The blood was taking longer than I anticipated.
The big guy still had fight in him—stubborn fool. His body trembled, bloated with resistance, veins straining, skin splitting in slow, rhythmic bursts like rotting fruit under pressure. But standing here... watching him twitch and bubble like overboiled at—it was getting boring.
And worse—I could feel it in the air.
The crew's breath was beginning to stabilize.
The terror was thinning, like steam fading in a cold wind. Given ti, their minds would catch up. They'd start thinking. Rationalizing. Whispering lies to themselves like maybe it's over or maybe he won't co for next.
Can't have that.
Fear, when diluted, becos dangerous. It breeds bravery.
So, I turned.
No steps. Just a slow pivot. A full circle.
I let my gaze sweep across them—every pale face, every twitching limb. No blinking. No words. Just , watching.
Let them feel the weight of being seen. Let the mont stretch like a wire pulled too tight. I could play with them, sure. One by one, peel them open like fruit. But monotony ruins the thrill. And this crew? They're already ghosts in waiting.
No fun.
But then... the cabin.
The captain's.
Yes.
That might be sothing.
A tyrant always keeps his legacy close, tucked away in mahogany and brass, behind doors he thinks mark him as important. His room would be pristine. A shrine to control. That's what n like him cling to when their hands start shaking—order, legacy, illusion.
How delightful it would be to ruin it.
Desecrate it. Violate the space where he pretends to be rule.
Let them sll it on the wind—the unraveling. Let them imagine the polished wood soaked in bile, the maps shredded, his bed still warm from command, now crawling with what used to be his second-in-command.
Yes. Let them wonder.
Let them guess what I'd do behind that door.
Let the unknown fernt in their skulls until it curdles into panic.
I walked slow. Not toward them. Not toward the big man still thrashing in silence.
But toward the cabin door.
One bootstep at a ti. The boards groaned under , like even the ship knew what was coming. I didn't look back. I didn't have to. My steps climbed the stairs. I could feel their eyes clawing at my spine, begging not to go where their ruler slept.
Not to open the cage. Not to destroy the throne. Not to destroy the one thing that was still keeping them sane.
? I was already insane.
I reached the handle.
Brass, worn smooth by a thousand orders given with swollen pride.
My hand rested on the handle, and I felt it—a vibration. Subtle at first, almost like a heartbeat. But it wasn't mine. And it wasn't from the ship rocking against the waves, or the groan of wind slithering through the sails. This wasn't the sea speaking. This ca from inside.
The tal trembled beneath my fingers—not shaking, no. Pulsing. Like sothing on the other side was breathing through the door. Steady. Deliberate. Waiting.
There was soone in there.
Soone who wasn't trying to get out.
Soone who didn't care about the screams outside, the dying, the blood, the chaos.
Soone too far gone to flinch.
A monster—not in the way they call a monster. Not for show. Not for fear.
The real kind.
I turned slowly and looked at the crew. Not one of them t my eyes.
They didn't need to say it.
It wasn't the throne they were afraid I'd desecrate. It wasn't sentint, or loyalty to the tyrant.
It was that door.
Whoever—whatever—was behind it.
Their terror was different now. Not the sharp panic of n facing death. No, this was older. Deeper. The kind of fear that settles in the bones. That makes the air taste like ash. They weren't afraid I'd break their captain's legacy. They were afraid I'd unseal sothing that should've stayed buried.
And for the first ti since this began... they weren't scared of .
How precious.
I giggled.
This ship. This floating wreck of cowards and corpses still had secrets. Even the so-called tyrant, the brute who bled n dry for fun, was just a cabin boy compared to what waited behind this door.
And they all knew it.
That's why none of them stepped forward. That's why they all stayed perfectly still—rigid statues of at and fear—like even the idea of movent might wake it. As if the door had grown ears and was listening for a reason to open on its own.
Their breathing had changed. It wasn't panic anymore. No flailing. No cries. Just tight, clipped gasps. Inhaled too sharp, exhaled too slow. I could hear it—the soft whistle of strained lungs, the hollow rattle of stifled terror.
But so of them—the smarter ones—they weren't just scared.
They were hoping.
Eyes wide, glistening with the sa gleam a starving dog gives a locked pantry. Hope not born from faith or bravery, but desperation. Maybe they thought I'd stir the thing inside. Maybe they were praying it would like the taste of so much it'd forget the rest of them existed.
Or maybe... maybe they were hoping for sothing _worse._
Maybe these vermin thought that if I cracked the door open and went in, I'd et sothing equal. Sothing to finally give pause. Maybe they thought the two of us would tear each other apart—beast against beast, gods gnawing on gods—and when the blood dried and the smoke cleared, only one of us would be left or none at all.
And the vermin's?
They would feast on our corpses.
I watched their faces, scanned each one. The ones with shaking knees, clenched jaws, bloodless lips—I'd deal with them in ti. But the ones with hope in their eyes? The ones who wanted to see bleed?
They were the ones I'd rember.
I'd break their hopes first. I'd break them last.
Not quick. Not clean. I'd strip their hope from their bones one inch at a ti, let them feel what it's like to want sothing and have it rot in their hands.
I turned back to the handle.
The vibration had grown stronger.
The air near the door was warr now. Thicker. Like the room beyond was exhaling its own breath—hot and wet, brushing against my skin with sothing too familiar to be natural. Like it recognized .
Oh, I liked that.
I pressed my forehead to the wood.
"Daddy's ho."
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