Chapter 12: Chapter 12

the Viper’s jaw tightened before he smiled again.

“My favorite lost investment.”

His eyes darkened, not just anger. Something personal. Something rabid. Kristos wasn’t just a loose end to him. He was a rot that wouldn’t cut out clean.

Mael scoffed, almost to himself.

“Fucked a job. Ruined a deal.” He let the words settle. Then, slower, heavier: “And made a fool of me.”

His thumb flicked a coin, sent it spinning across the desk. Watched it wobble.

Then, softer. Quieter.

"You don’t just leave the Syndicos."

The coin stilled.

"You don’t just leave me."

He let the words settle. Let them rot in the air. Then, a sigh. A shake of the head.

“And I wonder: what makes a man like you so damn interested?”

Azariah blinked, slow. Gave him nothing.

"You’re asking me?"

“I don’t ask.”

the Viper leaned forward, voice dipping into something meaner.

“I observe.”

A single finger traced the handle of the shears. A tap, once, twice.

"And you, friend, have been very helpful."

Azariah flexed his fingers against his knee, preparing, bracing.

"Don’t recall volunteering."

Mael sighed. “I’m being polite, friend.” He rested his forearms on the desk, eyes still unreadable.

“I could start with the pinky. It’d be neater. Cleaner.”

The shears squeezed.

Azariah’s breath hitched, barely.

Not enough to break.

But the bone beneath the pressure throbbed, heat blooming under the skin, deep and dull, like something struggling to stay whole.

the Viper watched him. Not the finger, his face. The little signs. The ones men couldn’t help but give.

"But we both know you need your hands."

The shears shifted, dragging at the skin. Just… considering.

“There’s a debt that needs paying,” Mael said, voice dropping lower, something close to finality in his tone. “And I don’t take mine in coin.”

The handles squeezed again.

Azariah’s breath slipped through his teeth, the first sign of strain.

“So,” Mael murmured, “what do you know about Kristos’ whereabouts?”

Azariah just grinned. Dragged his tongue across his teeth like tasting the words before he spit them out.

"See, I’d love to help you," he drawled. "But I can’t quite put a face to the name. Kristos, was it? Sounds familiar, but, ah—" He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "I meet a lot of people. Can’t be expected to remember all of them."

the Viper’s expression didn’t change. A single nod and his henchman clenched the shears.

Not a clean snap.

A slow, unbearable crush.

The bite of steel drove into the flesh, deep enough for Azariah to feel the shuddering groan of his own knuckle resisting. The pressure wasn’t sudden. It was drawn-out, sickeningly patient, letting his body understand—in full, excruciating detail—that this would not be quick.

Cold metal compressed flesh, flattening the meat of his finger, squeezing blood from the capillaries before the steel had even reached the bone. His nerves screamed, not sharp but deep, raw, a pressure that burrowed, built, festered.

Then came the first give.

The bone didn’t break immediately. It bowed.

Something in the joint shifted, an unnatural pop, like cartilage peeling away from itself. Azariah felt it—too intimate, too close, the structure of his own hand beginning to collapse under force. A tremor went up his arm, a reflex he couldn’t control. His body wanted to pull away. He couldn’t.

His breath left him sharp, tight between his teeth. Not a cry. Just a slip, a crack in the façade.

Mael saw it. And the Viper smiled.

The pressure increased, unbearably slow, as if the steel itself was enjoying the process. Blood vessels burst beneath the surface, tiny explosions of pain blooming behind his skin. The joint held, but it was going to fail. That was the worst part.

That it hadn’t happened yet.

That it was still happening.

That the pain wasn’t the end. It was the warning.

His vision thinned, black at the edges, focus narrowed to the singular, awful reality of the shears eating into his knuckle. The way the steel jaws squeezed his bones like wet rope, the way each second stretched longer than the last.

His finger twitched involuntarily. A muscle spasm. The body’s last-ditch plea for mercy.

There would be none.

His breath came out sharper, rougher. It wasn’t just the pain. It was knowing that in a second, maybe two, he was going to hear his own bone break.

A small shake of the head, feigned disappointment.

“You’re smarter than this,” he murmured. "You should’ve known you wouldn't be leaving here whole."

Azariah’s fingers twitched. His vision tunneled around the cold steel pressing into his knuckle.

Any second now.

A final squeeze, and...

"Alright."

The word slipped out before he meant it to. Measured. Not desperate. But fast enough that Mael stilled.

The shears froze. Not released, just paused.

Azariah sucked in a slow breath through his teeth, letting the burning ache settle deep into his bones. But his finger, his finger was still attached.

Mael tilted his head. “Well. That was fast.”

Azariah swallowed the raw edge in his throat and rolled his shoulders, slow and deliberate, like they weren’t pinning him down. “What can I say?” He exhaled through his nose, let his lips curl just enough to shape the words into something flippant. “I don’t mind a little rough treatment, but I usually like to pick the company.”

the Viper huffed a small laugh. Then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned forward, fingers brushing the steel handles. Not taking them. Just resting there. A silent warning.

"Tell me something useful," he murmured. "Or we’ll see what happens when I take my time."

Azariah flexed his fingers, feeling the raw sting of torn skin freshen with the movement. He didn’t look. Didn’t dare see how close it had come. Think.

He wet his lips. Let his gaze flick past Mael, just for a second, as if debating something. A tell. Just enough for the Viper to notice.

"I like you," Mael admitted. "But not enough to keep this friendly."

He leaned forward. The air between them tightened.

"Tell me why you’re looking for Kristos."

Azariah flexed his bleeding hand, testing the movement. Pain shot up his arm, sharp and immediate, but it was manageable.

He glanced up, gave Mael the laziest, most shit-eating grin he could muster, and simply said:

"No."

The stillness hit like a held breath.

The henchmen tensed, waiting.

the Viper inhaled through his nose. “You’re making this difficult.”

Azariah didn’t answer.

For the first time, Mael’s fingers actually touched the shears. Just a single, light tap, like knocking on a coffin lid.

He took them gently from his man’s hands, tilting them in the dim light, considering.

Azariah swallowed. That was worse.

Because Mael hadn’t touched them before. He hadn’t needed to.

Which meant Azariah was getting under his skin.

Or worse, the Viper had just decided that this was going to take longer than expected.

Mael turned the shears idly, like an afterthought. His gaze lifted, studying Azariah with cold, reptilian patience.

"Tell me," he murmured, "have you ever heard what a man sounds like when his fingers snap between metal?"

Azariah gritted his teeth.

Mael’s fingers brushed the shears. Not gripping. Not adjusting. Just resting there. A soft, absent touch, like a man stroking a pet.

"You ever hear it happen in real-time?" he murmured. Just an inevitability waiting to happen.

His thumb tapped once, twice against the metal hinge, slow and rhythmic.

"It’s different from bone. Less of a crack. More of a pop. Like a chicken leg splitting at the joint."

He smiled, but his eyes never changed.

A second passed.

Then two.

And then, Mael let go of the shears.

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Not all at once. Just a slow, deliberate release, like he had never really been holding them at all.

Azariah exhaled.

It wasn’t victory. He hadn’t won anything. But he still had his fingers.

He swallowed. Not fear. Just... calculation.

Because the Viper could smell fear.

And Azariah needed him distracted.

So he said, “You really don’t know where he is, do you?”

Mael’s brows flicked up. A tell. A small one, but there.

Azariah latched onto it. He smirked, blood staining his teeth. "You wouldn’t be this worked up if you did."

The shift was small, but there. Mael’s amusement cooled, just a fraction, into something sharper.

Azariah had him.

"That’s why you’re here," he said, voice low, taunting. "That’s why I’m not dead yet. You don’t have him, but you know he’s close."

He let the words settle. Let them stretch.

"And now you’re worried someone else will find him first."

A flicker. Just for a second. A crack in the Viper’s expression. Not much. Just enough.

Azariah pressed the blade deeper.

"He didn’t just leave, did he?" Azariah’s voice turned lighter, mocking. "He escaped."

The air thickened.

Mael exhaled, slow. He didn’t take the bait. Not entirely. But something in his grip changed. A tension, an irritation.

"You think this is just about me?" he murmured, rolling the shears in his palm. "You think I still have the luxury of making this personal?"

Azariah said nothing.

Mael let out a slow, humorless chuckle. Then, lower, “The Syndicos don’t like messes.”

The word hung in the air, heavier than the blood in Azariah’s mouth.

"They were patient, for a while. Let me handle it. But now?" Mael tilted his head, just slightly. The candlelight sharpened his profile, made him look less like a man and more like something tired and cornered.

"Kristos didn’t just burn a bridge. He made the Syndicos look weak." His fingers tightened around the shears. “And weakness gets cut out.”

Azariah’s pulse jumped.

Mael regarded him with a slow, empty gaze. Then, in a single motion, he tossed the shears aside.

The clang of metal on stone rang loud.

Azariah didn’t move.

Mael exhaled, as if clearing something from his chest. "You’re too bold for your own good, friend." His voice was still soft, but the warmth had drained from it.

Azariah wiggled his fingers, still there, still whole, bleeding but functional.

"And you, Mael, have too many men who don’t know how to properly sever a finger."

The Viper’s expression didn’t change.

"Get out."

Azariah hesitated.

Mael just gestured, casual. "I know you won’t run. Because now I know what I need to."

Azariah rolled his shoulders, wiping the blood on his tunic as he stood. His feet moved smoothly, but his pulse roared in his ears.

His fingers throbbed.

He met the Viper’s gaze, even as the henchmen backed off.

Mael smiled, slow and knowing.

"You may have all your fingers," he said, "but you just told me everything I needed to know."

Azariah scoffed. Turned. Left.

The door swung open.

And Mael’s voice followed, casual. Distant.

"He’s closer than I thought."

Azariah froze.

Just for a second.

But the Viper saw it.

And that was enough.

Mael leaned in, just enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to touch. His breath was too warm, too close, carrying the sour tang of blood and something else, something spoiled. Decay, lingering in the back of his throat, the scent of a man who had spent too long with the dead.

His lips barely moved when he spoke, just enough for Azariah to feel the words instead of hear them.

His voice was barely more than a whisper. Intimate. Cruel.

"Tell Kristos..."

The air pressed in close, thick, unmoving. A silence coiled tight between them, not empty but full, heavy with all the things Mael didn’t need to say. It clung to Azariah’s skin like heat before a thunderclap.

"He’ll be coming home soon."

He pulled back. Let the words sink in. Let them settle in Azariah’s ribs, in the marrow of his bones, in the aching sting of his torn flesh.

Then, with something almost… fond.

"And tell him you bled for him."

A flicker of teeth in the dark.

"Let’s see if he gives a damn."

He started to turn away. Then stopped.

And with something quieter. Heavier.

"If I don’t bring him back, the Syndicos will send someone else."

The words sat there. Cold. Absolute.

"And they won’t need him breathing."

Then Mael turned. Walked away. Done with him.

The enforcers let go.

Azariah stumbled forward, legs stiff, the sudden freedom feeling more like a blow than a reprieve. His balance wavered, just for a second, before he caught himself. His pulse hammered against his bruised throat, breath tight in his chest, every inhale feeling like he was suffocating on damp cloth.

Warmth spread down his sleeve.

Blood.

His.

It soaked into the fabric, dark and heavy, the weight of it pressing against his skin like a second layer of flesh. The ache in his fingers sharpened, nerves screaming, the dull throb of survival settling into his bones.

And that’s when it set in.

The Viper didn’t just want Kristos dead.

He wanted him back.

The moment had passed. The game had already been played.

Mael had turned away, finished with him. Azariah was nothing now—just another discarded piece on the board.

Move. Now.

He pushed through the door with more force than necessary, nearly slamming into the rotting wood as he threw himself into the night. The hinge whined, the door swinging sharply closed behind him, sealing in the stench of pipe smoke, sweat, and old ruin.

The air outside hit like a slap—cold, fresh, too real. His body kept moving before his mind caught up, boots striking against the uneven stone, stride too quick, too stiff, like a man trying to outpace his own shadow.

Behind him, the gambling den roared on, the sounds of dice clattering, slurred laughter, glass slamming against wood spilling into the streets, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just bled in that room. As if he wasn’t walking away with his fingers still attached by inches of luck and restraint.

The world went on.

Uncaring. Oblivious.

Azariah exhaled sharply, running a shaking hand through his hair, his fingers leaving streaks of blood in the strands. He didn’t stop moving. He couldn’t.

Inside, the Viper was done with him.

But outside?

Azariah wasn’t done bleeding yet.

A drunk lurched against the wall, his spine curving like a bowstring drawn too tight before he let loose. Bile and half-clotted liquor splattered the stone in a wet, slapping gush, the stench of sour stomach acid and rot hitting the air like a festering wound torn open.

The sound—a thick, choking heave, wet and ragged, punctuated by the sloppy slap of liquid hitting stone—curled in Azariah’s gut. Chunks slid down the wall in pale, viscous trails, pooling near the man’s trembling hands.

He gagged again, hacking up strands of mucus-slicked spit, coughing as stringy remnants clung to his lips like chewed gristle.

Azariah barely spared him a glance, but the reek—hot, rancid, thick enough to coat the back of his throat—lingered.

Something in his stomach twisted. Not sympathy, just recognition. Azariah barely spared the man a glance, but the thought coiled, unbidden, in the back of his mind.

It wouldn’t take much. A few wrong turns. A little less luck.

Could’ve been someone else walking out of that room. Could’ve been no one.

He exhaled, shaking the stiffness from his hands. The movement felt distant, like someone else’s limbs were attached to him.

Then he looked down.

Blood on his sleeve.

His own, this time.

But that wasn’t all he lost.

Because Mael hadn’t just taken a drop of blood.

He’d taken something else.

Something more precious.

Information.