I spent in a cage. I'd be living like a princess, not a ghost.
"Because once there's blood on your hands, there's no stopping," he says, his voice steady in a way that makes the words even more unsettling. "Once you witness deaths that you took part in, all you want is more. Nothing comes close to the satisfaction of doing it."
He says it like someone talking about a hobby, like it is the most ordinary thing in the world, and the calmness in his voice makes it even worse.
My eyes remain fixed on him.
Those deep brown eyes of his look almost innocent, soft in a way that would fool anyone who didn't know the kind of things he is casually admitting to doing. One might so easily think that he is just a charming young man, but the moment he opens his mouth, that illusion completely falls apart.
And suddenly all you want to do is run.
It almost feels unfair how someone like him can possess everything people usually admire in a man. He is really good looking, tall with a lean masculine physique.The sharp lines of his face, the broad shoulders that stretch the fabric of his black jacket, the quiet confidence in the way he sits as though he owns every room he walks into. If he stayed silent, if he never spoke about the things he has done, I can imagine being drawn to him without hesitation.
I realize I have been staring at him longer than I intended, and the moment that awareness settles in my chest, I quickly clear my throat in an attempt to break the strange moment between us. I half expect him to look away when he notices, but he doesn't.
His gaze remains locked on me.
"How many people have you… killed?" I finally ask, the question slipping out before I can stop myself.
He leans back further into the couch, resting his forearms along the backrest in a relaxed posture that feels completely out of place considering the topic of our conversation.
"I don't know," he replies after a moment.
There is a faint shrug that follows his answer.
"I lost count after I started enjoying it."
The words send a chill through me.
"You enjoy killing people?" I ask, unable to hide the disbelief in my voice. "Doesn't it haunt you? Those people have families too, and you of all people should understand what it feels like to lose someone you love."
His gaze sharpens immediately, and I watch as his eyes narrow slightly while he studies me as if weighing my words.
"Not everyone is as good as you think they are," he says calmly after a moment. "Once you start seeing what people are truly capable of, your perspective changes very quickly."
There is a pause before he continues.
"Take that cop you were talking to earlier."
My stomach tightens when he mentions Austin.
"You would be surprised by the things people like him are capable of doing," he adds, his tone still as calm as ever.
That calmness is something I have been noticing about him. No matter what he talks about, no matter how dark the subject becomes, his voice never rises. It stays low and steady, carrying a strange carelessness that somehow makes his words even more unsettling.
And despite everything, there is something about that deep voice that has an almost hypnotic quality to it.
The realization irritates me enough that I quickly shake my head, forcing my thoughts back to the conversation before they wander somewhere I definitely do not want them to go.
"What about Austin?" I finally ask.
Instead of answering immediately, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. His thumb moves across the screen as he scrolls through something, his attention briefly shifting away from me.
After a few seconds, he stretches his arm toward me, offering the phone without a word.
I hesitate for a moment before standing up and taking it from his hand. When I sit back down on the couch, my attention immediately falls on the video already playing on the screen and my eyes widen in utter shock.