"What... what do you want?" Kevin's voice trembled with fear, his composure shattered like fragile glass.

His usually confident demeanor was replaced with sheer terror, and the sight stirred a twisted satisfaction within me.

The once powerful businessman, now reduced to a quivering mess, was almost pitiful.

Almost.

"Is it money? If you want money, I can give you as much as you want," he stammered, each word dripping with desperation.

His voice hitched and broke, the sound of a man who had lost all control.

I couldn't help but grin, a slow, sinister curl of my lips.

I stepped forward, the knife in my hand catching the dim light, casting eerie reflections on the walls.

The room seemed to close in on us, the air thick with the scent of fear and impending doom.

"Money?"

I echoed, my voice dripping with disdain.

"Do you really think this is about money?"

Kevin's eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for an escape that didn’t exist.

His skin turned ashen, his bravado crumbling into dust with each step I took closer.

He looked like a man facing the very end of his world, and in a way, he was.

"I'm sorry, but I have no interest in something like that," I said, my voice cold and detached.

Money was a meaningless concept to me now, a mere trinket in the face of what I truly sought.

"Then what do y—!"

His words were cut off as a sharp pain seared through his palm, a scream ripping from his throat.

"Aaaagh!!"

The sound was raw, primal, filled with a desperation that echoed in the small room.

Kevin's eyes bulged in horror as he looked down at his hand, now pinned to the wooden table by the knife I had driven through it.

Blood pooled around the wound, a stark contrast to the pale skin of his hand.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling uncontrollably.

The scent of iron filled the air, mingling with his sweat and fear.

The knife's handle quivered slightly with the force of his trembling, a visual reminder of his utter helplessness.

The power he once wielded meant nothing here.

All that remained was his fear, his pain, and my unrelenting need for retribution.

His blood began to pool on the pristine sofa, the dark red contrasting starkly with the expensive cream-colored fabric.

It spread like a sinister inkblot, staining the opulence with the brutality of the moment.

I twisted the knife slightly, and another agonized cry tore from Kevin's throat.

His face contorted in excruciating pain, sweat pouring down his forehead in rivulets, mingling with the tears that streaked his cheeks.

I leaned in close, my breath hot against his ear, my voice a menacing whisper that sliced through the air like the knife through his flesh.

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"Speak only when I allow. Got it?"

Instead of answering verbally, he nodded frantically, his eyes wide with terror and pain.

The fear in them was almost tangible, a raw, primal emotion that resonated in the silent room.

"Good," I murmured, standing up and yanking the knife out of his palm.

The sickening squelch of the blade leaving flesh was followed by a fresh gush of blood, the crimson liquid spurting and splattering as his agonized groan filled the room.

The sound was guttural, primal, a symphony of suffering that echoed off the walls.

I looked around, my gaze landing on his wife and daughter.

They were huddled together in the corner, their bodies trembling like leaves in a storm.

Their eyes, wide with horror, darted away from mine, desperate to avoid my gaze.

The girl’s hand clutched her mother’s tightly, seeking comfort in the only way she knew how.

Her small fingers were white from the force of her grip, a silent testament to the terror that consumed her.

Their silent terror was palpable, a thick, oppressive presence in the room.

They tried to stifle their cries, but their quivering lips and tear-streaked faces betrayed them.

The mother’s eyes were filled with a mixture of fear and a desperate plea for mercy, while the daughter’s gaze was a pure, unfiltered horror.

The room was heavy with their fear, a suffocating atmosphere that seemed to press down on all of us.

Their attempts to remain silent only made the scene more poignant, their muffled sobs and shaking bodies a heartbreaking display of helplessness.

The mother's arms wrapped protectively around her daughter, a desperate shield against the horror unfolding before them.

His wife somehow dared to meet my eyes, her expression a potent mix of fear and defiance, as if summoning every ounce of strength she had left.

"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling and barely audible.

"Don't hurt us."

For a fleeting moment, a pang of doubt crept into my mind, a whisper of conscience amidst the chaos.

Was I the villain in this story?

But then, the memories surged back: the agony, the years of torment, and the faces of those who had abandoned us.

The moment of doubt evaporated like mist in the sun.

It didn’t matter anymore.

I smiled, though there was no warmth in it, just a chilling, predatory curve of my lips.

"Let's play a game," I said casually, as if we were discussing something as mundane as the weather.

Kevin and his family looked at me, their faces a portrait of dread and confusion.

The wife clutched her daughter tighter, her eyes pleading silently for mercy.

Kevin's breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes darting between me and his family, a silent prayer for their safety etched in his gaze.

"But before that, let's eat something. Mrs. Rose, would you kindly prepare dinner?" I said, my tone almost polite, a stark contrast to the violence that had just transpired.

She nodded frantically, practically fleeing to the kitchen, her fear evident in every hurried step.

I snickered slightly, finding her terror amusing, a darkly comical prelude to the night's events.

Soon, we all settled at the dining table. Kevin sat on one side, his wife and daughter on the other, their hands clasped tightly together.

I took my place at the head, the position of power, the orchestrator of this grim tableau.

The plates were set, the food served, but no one touched it.

The air was thick with tension, an almost tangible force pressing down on us.

The only sounds were the relentless ticking of the clock and the soft clink of cutlery as Mrs. Rose arranged the table, her hands trembling.

Kevin's wife glanced at the food, her face pale, the lines of worry etched deep.

She kept glancing at her daughter, trying to offer comfort with silent looks and gentle touches.

The girl's wide eyes were fixed on me, fear and confusion swirling in their depths.

Kevin tried to steady his breathing, his eyes flicking towards the knife still stained with his blood.

His face was a mask of pain and desperation, the raw wound in his palm throbbing in time with his racing heartbeat.

I picked up my fork, twirling it between my fingers, the metal catching the light with each rotation.

"Why aren't you eating?" I asked, my voice deceptively calm, a velvet glove concealing an iron fist.

Kevin looked at me, his face ashen.

"We... we're not hungry," he stammered, his voice wavering.

"Is that so?" I said, my eyes narrowing to slits.

"I insist. It's rude to let good food go to waste."

His wife hesitated, her fork hovering over her plate with trembling hands.

She nudged her daughter, who followed suit, her wide, fearful eyes never leaving me.

Kevin reluctantly began to eat, his movements slow and deliberate, each motion an effort to maintain a semblance of normalcy in a situation drenched in dread.

I watched them for a moment, savoring the power I held over their every action, then took a bite of my own meal.

The tension was palpable, a nearly physical presence in the room, each bite they took heavy with fear and uncertainty.

"Tell me, Kevin," I said, breaking the oppressive silence.

"Do you remember my father?"

Kevin's fork paused mid-air, his hand shaking.

He looked at me, confusion and fear warring in his eyes.

"Your father?" he echoed, clearly struggling to piece together the fragments of his memory.

I leaned back, savoring the moment, my gaze never leaving his.

"Yes. He was your business partner once. A kind, trusting man. You ruined him."

Kevin's face drained of color, the blood seemingly fleeing in terror from his cheeks.

"I... I don't know who you're talking about," he said weakly, the lie evident in his voice.

"Gilbert Turner," I said, my voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

The name hung in the air, a ghost from the past demanding recognition.

Kevin's reaction was immediate and visceral.

He stuttered, the name jolting his memory.

His eyes widened in shock and recognition, his fork clattering to his plate as his hand went limp.

"What! You...!" he stuttered, his voice a strangled whisper.

"Now do you remember?" I asked, my voice cold and chilling, each word a dagger aimed straight at his heart.

Kevin's wife choked back a sob, her eyes wide with terror and pleading silently for mercy.

Her face was a mask of fear, each line etched with the desperation of a mother trying to protect her child.

Their daughter, too young to fully grasp the situation but old enough to feel the pervasive fear, clung to her mother's hand, her small body trembling uncontrollably.

Kevin swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to his plate as the weight of recognition settled over him.

"I... I remember," he whispered, his voice barely audible, the admission like a death knell.

"Good," I said, leaning forward, my eyes boring into his, relentless and cold.

"Now, let's finish the dinner. Shall we?"

We resumed eating, the silence now even more oppressive, a suffocating blanket of tension.

Each bite was a struggle for them, their throats tight with fear.

I watched them, savoring their discomfort, the way their hands shook as they lifted their forks, the way their eyes darted to me and then away, like frightened animals in the presence of a predator.

Kevin's wife tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy, cutting her daughter's food into small pieces, her hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped the fork.

Her attempts at reassurance were pitifully transparent, a thin veneer over the raw terror that consumed her.

She whispered soft, soothing words to her daughter, but her voice quivered, betraying her own fear.

Kevin's face was a mask of dread, his mind undoubtedly racing through the events that had led to this moment.

Every now and then, he would glance at me, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt, fear, and a flicker of defiance that quickly extinguished under my cold stare.

His movements were mechanical, each action deliberate as if moving through a nightmare he couldn't wake from.

The air was thick with the unspoken, a heavy fog of dread and anticipation.

Every clink of cutlery, every rustle of fabric, seemed amplified, echoing in the oppressive silence.

The food lay like lead in their stomachs, each bite a reminder of the precariousness of their situation.