My body already ached from the exertion of cleaning dishes and tidying his room. Fatigue had settled in every muscle, rendering me weak. The desire to escape surged within me, yet terror paralyzed my limbs. Fear held me captive.

My face drained of color when his fingers pinched my inner thigh, creeping beneath my skirt. Panic surged, my sole thought echoing; Scream for help. Hope fluttered. Perhaps someone would hear, and I'd be rescued again.

But his touch continued, dirty fingers violating my body. His beer-tainted breath invaded my senses as he seized my face, leaving a repugnant wetness in his wake.

His hand moved, gripping my chest. A shiver of horror coursed through me. My mind pleaded for rescue, a desperate prayer to anyone listening. Silence greeted my cries. Alone and helpless, I was powerless.

I clenched my lips shut as he ventured beneath my skirt, his touch leaving a trail of violation. His fingers traced my waist and body, an invasion I wanted no part of.

It was as though I'd fallen deeper than the three days of starvation. A living hell had consumed me, a hell where I existed solely for his pleasure.

He touched my inner thighs with pleasure and lust dancing in his eyes. His saliva left a chilling trail as it dripped down my body.

His tongue explored my features, marking me like some perverse connoisseur. My neck bore the brunt of his attention, marked with bruising passion. Shame and pain intertwined.

Desperation fueled my struggles, my screams now louder, though muffled. Yet no help arrived, no savior to end the torment.

I lost hope, tears mingling with my shattered heart. Perhaps Lucas was right. My willpower was too fragile.

He released my mouth, his laughter a cruel echo. His confidence was evident as he lowered my skirt, eyes leering with lust. He spat at me, ruffling my hair.

He seemed to sense my resignation, releasing his grip with impunity. His fingers roamed, leaving trails of discomfort across my body. My chest was his target, my earlobes, his toys.

Disgust surged within me. Death seemed preferable to this humiliation. Was I a mere object in his eyes? Was my weakness that apparent, inviting his debasement?

As his pants fell, my cheeks were already wet with tears. He stood in his underwear, a disgusting sight that churned my stomach. An outline was visible, and revulsion surged. I longed to scream, yet my voice was no more than a muted whisper.

Lying there, vulnerability a shroud around me, I felt the weight of resignation creeping in. Time's passing was a mystery; my powerlessness held me captive. His arrogance, fueled by his perceived social stature, fueled his disregard for my plight.

But what authority did I have to scold him? I was bereft of the strength to fight back, a coward in every sense. His body pressed down on me, invading my personal boundaries with audacious entitlement.

His voice bore mockery as he taunted, “Don’t fret, my dear. Being with me, the boss's brother is a privilege. Your appearance may not be noteworthy, but your virginity is a treasure. Consider yourself fortunate; many covet me.”

Had I solicited this? What absurd reasoning was this? Anger welled within me, mingling with the sense of helplessness that shackled me.

In this haven, albeit briefly, kindness had seemed real. But was it merely an illusion? His intentions grew darker as he sought to remove my shirt. My struggles were feeble, futile.

Perhaps I should find courage. But how could I fight back? My katana rested in Lucas's possession; I was defenseless. My shirt slipped away, revealing my vulnerability, my desperation.

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I recognized that mere resistance was futile, that I was inching towards a fate far worse than freezing or being devoured by zombies. Yet, what avenues lay open to me?

I seized the opportune moment, head colliding with him in a desperate attempt to escape. Pain throbbed through my skull, but I harbored no regret. If all else failed, I'd sooner end my life than suffer this ordeal.

“Icicle!” I shrieked, a mix of fury and relief. My hoarse voice resonated with the pain I felt. If only others were here to witness the extent of my agony, to hear the tremors of my voice, to empathize with my torment.

An icicle formed before me, a frozen manifestation of my desperation. Time seemed to stand still. Could I break free? My fervent wish collided with the hopelessness that threatened to engulf me.

Stripped of weaponry, I was powerless. I lacked martial prowess or defense mechanisms. Was this my weakness? My earrings remained my only form of protection. His saliva lingered on my skin, a visceral reminder of his transgressions.

‘DISGUSTING!’

‘I LOATHE IT!’

‘I LOATHE IT!’

The man, disoriented by the force of my headbutt, revealed a heightened anger. His features contorted; his hand poised to strike with unrelenting force.

He's seething with rage.

“AH-!”

The ice pierces his skull; while sharp, human flesh is more resilient than a reanimated corpse. His scream cuts through the air, prompting me to act swiftly, my voice a mere whisper.

“Freeze!”

Terror replaces his scream, etching fear and astonishment onto his features before he's encased in ice, crashing to the floor.

Swiftly, I retrieve my clothing, using his bedsheet to wipe away the residue of his violation. My eyes are still brimming with a mixture of fear and anger; the humiliation is overwhelming.

Is this the consequence of power? Without societal constraints, how many would indulge their darkest desires? In the absence of law, people's true natures might unravel.

As the ice dissolves, I focus on the target; his heart. His eyes widen with fury, his voice hoarse with rage.

“YOU BITC-”

“Icicle!”

“Icicle!”

“FREEZE!”

I cannot risk evidence of magical assassination, which could brand me as a witch, an easy scapegoat for someone with little history among them. His words fall silent once more as ice breaches his heart, one shard tearing through fabric and flesh, the second shoving it deeper, piercing his heart before melting, leaving behind a flow of crimson.

I seize the discarded pants, muffling his screams as ice envelopes his form. All of this unfolds within seconds. My body trembles, revulsion coursing through me.

His touch on my chest and thigh lingers in my senses, his saliva staining my skin, his sinister smile while I cried for help. I battle nausea.

Did he derive pleasure? Was my torment his entertainment? How many others fell victim to his vile desires?

The melting ice blends with water and blood, pooling on the floor. Yet, what of my tears dampening the bedding? If his lifeless body is found, my innocence might fade into obscurity.

I am the victim. They should rally to my defense. But, as Lucas said, reality often disappoints.

I observe his convulsions, the spasms akin to an electric conductor. Blood, not electricity, spurts forth. Despite his struggles, blood and water form a deadly mixture, impeding his movements and his attempts to free himself from the fabric over his face.

Perhaps the deaths I've wrought have numbed my heart. For now, I merely watch, devoid of any inclination to intervene. A laugh bubbles within me, though my expression remains a mask of tears. This emotion, genuine joy, surprises me.

I am emancipated.

The wound in his heart assumes a ghastly hue, his pallor accentuating the blood loss or asphyxiation. A chill gripped my heart.

Am I truly transforming into a monster? I am indifferent to the answer; my sole certainty is the absence of regret. He earned his fate.