Warren’s hand shook as he held the scalpel, the cold metal foreign and menacing in his trembling grip. The dim light of the room cast long shadows on the stone walls, the air thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and fear. Sabir sat strapped in the iron chair before him, his body a canvas of brutality. Sabir’s skin bore charred patches, bruises, and cuts, and he struggled to breathe with shallow, ragged gasps. The sight of him, broken but still conscious, made Warren’s stomach churn.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t supposed to be his life. But now, here he was, standing on the precipice of something he could never undo. The scalpel in his hand felt impossibly heavy, as though it were an anchor tethering him to a fate he couldn’t escape.

“Are you still hesitating?” Elektra’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, sharp and filled with disdain. She stood a few paces behind him, arms crossed, her eyes gleaming with a twisted sort of amusement. The corners of her lips curled into a smirk, her expression betraying the pleasure she took in his torment.

Warren’s eyes darted to her, his breath catching in his throat. “I… I just don’t know what to do,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. The admission tasted bitter on his tongue, the words hanging in the air like a confession of weakness. He could feel the heat of Elektra’s gaze burning into him, her patience wearing thin.

“Of course you don’t,” Elektra sneered, taking a step closer. “You’ve never known what to do. You’ve always been a weakling, haven’t you, Warren? Pathetic.”

The insult cut deep, but Warren said nothing. What could he say? She was right, after all. He was weak. He was pathetic. That was why he was here, wasn’t it? Because he had no strength of his own, no will to resist. He was just a puppet, a pawn in Elektra’s cruel games.

“Listen carefully,” Elektra instructed, her voice a low, dangerous purr. “You’re going to make an incision. Right here.” She moved to stand beside him, pointing to a spot just below Sabir’s collarbone. “Press the blade down until you feel resistance, and then drag it slowly. Do you understand?”

Warren nodded, though he didn’t truly understand at all. How could he? This wasn’t something he could understand. It wasn’t something he wanted to understand. But he had no choice. He had to do it. If he didn’t… if he didn’t…

“Do it,” Elektra commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Warren swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a painful reminder of the decision he was about to make. With a deep, shuddering breath, he raised the scalpel and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Sabir was the recipient of those words, yet they sounded hollow, meaningless. An apology couldn’t erase what he was about to do. It couldn’t make the horror of this moment any less real.

He pressed the scalpel to Sabir’s skin, the cold metal biting into the man’s flesh. Sabir flinched, a low groan escaping his cracked lips. Warren hesitated, his hand trembling so violently he feared he might drop the blade.

“Press harder,” Elektra urged, her voice sickeningly sweet. “You have to break the skin, Warren. Otherwise, it’s useless.”

With a grimace, Warren did as he was told, applying more pressure until the scalpel pierced Sabir’s flesh. Blood welled up around the blade, bright and red, stark against the pale skin. Warren’s vision blurred as tears filled his eyes, but he blinked them away, focusing on the task at hand. He couldn’t afford to falter now.

“Good,” Elektra cooed, a wicked smile spreading across her face. “Now, drag the blade down. Slowly, so you don’t miss anything.”

Warren’s stomach twisted, nausea rising like a tide. He wanted to stop, to throw the scalpel down and run as far away as he could. But Elektra’s presence loomed over him, a dark cloud of malevolence that he couldn’t escape. He couldn’t run. Not from her.

Gritting his teeth, Warren dragged the scalpel downward, slicing through muscle and sinew. The resistance made his hands shake even more, the blade jerking awkwardly as it cut through flesh. Blood flowed freely now, staining his hands, the warm, sticky liquid seeping into his skin. The metallic scent of it filled his nostrils, overwhelming his senses, making him gag.

Sabir’s groans turned to screams, raw and animalistic, the sound tearing through the room. It was a sound that would haunt Warren for the rest of his life, a sound that would echo in his nightmares. Unable to, he longed to cover his ears and block out the horrific noise. But he had to keep going. He had to finish what he started.

“That’s it,” Elektra said, her voice thick with sick enjoyment. “You’re doing so well, little Warren. Keep going.”

Each word was a dagger in his heart, driving him deeper into despair. He hated her. He hated her so much in that moment that it consumed him, a fiery rage that threatened to burn him alive. But he couldn’t act on it. He couldn’t even voice it. He was trapped, a prisoner to his own weakness.

“Now twist the blade,” Elektra instructed, her tone growing more eager. “Make sure the wound won’t close easily.”

Warren’s hand faltered, his breath hitching in his throat. He couldn’t do that. It was too much. It was too cruel. But Elektra’s eyes were on him, watching, waiting for him to obey.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“I can’t…” he choked out, his voice barely audible.

“Yes, you can,” Elektra snapped, her patience fraying. “Do it, Warren. Prove to me you’re not completely useless.”

Tears spilled down Warren’s cheeks, mixing with the sweat that dripped from his brow. Warren felt trapped. He had no choice. He had to do it. There was no way out…

With a sob, Warren twisted the scalpel, the blade tearing through flesh and muscle with a sickening sound. Sabir’s scream was deafening, a sound of pure agony that reverberated through Warren’s bones, shaking him to his very core. He felt his strength leave him, his legs growing weak, his vision tunneling as the world around him darkened.

He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t like Elektra. He wasn’t like the rest of his family. He was weak. He was broken.

“Stop,” he begged, his voice trembling with fear and desperation. “Please, stop…”

But Elektra wasn’t listening, absorbed in Sabir’s suffering, in the power she held over him—and over Warren. Her eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure, her lips curling into a smile that sent shivers down Warren’s spine.

“Now make another incision,” she commanded, her voice low and cruel. “Lower this time. Let’s see how much he can take.”

Warren’s vision blurred again, his hands trembling violently as he tried to obey. But he couldn’t. His body refused to move, paralyzed by the horror of what he had already done. He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t…

“Do it!” Elektra hissed, her patience finally snapping. She reached out and grabbed his hand, forcing it downward, pressing the scalpel against Sabir’s skin once more.

Warren’s breath hitched as he felt the blade pierce the flesh again, the warm blood seeping over his hand, the smell of it choking him. Sabir’s screams had turned to whimpers, his body convulsing with the effort of holding on, of staying conscious.

“Please…” Warren whispered, his voice breaking. “Please, no more…”

Elektra’s grip tightened on his hand, her nails digging into his skin. “Finish it,” she ordered, her voice like ice.

Warren couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. All he could do was follow her command, the scalpel dragging through flesh once more, each movement sending waves of nausea crashing over him. He could feel his strength waning, his vision darkening around the edges. As the darkness contorted his vision, Warren was going to pass out.

But suddenly, it was all over. Elektra released his hand, stepping back with a satisfied smirk. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Wasn’t that fun” She ran her fingers across Warren’s face slowly, as she squeezed his cheek between her thumb and index finger.

Warren didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His entire body was trembling, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The scalpel slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor with a hollow sound. He could feel his stomach churning, the nausea rising, and before he could stop it, he doubled over and vomited onto the cold stone floor.

Elektra quickly withdrew her hand and wiped it against her top. She watched him with a look of disgust; her smile fading into a frown of disappointment. “Pathetic,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. “I thought you might actually be of some use, but it seems I was wrong.”

Warren wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his entire body shaking from the trauma. The bile still burned at the back of his throat, his vision swimming with the aftereffects of what he’d just done. His ears were ringing, the sound of Sabir’s tortured screams echoing in his mind like a cruel refrain.

Elektra sneered down at him, her earlier amusement replaced with icy disdain. “You really are worthless, Warren. I thought maybe, just maybe, you’d show some promise, but it seems you’re as weak as ever. You sully the Voltaire name.”

She stepped away from him, her gaze sweeping over the room, taking in the sight of Sabir slumped in the iron chair, his head lolling to one side. He was barely conscious, his breathing shallow, and his body twitching with the aftermath of the torture. The sight seemed to bring her no joy now, only a deep-seated frustration.

Elektra sighed, her expression twisting into one of annoyance. “It looks like I’ve broken both of my toys.” She cast a disdainful glance at Warren, still hunched over, trying to steady his breath. Her puppet’s string had broken. “You’re useless, and he’s not even fun to play with anymore. What a waste.”

She turned on her heel, heading toward the door, her movements sharp and agitated. As she reached for the handle, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder at Warren. “Clean this mess up,” she ordered, her tone cold and detached. “I don’t want to see a single drop of blood left when I return.”

Warren barely nodded, too exhausted and broken to argue or protest. His mind was a whirlwind of guilt, fear, and shame, each emotion tearing at him from the inside out. He had never felt so empty, so utterly devoid of hope.

With a final, dismissive glance, Elektra opened the door and left the room, the sound of the heavy wooden door slamming shut echoing in the silence. Warren flinched at the noise, his nerves shot, his body trembling uncontrollably.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, crouched on the cold stone floor, the reality of what he’d done pressing down on him like a suffocating weight. Time seemed to lose all meaning, the minutes bleeding into one another as he struggled to regain some semblance of control.

Eventually, Warren forced himself to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him. Swaying slightly, his vision still blurred, but he knew he couldn’t stay there forever. He had to clean up the mess. He had to make everything look spotless before Elektra returned.

He glanced at Sabir, who was barely clinging to consciousness, his head slumped to one side. Guilt surged through Warren again, a powerful wave that nearly knocked him off his feet. He had done this. He had caused this man unspeakable pain, and for what? To prove himself to his sister? To show her he wasn’t the weakling she believed him to be?

But he was weak. He had proven that by following her orders, by giving in to her demands. Warren had let her control him, let her push him into doing something he could never take back. It was an undeniable fact.

He was weak. It was eating away at him. Weakness.

“I’m sorry,” Warren whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. It was a hollow apology, he knew that. An apology wouldn’t erase what he had done. It wouldn’t heal Sabir’s wounds or take away the pain he had caused. But it was all he had left to offer.

He moved mechanically, picking up the bloodied scalpel from where it had fallen, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it again. The sight of the blood on the blade made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to push through it, to focus on the task at hand.

Warren gathered the torture instruments, wiping them clean with a rag he found on a nearby table. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, but he ignored it, pushing down the rising nausea. He couldn’t afford to be sick again. He had to finish this.

Once the tools were cleaned, he turned his attention to the floor, where blood had pooled beneath the chair, soaking into the cracks between the stones. He dropped to his knees, scrubbing at the floor with the rag, trying to erase any trace of what had happened here. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, the blood seemed to cling to the stone, a stubborn reminder of the horror that had unfolded.