Day 2

Next morning comes, inevitable as the hangman’s knock. The facility hums with its usual white noise as the morning light filters through high windows. I reluctantly get up from the bed and look at my hands. Well, at least the trembling is gone. As I’m having my breaksfast, I recall the faces of the remaining girls – sometimes they appear as I have seen them in the dungeon – scared and crying. But sometimes I remember the lovely smiling faces from the dossier… one of them will never smile again. I wonder which girl will die today.

Before going to the dungeon, I check the cameras in the observation room. The girls have already awoken, their movements sluggish. The fear of what today might bring has already dulled their edges, like stones worn smooth by the ocean.

As I enter the dungeon, the girls quit their chatter and turn their eyes to me, immediately forming a loose circle around the sleeping mats. They are still naked and scared, but something has changed – I just can’t put my finger on it yet. It seems they are… not as afraid as yesterday?

The atmosphere in the dungeon thickens as the girls stand glaring at me and I glare back at them, not willing to start the deadly game. Amara breaks the silence first, her voice steady despite the circumstances.

"Well, what are we waiting for, John? You want to see us squirm, or are we actually doing this?"

Her tone carries an edge of challenge. She glances at Rita, whose face remains impassive, then at the other girls whose faces range from grim acceptance to outright panic.

Rita clears her throat, stepping forward slightly.

"Let's just get it over with."

I raise my hand with seven sticks in it, one of them a death sentence. Rita's jaw tightens when she sees the sticks, her fingers unconsciously flexing at her sides. Zahra's eyes dart from the sticks to my face, her expression unreadable. Amara exhales slowly through her nose, body language suggesting she's preparing for the worst.

"Same rules as yesterday?" Valeria asks, her voice cracking slightly.

Astrid doesn't meet anyone's gaze, her shoulders hunched defensively.

I nod to her.

“Sure, pick your fate.”

Talia steps forward first, her hand unsteady as she reaches for a stick. Her fingers brush against the wood, then snatch back as if burned. The others wait, breathing shallowly, as she finally closes her hand around the small piece of wood. She doesn't look at it, doesn't check its length. Instead, she steps back and clutches it to her chest.

Rita follows next, her movements deliberate and controlled. She chooses quickly, her hand moving with the certainty of someone who has already decided her fate. The stick disappears into her palm.

Amara meets my eyes as she selects hers, a defiant spark in her gaze despite the terror underneath. She also doesn’t show the stick to anyone and I can’t read her face expression to understand what she has drawn.

Zahra moves like a panther stalking prey, her bare feet silent against the stone floor as she reaches for her stick. She holds it between her thumb and forefinger, examining it with the focused intensity of a mechanic inspecting a damaged part. I see the stick in her hand – it’s clearly a long one. Her gray eyes flick up to meet mine, and there's something almost hungry in her expression – like she's now waiting for me to break first.

Valeria goes next, her movements jerky and uneven. She selects a stick with such reluctance that the wood creaks in her grip. The sound echoes in the silent dungeon like a death knell. I look at the stick – it is a long one as well.

I look at Emily and Astrid – both standing together, their shoulders hunched, afraid to even look in my direction.

“Please draw your sticks, ladies,” I say in a calm voice, trying not to show my anxiety.

“No need for that,” Rita steps forward, her posture rigid with a forced confidence.

She flips her stick over in her palm and holds it up for all to see – a short one, no doubt about that. A collective breath escapes the group, and for a moment, it's like the dungeon itself pauses in shock. Cassie, the previous day's victim, is still fresh in all their minds.

Rita's face doesn't waver as she gives the stick back to me. She meets my gaze directly, and there's something almost defiant in the way she holds herself – like she's daring the universe to break her.

I clear my throat.

"Want to say goodbye to your friends before you go?"

Rita exhales through her nose, her shoulders rising slightly before falling back down. She doesn't look at the other girls right away. Instead, she studies the machine room, all the killing machines gleaming under the dungeon lights. Then, slowly, she turns back to face her companions.

"Well, this is awkward," she says, attempting a grin that doesn't quite form.

She looks at each of them in turn – Amara, who gives her a subtle nod of understanding; Talia, who seems torn between guilt and relief; Astrid, whose face remains unreadable as ever; Zahra, whose dark eyes glisten with something too raw to name.

Then she looks at Valeria.

Valeria swallows hard, her fingers fidgeting at her chest.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Rita," she murmurs, her words cracking slightly. "I wish..." She doesn't finish the thought, just shakes her head.

Rita lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"No, don't be sorry," she says, moving closer to Valeria. She places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. "This was always a possibility. At least it wasn't you."

Her thumb rubs small circles on Valeria's shoulder blade, her touch tender despite the looming reality.
Then she moves on to Amara, who stands rigid with tension.

"You're alright, you know. Keep holding the girls together – they need that." Amara slowly nods and touches Rita’s hand.

Rita turns away from the girls and faces me, her eyes looking directly into mine.

"What now?" she asks.

Her hands start to tremble – barely noticeably, but her nervousness starts to show.

For a second, I almost want to tell her she doesn't have to do this. That I'll find another way. But there is no other way.

“Select your preferred way to die,” I wave my hand at the killing machines behind the transparent wall.

Rita's gaze darts from machine to machine, her eyes tracking the intricate mechanisms that will soon end her life. She pauses at the circular saw, studying the gleaming metal that could slice her in half. Her fingers twitch at her sides, as if she's already feeling the cold bite of the blade.

"I've always been a sucker for irony," she says finally, her voice carrying a note of dark amusement. "So I guess I'll take the Roaster."

She turns to face me fully, squaring her shoulders.

"At least that way I'll go out looking like a damn barbecue."

The other girls collectively gasp, their faces draining of color.

Rita’s attitude causes me to smile as I take her hand and lead her to the machine room. The transparent door clicks shut behind us both, trapping the metallic smell of death in the small space.

Rita stands rigid against the cold glass wall, her breathing uneven as I lay my fingers on her tiny narrow waist. She doesn't pull away, but her muscles tense under my touch, a fine tremor running through her thighs.

"You know," she says, her voice catching slightly as my fingers brush the damp lips of her pussy, "if you wanted to fuck me, you could have just asked." She tries to make it sound light, but her breath comes in short, shallow bursts. "No need for all the... theatrics."

I realize, too late, that I actually like her. I press my lips against hers without thinking. It's an impulse – maybe trying to connect, maybe trying to assert dominance, I don't know anymore.

For a moment, she kisses back. Her mouth is soft, responsive, and for one second it feels almost... normal. Like we're just two people who might actually want each other.

Then her lips go rigid. Pulling back without pulling away – making it clear this is happening to her, not with her.

I pull back, stare at her. She stares back, defiant.

"You know what's sad?" she says quietly. “I actually like bad boys. I like danger. Under different circumstances..." She shrugs. "But you didn't ask. You just took. So now I'm going to make sure you don't enjoy a single fucking second of this."

The words hit harder than any of Amara's insults. Because she's right. That makes me angry.

“So that’s how you want to do it,” I growl, picking her up and placing her butt on a metal table beside us.

Rita’s bare ass is round and soft beneath my hands as I spread her open, pushing two fingers inside without preamble. She inhales sharply, her back arching slightly as I stretch her.

"Fuck- " The word tumbles out, breathless and raw.

Her arms press against the table, fingers curling into the cold metal as I thrust my fingers deeper. She's already wet, the slickness coating my fingers as I curl them inside her, finding that spot that makes her hips jerk forward involuntarily.

"You like this part, don't you?" she murmurs, her words quiet but steady. "Getting off on the fear."

She angles her head back slightly, just enough to catch my gaze. There's no challenge in her expression – just the cold, calculating awareness of someone who understands exactly what's happening. Her body yields to my touch, but her eyes remain sharp.

My hands tighten on Rita's hips as my cock finds her pussy and thrusts into her. She gasps sharply, her back arching slightly as I fill her in one rough motion. The dungeon walls amplify the slick sound of my movements, punctuated by her shallow breaths and the faint creak of the metal table beneath us.

Her fingers claw at the metal table, nails scraping against the cold surface as I push deeper. Rita exhales sharply, her body tensing at first before relaxing into the motion. There's no pleasure in her movements – just the mechanical acceptance of what's happening. She knows better than to resist.

"That’s all you got?" She asks sarcastically, speaking without breaking. "I’ve had better."

She glances over her shoulder, watching our reflection in the transparent wall of the machine room. She doesn't look frightened, not really. There's an edge of something else in her gray eyes – curiosity, maybe. Or just the cold observation of someone waiting for the inevitable.

Rita presses her face against the cold glass wall, muffling her grunt as I thrust harder, burying myself deeper, trying to break through that wall of defiance. But she won't give me anything. Her body jolts with the force of each movement, her small breasts bouncing slightly with the impact. But she doesn't resist, doesn't fight – just endures, her fingers splayed against the cold surface, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

I feel her tighten around me when I come inside her, her body responding to the intrusion in a way that has nothing to do with consent. Her muscles clench instinctively, but her face remains stoic, eyes squeezed shut. When I pull out, she exhales and wipes at her face, straightening up.
Then she yawns.

"You done?" she asks with a smirk.

Instead of answering her, I aim my cock, still hard despite having just come, towards her anus.

Rita gasps sharply as I push inside her ass without hesitation, her body tensing around the sudden intrusion. Her fingers scratch against the metal surface of the table, knuckles white as she braces herself. For a moment, she just breathes, adjusting to the pain and discomfort of it.

"You're really getting creative with my last few minutes," she mutters, voice strained but still edged with that dark amusement.

She presses her forehead against the wall, exhaling slowly through her nose. She doesn't tell me to stop. Instead, she shifts her stance slightly, giving me better access, making it easier for me to move. Her body adjusts reluctantly, her muscles fluttering around me as I begin thrusting.

My hands find Rita's small breasts, squeezing them firmly as I drive into her ass. She stiffens slightly, her breath catching in her throat before she exhales through clenched teeth. Her body reacts instinctively to the pain, her muscles tensing and loosening as I thrust. Despite the discomfort, she doesn't recoil – just stays still, accepting what I do to her.

Rita's body shudders as I finish inside her, coming for the second time in five minutes, her muscles tightening around me in an instinctive reaction. A slow, involuntary breath escapes her, more exhalation than moan, as she presses her forehead harder against the cold glass wall. There's no pleasure in it for her – just the reality of her body responding to mine, a final act of survival.

After a moment, she exhales fully and shifts her weight slightly, feeling my cum inside her.

"Well," she murmurs, voice rough, "that's a first."

Her fingers uncurl from the wall, and she turns her head just enough to glance at the giant hot oven of the Roaster over my shoulder. When I pull my cock out of her ass, she flexes the muscles of her anus, squeezing some of the cum out, then slowly pushes herself up.

“Barbecue time, isn’t it?” She asks with a bitter smile. “And I almost started enjoying our little...exercise.”

The metal of the roaster deck is already very warm, having absorbed heat from the nearby oven. It sears Rita's skin as I lay her down, her back arching slightly at the contact. She doesn't cry out – just grits her teeth and breathes through the pain.

I fasten the thick metal chains around her wrists and ankles, securing her to the deck. Rita tests the restraints, pulling slightly against them before settling back.

"So this is it," she says, her voice steady but her eyes darting to the massive oven behind her.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly as adrenaline courses through her system.

"There's no point in fighting, is there?"

As I press the start button on the control panel, the deck with Rita chained to it slowly rises up and starts moving towards the burning inferno of the Roaster.

The moment the deck moves into the oven, Rita's entire body tenses. The roar of the fire inside drowns out her sharp gasp as the searing heat envelops her in an instant. Her skin flares red as her muscles spasm against the restraints, her back arching off the metal surface as much as the chains allow. A strangled noise escapes her throat – part moan, part scream, all pain – her head snapping back against the cooler air outside the oven.

Her chest heaves as she pants, her breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. Sweat immediately beads on her forehead, dripping down her temples as her body reacts to the overwhelming temperature, yet she still doesn’t scream. Instead, her head starts shaking and the sound coming through her gritted teeth is a monotonous “n-n-n-n-n...”

My hands find her face, fingers pressing against her damp skin as she watches me through rapidly blinking eyes. Her breath comes in shallow, rapid bursts now, her lips slightly parted.

"You... you want me to scream, don't you?" she chokes out, each word strained with effort. A single tear rolls down her cheek, evaporating before it can reach her ear. "I won't... I won't give you that."

A tremor runs through her, whether from the temperature or the sheer force of what's happening to her, it's hard to tell.

I don't answer. I just watch as her skin reddens beneath the layers of sweat and oil on her body.
The scent of scorched flesh begins to permeate the space.

The oven creaks as the metal heats to its maximum temperature, the flames beyond the glass panel roaring in intensity. Rita's skin has taken on a dark crimson hue, the blisters across her stomach and thighs now openly weeping onto the deck. Her chest still rises and falls in shallow, quick breaths, but her strength wanes – her muscles twitch sporadically as they cramp and spasm in the overwhelming heat.

I watch as she grits her teeth, forcing her lids open to stare up at me, her pupils nearly lost in the gray of her irises. Her lips, once pale, have gone dry and chapped, the moisture in them long since evaporated.

The smell of burning flesh intensifies, the searing heat distorting the air above Rita's convulsing body. She inhales sharply through clenched teeth, her entire frame shaking with the effort to remain still. A bead of sweat rolls from her temple, vanishing instantly in the oven's glow.

"Still... not... gonna... scream..." she wheezes, each word a struggle.

Her breasts rise and fall in rapid, shallow movements, her nipples shriveled from the heat. Her thighs twitch against the metal deck, the skin there already puckering and blackening at the edges. Rita's body jerks violently, a strangled cry escaping as her muscles spasm uncontrollably.

The oven's heat intensifies, and with it comes a new aroma – meat beginning to char. Rita's eyelids flutter, her eyes roll up as a fresh tremor wracks her body. Her back arches involuntarily off the deck, her muscles locking and releasing in waves of agony.

I watch Rita’s transformation in silence, as she starts twitching slower, until eventually giving up, her last breath coming out almost inaudibly. Her face is now a mask of agony – mouth open wide, only whites of her eyes visible through half-open eyelids. The machine room is silent, except for the hum of the oven and sizzling sounds of the fat burning in Rita’s body.

I look at the remaining girls through the glass wall – their faces drawn and tense. Zahra stands pressed against the far wall, her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to disappear. Talia sits on the floor, her hands violently shaking. Emily sits with her knees drawn up to her chest, rocking slightly, eyes fixed on the spot where Rita had stood moments before.

As I leave the machine room and enter the dungeon, Amara stares at me with undisguised loathing. Her dark eyes bore into mine with raw intensity.

"You are a monster," she says quietly, but with no trace of fear. "Do you even feel anything whilst you are doing this?"

I decide to take her up on her words.

“Pleasure.” I say. “What do you feel?”

Amara doesn't flinch at my words. She stands straighter, shoulders squaring.

"I feel Rita's death. I hear her screams in my head, even though she never made them. I see her face – calm, too calm – because she wouldn't give you what you wanted. That is what I feel."

Something flickers across her face – not just anger, but something deeper, more complex. Amara clenches her fists.

"And I hate you for it," she continues, her voice gaining strength. "I hate that I'm still alive while she is not."

“You might soon get your turn,” I respond. She starts to get on my nerves.

"Then I hope I draw the short stick tomorrow," she spits out, venom dripping from every word. "Because if I have to choose one of those machines, I won't pick the quick one. I will make you watch whilst I take my time with the saw."

Her breathing has quickened, chest rising and falling rapidly. There's no fear in her eyes now – just pure, unadulterated rage.

"You think you are strong, killing us one by one, day by day?” Amara is now screaming at me. “Rita was braver than you'll ever be, and you don't deserve to breathe the same air as her memory!"

I did not want Rita to scream. I did not wish her to die. Amara’s rage feels unjustified to me, but how can I explain this to her, when I just killed Rita right before her eyes?

"Rita's dead," I reply coldly. "Bravery didn't save her."

"No." Amara’s eyes are burning through me. "But it meant she died with dignity. Something you will never have."

I pretend her words don't land. Pretend they don't keep me awake at night.

I turn away and call the cleaning crew.

The hazmat-suited men enter the room with mechanical efficiency. Their movements are swift and precise as they work around Rita's still-cooking corpse. One member disconnects the roaster's power source while another begins unlatching the deck's restraints. They work in near silence, their breathing audibly labored beneath the protective masks.

Amara watches the clean-up operation with a sharp, focused gaze.

"There's your legacy," she mutters under her breath, loud enough for you to hear. "Bet you are going to use those restraints on one of us tomorrow just to be efficient."

Her words drip with disgust as she observes the crew carefully folding up the heating elements and loading them onto a cart.

I turn away and leave the dungeon, Amara’s voice still throwing insults at me as the doors close behind my back. I return to the observation room and spend some time watching the dungeon through the cameras.

The monitors show the girls who huddle close together, their naked bodies almost touching each other. The silence stretches uncomfortably long before Talia finally speaks.

"You know," she says, her voice soft but clear, "I used to volunteer at a wildlife sanctuary in Vancouver." She twists her hands nervously. "Once, we had a racoon that had been hit by a car. I stayed up all night holding it while it- " She chokes up momentarily. "It was one of the most painful things I've ever seen. The vet said we couldn't save it, but I just... I wanted it to know it wasn't alone."

Emily shifts closer to her, tears glistening in her eyes.

"Rita and Cassie weren't alone either," Amara says abruptly. "They were here with us. And they didn't deserve what happened to them."

Astrid nods slowly, her fingers fiddling with her toes.

"At least they didn't choose the impaler," she says quietly. "Or dismemberment. That would have been worse, right?"

Amara scoffs, but doesn't argue. She stares through the glass wall at the space where the Roaster used to be.

"They still suffered. But yeah, at least they didn't choose the worst ones."

Valeria finally speaks, her voice soft and husky.

"Rita... she was brave. I watched her die and she didn't scream until the end." She swallows hard. "She made a joke first. Said she'd never get a tan like this in Italy."

The other girls are silent, caught between sadness and the morbid humor in Rita's final words.

I feel exhausted as I walk back to my living quarters. Being an executioner is fucking hard, especially when you need to kill innocent young girls and then look in the eyes of the ones still alive. Dream job, my ass…

I look at my hands – I just noticed they are not shaking. Does it mean I’m getting used to it?

My mind returns to Rita. I can still smell her burning flesh, and I can't tell if it's memory or if the scent has actually soaked into my clothes, my skin, my hair.

I strip off my shirt and throw it in the corner, but the smell doesn't leave. It's in my nose, my mouth, coating my throat.

Can't tell if I find it disgusting or appetizing.

That thought keeps me awake until dawn.

I think I might be losing my mind.