"Silence." Not shouted. Just... absolute.
I try again. "Look, Ski Mask Ken, I don't know what Giovanni told you, but?—"
"Stillness." The crop taps once against his palm.
"Are you even going to?—"
Crack.
"This is ridiculous. I'm not playing whatever sick game?—"
Crack. Crack.
It's like fencing with a wall—every thrust meets the same unyielding surface. My words, my only real weapon, bounce off him without leaving a mark. Each time I push, he absorbs the strike with infuriating stillness, with an economical, one-word response.
I've built my entire life around words. They're my armor, my sword, my escape route. Having them rendered useless is like being stripped naked.
"I don't care what Giovanni told you. I don't care about your little cosplay dungeon. I'm not doing this shit."
No response. Just waiting. The empty stare behind that mask, patient and unbending.
"Did you hear me? I said I'm?—"
The movement is so swift I don't see it coming. One second the crop is tapping against his palm, the next it's striking the back of my hand with a sharpcrack.
Pain flares—bright, hot, electric—racing up my arm. My breath catches. Words die in my throat. For one perfect moment, everything stops: thought, time, resistance.
And then something else rises beneath the shock. Something warm and liquid that pulses through my body, starting at the sting on my hand and spreading outward. Heat pools low in my belly, between my thighs.
No. No no no.
Horror washes over me, shame burning hotter than the sting on my skin. I'm not aroused by this. I can't be. It's just... it's just that stupid conversation with Giovanni. When I joked about spankings. My brain's just making a weird connection, some crossed wire short-circuiting my system.
But the tingle in my hand doesn't fade. The warmth doesn't recede. The shame and desire twist together, impossible to separate, no matter how desperately I try to rationalize it away.
The masked figure doesn't even twitch until I'm completely still. Only when my breathing steadies does he straighten up and gesture toward the book with that goddamn crop. No words. Just a pointed tap against the leather cover.
Message received, Ski Mask. You want me to open it.
Fine. Whatever gets me out of this nightmare funhouse faster.
The cover creaks when I pull it back, like it's rarely opened. Or maybe it's brand new. Custom-made for my special torture session. How thoughtful.
The first page declares itself in heavy black ink:The Bavga Doctrine. A Manual of Conduct, Discipline, and Loyalty.
Seriously? He went full dictator manifesto? I half expect to see "Written by Giovanni Bavga, Supreme Leader of Riverview" underneath.
Then my eyes catch the motto below:From Obedience, Power. From Loyalty, Safety. From Silence, Survival.
"Wow, did he workshop that with a cult leader, or did it come to him in a megalomaniacal fever dream?"
The crop slices through the air before I can even register movement.CRACK!It lashes across the desk, so close that the edge catches my arm. The sting blooms instantly, a hot line of pain.
I jerk back, the child-sized chair wobbling beneath me. "Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell is wrong with?—"
The masked figure makes a notation in a small black book I hadn't noticed before. One mark. Then another.
Wait.