Roman looked at her.
She raised her head slowly, as if the weight of her guilt had become physical. Two pairs of eyes met — hers wide and wet with terror, his an endless void lit only by flickers of molten red. One soul begged for mercy. The other had none left to give.
She tried to back away, her legs trembling so badly they barely obeyed her.
"Roman… please…" she whispered, her voice cracked and desperate. "I was scared… I—"
He vanished.
She blinked.
And then froze.
A presence loomed behind her, too close, too fast.
She turned her head just in time to feel the cold breath of death on her neck.
Roman was right there.
> "You weren't scared," he said, voice low and distorted. "You were entertained."
Before she could scream, shadows snapped up from the floor — black tendrils slithering like serpents. They latched around her ankles, wrists, and waist, jerking her backward. She shrieked, flailing as she was dragged across the floor, fingernails tearing at the wood, leaving streaks of blood in her wake.
"No! No! Don't take me in there! PLEASE—!"
The dark room loomed like an open wound in the world — a place where light didn't just fail, it died.
She was pulled through the door, and as the others rushed toward her, the doorframe was covered with black tendrils — long, slimey things that seems alive for some reason,they knotted themselves around the opening like muscles sealing a wound.
Then the door slammed shut with a sound like a tomb sealing.
The room fell into absolute blackness.
Not even her own hands were visible.
Not even her breath seemed to echo.
Then came the whisper.
Not from one direction, but from everywhere — above, below, within.
> "You used to beat me in the dark," Roman murmured. "Now I'll return the favor."
A pause.
Then — SNAP.
The sound of bone breaking filled the room like a gunshot.
She screamed, high and raw.
Another SNAP. This time louder. Flesh tore.
She sobbed and begged incoherently. "Stop! Stop! I didn't know— I didn't mean it! I didn't—"
The shadows responded.
Tenticals like blades sliced through her back, opening bloody gashes.
Something grabbed her arm and twisted until the shoulder dislocated with a nauseating pop.
She dropped to the ground, gasping.
But the floor was wrong. It pulsed under her like living tissue, sticky and damp, as if the room itself was alive — and hungry.
A dark laugh echoed, not loud, but inside her skull.
"You knew," Roman said. "You chose."
She tried to crawl, nails dragging across the floor, teeth chattering in agony. But every inch she moved, the room pushed her back — the floor heaving, the shadows lashing, her muscles failing.
Hands — black, rotting hands — reached out from the walls and gripped her arms and legs. Dozens of them. They held her still.
A single dark spike emerged from the ceiling, slowly descending — rotating like a drill.
She thrashed, screaming.
It hovered over her chest.
Then plunged.
Blood sprayed as she shrieked louder than ever, her body arching in blinding pain.
Then it retreated.
And did it again.
And again.
Each time slower.
More precise.
Roman watched from the darkness, his eyes twin stars of rage, burning like dying suns.
"You laughed when I begged," he said. "Now scream until your throat turns to dust."
The shadows obeyed.
They slithered across her skin like worms, crawling into her wounds, burrowing under the flesh. Her body spasmed violently, veins bulging. Her eyes rolled back.
Then the room twisted again.
And she was home.
Back in the old house, in the bathroom where she once cornered him with her friends.
She was him now — shivering in the tub, blood dripping from her nose, her own voice begging through cracked lips.
She relived it all — every punch she ever threw, every cruel word she ever whispered behind his back, every time she watched his bruises bloom like flowers and chose to do nothing.
Then she was back in the room.
Suspended by her wrists now, midair.
A thousand whispers crowded her ears.
"You liked watching."
"You enjoyed it."
"You made me a joke."
"You will never close your eyes again."
Her mouth opened to scream again, but the shadows stuffed themselves down her throat, silencing her — choking her with her own guilt made flesh.
The final punishment was not the pain.
It was the knowing.
Knowing that someone she once mocked had become this — a god of wrath and shadow. And she had been the one to feed it.
She hung there, sobbing, twitching, bones broken, skin torn, breath shallow.
The door creaked.
Light — faint and flickering — bled in.
The others watched in frozen horror as the door slowly unsealed. The black tendrils receded reluctantly, as though the room didn't want to give her up.
Then — silence.
And a slow, wet drip.
When the door fully opened, the sight stopped hearts.
She was nailed to the ceiling.
Dark, root-like spikes pinned her wrists and ankles. Her body was twisted, her spine arched unnaturally. Blood dripped steadily from her wounds, falling like a slow metronome onto the floor below.
Her eyes were wide — still alive, still blinking.
Her mouth hung open in a silent scream. Her jaw cracked and lolling, unable to close.
She wasn't dead.
Not fully.
Not yet.
Roman stepped out behind her, smoke curling off his shoulders. His silhouette burned with unnatural heat, the faint outline of that jagged, skeletal wing pulsing once again behind him before vanishing.
He turned to the others.
No words.
No mercy.
Only vengeance.
And there was more yet to come.
Silence followed.
The kind of silence that suffocated.
Neither of them could move. Not even to breathe properly.
Roman stood in the doorway, half-lit by the flickering firelight, soaked in shadows and bloodless power. Smoke coiled around him like he wasn't entirely bound to this world anymore. Behind him, the girl's body hung from the ceiling like a grotesque marionette. Her eyes were still open — not blank with death, but frozen in raw, unfiltered terror.
A slow drip echoed in the room. Her blood. One drop at a time. Like a countdown.
The girlfriend stared at the scene, her body trembling violently. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor with a soft thud. A dark stain spread across her pants as warm urine ran down her legs. She didn't even seem to notice. She just sat there, hands over her mouth, eyes wide, unable to stop shaking.
Roman's stepbrother wasn't doing much better. His face had drained of all color. Sweat poured down his forehead. His lips quivered as he tried to speak, but all that came out were weak gasps and a strangled sob. His hands clutched the armrest of the couch so tightly that his knuckles went bone-white.
Roman didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His presence alone was punishment enough. He radiated hatred so dense it felt like a physical weight pressing down on the room. The air was thick with dread, as if even the walls feared him.
They both knew now — this wasn't a dream. This wasn't some prank, or a drug-fueled hallucination.
This was real.
And Roman…
He wasn't just back.
He was coming.
And there was nowhere left for them to run.
=================
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