I look at the photo of the first girl – a strikingly beautiful young Indian businesswoman with dark eyes, gorgeous long hair and a confident smile.

Amara Singh. Twenty-three.

Occupation – finance, hobbies – finance.

At her young age she’s already a CFO of large corporation with a net worth of over $1 million. The fact that the organizers decided to kidnap her without fearing the consequences goes to show how powerful they truly are.

Second:

Astrid Lund. Nineteen.

Arts student from Sweden. Hobbies – painting, photography, ballet… and they talk about stereotypes.
Beautiful blue eyes, long hair blonde, almost white, tenderness radiating from her whole fragile little body. She looks so vulnerable…

Next.

Cassandra 'Cassie' Moreno. Twenty.

A lively curvy Latina with a bright smile. Marine biology student. Hobbies – diving, surfing.

She seems like a ball of energy. I start feeling worse and worse when I think of having to kill these young talented girls.

Fourth.

Emily Ward. Twenty-one.

A wide-faced cute blonde with visible muscles and cheerful outdoorsy demeanor. National park trail guide. Hobbies – hiking, rock climbing.

Another bright life to be cut short because of sick bastards like me...and the rich monsters who organized this.

Fifth.

Rita Kowalski. Twenty.

A petite tomboyish girl with a confident smirk on her face. IT engineering student, loves computer games, rave parties and motorbikes.

Should I just flee this facility and marry her? Joking, joking… that would be a clear death sentence for both of us.

Next.

Talia Novak. Twenty-five.

The oldest of the bunch so far. Tall and lanky, but attractive. Occupation – photographer and urban explorer… what is that supposed to mean? Hobbies – photography, geocache hunting, cosplay… I wonder who does she cosplay as? Not that it matters now…

Seventh.

Valeria Rossi. Twenty-five.

Wow… what a beautiful woman. A professional model – that explains a lot. Hobbies – movie reviews, vlogging, yachting. The diversity among “participants” is truly astounding.

And last one.

Zahra El-Khatib. Twenty-three.

Medical intern who loves to volunteer in refugee camps. Nothing like a middle-eastern muslim girl to top it all off...

Day 1

The girls finally arrive. They lay fully naked on their sleeping mats, in full view of the cameras under the bright overhead lights of the dungeon. I see them finally start to move, still groggy from the sleeping gas they were drugged with. Some of them start to sit upright, rubbing their eyes and trying to understand what happened.

Time to go there and introduce myself.

I get up from my seat in the observation room and walk towards the entrance to the dungeon. Two guards at the door give me a nod and watch me with a silent question in their eyes. I wave at them – I don’t need them inside the dungeon, I’m fully capable of defending myself against a group of drugged girls.

As the automatic doors hiss shut behind me, I find myself looking into eight pairs of eyes, wide with confusion and fear. Girls don’t even make an attempt to cover their nudity, except for Zahra, who tries to curl into a ball, not taking her eyes off me.

I stand before them, every one of them naked, shivering. The way their bare skin catches the dim light makes it hard to look away, but their eyes – they speak louder. Wide, darting, flickering with uncertainty.

"Welcome, ladies," I say, my voice echoing in the sterile space. The words land like a hammer on flesh.

"My name is John. I'll be overseeing your stay here. You'll find it... educational." I let the moment stretch. Let their breathing hitch in tandem.

Then I explain to them the rules of the show.

Silence gnaws at the room as I let my words sink in. The girls' naked bodies seem to shrink inward, pressing against the floor as if trying to disappear. It seems none of them heard the words about the money, instead having focused on the horrifying situation they found themselves in. Astrid whispers something in Swedish, but when I ask her to repeat what she said, she just stares at me with her icy blue eyes.

I wait. When no questions follow, I advise the girls to take some rest before the show starts tomorrow and leave the dungeon.

The night doesn’t bring much sleep. I keep thinking about the day that lies ahead and how the girls must be feeling now that they are fully aware of the situation they are in.

Next morning I return to the dungeon. The girls are already awake, all huddled together in the middle of the room, naked bodies touching each other. As soon as I enter, their barely audible conversation abruptly stops and eight pairs of wide gleaming eyes turn towards me. The girls remain seated, hugging their knees as if this could somehow make them look less naked… or maybe shield them from what’s coming.

“The show starts today,” I announce, stretching my hand out, holding eight small identical wooden sticks. “We’ll decide whose turn it is to die by simple drawing of sticks. Whoever draws the short one, is unfortunately out of luck.”

The sticks glisten under the harsh lights as I present them. The girls hesitate, their bare shoulders tense. My fingers twitch slightly with nervousness, as none of the girls move. They can’t believe this is really happening, and I cannot blame them – I can barely believe it myself.

After a long moment, the first girl – Amara, a gracious brown-skinned Indian – gets up on her feet and tentatively extends her hand. Her fingers brush mine as she takes a stick. The contact sends an unexpected spark through me. Her nails are bitten short but her palm is warm and dry. She looks at the stick in her hand – long.

The others follow in a nervous chain, their movements jerky with fear. Each girl unfurls her fingers slowly, revealing her fate like a flower blooming. A collective gasp rises as the lengths of the sticks become apparent.

Rita – short and delicate – opens her hand, revealing a long stick. A sob of relief escapes her throat as she presses the wood to her forehead in a silent prayer.

Zahra holds her stick at arm’s length, her eyes gleaming as she examines it.

“Long,” she mutters, mostly to herself.

With a corner of my eye I see Cassie's fingers open to reveal a tiny sliver of wood – noticeably shorter than the others. She stares at it, expression shifting from disbelief to dawning horror.

The remaining girls shuffle nervously, watching me for guidance. I notice their breathing synchronize in the shared fear, their naked bodies unconsciously pressing together for comfort.

Cassie suddenly looks up at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

"I... I don't understand," she stammers. "What does this mean? The short...?" She can't even finish the question, her words catching in her throat.

I step closer to Cassie, near enough to smell the scent of her floral shampoo underneath the fear-induced sweat. I try not to notice it, not to see her face as more than just… features. Eyes. Mouth. Skin. Components.

It's easier that way. If she's not a person, this is just a procedure.

Her breathing quickens as I loom before her, the short stick still quivering in her grasp.

"Let me explain, sweetheart," I say, and the false gentleness in my voice surprises even me. Like I'm reading from a script someone else wrote.

I reach out to tilt her chin up with one finger, forcing her to meet my gaze. Her skin feels like warm silk beneath my touch.

"That little piece of wood in your hand? That's your death warrant,” I point to the row of deadly killing machines behind the transparent wall. "It means you die today. But you get to choose how."

My thumb brushes her lower lip, and she flinches as if burned.

My words hang in the air as I point to the machines. Cassie's eyes dart frantically from the glistening guillotine to the circular saw sticking in the middle of a large table, from the shining impaler to the unassuming noose. A single tear rolls down her cheek.

The other girls instinctively back away, creating a circle around her. Their collective breathing grows ragged. Some clutch at their own bodies, as if suddenly aware of how fragile they are.

"You... you can't be serious," Cassie finally chokes out. She looks at the other girls for help, finding none. They look away – at the floor, at the walls, anywhere but at her. "This is some kind of joke, right? For some YouTube prank channel?"

She laughs, but it sounds hollow.

"I'm afraid not, Cassie." I shake my head. "Choose, or I'll choose for you."

Cassie's entire body goes rigid at my words. Her face goes through several expressions – confusion, disbelief, anger – before settling on something worse: understanding. Her fingers dig into her own arms hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents in her pale skin. She's breathing in short, sharp gasps now, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"No, please, I-" she begins, but her voice breaks halfway through the plea. She glances desperately at the other girls again, but they're all looking away. Astrid won't even meet her gaze, her blonde head bowed as if in prayer.

A minute passes in silence before Cassie finally whispers, "I... I choose the guillotine." Her voice is so faint it's almost inaudible.

"The quickest way," she whispers, staring at the gleaming blade. "If this is really happening... if you're really going to..." She can't finish the sentence. "Just make it quick. Please. I don't want to feel it."

"Good choice," I grab Cassie by her arm, her legs already starting to shake and give away.

The other girls shift uneasily as I lead Cassie toward the machines, her not even resisting. Rita's face pales even more. Talia's arms cross protectively over her chest, fingers digging into her own soft flesh. Amara looks away, unable to meet my eyes or those of her doomed companion.

Cassie walks with me on uneven legs like cattle to a slaughter, her gaze filled with desperation that makes my blood quicken. Up close, I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, the slight tremble of her full lower lip. She smells like fear – sweet and metallic – and beneath that, vanilla and salt. It's intoxicating.

I lock the glass door behind us as we enter the machine room and help Cassie lay down on the guillotine bench, her face paralyzed with fear and disbelief.

Metal clicks against Cassie's throat as the lock secures her in place. She's forced to look straight up at the gleaming blade suspended above her, its razor edge catching the dungeon's harsh fluorescent light. Her breath comes in ragged, panicked gasps that make her full breasts heave beneath the bench.

"The others... they get to see me die," she whispers, more to herself than to you. "Oh god, they'll see the blood. They'll hear the... the sound."

Her eyes dart around the room, taking in the other girls pressed against the clear wall, their faces a blur of horror.

I look at Cassie’s body laid bare before me. I have to fuck her – that’s one of the mandatory clauses of my contract. And the way she looks makes it very hard not to want it. I lower my hand and slowly insert two fingers into her pussy, which is surpirsingly wet.

Cassie flinches as my fingers enter her, but she doesn't resist. Her body tenses like a bowstring pulled too tight, muscles coiling in terror even as I begin my slow, rhythmic thrusts. Her inner walls clench around my fingers with every movement, not from arousal but from sheer reflexive panic.

"Please," she whimpers, though I’m not sure if she's asking me to stop or continue.

Her hips jerk slightly against the bench, whether to push away or seek comfort is unclear. The other girls watch with rapt attention, some with visible disgust, others with something like fascination.
My thumb finds her clit, circling it deliberately as my fingers work inside her. Cassie’s breath starts to quicken, but she still can’t take her eyes off the guillotine blade hanging above her.

I slowly pull my fingers out with a wet slurp, making Cassie shudder, but she still won’t look at me. I pull down my pants, and enter her.

The bench creaks as I mount Cassie, her trapped body beneath me shaking uncontrollably. She's so tight around me that every thrust feels like fighting against a vice, her muscles spasming from terror more than pleasure. Her legs try to close instinctively but the restraints keep them spread wide, leaving her completely exposed and vulnerable.

"Stop... I can't... please," she gasps between breaths, tears streaming down her face as she feels me move inside her.

But there's no resistance left in her – just the hollow, desperate pleading of someone who knows they're already dead.

The bench slams against the concrete floor with every thrust, the sound echoing through the dungeon. Cassie's back arches violently as I pound into her, her nails scrabbling uselessly against the smooth metal of the restraints. Her moans have changed from pleading to something raw and broken, her entire body shaking like a leaf in a storm.

I can feel her tightening around me, not in pleasure but in terror – her muscles spasming uncontrollably. Her chest is flushed deep red, perspiration coating her skin as her breathing becomes erratic. The girls behind the clear wall press closer, their faces contorted with a mix of horror and morbid fascination as they watch their companion being used so brutally.

My climax hits like a dam breaking, pumping my seed deep into Cassie's terrified body. She whimpers as she feels it inside her, her thighs twitching uselessly against the restraints. Cum leaks out around my still-hard cock, running down her ass crack onto the cold metal of the bench.

"I'm... I'm pregnant... what if... what if I'm pregnant?"

Cassie sobs the words out, her body convulsing with fresh tears. The other girls exchange worried glances at this – Zahra looks away quickly, while Amara's face shows naked disgust.

“That’s the best part – you won’t live long enough to find out,” I say to her, pressing the button on the guillotine control.

The mechanism engages with a loud hiss of hydraulics, the counterweight dropping as the blade descends in an arc of death. Cassie's head snaps forward as the blade nears, her scream cut brutally short. There's a sickening thunk as the blade severs her neck cleanly, dark arterial spray painting the floor in an instant.

Her head rolls away from her body, landing with a wet thump to face the wall where the other girls are watching, making them spring back in terror. Her lifeless body jerks spasmodically for a few moments, spurting less as her heart pumps out the remaining blood. The dungeon echoes with the wet sounds of her death throes.

For a few seconds, I don't stop. Just keep moving, mechanical, finishing what I started. The body still spasms around me, muscles firing random signals that have nothing to do with life or pleasure or anything human. Headless stump is spilling blood in steady pulses. The absence of a head makes the thrusting feel almost clinical, just my cock sliding in and out of her dead pussy with wet, slurping sounds.

The other girls press their hands against the clear wall, their faces contorted in disgust and terror as they watch me defile their companion’s corpse. Amara vomits violently against the glass, her body wracked with dry heaves while Rita covers her face with her hands, whimpering quietly.

When I finally pull my cock out of Cassie’s headless corpse, that's when it hits me.

What the fuck did I just do?

I killed a girl. Just killed her. While fucking her. And then kept fucking her corpse while her head stared at me from across the room. .

My hands start shaking. Then my arms. Then my whole body, trembling so violently I have to brace myself against the guillotine table. The arousal is gone, my cock now having gone completely limp.

Cassie's head lies in a pool of blood, tangled hair spread around it like a dark halo. Her eyes are still open, expression frozen in that moment between life and death.

I dig my nails into my palm until I bleed, trying to ground myself. Trying to stop the shaking.

It works – for just a moment. Long enough for me to pull my pants back on and signal the cleaning crew to start working.

Two masked workers in hazmat suits enter, methodically cleaning the blood from the floor with industrial pressure washers. They work quickly, their movements efficient as the red stains are transformed into pale water streaks. Cassie's corpse remains restrained on the bench, her empty pussy still dripping onto the concrete as they work around it.

The guillotine is disassembled with practiced ease, the blade carefully wiped clean before being packed away. As they work, Cassie's blood flows beneath the machines toward a drain in the middle of the room. The metallic smell hangs heavy in the air, mixing with antiseptic from the cleaners.
The remaining girls watch the sanitization process with glassy-eyed horror, none of them daring to speak.

The tremor in my body returns as I leave the machine room and enter the dungeon. Amara notices that and is the first to stand up and approach me.

"You... you fucked her corpse," Amara says, approaching me as I re-enter the dungeon. Her voice is soft, almost curious. "After you cut her head off, you just... kept going. How could you... with her like that?"

Her voice breaks on the last word, but she doesn't cry – there are no more tears left.

I don't respond. Can't respond. My throat feels like it's closing up.

"I asked you a question," she presses.

"I heard you," I manage, but my voice comes out hoarse and quiet. "That's what the contract requires," I lie.

Amara scoffs, as if she knows it already.

"Bullshit. That's what you wanted."

I should explain. Should say something. But what? That I wasn't thinking? That it felt like someone else was doing it? That I'm as horrified as she is? That she might be right?

Instead I tell them to relax and take some rest.

The news that no one will die tonight doesn't bring comfort – it merely prolongs the inevitable. The girls shuffle back to their sleeping mats, their movements heavy with dread. Rita immediately curls into a ball, wrapping her arms around herself. Amara wipes her face, still shaking from witnessing Cassie's death. Zahra sits stiffly on her mat, staring straight ahead.

I exit the dungeon on uneven legs, still in shock of what just happened.

Behind me, I hear Amara spit. "Coward."

She's right. But I can't face that yet.

I retreat to the quiet humming comfort of the observation room. The camera feed shows the girls arranged on their mats in loose clusters. Amara and Astrid whisper to each other in hushed tones, their expressions grim. Rita lies curled on her side, staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes. Valeria's fingers trace patterns in the dust on the floor, her movements mechanical. Talia kneads her hands anxiously while Zahra sits rigidly, looking toward the machines that took Cassie.

Their silence feels oppressive, broken only by occasional sniffles or the rustle of shifting bodies. Emily finally speaks, her words carrying across the dungeon.

"How did it... did it hurt? The guillotine."

Her question hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken fears.

Amara spits on the floor in disgust.

"She chose the guillotine because it was supposed to be quick. But first..."

Her voice trails off as she glances at the door where I disappeared.

Rita lifts her head from her mat, her voice hoarse with suppressed rage.

"The real torture wasn't the machine. It was watching her get... taken like that while she was still alive."

Her words cut through the room, each syllable weighted with accusation. She knows her words won't change anything, but she speaks them anyway, as if releasing the poison slowly. The girls' movements become more subdued, their earlier whispers dying to absolute silence.

Zahra suddenly stands and walks to the far wall of the dungeon, her bare feet leaving faint impressions in the dust. She presses her palms flat against the cold concrete, shoulders heaving with restrained sobs. The other girls watch her back, none moving to comfort her.

"Maybe..," Rita mutters, her voice carrying the bitter hope of someone who has already accepted her fate. "Maybe there's some way out of this nightmare."

Amara scoffs at the idea, but there's no real conviction behind it. She knows as well as the others that the rules of this game have no loopholes, no escape clauses. Valeria gets up from her mat, walks up to Rita and gently hugs her, whispering something into her ear.

I watch the girls for a little longer and then walk the long sterile corridors of the facility to my living quarters. The night barely brings any sleep – Cassie’s death keeps repeating in my mind – the way she screamed and her head fell off, the way her headless body was still squeezing my cock when the brain already stopped sending signals to it… When this particular thought crosses my mind, I suddenly feel my cock getting harder, much to my own surprise.

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.

Day 3

I wake up from someone banging at my door. I look at the time: 4:30 am. What the fuck?

I open the door. Head of security looks at me – standing before him, wearing nothing but my trunks.

“Sir, we have an emergency.” He seems nervous, but not overly worried.

Turns out it’s the girls. They started a fight, security was forced to get inside and tase them.

I walk into the dungeon, girls laying on their mats, unconscious. The cleaning crew is washing urine off the floor and wiping the girls clean with a wash cloth. Thankfully, none of the girls really knew how to fight, so the damage is limited to a few scratches and pulled hairs. They didn’t even try to escape or fight the guards – their goal was to make themselves as unappealing as possible, to sabotage the show.

Whose idea was it? You guessed it right – Amara’s.

I guess the show will need to start later today – need to notify the management. I thank the head of security for letting me know about the incident and go back to my quarters to catch up on sleep. The situation is no longer my problem at this point.

I come to the dungeon eight hours later, giving myself and the girls enough time to recover. The girls shuffle in the middle of the room, their movements stiff and uncertain. Yet they look at me with a challenge in their eyes. Amara’s eyes are full of hatred, she is staring at me with a smirk on her face.

“Look who came to visit,” she almost hisses, voice full of venom. “Did you like our show?”

She puts an emphasis on the word “our”, trying to turn the few bruises and scratches she has got from the fight towards me like a badge of honor.

I put a mask of cruelty and confidence on my face, though I feel none. Smiling with a corner of my mouth, I stretch out my hand towards the girls, holding out six small sticks that will decide their fate today.

“That was fun to watch,” I reply to Amara. “Too bad it didn’t really accompish much, did it?”

For a moment, she just stares at me – jaws tense, eyes burning with the last embers of pride. Around her, the others are silent, watching.

Then suddenly her face turns into an angry grimace. Two strides forward, fast and reckless, and before anyone can react, her hand shoots out and tears one of the sticks from my grip. The air goes sharp with tension.

She holds the stick up high, triumphant, breathing hard, a savage grin breaking through the exhaustion on her face.

I look at the stick – it’s a long one. Amara notices it too. Her grin falters and the silence deepens. She turns away from me and throws the stick on the floor with frustration. Other girls now look less defiant and more uneasy – there’s one less long stick left now and it’s one of them, not Amara who is going to die today. We don’t have to wait long to see who that is going to be.

Valeria comes next, holding her breath as she draws her stick. After seeing that it’s a long one, she slowly exhales and steps back.

Zahra carefully approaches, looking into my eyes, her steps always silent. She slowly pulls a stick out of my grasp. As she turns it over in her hands, her fingers start to tremble.

The color drains from Zahra's face as she holds her stick aloft – tiny, smooth and unmistakably short. The room grows impossibly quiet as the other girls turn to stare at her. Amara exhales sharply, her hands turn into fists as she glances between me and the shaking girl.

"I knew it would be me," Zahra says softly, her voice almost disappearing in the empty room. "I knew it."

She doesn't move, doesn't break eye contact. There's a strange resignation in her posture, as if she's been waiting for this moment all along.

“There’s still choice for you, Zahra,” I point to the machine room behind the transparent wall. “Those who come after you won’t be as lucky.”

“Those who come after me…” She echoes, her thoughts going in the direction I can only guess about.

Zahra's eyes flicker as she considers each option, her breathing shallow and quick. The other girls watch her with expressions ranging from horror to fascination.

"I don't want to be... cut in half," she says, her voice almost inaudible. "The saw... I can't do the saw." She pauses, then continues with sudden clarity. "Impalement."

“You sure?” I ask, surprised she didn’t pick something less painful. “That won’t be quick.”

“I know,” she swallows hard before continuing. “But that’s one less terrible death for those who are left, yes?”

She accepts her fate with quiet dignity. For the first time, I feel something crack in my chest. The others were fighting – I could fight back, stay mechanical, detached. But Zahra isn't fighting. She's being kind. And I'm going to destroy her anyway.

I nod, acknowledging her courage.

"That's brave," I say, and mean it.

She meets my eyes.

"No. Brave would be finding a way to stop you. This is just... what I can do with the choice I have."

I realize she's just absolved me while condemning me, and I'm not sure which is worse.

"Any last words?"

Zahra's eyes glisten with unshed tears as she turns to face the other girls. Talia is the first to move, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around Zahra in a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs into her hair. "I'm so sorry."

Zahra's arms remain stiff at first, but then she pulls Talia closer, burying her face in her shoulder.

Astrid approaches next, hesitating before resting a hand on Zahra's arm.

"May you be at peace," she says quietly. Her words catch in her throat, and she quickly steps back, avoiding eye contact.

Valeria offers a small, sad smile as she approaches.

"You were... always kind to me," she says, her voice rough with emotion.

She wraps her arms around Zahra for a brief, tight hug before stepping back.

Emily doesn't speak, but she reaches up and squeezes Zahra's hand. Her face remains impassive, but tears well in her eyes.

Lastly, Amara steps forward. She looks directly into Zahra's face, unblinking and intense.

"You didn't deserve this," she says, her voice thick with barely restrained fury. "None of us did."

Zahra wipes a tear about to roll from her eye and turns back to me.

“I… I think I’m ready,” she mutters, her voice trembling.

Five pairs of eyes, their expressions ranging from fearful to furious, follow us as we move into the machine room. Zahra doesn’t turn around, looking at the floor beneath her feet. She offers no resistance as I lay her stomach on the cold metal bench of the Impaler and secure her wrists and ankles with restraints. Time to prepare her pussy for what’s coming.

Zahra stiffens as my fingers penetrate her, her breath coming in short gasps. The cold metal of the impaling bench presses against her bare breasts. Behind her, the mechanical skewer glints menacingly under the harsh dungeon lights. Her body trembles, but she doesn't resist as I work my fingers inside her.

"Please," she whispers, "please don't hurt me more than necessary."

Her dark eyes are wide and wet, her face twisted in what might be confusion or fear – perhaps both.
I withdraw my fingers and smear them across her inner thighs, watching her skin pebble in the cold air.

"You're dry," I observe clinically. "That makes this harder for you."

The side table near me has everything required to keep the show going – a whole jar of lube included. I could just lube her up, let the machine do its work. But that would be inconsistent with what I did to Cassie and Rita. Would mean facing what I've been doing.

I dip my whole hand into the jar, covering it with the slimy odorless substance.

“I’m sorry about this, Zahra” I say, as my fingers slide back into her pussy. “But you wouldn’t want to go through this unprepared.”

I tell myself it’s necessary. That I’m doing her a favor.

But I know I'm lying.

Her muscles insitnctively twitching around my fingers, trying to push them back out. I insert another finger, then another one, stretching her tight opening. Then I fold my palm into a cone shape and push it inside all at once.

Zahra's body convulses as my hand pushes deeper, her muscles clamping down in a desperate attempt to resist the invasion. A strangled cry escapes her lips, her hands rubbing against the restraints as her back arches off the metal surface.

"Stop! Please! It's too much!" Her voice cracks, tears streaming down her face as her body is overwhelmed by the intense pressure and pain.

The other girls witness this through the transparent wall, their horrified faces pressed against the glass. Emily turns away completely, unable to watch. Amara pounds her fists against the barrier, screaming obscenities at me, her voice echoing in the dungeon.

Zahra begins to shudder, her body convulsing with violent spasms. She pulls her wrists against the restraints, leaving deep marks on her skin. A thick, wet ripping sound fills the air as my wrist follows my hand into her torn body. The girl’s breathing becomes ragged, panicked gasps as her vision blurs from the agony.

“You monster! I hope you rot in hell for this!" Amara's voice shrieks from beyond the glass, words thick with rage.

Emily watches with a look of horrified fascination, her hand unconsciously pressing against her own abdomen. The other girls huddle together, some covering their ears, others unable to look away from the horrific display. I pump my fist slowly, feeling Zahra's cervix bounce against my fingers.

When my hand finally comes out of Zahra’s pussy with a wet squelch, I see blood on it. I was too rough with her.

I stare at my hand for a long moment. Zahra asked me not to hurt her more than necessary.

And I did anyway.

“I’m sorry.” I say again, but this doesn’t sound sincere even to myself.

I pull down my pants, releasing my cock and drive it into Zahra's ruined pussy without ceremony, her torn flesh offering minimal resistance. Zahra screams with anger and disgust as I thrust into her, mix of blood and lube slick my movements as I establish a brutal rhythm, my balls slapping against her ass. Her arms flop weakly at her sides as she loses the strength to fight. I can feel the warm walls of her vagina collapsing around my cock, her abdominal muscles spasming in an attempt to move away.

"I... I am not caring..." she gasps out, her words nearly inaudible through ragged breaths. "Let me... let me keep at least my dignity..."

Her eyes lock onto mine, not with hatred but with profound resignation.

My thrusts grow harder, my fingers tightening in her hair as I force myself deeper inside of her. Zahra's body shudders beneath me, her torn pussy struggling to accommodate my length. A strangled moan escapes her as I bottom out inside her, her muscles spasming around my cock.

Zahra's body tenses as my cum floods her torn pussy, the warm fluid mixing with blood and lube. Her breathing comes in short, ragged bursts, her dark eyes never leaving mine even as tears stream down her face. The humiliation of being violated and seeded burns in her gaze.

I pull out of Zahra's ravaged pussy, watching as my cum leaks from her. She shudders but doesn't cry out – she's beyond that now. She still shivers a bit, her bare skin pressing against the cold metal beneath. The supports cradle her body, leaving her ass raised at an angle, ready for the skewer.

Zahra's breathing is controlled, shallow.

"I'm ready," she says, her words steady despite the blood still seeping from her pussy.

The machine comes to life and emits a low hum as I press the button.

Zahra begins reciting the Shahada, her voice clear and loud:

"Ash-hadu an lā ilāha illā-llāh, wa ash-hadu anna muḥammadan rasūlu-llāh..."

Her body tenses the moment the cold metal touches her torn entrance. The skewer vibrates and begins its inexorable advance, her muscles clenching around the shaft in a futile attempt to resist the intrusion.

Her voice doesn't waver.

"Ash-hadu an lā ilāha illā-llāh..."

A sharp gasp interrupts the prayer, Zahra’s back arching as the skewer penetrates deeper, the vibrations causing her clit to pulse in unwanted, involuntary pleasure despite the agony. Her pussy stretches wider as the machine continues its work, her body shaking uncontrollably on the platform.

She continues, despite the pain:

"Wa ash-hadu anna muḥammadan rasūlu-llāh..."

Her voice breaks into a scream as the skewer breaches her cervix, her entire body convulsing as the machine presses forward with relentless precision. Her back arches violently, the muscles in her legs and arms quivering as she clings to the platform. Tears stream down her face, mingling with sweat that glistens on her olive skin.

"Ash-hadu... an lā... ilāha... illā-llāh..."

The words fragment between screams, but her lips keep moving, forming each syllable with desperate intention.

Her pussy convulses around the invading metal, her body betraying her with reflexive contractions that only pull the skewer deeper. Her breasts press against the cold metal beneath her as she strains against the support system.

Zahra's entire body suddenly goes rigid, her scream is unlike anything I’ve heard before – raw, primal, the sound of a woman beyond pain, beyond fear. Her entire body jerks as the skewer tears through her uterus, the vibrations causing her to convulse uncontrollably. Blood spills from her pussy now, staining the platform beneath her, a vivid crimson against the cold metal. The vibrations of the machine send tremors through her body, causing her breasts to sway beneath her as she struggles to remain conscious.

"You... you are not even human," she finally chokes out, speaking softly now.

Tears stream unchecked down her face as her body betrays her with involuntary spasms. The skewer moves deeper still, reaching her bowels, and Zahra's back arches violently as the cold metal invades her deeper than anyone before.

"I'm... I'm dying," she manages to gasp between ragged breaths, her dark eyes wide and unfocused. "Allah... help me."

"Wa ash... ash-hadu... anna..." The words dissolve into screaming, but her lips keep moving, still trying to form the prayer even as pain overwhelms her.

Her fingers scrape against the restraints as her strength fails her, leaving red trails on the surface. The skewer continues its ascent, pushing deeper into her abdominal cavity.

The machine continues its merciless advance, the skewer now piercing deep into Zahra's abdomen. Her body seizes as the cold metal breaches her diaphragm, blood gathering at her lips.

"Ash... hadu..." Zahra chokes out.

Just fragments now, whispered between blood bubbles – words barely audible over the whir of the machine.

Her arms give out, leaving her body fully supported by the platform as the skewer pushes higher. Blood vessels burst inside her, spraying crimson droplets onto the floor beneath her. Her legs spasm weakly as the mechanical force continues its inexorable ascent.

Zahra's body jerks violently as the tip of the skewer bursts through her throat, a gush of blood and air escaping her mouth in a sickening wet gurgle. Her eyes roll back for a moment, her body convulsing as the last of her strength leaves her. The tip of the skewer glistens with blood and mucus as it emerges fully from between her teeth.

Her lips still move silently, forming the words even as no sound can escape. The Shahada incomplete in voice, but complete in faith.

Her head lolls forward, her chest rising in one last, shuddering gasp before falling still. The skewer is now fully embedded, the upper half protruding from her mouth, the lower half buried deep within her body. Blood drips steadily from both ends, pooling on the platform beneath her.

The remaining girls stand frozen on the other side of the glass wall, their eyes locked onto Zahra's motionless body. Amara is the first to react, her face twisting into a snarl as she slams her fist against the glass.

"You monster!" she shouts, voice cracking with rage and revulsion. "You don't even blink, do you? You just watch her die like it's nothing!"

Astrid has buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Valeria stands rigid, arms wrapped around herself, her breathing shallow and quick. Talia just sits on the floor, staring blankly into empty space in front of her, her body shaking uncontrollably.

I don’t react – just stand there, staring.

She didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve any of this. She was kind. Selfless. Everything these other girls weren't, and I killed her the same way. Worse, maybe.

My own hands won't stop shaking too. I shove them in my pockets, but even then I can feel the tremor running up my arms, settling in my chest. Zahra's dead eyes follow me as I leave the machine room – or maybe that's just in my head. I take a grim glance at the girls and move towards the exit door.

Amara is already there, blocking my path.

"You enjoyed that," she hisses. "Zahra was good. She was kind. And you still-"

"I know," I snap, surprised by my own venom. "You think I don't know?"

"Then why-"

"Because that's the job!" My voice echoes off the dungeon walls. "That's what I'm here to do! You want me to apologize? That won’t change anything! She's still dead!"

Amara stares at me, and I see the disgust in her face. Or just confirmation that I'm exactly the monster she thought.

"You feel guilty," she says slowly. "But you'll keep doing it anyway. That's worse. That's so much worse."

She's right. But admitting that would break me completely. So instead I double down.

"Yes," I say coldly. "I enjoy it. Raping you. Killing you. All of it. That's why I'm here."

The lie tastes like ash, but it's easier than the truth.

Amara's face hardens.

"Then I hope you drown in your guilt, you sick fuck."

I frown.

"See you tomorrow," I state, my voice cold and detached.

The word hangs in the air like a death sentence itself. Amara's breathing catches, her anger momentarily giving way to something else – fear perhaps, or just the reality of the situation settling in.

"No, wait!" Talia calls out, stepping forward. Her long brown hair hangs in loose waves over her shoulder as takes a few more steps towards me. "You can't just leave us like this, with - "

She gestures toward Zahra's body, her voice breaking. The others remain silent, watching me with varying degrees of terror and desperation.

Of course… I got so overwhelmed that I forgot to instruct the cleaning crew. Time to fix that.

The hazmat-suited figures enter in their eerily silent, measured steps. One wheels a metal cart holding cleaning supplies and heavy-duty bags. The others approach Zahra's body, already reaching for their tools. Her head lolls sideways as the first attendant grips the upper portion of the skewer, testing its resistance.

"Disassemble and sanitize," I command.

The men work methodically, speaking in quiet tones as they disconnect the hydraulics and mechanisms holding the platform together. The first attendant braces himself and pulls the skewer free with a wet, tearing sound. Blood spills onto the floor in a fresh crimson flood as the corpse slumps lifelessly onto the cart.

Amara’s eyes are the only ones to follow me out of the dungeon, their expression pure hatred. I leave before she can see the tremor in my hands.

From my observation room, the five remaining girls appear small and fragile in the large, sterile dungeon. Amara paces like a caged animal, her steps sharp and restless. Talia sits with her back against the wall, fingers tracing meaningless patterns along the padded floor as she stares at the machine room opposite her.

Astrid has folded herself into a corner, knees drawn tightly to her chest. Valeria sits beside her, facing the wall.

“You okay?” Valeria asks softly.

“Fine,” Astrid replies without looking at her. Her voice is flat, stripped of emotion. “It was going to be one of us. Better her than me.”

The words land wrong. Valeria flinches, turning toward her in disbelief. Astrid doesn’t notice – or doesn’t care. She keeps staring at the machine room, eyes hard and glassy, like chipped ice. She doesn’t soften. She doesn’t apologize.

And then there's Emily.

She stands motionless, staring at the place where Zahra’s body had been moments ago. Her face is drained of color, eyes wide and empty. Since I met her, I’ve never seen her so completely absent.

Emily doesn’t blink. Her pupils remain blown wide, breathing shallow and rapid, as if her body has forgotten how to slow down. Her fingers twitch at her sides, small involuntary movements that don’t seem to belong to her anymore.

The others speak to her quietly at first. Then louder. Amara grabs her arm and shouts her name.

Emily doesn’t react.

She keeps staring at the empty space where Zahra had been impaled, as if the room hasn’t caught up with what she’s already seen.

The cleaning crew finishes disassembling the impaler, hauling the components away on a cart. The floor is scrubbed until it glistens, the blood mopped up and hosed down the drain. But Emily remains locked in her vision, as if Zahra is still there, suspended mid-murder. The remaining girls exchange worried glances.

Emily's lips finally move, but no sound comes out. Then, in a small, quavering voice:

"She was... she was still alive." She turns toward the others, her face crumpling. "I saw her chest moving. She was still breathing when they took her away. And then she wasn't."

I leave the observation room deep in thought. Somehow the fact that Zahra was still breathing when she was already impaled seems significant even when my brain tells me it’s not. Amara is right – I am a monster, but I still don’t want to hear those words from her. Don’t want her to be my conscience.

I think that it is probably easy to ride a moral high horse when you are left with no choice but to die. But I have seen it in their eyes, when they thought no one was watching. That flicker of relief when someone else drew a short stick instead of them. That faint, shameful gratitude that it wasn’t me this time. Every one of them had it. Every one of them, for a second, understood what it meant to kill just by not dying.

I wondered, if the roles were reversed, if Amara stood where I stood – would she refuse to kill and choose to die instead? Or would she too torture and kill others? Would other girls? Honestly, the only girl I could picture sacrificing herself in order not to kill was Zahra. But she’s already dead – I murdered her today.

Maybe the only difference between me and them is the choice. Or the illusion of choice – the belief that somehow you are still in control – that turned people into monsters. In the end, we were all the same: people caught in a game they never agreed to play, doing whatever it took not to be the next one to fall.

Day 4

The night is quiet and I get surprisingly good sleep, all things considered.

The remaining girls are awake when I arrive, their faces pale in the cold white lights of the dungeon.
They get up and stand there, looking at me in reluctant silence. I don’t say a word – the five sticks in my hand ready for them to draw, to determine who is not worthy of living. A cruel parody of justice.

Amara steps up first, her movements confident but betrayed by the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat. She selects a stick without hesitation, her fingers wrapping around it tightly. As she pulls the stick out, we both immediately notice it’s a short one – Amara’s defiance has failed her today.

For three days, she's been the voice in my head. Calling me monster, coward, sick fuck. Every word landing like a punch because she's right. And now she is going to die. I feel a rush of something – relief? Vindication? Permission?

She sees it in my face.

Her dark eyes meet mine, burning with hatred, but there's something else beneath it – something I recognize as terror. She's a beautiful woman, even now, her perfect curves taut with adrenaline.

"You wanted this," she says. "You wanted me dead so you don't have to face what you are."

"You chose the saw," I remind her. "You promised you would."

A shudder runs through Amara's body at my words, amber skin paling as I recall her earlier bravado. Her jaw tightens, but her gaze doesn't waver.

"I did," she says, each word precise and controlled. "Not very wise of me, right?" She attempts a smile, but it dies almost immediately.

The other girls exchange glances – they all remember her words from before, how she threw those words into my face as if trying to defy death itself.

"But you're right," She squares her shoulders. "Because I meant what I said. I won't give you the easy death. I'm going to make you watch every second."

For once, we're in agreement. Both of us wanting this to hurt.

“Do you want to say your goodbyes to others?"

I’m still willing to offer her this last grace. Besides, it keeps the drama up, viewers like that.

Amara's gaze flickers toward the other women, her posture stiffening as she considers her options. For a moment, I think she might refuse – maintain that proud defiance to the very end. But something in her face changes. She nods once, sharply.

"Yes," she says, her words strained but firm. "I want that."

Astrid is first to speak.

"Amara," she whispers, her Norwegian accent more pronounced than usual. "You were always kindest to me."

Her words break, her blue eyes glistening as she tries not to hide her gaze like she always does.

Valeria steps forward, her hand outstretched. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs. "I should have- "

"No," Amara interrupts, placing her hand against Valeria's. "Don't. Don't give him anything more." She gives a small, knowing smile. "Remember what I told you? Be strong. Be brave."

She looks at Emily next. "You’re the explorer. Whatever happens, face the future without fear."

Her thumb brushes Emily's knuckles before she pulls away.

Talia stands closest to Amara, her face tear-streaked.

"I wish..." she begins, then shakes her head. "I don't know what I wish. But thank you. For always having been there."

Amara's hand rises to cup Talia's face.

"You listen too much," she says gently. "But that's a good thing. It means you understand people."

She leans forward, pressing her forehead against Talia's for a brief moment before drawing back.

She turns to face me, straightening her shoulders.

"I'm ready."

I open the glass door to the machine room and let Amara go first. Usually defiant, she doesn’t resist this time, as if accepting her fate. It feels strange to know that she will be dead in a few minutes – over these several days it started to seem like she was invulnerable. It looks like the other girls were feeling that too – their faces showing mixed emotions of sadness, disbelief and relief that it’s not their turn today.

The machine room's fluorescent lights cast harsh white beams across Amara's brown skin as I guide her toward the table. Her breathing is controlled, but I notice the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat. She climbs onto the steel surface, positioning herself with steady, practiced movements – like a soldier preparing for inspection.

As she settles into place, the leather restraints catch the overhead lights, their dark surfaces gleaming. She reaches for the arm restraint, her fingers brushing the buckle with surprising gentleness.

"May I?" she asks, her voice steady.

I nod, and she fastens the leather around her own wrist, pulling it tight enough that the veins stand out. I help her with the other restraints. She still doesn’t show fear over what’s to come next.

I step forward, crowding her against the table. Her body tenses as I press against her, but she doesn't resist – just watches me with those dark, steady eyes. Her breath hitches when I grip her hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh there.

"Still time to reconsider," I whisper, leaning close enough that my lips brush the shell of her ear.

Her mouth curls into something almost like a smile.

"Why?" she responds, also in a hush voice. "Would that bother you?"

I laugh softly as I guide my cock between her thighs, dragging it along her slit. She's wet – whether from arousal or fear, it doesn't matter. Either way, her body betrays her.

I push inside her with one smooth thrust, drawing a gasp from her throat. Her back arches slightly, fingers curling against the cold steel table beneath her. Despite the initial shock of penetration, she doesn't cry out – just holds my gaze, face impassive even as I sink deeper.

The warm grip of her cunt clenches around me, her body yielding despite the resistance in her expression. I set a relentless pace from the start, determined to draw some reaction from her – some crack in that composed demeanor. Her teeth sink into her lower lip, her body tensing as I thrust harder, but still she says nothing.

The pace that I set becomes my own enemy as I feel the orgasm coming despite my effort to contain it. Amara's breath catches as I bury myself to the hilt inside her, my release spilling deep. Her body tenses around me, her inner walls fluttering in instinctive response, though she makes no sound. I watch her face for any sign of reaction – any change in those dark eyes – but she keeps them locked on mine, unflinching.

As my grip on her hips tightens, I notice a slight shift in her breathing – just a fraction deeper, slower. Her chest rises and falls with careful precision, as if measuring every movement. When I pull out, her body releases me with a soft sound, the glistening evidence of what I've done trailing down her thigh.

"You always do this." She remarks

I clean my cock and put my pants back on.

"I like it." My voice casual and matter-of-fact.

Her face doesn't change, but something flickers across her features – a subtle tightening around her mouth.

"Of course you do," she says, her words even, measured.

She looks up at me, those dark eyes steady, knowing. There's no accusation in her tone, no challenge either – just simple understanding. She shifts slightly on the table, testing the restraints at her wrists. The leather holds firm, keeping her anchored to the cold steel.

"I didn't expect you to do anything else." Amara's head tilts slightly, considering me. "You take what you want. That is who you are."

“If circumstances were different, I would debate with you about that, Amara.” I say, taking the saw remote into my hand. “For some reason I care about what you think. But we need to finish the job.”

And I press the button.

The circular saw rumbles to life with a low, mechanical whine, its blade spinning in slow, deliberate revolutions. The teeth catch the cold steel table beneath Amara, sending tiny sparks flying as the machinery inches forward. The metal edge glints in the harsh light of the machine room, its dull thrumming filling the space.

Amara's breathing remains steady at first, but as the saw approaches her spread thighs, her fingers tighten against the restraints. She watches the rotating blade with calculated focus, her dark eyes flickering as it closes the distance. I notice the faintest tremor in her arms, a slight parting of her teeth.

"This is it," she murmurs, almost to herself.

Her breath catches as the spinning teeth are mere inches from her delicate folds, the movement of air palpable against her skin. The vibration thrums through her body, and for the first time since I dragged her to this machine, true fear flashes across her face.

"Don't look away," I tell her softly, gripping her chin.

She locks eyes with me, those dark irises wide, pupils dilated. Her chest heaves with shallow breaths as the saw inches closer with a soft buzz. A tiny gasp escapes her when the blade makes contact, the first fleeting cut. Her thighs quiver, restraints creaking under the force of her grip.

"It's..."

The circular saw blade carves through Amara's flesh with methodical brutality, severing muscle and bone in one fluid motion. Her body convulses violently as the metal edge starts parting her in half, splitting her lower torso cleanly down the middle.

A wet, tearing sound fills the machine room as the saw works its way through her pelvic bone. Amara's scream pierces the air – a raw, primal sound of agony that reverberates off the dungeon walls. Blood sprays in crimson arcs, painting the transparent barrier separating the remaining girls from the horror unfolding before them.

This is what I wanted. To break her. To make her suffer. To prove that all her moral superiority meant nothing in the end.

But as the blade carves through her pelvis, splitting her in half, I don't feel victorious. I feel sick.

My grip on her chin tightens as the saw continues its relentless ascent, her scream breaking into a gurgle as it slices through internal organs. A sickening squelch accompanies the blade as it rips through her liver, then her stomach. Amara's body jerks involuntarily, her back arching against the restraints as if resisting the inevitable.

"Almost there," I murmur, watching as the saw nears her ribs.

Her blood splashes up, streaking my shirt in warm stripes. I can see the exact moment the saw bites into her chest cavity – her scream shifts, turning hoarse as her lungs fill with blood. Amara's face contorts in a silent scream, her mouth hanging open as the blade finally cuts clean through. Her eyes find mine one last time before the saw completes its work, severing her head from torso with a wet snap. Her body slumps against the restraints, dark blood pouring from the giant wound stretching across its whole length.

Even in death, she's still looking at me. Still witnessing. Still judging.

I stand there, covered in her blood, and realize: she was right about everything. And now she's gone, and I have to face that alone.

The remaining girls watch in horrified silence. Astrid looks away immediately, while Talia's hands fly to her mouth. Valeria's fingers dig into her own thighs, and Emily stares with a mixture of terror and fascination.

I wipe Amara's blood from my hands with a towel, the metallic smell still heavy in the air. The four remaining girls press themselves against the far wall of the dungeon, creating as much distance as possible from the transparent barrier that separates them from the carnage.

Valeria's usually confident posture has crumbled – her arms wrap tightly around herself as she rocks slightly. Astrid's face is pale, her blonde hair sticking to the sweat on her neck. Talia stares at the spot where Amara's mutilated torso still lies strapped to the saw table, with a visible tremor in her hands.

When I leave the machine room and enter the dungeon, Emily finally breaks her trance-like state. She straightens her posture, forcing herself to look at me despite the bloodstains on my shirt. Her brown eyes flicker to the two halves of Amara's body still strapped to the saw table before returning to me.

“I won’t forget to clean up today, don’t worry.” I tell her, giving a signal to the cleaning crew.

The four remaining girls remain pressed against the far wall of the dungeon, watching in numb silence as the hazmat-suited figures methodically disassemble the circular saw, each motion precise and practiced. The saw blade, still slick with Amara's blood, is carefully detached and placed in a wheeled container. The table is dismantled piece by piece, what remains of Amara's body transferred onto a gurney with a thick plastic sheet beneath it.

I take a final look at the girls before leaving the dungeon. Valeria has her arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched. Astrid's head remains tilted down, staring at the floor, her fingers interlaced so tightly they whiten at the knuckles.

The observation room's monitors provide a clear view of the dungeon. The remaining four girls look exhausted, their earlier strength worn away by the relentless violence they've witnessed. Astrid sits cross-legged on the floor, her face buried in her hands. Valeria paces the whole length of the open space, her bare feet padding quietly against the soft floor. Talia stands near the door, her arms crossed as she watches the cleaning crew finish their grisly work. Emily remains near the glass wall. She studies the cleaning process as if memorizing each step, her fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of the deadly machines on the other side of the barrier. Nobody speaks.

Amara was the center of gravity – the one who gave their fear a voice, who verbalized what they were all thinking. With her gone, they're just... scattered. Lost.

And I'm lost too.

She was my enemy. My conscience. My excuse to keep being cruel – to prove her right, to justify her hatred, to match her anger with violence. Without her, I'm just a man torturing women for money. No philosophical battle. No moral crusade. Just... cruelty for cruelty's sake. I listen to myself, trying to understand what I feel, but my head and chest seem strangely empty and absent of all emotion.

My hands aren't shaking anymore. I'm not sure if that means I'm getting used to it, or if I've just broken something inside myself that can't be fixed.

I study my hands in the dim light of the observation room. Steady. Calm. Capable. Monster hands.

Amara was right. And I killed her for it.

Tomorrow there will be only four girls left. And no one to tell me what I am.

I'll have to figure that out for myself.

Day 5

I spend a good portion of the night in the observation room watching the remaining girls sleep. I feel like this could connect me back to my humanity, though I don’t know if that’s what I really want.

The night passes in darkness, broken only by the occasional whimpers from the girls and the steady hum of machinery keeping the dungeon at a precisely comfortable temperature for their naked bodies. I monitor their sleep patterns on the observation screens – Valeria tossing and turning, Astrid curled into a fetal position, Talia staring at the ceiling for hours, Emily dozing fitfully.

As the morning comes, the artificial light in the dungeon flickers on. From my vantage point, I watch as the girls wake slowly, groggily. They're sluggish, moving with the stiffness of exhaustion and fear. Emily sits up first, pushing her hair from her face with fingers that tremble slightly.

I wait for them to complete their morning routine. They probably think I observe them all the time, but this is actually the first time I watch them use the toilet. Everything looks so casual, except for them being naked in the dungeon of course. Time to stir things up once again.

The four girls stand stiffly in a loose semicircle as I enter. The atmosphere crackles with tension, fear emanating from their bodies in waves. I observe the changes in them from yesterday – Valeria's face is drawn and pale beneath her tan, Astrid's hair is messier than before, Talia's hands haven't stopped shaking since she woke.

I reach into my pocket and produce the four sticks, holding them out. They're identical save for their lengths. I present them to the girls.

"Choose," I say simply.

Astrid surprises me as she steps forward first, her blue eyes meeting mine with a determined stare. She snatches the stick second from the right without hesitation. It's a long one, and I see the barely noticeable relief in her eyes, while the other girls freeze in fear.

Emily swallows hard before selecting the middle stick. It's also a long one. Her hands shake as she clutches it to her chest.

Valeria steps up next, her movements measured and precise. She examines the two sticks for an impossibly long moment before selecting the one on the left. She pulls it out and her hand stops halfway when she realizes what just happened. Her face becomes pale and hand holding the stick starts to shake like a tree branch in the wind. Finally she makes a conscious effort and calms herself down, lips curling into a faint, bitter smile as she processes her fate. Her fingers tighten around the short stick until knuckles bleach white.

"I have survived this far," she says, words carrying an unmistakable edge of defiance despite the strain in her throat. "I will not give you the satisfaction of seeing me break."

She steps closer to the transparent wall, dark eyes assessing the few options left.

"The noose. I want to look at your face as I die. I want you to see the life leave my eyes." Her words are spoken without wavering, but there’s tremor in her jaw.

The girls freeze as she says that. For a moment, the dungeon is utterly silent save for the distant whir of machinery and Valeria's breathing. She remains rooted in place, staring at me with dark, furious eyes. Then she turns to her friends.

I give the girls a brief moment to say their goodbyes, Valeria affectionately hugging each one of them before turning back to me. She wipes at her face with the back of her hand and squares her shoulders.

"I'm ready," she says firmly.

Valeria's breathing becomes shallow as I lead her toward the machine room. Her bare feet make soft sounds against the cold stone floor, and her shoulders remain rigid with tension. When I reach the metal table beside the noose, she doesn't resist as I secure her wrists behind her back with leather straps. The bindings creak softly as she tests them, her movements controlled and precise.

She lies down on the metal table, the cold surface making her shiver. Her gaze never leaves my face as I lift her legs up.

"You are going to fuck me first, yes?" she asks, her voice quiet but steady. "I thought you will want to.”

My hands move to Valeria's thighs, spreading them wide as I position myself between them. She tenses but doesn't resist as I thrust inside her. Her breath hitches as I fill her, her back arching slightly against the cold metal table. Her dark eyes flash with something unreadable – hatred mingled with defiance, perhaps even a flicker of reluctant arousal.

"I will not give you the satisfaction of watching me come," she breathes, but I notice the slight catch in her words.

“We’ll see about that.” I parry with a smirk.

I have something special in mind for her.

It doesn’t take me long to come. Valeria's body tightens around me as I spill inside her, her walls clenching involuntarily even as she grits her teeth. Her face contorts into a scowl, but she keeps her gaze locked with mine, defiant to the last.

"Enjoy it," she says bitterly, speaking roughly. Her hips shift slightly, still feeling my presence inside her. "Get off me now. I want this over with."

There's no pleading in her tone – only contempt and a burning need for this to end. Her breathing comes fast and shallow, sweat beading on her brow despite the chill in the room.

“Valeria, do you know that strangulation causes the blood to flow to a person’s genitals, greatly increasing the sense of arousal?” I ask as I pick an egg-shaped vibrator from the side table. “You’re going to die having crazy orgasms one after another.”

I press a small button on the side and the vibrator starts emitting a barely audible buzzing.

"Why the vibrator?" Valeria asks, voice strained. "Why make it pleasure?"

I pause. Why am I doing this? Because it's expected? Because I'm trying to prove something?

"Because that's how it's done," I say, but the answer feels hollow even as I say it.

She laughs bitterly.

"You don't even know why anymore, yes?"

She's right. I'm just following a script I wrote myself, and I can't remember why.

But I continue anyway. Because stopping now would mean admitting I've been wrong all along.

Valeria's entire body tenses as the vibrator enters her, her back arching off the table. A choked gasp escapes her before she bites her lip hard enough to leave marks. Her fingers clutch at the leather restraints, knuckles whitening as the vibrations pulse through her.

"Cazzo... figlio di puttana," she hisses through clenched teeth.

Her thighs tremble, muscles straining against the bonds. Despite herself, her hips shift slightly, the movement small but undeniable. Sweat glistens on her stomach, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She turns her face away, refusing to look at me.

"Just... just do it already." Her words crack despite the bravado.

“Not so fast,” I say, picking a sewing kit with a thick needle from the side table. “We need to make sure the vibrator stays inside of you the whole time.”

Valeria's breath comes in short, ragged gasps as the needle pierces her flesh, joining the constant vibration of the buzzing toy. Her body contorts on the table, muscles straining against the restraints as she tries to twist away from the pain. A strangled cry escapes her as the needle passes through her inner walls, her back arching violently off the metal surface.

"C-cazzo... no... no no no no..." She chokes on the words, tears cutting tracks down her face.

The first stitch burns like fire as I tighten it, drawing a full-throated scream from her. Her hips jerk helplessly, trapped by the tight bindings.

"Per favore... please, just... stop this..."

Valeria's scream rips through the air as the needle pierces her again, the second stitch drawing fresh blood as it tightens. Her entire body convulses, the leather straps creaking under the strain. Tears stream down her face, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as she struggles for breath through the agony.

"Dio... Dio mio... fermati... please..." Her words crack and break, the Italian prayer mixing with English pleas.

The vibrator continues its relentless buzz inside her, making her inner muscles spasm around the threads I’m weaving through her flesh. Fresh blood wells around the needle as you pull the next stitch tight, forcing another scream from her.

"P-Please... John..."

The final stitch pulls tight with a cruel jerk, yanking at the sensitive flesh of her pussy lips. Valeria's scream turns guttural, her back arching so violently that the table groans beneath her. Her chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath, muscles straining as tremors run through her body.

"F-Fu-ck..." she gasps, each word broken by shallow, ragged breaths.

Tears stream down her face, cutting through the sweat and blood on her skin. Her thighs quiver, legs splayed wide, showing the crude work I've just performed. The vibrator still hums inside her, the sewn entrance fluttering slightly around it.

I lift Valeria up and place her on an elevated platform, helping her stand upright. She struggles, legs shaking from the pain she just endured and from the sensations the vibrator is sending to her body. I reach for the noose that is hanging menacingly above her head.

Valeria's breath comes in ragged, shuddering gasps as the noose tightens around her neck. Her body tenses as she fights the instinct to struggle, knowing it will only tighten the rope faster. Blood trickles from the stitches in her pussy, mingling with the sweat dripping down her thighs. The vibrator inside her continues its relentless hum, the tight seam I've created working against the movement.

"Th-this is... insane." She mumbles, her jaw trembling, teeth audibly chattering.

I walk a few steps back and press the button on the machine’s controls. The platform lowers with a soft hiss, the noose gradually beginning to tighten. Valeria's breath catches as the pressure increases around her throat, her chest rising and falling faster. The vibrator, still trapped inside her sewn pussy, creates an unbearable pulse through her core – the tight stitching amplifying every subtle movement.

"M-Madre de Dio..." she chokes out, fingers twitching where they're bound behind her.

The noose has yet to cut off her air completely, but the constriction makes each breath feel heavier. Her knees tremble slightly, muscles straining as she fights to keep her balance.

"I actually think you picked the best death Valeria,” I tell her while she can still hear me. “You get to go with pleasure and fireworks."

Valeria's eyes blaze with fury as the platform sinks another inch, the noose cutting deeper into her throat.

"P-Pleasure?" she gasps, her voice strangled and desperate. "You call this... this... cazzo!"

The vibrator's relentless buzz creates an agonizing rhythm inside her stitched pussy, the threads pulling taut with every pulse. Blood seeps from the wounds, mixing with her sweat as her body shudders. Her breathing grows more labored as the noose constricts further, her face beginning to flush from the lack of oxygen.

"I will... I will fucking kill you... after... I come back..."

The noose bites deep now, Valeria's breath coming in ragged, choked gasps. Her toes scrabble desperately for purchase on the diminishing platform, finding only cold air. The pressure around her throat makes her vision darken at the edges as she struggles to maintain consciousness.

"Merda... merda..." she wheezes, her entire body taut like a bowstring.

The vibrator inside her feels like an alien presence, the tight stitching working against it as the toy pulses deep in her core. Her pussy convulses around the buzzing shaft despite her suffering, betraying her body's instinctive response to stimulation.

"I will not... die... like this... f-fuck you..."

Valeria's body jerks spasmodically as the platform disappears, her full weight suspended by the noose. Her throat makes a horrible cracking sound as the pressure increases exponentially, her face purpling with the blood forced upward by the constriction. The vibrator continues its merciless work inside her, the stitches pulling tight as her pussy convulses with involuntary contractions. Her back arches violently as orgasm approaches, despite – or perhaps because of – the agony tearing through her. Tears stream down her face as her body betrays her, the pleasure-pain feedback loop driving her toward an inevitable, horrific climax.

Valeria's body seizes, every muscle locking tight as the orgasm rips through her. The noose cuts deeper, forcing her head forward as she screams silently, her mouth working soundlessly. Her pussy clenches around the trapped vibrator, blood and fluids seeping from the sewn entrance mixed with urine as she loses control over her bladder. Then her back arches in a final, convulsive spasm.

For a moment, just a moment, her eyes roll back, white showing as the combined pain and pleasure overwhelms her nervous system. Then, as suddenly as it came, the spasm ends, her body going slack in the noose. Only the faintest twitches remain.

Valeria hangs, dying slowly, her body convulsing with unwanted orgasms from the vibrator. It should be arousing. Horrifying. Something.

Instead I just feel tired.

She locks eyes with me, and instead of the hatred I expected, I see pity.

Pity.

She's dying a horrific death and she pities me.

That's when I realize: I've become exactly what Amara said I was. Not a monster – monsters feel something. I've become a machine. Going through the motions of cruelty because that's the program I'm running.

Valeria's eyes flutter closed. The orgasm and strangulation finally kill her.

And I feel nothing.

That's what scares me most.

I force myself to take my eyes off her body and scan the faces of the remaining survivors – they all seem frozen, caught between horror and revulsion. Emily cowers in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself as if she could physically ward off what she's just witnessed. Talia's hands clutch her mouth, her face pale, wide eyes staring at the dangling body of her former companion.

But it's Astrid who captures my attention. She sits in a fetal position on the floor, rocking back and forth. Her face is stained with tears, her blonde hair sticking to her wet cheeks. When she notices me watching her, she doesn't flinch or look away – she glares at me with pure, undiluted hatred.

When I exit the machine room, Astrid is not crying anymore. She sits perfectly still, her eyes locked on the wall, behind which Valeria’s body is hanging in the noose. Her face is eerily composed, her breathing slow and controlled. When she speaks, her voice carries an edge I haven't heard before, stripped of its usual hesitance and replaced with something harder, sharper.

"You're going to pay for this."

Her words emerge soft yet precise, slicing through the silence like a knife. She speaks with an unsettling calm, as if she's measuring each syllable for maximum impact. Talia glances at her, brow furrowing with concern, but Astrid doesn't acknowledge her. Her focus remains locked on the torture implements, her fingers twitching slightly against the floor.

"Pay?" My voice is smooth, measured. "For what exactly, Astrid? For the show? For keeping you alive? Or for the creative way I made your friend come while she died?"

She doesn't flinch. She stares directly at me.

"For making her feel it. For making her enjoy it. That's the worst part." She speaks steadily now, stripped of its earlier grief. "You made her feel pleasure right before you killed her."

I wonder what has gotten into her – a girl that before today was hiding her face so often that I almost forgot what it looked like. It’s almost as if Amara has come back from the dead and took over Astrid’s body. I don’t believe in supernatural, but given the atrocities I have already committed, the thought is a bit unnerving.

With these thoughts I order the cleanup of the machine room and leave the dungeon.

The cleaning crew, clad in hazmat suits, methodically begins the process of removing Valeria's body. They maneuver the pulley system, lifting her dangling form away from the hook and lowering it to the floor. The ropes that once held the platform are unclipped, and the entire assembly is disassembled with mechanical precision.

As they work, Valeria's body remains stiff and lifeless. Blood has pooled beneath her, creating a grotesque halo on the concrete. The vibrator still hums inside her sewn pussy, the buzzing audible even over the cleaning crew's activity. One of the workers carefully extracts it, the slick shaft pulling free with a wet sound that carries across the silent chamber.

I walk to my living quarters to get some rest, as I intend to keep watching the girls during the night. I catch myself thinking about how Valeria died and getting turned on by that. I try to shut it down, be ashamed by this fact but deep inside I know that my dark side enjoyed watching her final moments.

Day 6

The night passes in tense silence. I check the cameras periodically, watching the three remaining girls as they attempt to sleep. Emily curls into a ball, hugging herself tightly as if trying to disappear. Talia lies awake, staring at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes. Astrid remains sitting up, her back pressed against the wall, legs folded beneath her. She doesn't sleep.

Dawn creeps into the dungeon, the dim artificial lights flickering to life automatically. I stand in the observation room, hands clasped behind my back, watching the girls stir. Emily wakes up, flinching as she remembers where she is. Astrid and Talia who didn’t sleep, remain motionless on their mats.

Three pairs of eyes turn toward me as I enter the room. Each woman knows what comes next – they've seen it happen to their friends, have heard their screams and pleas. Astrid doesn't move, just watches me approach with those pale blue eyes that seem to see right through me.

Emily whimpers when I approach them.

"Please," she whispers, her voice faint. "I just want to go home."

I don't answer, just stretch out my hand with three sticks in it.

Astrid draws first, her hand moving mechanically. She reveals the stick.

Long.

Emily draws next, her stick wavering in her grip, its length identical to Astrid’s.

Talia already understands that the only stick left in my hand is a short one. Her face drains of color as she realizes what that means.

"No," she breathes, her voice scarcely audible. "Please, I don't want to die."

Her eyes dart from me to the other girls, then to the glass partition where the torture chambers wait beyond.

Astrid doesn't react at all. She just watches, her expression blank, as Talia begins to cry silently.

Looking at her, I suddenly feel compassion that I thought I already lost, traces of my humanity reminding me they still exist. I squirm inside – it was much easier for me to kill these girls when they were brash and defiant, not like... this.

Before I consciously decide to do it, I'm pulling her into a hug.

She stiffens – expecting violence, degradation, the usual script. But then she relaxes into me, sobbing against my chest. My hand strokes through her ash-brown hair, feeling the soft strands beneath my fingers. She clings to me, arms wrapping around my waist as if trying to physically anchor herself to life.

And something shifts.

This feels... good. Not arousing. Not powerful. Just... human. Connected.

When was the last time someone just held me? When was the last time I held someone without it being a prelude to violence?

"I'm scared," she whispers into my shirt. "Please don't make me go in there."

I don't answer immediately, just continue stroking her hair while she trembles against me. When I finally speak, my words are quiet but firm.

"I know," I hear myself say.

And I do know. For the first time, I actually understand what I'm putting them through.

"I won't lie to you, Talia. You're going to die today. But I will try to make it... more bearable." I hold her tight, listening to her heartbeat so close to mine. “Drowning would be a less painful option.”

Talia pulls back slightly, wiping at her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. Her body still trembles against me, but her expression hardens with resolve. The terror hasn't left her – I can feel her heart hammering against my chest – but she's trying to process what I’m offering.

"I don't want to drown," she says finally, voice unsteady but clear. "It sounds... weird, I know." She shudders. "But I’m afraid of water, panicked by thinking of suffocating in it. I’d rather choose dismemberment over that."

The request surprises me indeed – I slowly take my hands off Talia and let her say final words to her friends.

Talia turns to Emily first, who's crying openly now, her muscular frame shaking. Talia wraps her arms around her friend, holding her close. Emily clings to her like a child, burying her face in Talia's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," Emily whispers between sobs. "I wish I could take your place." Talia kisses her on the forehead.

"It's okay," she says, voice cracking. "You need to be strong now. One of you will survive this."

Emily nods, her tears still falling, and I notice how she struggles to hold herself together for her friend.

Talia moves to Astrid next, who watches with an unreadable expression. Her face is tight, her arms crossed, but when Talia approaches, she doesn't move away.

"Thank you," Talia says, placing a hand on Astrid's arm. "For everything. You kept me from going crazy in here."

Astrid doesn't respond at first, just looks at Talia with those blue eyes, sharp as a blade. Then she exhales through her nose and pulls Talia into a rough embrace.

"I don't know how to say goodbye," Astrid mutters, words thick.

When Talia turns back to me, the tears are still rolling from her eyes, but she looks a little more determined now. I gently take her hand a lead her to face her fate.

The machine room is colder than the dungeon – metal and disinfectant thick in the air. Talia shivers in my arms as I pull her against me. She buries her face in my chest, breathing in shallow, shuddering breaths.

"It'll be okay," I murmur, pressing my cheek against the top of her head.

My hand strokes down her back, feeling the warm skin beneath my fingers. She clings to me, fingers curling into the material of my shirt, knuckles white.

"I'm afraid," she whispers.

It's barely audible, but I feel the vibration of it against my chest. Her body is taut with tension, like a drawn bowstring.

My lips meet hers in a kiss that starts gentle, almost hesitant. Her mouth is soft, still cold from the dungeon's chill. For a moment, she doesn't respond – too stunned, maybe too overwhelmed – but then her lips part slightly, letting me deepen it. Her fingers tighten against my shirt, pulling me closer.

It's not passionate. There's no heat, no hunger. Just something tender, something final. When I finally pull back, her gray eyes are wide, dark with unshed tears. She blinks them away quickly, biting her lower lip.

"Why?" she asks in a quiet voice.

I don't answer right away. I don't have a good answer.

“I… I don’t know.”

And I don't. This wasn't planned. Wasn't strategic. I just... wanted to. Wanted to see what it felt like to treat one of them like a person instead of a victim.

Turns out it feels better. So much better than the cruelty ever did. This connection, this tenderness – this feels like being human again.

“I don’t really enjoy doing this, you know. And you’re so… vulnerable.” I shrug. “I want to be kind to you before you die.”

Talia's breath hitches at my words, and for a second, something raw flashes across her face – vulnerability, gratitude, and something darker, deeper. Her fingers uncurl from my shirt, brushing along the fabric before dropping away. She doesn't look away, though. She watches me steadily, gray irises reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above.

"Kind," she repeats softly.

There's no question in it – just a quiet observation, like she's turning the word over in her mind, examining it from different angles.
"But you're still going to kill me."

"Yes." There's no point lying. "But maybe... maybe I can make it different. Not degrading."

She studies my face for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nods.

"Okay," she whispers. "Be kind to me. I'll let you."

That permission breaks something in me. Or maybe fixes something. I'm not sure which.

I look into her eyes and lower my lips to hers. Our second kiss is slower this time, deliberate. Talia lets out a small sound against my mouth – half a whimper, half a sigh – and melts into me with a shiver. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling against my shoulders as if anchoring herself. The way she kisses me back isn't practiced or seductive; it's clumsy in its honesty, hesitant at first before deepening.

I move closer, pressing her against the cold metal wall of the machine room. My hands roam over her body, feeling the shape of her skinny curves. She shudders when my palm cups her breast, but doesn't pull away. If anything, she arches into the touch, breathing faster.

My fingers press into the soft flesh of Talia's breast, feeling her breath catch as I gently squeeze it. She tenses for just a second before relaxing into the touch, her head tilting back against the wall. When I reach between her legs, she exhales sharply, her hips twitching as my fingers brush over her smooth pussy.

"You want this?" I murmur against her ear, fingers curling slightly, pressing harder.

Her eyelids flutter, but she nods, quick and certain.

"Yes," she breathes, already arching into my touch.

I can feel how wet she is already, her body responding despite – or maybe because of – the situation.

She whimpers as I slide my fingers into her folds, feeling the slick heat there. I hear her gasp as I thrust two fingers inside her, her back arching off the wall slightly. Her inner walls clench around me, wet and tight.

"Oh God," she breathes, fingers digging into my shoulders. "Fuck."

I watch her face – eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted, lips damp from our earlier kisses. Her breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly as I pump my fingers inside her. Her hips rock subtly against my hand, seeking more friction.

My fingers thrust into Talia's pussy with ruthless precision, curling just right to hit that sweet spot inside her. She lets out a sharp cry, her nails digging into my shoulders as her hips jerk forward, taking me deeper. The wall at her back offers no give, trapping her against me as I finger her harder. Her breath comes in short gasps now, her face flushing pink as she grinds down onto my hand.

"John – fuck – please-” she gasps, her voice breaking as I add a third finger, stretching her open.

Her inner walls clench around me, wet and hot, and I can feel her getting close already. Her body shakes, tense with pleasure and pain.

She's getting close. Her pussy clamps down around my fingers, fluttering as I hook them inside her, pressing against that sensitive spot. Her back arches off the wall, head thrown back as she gasps my name again, higher this time, more desperate. I can feel her thighs quivering, muscles taut as she tries to grind against my hand for more friction.

"Come for me," I murmur against her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

She shudders violently, her fingers scrabbling against my shoulders as her orgasm hits. Her pussy spasms around my fingers, slick heat gushing over my hand as she cries out, the sound raw and broken.

I hold her tight against the wall as she shudders through the aftershocks, her body limp but still twitching. Her pussy keeps clenching around my fingers, slowly easing as her breathing gradually steadies. She blinks up at me, her face still flushed. Her gray eyes look darker now, pupils blown wide with residual pleasure.

"That was-" she starts, but then stops, swallowing hard. She licks her lips, gaze dropping briefly before returning to mine. "That was... good."

I remove my fingers slowly, bringing them to my mouth and sucking her juices clean while watching her reaction. She bites her lip, watching me with something between fascination and embarrassment.

"I liked it too,” I reply, looking into her eyes. “You're the best, Talia. But unfortunately all good things come to an end."

Talia's lips part slightly as she watches me clean her arousal from my fingers, her gray eyes dark with lingering pleasure and apprehension. She swallows hard, her breath still uneven from the orgasm I just gave her. At my words, she exhales shakily, nodding once like she knew this moment was coming but still wasn't ready for it.

"Thank you," she exhales, her fingers twitching against my chest.

Her body is still warm from what just happened, skin flushed. I can smell her on your hand – earthy and sweet. I press my palm against the side of her face, tilting her chin up so she meets my gaze.

"I meant what I said. You're the best."

My lips meet Talia's with a gentleness that contradicts the violence I’m about to inflict. She parts for me immediately, the taste of her still on my tongue. The kiss is deep, slow – almost tender in its intensity. Her arms wrap around my neck as she kisses me back, putting all the fear and desperation and reluctant desire she feels into it.

When I finally break the kiss, she gasps, breath coming in short bursts. Her gray eyes look huge in the dim light of the machine room, tears clinging to her lower lashes. She sees the machine behind me – metal blades glinting, the seat waiting with cold, impersonal efficiency. The Dismembering Station.

Day 6 (continued)

The cold metal bites into her skin as I help her onto the bench and adjust her position – her back resting against the backrest, her breasts lifted slightly on the metal supports. She shivers, not just from the temperature but from the inevitability of what's coming. Her gray eyes track my movements as I secure each limb with straps – left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg.

"Wait-" she gasps when you start adjusting the supports around her breasts.

Her breath comes faster as the cold metal presses against her sensitive flesh. She looks down at herself, watching helplessly as I position her nipples against the metal studs designed to keep them from pulling too far when the cutting begins.

"This is so fucked up."

I pause the preparations and embrace her bare shoulders from behind.

"Do you want me to hold you while this is done?" I whisper to her.

Talia's body goes rigid as the metal studs press against her nipples, her breath coming in sharp gasps. She turns her head and her gray eyes meet mine, and for a second there's something almost grateful in them before it's replaced by raw terror. She nods frantically, her teeth chattering.

"Yes. Please. Just – just stay with me. Don't leave me alone for this." Her voice breaks on the last word, tears streaming down her face.

She tries to pull against the restraints, but the metal holds firm, leaving angry red marks on her pale skin.

"Hold me, John. I don’t want – can't be alone for this."

I hug Talia from behind and kiss her, my fingers finding the button and activating the machine.

Talia's back arches violently as a skewer erupts from the left side of the machine, piercing her breast with a wet squelch. A strangled scream tears from her throat as I hold her against me, my mouth still pressed to hers in a brutal, silent kiss. She thrashes in my arms, her body convulsing as the metal rod emerges from the right side of her breast.

My lips muffle her scream as blood trickles from the wound, warm and metallic. She tastes like iron and salt when I force my tongue into her mouth, swallowing her next cry. Her body trembles uncontrollably, her arms pulling uselessly against the restraints, legs kicking weakly.

"F-feels like fire -"

Talia's scream rips from her throat like a gash as the continues its path, now piercing her right breast as well. She thrashes wildly in my arms, her body contorting as the metal rod emerges from the other side of her breast, blood streaming down her sides in crimson streams. Her gray eyes roll back, showing only white as she gasps for air.

"J-john -" she chokes out my name, her voice raw with pain and terror.

Talia's body jerks violently as my fingers slide between her legs, my other hand cupping her pierced breast. The metal studs keep her nipples in place as I massage them, thumb rubbing over the point where the skewer entered. Her pussy is soaked – fear mixed with perverse arousal.

"Oh god -" she gasps as my fingers find her clit. Her hips buck involuntarily, pushing against my hand even as her body betrays her with pain. Tears stream down her face, mixing with the blood on her chest, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

"I- it hurts so bad -"

A spinning blade emerges from underneath her breast, wet sound of it slicing through flesh mingles with Talia's high-pitched scream. I feel her body convulse as the first cut separates her left breast completely, warm blood gushing over my hand. She bucks against my grip, her pussy pulsing around my fingers despite the horror of what's happening.

"Ahhh! Fuck! FUCK!" Her words fracture, her head thrashing against my shoulder.

Her skin grows clammy with sweat as she hyperventilates, her nails digging into my arms where she's still restrained. The blade rises again, moving toward her right breast.

"I- can't- can't take this-"

The blade moves with mechanical precision, slicing cleanly through the base of Talia's right breast. She shrieks as the severed flesh hits the metal table with a wet slap, arterial blood spraying in crimson arcs. Her body convulses, muscles locking and releasing in violent spasms as her nerves scream in agony.

"M-Mother of god-" Her words come between gritted teeth, each syllable punched out with her ragged breaths.

She's sweating profusely now, her skin slick and pale where it's not coated in blood. I can feel her heart pounding frantically against my arm, her chest heaving as she struggles to process the trauma. I press her harder against my chest, whispering nothings in her ear to try and calm her down.

Talia screams as another circular saw roars to life, its teeth chewing through muscle and bone of her arm with obscene ease. Her body jerks violently in my embrace as the blade severs her left arm just below the shoulder, the metal disc spinning faster and faster. Blood sprays in hot pulses against my chest as I hold her tight.

"S-sh-sh-" she babbles, her breathing erratic and panicked.

I feel her shoulder hitch with another sob as the saw finishes its work, the severed limb dropping onto the table with a dull thud. Talia's head lolls back against me, her eyes rolling wildly in their sockets.

Talia's scream cuts off abruptly as the second saw tears through her remaining arm, severing it completely. The limb tumbles to the table, her body convulsing as her nerves fire their last desperate signals. Blood pools beneath her as she sways in my arms, her eyes fluttering.

She whispers something unintelligible, her words slurred as blood loss clouds her mind. Her skin grows cold against my chest, her pulse weakening as she struggles to breathe. The saws power down with a mechanical whir, leaving only the drip of her blood echoing in the chamber.

"S-still... here... s-somewhere..."

The circular saw emerges from beneath the table with a hydraulic hiss, its whirring teeth chewing into Talia's left thigh. Her back arches violently as the blade bites through flesh and bone. A wet crunch echoes as the saw completes its work, severing the leg cleanly.

"Nnngh... F-f-f-f-fuck..." Talia's words come in broken gasps now, her strength ebbing away with every pulse of blood from the stump.

Her body slumps against mine, but she still twitches when I adjust my grip around her torso. Her breathing grows shallow and rapid, her skin growing clammy.

The second saw rises from the table, its teeth slicing through the soft flesh of Talia's right thigh. She lets out a strangled gasp as the blade meets bone, her back arching in a final spasm. Her blood sprays across the saw housing in thick ropes as the machine works, grinding down to the pelvis.

For a moment, she's silent save for her ragged breathing, then a shudder runs through her body as the saw completes its work. The severed limb drops to the table with a wet thud, her remaining torso quivering in my arms. Talia's head lolls forward, strands of her matted hair sticking to her sweat-slicked face.

The final blade descends with merciful swiftness, slicing through Talia's abdomen in one smooth motion. Her stomach cavity yawns open like a grotesque mouth, spilling warm coils of intestines onto the metal table with a wet slap. She gasps sharply at the initial incision, her head jerking back against my shoulder.

"J-John..." she breathes, barely audible.

Her eyes have gone glassy now, unfocused, but there's still something there – something desperate and aware. The machines whir softly around me, the smell of blood hanging heavy in the air.

"F-feels... strange..."

I lift Talia's limp form with surprising ease, her body now light and strangely boneless. Her head lolls against my shoulder as I carry her to the nearby table, her body feeling almost flaccid in my arms. The exposed coils of her intestines shift with my movement, slithering slightly as I lower her onto the cold metal surface.

Talia's eyes flicker open briefly, focusing with what seems like an effort as I adjust her position. A shudder runs through her as the chill of the metal seeps into her skin, her breathing shallow and labored.

My lips meet Talia's in a final, tender touch. She's still warm, but her skin has a terrible pallor now, almost gray in places where the blood has pooled away from her extremities. She parts her mouth slightly in response to my kiss, her breath coming in short, wet gasps.

I stroke her damp hair, feeling how the strands cling together with sweat and blood. Her eyes flutter closed, then open again with visible effort.

"You... kept your word," she murmurs. The words crack as they leave her mouth.

Her breathing comes in wet, rattling gasps now, each one shallower than the last. Blood trickles from the corners of her mouth, and she watches me with an expression of exhausted peace – of resignation and, oddly, gratitude. Her eye lids flutter closed, then open again with visible effort.

"H-hold me..."

I gather Talia's broken body against my chest, cradling her with gentleness that surprises even myself. Her torso is slick with blood and bile, the wound gaping open where her abdomen was cut apart.

For the first time since this started, I cry. Not shaking. Not trembling. Just tears running down my face as I feel her heartbeat fade against my chest.

Talia's breathing falters, exhalations wet and bubbling now. Her eyes focus on me with surprising clarity, even as death takes her. She presses her forehead against my neck, her skin cool and sweaty. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, slowing to a feeble rhythm. Her body shudders slightly – whether from the cold or the final remnants of life, I can't tell.

"Thank you," she whispers with her last breath.

Thank you.

For what? For killing her gently? For making her death bearable? For treating her like a person in her final moments?

I don't know. But something fundamental has shifted.

Cruelty didn't make this easier. Detachment didn't make it bearable. But kindness... kindness made it meaningful. Made her death about her instead of about me.

And somehow, that feels right.

I turn my head towards the transparent wall. Emily is curled up on her bench, her face buried against her knees, her entire body shaking. Her long blonde hair hangs in limp strands around her face. I can hear the faintest whimpers escaping her.

Astrid stands frozen in place, her expression unreadable. She watches Talia's death in silence, her blue eyes icy and bottomless. There's no shock in her face, no fear – just a cold, calculating understanding. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, fingers digging into her biceps hard enough to leave marks.

"Poor Talia," Astrid says finally, her words smooth and measured. She doesn't look away from Talia's face as she speaks.

I maintain my embrace of Talia's cooling body. Her skin has taken on that unsettling waxy quality of the freshly dead, and I can see the last traces of her life draining away in her still-open eyes – dimming like a lamp being slowly extinguished.

I gently lay her body back on the table, close her eyelids with my hand and exit the machine room.

Astrid and Emily watch me, and for the first time, I see something other than hatred in their faces.

They see it too. I've changed.

I just wish it hadn't taken six deaths to figure it out.

With heavy heart, I call the cleaning crew and leave the dungeon.

The cleaning crew enters silently, their white hazmat suits stark against the blood-slicked floor. They move with practiced efficiency, setting down metal buckets and rags. The lead worker – a young man with a shaved head and surgical mask – nods to me before stepping forward. He kneels beside Talia's body, eyes flicking to her face for just a moment before he begins wiping away the worst of the blood.

The others begin unbolting the machine, its various components grinding as they're detached. The buzz of the circular saws being disconnected echoes in the chamber, filling the silence left by Talia's faded heartbeat. Emily flinches at the noise, curling tighter into herself.

I step into the observation room, the monitors connected to cameras giving me a perfect view of the remaining girls. The space is cramped but immaculate, with a single desk chair facing the screens. I sink into it, resting my elbows on the table and folding my hands beneath my chin.

Emily hasn't moved. She's still curled into a ball on her mat, her back pressed against the soft wall as if trying to become invisible. Her shoulders shake silently, her hands pressed to her ears – whether from the noise of the cleaning crew or the memory of Talia's death, I can't be sure.

Astrid stands near the wall, watching the crew dismantle the machine with calculating detachment. She folds her arms tighter, her fingers flexing rhythmically against her biceps. I notice her throat working as she swallows hard, the muscles tensing and releasing in a slow, controlled motion. Her gaze flicks away from the cleaning crew, drifting toward Emily with a flicker of something – pity, perhaps, or recognition.

Astrid starts to pace the room with her hands clasped behind her back, taking measured steps. She's speaking in a low murmur now, words almost lost in the distance.

"...fucking worthless... spineless... "

I can’t figure out whether she is directing her words at someone specific or just psyching herself up.

The words rise as she turns toward Emily.

"God, look at you! Still crying like a little girl!"

Emily doesn't look up.

Tomorrow is the last day – one of these girls will survive while the other one drowns. I wonder if Astrid is going crazy just thinking about this – I would.

Day 7

The night drags on endlessly. I monitor the girls through the cameras – Emily eventually curls into a fetal position in her cell, nothing seemingly able to get between her and her sleep. Astrid on the other hand, stays awake seemingly the whole night. With this being her second night without sleep, she must be exhausted already, but shows no signs of it yet. The silence in the dungeon is oppressive, broken only by Emily's occasional whimper and the distant drip of water.

Morning finally arrives, the dungeon's fluorescent lights flickering to life. I watch as Emily stirs, rubbing her face before pushing herself upright. Her movements are slow, mechanical. She looks toward the now-empty table where Talia died.

I step into the dungeon, the soft floor rubbery under the soles of my shoes. Emily flinches as the heavy door swings shut behind me, but she doesn't look up. Her knees are pulled tightly to her chest, hands gripping them like she's holding herself together. The overhead light catches in her blonde hair, casting golden streaks across her pale skin.

Astrid doesn't even turn when I enter. She's leaning against the far wall, arms crossed beneath her breasts, eyes fixed on the single remaining machine – the water tank. Her white hair falls over one shoulder as she exhales sharply through her nose. When she speaks, her words come out calm but edged with something dangerous.

"So, this is the last day, isn’t it?” Her voice husky and grim.

I look at her, then at Emily who’s curled in the corner, then back at Astrid.

“Correct,” I look directly in those two pieces of ice that Astrid has for eyes. “One of you drowns, the other gets to go free with a fifty million dollar prize to boot.”

Astrid's lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile. She pushes off the wall, her movements fluid despite the stiffness in her muscles.

"All or nothing, is it?" she says, voice smooth as polished steel.

She steps closer, bare feet silent against the soft surface. The overhead lights catch the faintest sheen of sweat along her collarbones.

Emily finally raises her head, green-blue eyes red-rimmed but dry now. She doesn't meet my gaze, instead looking at the empty water tank.

"Can I... can I say something first?" Her words come out hoarse, strained from crying or maybe just from the dry air of the dungeon. "Before... whatever happens..."

“Sure,” I look at her, my head slightly tilted.

Emily licks her lips nervously before speaking.

"I just wanted to say..." Her words fade for a moment as she glances at Astrid, then back at me. When she continues, she speaks in a quiet rush. "Thank you. For being kind. Even though I know it's your job."

Astrid scoffs, crossing her arms again.

"Jesus, Emy. You really going to thank the guy who's about to drown us?" But there's no real heat in it – just exhaustion.

Emily doesn't react to Astrid's comment, too focused on me. She shifts forward slightly, as if leaning toward something she wants to say but can't quite find the words for. Her breathing has steadied now, though her shoulders remain hunched.

"I just wanted you to know that," she finishes, then looks down at the floor.

Emily’s words are the redemption I longed for all these days. Something to let me know that I can still be a better person even if I have to commit all those terrible murders and inflict torture and humiliation on the innocent women. I suddenly wish I could just walk away and let Astrid and Emily both go free.

I study both girls for a long moment. The air in the dungeon feels thick with unspoken tension. Astrid keeps glancing at the wall of machines, jaw tight with what might be anger or fear. Emily unconsciously bites her nails while staring at the floor.

"Well," Astrid finally says, breaking the silence with a sharp exhale.

“Yeah, the sticks,” I say reluctantly, not willing to launch the vicious cycle again. “Here you are.”

Astrid's face doesn't change, but something dark flickers in her eyes. She looks at Emily and gestures with her head, inviting her to come over.

“Come on, let’s draw together.”

Emily slowly gets up and approaches the two sticks that look identical in my grasp. She hesitates just a fraction of a second before picking one. Astrid selects the other with a swift motion. They look at each other, neither reaching for the other's hand.

Emily's breath catches as she turns her stick over in her fingers. Her fingers tremble as she examines it, her breathing shallow. She looks at me, then at Astrid, then back down at the short stick in her hand. Her face remains eerily still for a moment before a soft sound escapes her – something between a laugh and a sob.

"That's... that's..." She blinks rapidly, eyes glassy but still dry. "I should have guessed. Lucky me."

Her words crack despite her attempt at lightness.

Astrid's face finally changes – just the slightest quirk at the corner of her mouth. She nods once, her eyes never leaving Emily's.

"So it’s over," she murmurs. "At least you don’t get to die dry."

I look at her, trying to recall, to understand how she could transform from a timid fragile teenager to a cold-hearted bitch in just two days. Or was she always like this and I simply didn’t notice?

"Not very nice of you, Astrid.” I say. “But I understand."

Astrid's gaze hardens, the amusement in her eyes dying like a snuffed candle. She shifts her weight, her bare foot scraping against the concrete.

"What's not nice?" she asks, her voice low and dangerous. "That I noticed the irony? Or that I said it out loud?"

She advances toward me, stopping just inches away. Her breath smells faintly of the stale dungeon air and something metallic.

"Because let's be clear," she continues, her words soft and measured, "if I was going to die today, I would have found the humor in it too."

Behind her, Emily watches this exchange with wide, unblinking eyes.

"Let's go Emily. She's just overwhelmed that she gets to live after all of this."

Emily flinches when I take her wrist. She feels too small in my grip, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird.

"I-I know I said I was scared before, but I..." Her words falter as she glances between me and Astrid.

Something uncertain crosses her face. She's not sure if she should walk with me willingly or resist – if either would even matter at this point. I use this point of indecision to move things forward and gently lead her into the machine room, my hand resting on her waist. She walks on straight legs, her body trembling. Once inside the machine room, I stop and give her a hug.

Emily's body goes rigid at first, but as my arms encircle her, she slowly relaxes against me, her skin cold and covered in goosebumps. She inhales shakily, her breath hot against my neck.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs, voice thick. "I know you don't really want to... to do this. I know you care. Even if you don't care about me."

Her fingers clutch at my back, twisting in the fabric of my shirt.

“I wish things were different...” I whsiper to her, then pause, not sure what to say next. “I wish I could just get to know you… or Talia, or Rita… any of you. Maybe we would even like each other, start a family...”

Emily's breath catches, her body shaking against mine. For a moment, she seems too overwhelmed to speak. Then she pulls back just enough to look up at me, blue eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Why?" she whispers. "Why say that? It's cruel."

Her fingers tighten in my shirt, bunching the fabric. She speaks hoarsely with emotion.

"We both know that’s not possible. There's no happy ending. There's just... this. And you. And me. And this water tank." Her breath hitches. "And you saying things like that makes it harder to die."

I notice how her pupils have dilated, how her lower lip trembles slightly. I can’t resist the urge and kiss her.

Emily stiffens for a split second before responding to my kiss with desperate urgency. Her fingers climb up my chest, threading through my hair as she presses her body against mine. There's nothing gentle about it – just raw, frantic need.

When I pull back, she chases my mouth, panting.

"Please," she whispers, her forehead resting against mine. "Not yet. Not like this. I can't... I don't want this to be the last thing." Her hands slide down to my shoulders, gripping hard. "I don't want my last time to be with death."

The admission cracks as she speaks. I take her words as an invitation.

Emily gasps as I lift her, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist. Her nails dig into my shoulders as I enter her, a sharp inhale escaping her lips. The heat of her body clings to me, her inner walls fluttering around my cock.

"Oh god," she breathes, her face buried against my neck.

Her hips roll slightly, guiding me deeper. There's no hesitation, no resistance – just a desperate need to feel something other than fear. Her thighs tighten around me as I begin to move.

"Please," she whimpers, the words raw with need. "Don't stop. Don't ever stop."

Emily’s breath comes in short, ragged bursts against my skin. Her back slams against the cold wall as I drive into her, each thrust punching the air from her lungs. Her head tilts back, exposing the pale column of her throat as she cries out, her body arching against mine.

"Fuck... fuck, John!" Her fingers clutch at my shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks in my skin.

Her pussy clenches around me, wet and tight, inner walls fluttering desperately as I stretch her.

"You feel so good," she moans, breaking. "I- fuck, I missed this."

Her hips jerk against mine, matching my pace with unsteady movements.

Emily's body jerks with every thrust, she gasps and moans, fingers clawing at my back as I push into her harder and faster. Her legs shake around my waist, toes curling as pleasure and pain collide in equal measure.

"Y-yes," she pants, head thrown back, her breasts bouncing as I move. "Don't stop, don't stop-"

The words break as she clenches around me, pussy convulsing with the force of her climax. Her body arches, nails scraping down my back as she moans openly, no longer caring if Astrid can hear.

She tenses as I spill inside her. A choked sob escapes her throat and she buries her face against my shoulder, shaking. Her arms tighten around my neck, pulling me close as if she could keep me inside her forever.

"Don't pull out," she whispers hoarsely. "Not yet."

Her breath is hot against my skin, uneven and ragged. Her legs tremble around my waist, weak from exertion but still holding on.

She presses an unsteady kiss to the side of my neck, fingers moving restlessly over my back.

"I don't care what you do to me after," she murmurs. "This..."

I kiss her back, continuing to move inside her – no more words needed between us.

Emily melts into the kiss, body yielding to my every movement. Her mouth opens for me, her tongue meeting mine in slow, hungry motions. She moans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through her chest and against mine. Her fingers slide up into my hair, tugging gently as she deepens the contact.

"Don't stop," she breathes between kisses.

Her hips roll subtly, milking my cock as she holds me tight. The slick heat between her legs clings to me, drawing me in deeper. She whimpers as I thrust, her entire body quivering with pleasure.

"I'm gonna- " Her words cut off with a gasp as her second orgasm rips through her.

Emily's legs tremble as I pull out, body swaying as I take her arms in mine. She clings to me immediately, pressing her forehead against my chest. Her breathing is still uneven, skin flushed from exertion and heat.

"You're so warm," she murmurs.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, holding on like she's afraid I'll disappear. Her head lifts just slightly, blue eyes peering up at me with something fragile yet searching.

Making love to her – and it is making love, not fucking, not rape – feels like redemption I don't deserve. This is how it should have been with all of them. This connection. This respect. But I can't change the past. Can only make this moment, right now, as gentle as possible.

"Thank you," she whispers, clinging to me. "For this. For being human."

Human. I haven't felt human in days. Maybe months.

But with her, I do.

She shifts her weight, leaning into me for support. Her gaze drifts past me, toward the water tank behind my back.

I gently take Emily’s hand into mine, as if inviting her for a dance. She follows my lead, her fingers intertwining with mine as I guide her across the concrete floor. The water tank looms before us, its glass surface gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. The inside is empty now, the mechanical arms retracted and the water drained away.

She looks up at me with wide, frightened eyes. I step into the tank first and hold out my hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she climbs in with me, the glass swallowing us both. I force a smile and kiss her on the forehead. She leans into it, her fingers clinging to mine. I ease her hands away, step out of the tank, and lock the door behind me.

With a press of a button, the water rushes in from below, bubbling up around Emily's ankles. It rises swiftly, cold at first but warming as the heaters kick in. Emily gasps as it laps at her ankles, then knees, her body tensing.

"It's warm," she whispers, surprised at the temperature.

Her breath comes faster now. The water climbs higher, now reaching her thighs. She looks up at me through her lashes, lips parted.

"It's- it's not so bad," she says, voice strained.

Her blue eyes flick up to mine as the water reaches her waist. The tank muffles the sound of rushing water, making the silence feel heavier.

I watch her, standing just outside the glass enclosure. The water rises to her chest, causing her to instinctively lean back against the smooth glass.

The water climbs steadily, now up to Emily's collarbone. Her arms instinctively wrap around herself, but she keeps looking at me. My hand presses against the glass, and she mirrors the motion on her side, her palm flattening against mine.

The level rises to her neck now, forcing her to lift her chin to keep her face above the surface. She blinks rapidly as the water laps at her face.

"You're still here," she says, smiling slightly despite the terror evident in her expression.

The water reaches Emily's mouth, forcing her to exhale her last breath before it covers her completely. Her hand presses harder against the glass, fingers splaying as the water envelops her face. Her body jerks once, twice, as her lungs fight the instinctive need to breathe.

I can see her lips moving behind the glass, forming words I can't hear. Her hands slide up the glass until her palms are level with my own, fingers spreading as if reaching for something. The water obscures her features, but you can still make out the determined set of her jaw as she remains still, fighting the natural panic that would send her thrashing.

For a moment Emily's body goes rigid, then begins to shake. Her fingers claw at the glass, leaving streaks of condensation as they scramble for purchase. Her mouth opens wide, releasing tiny bubbles that float slowly to the surface. Her entire body convulses once, then twice. Her legs kick weakly as her lungs desperately seek air that isn't there.

Through the glass, I can see her expression contort with agony as her body's survival instincts take over. Her back arches, pressing her bare skin against the tank's surface. One hand slides up to her throat, clutching at the air she so desperately needs. Her other hand pounds feebly against the glass near my face, mouth working silently as she gasps.

The last bubbles escape from Emily's mouth as her body goes into its death throes. Her skin turns an eerie pale blue as her limbs spasm.

Her eyes are open and fixed, unblinking now. Her vision dims, the spark in her pupils flickering and dying as her brain starts to shut down. Even as the body convulses, her hand remains pressed against the glass, fingers still curled in a faint grasping motion.

Slowly, her struggles grow weaker. Her legs stop kicking. Her fingers go limp against the glass. The last bubbles rise to the surface, and the water remains still.

I stand there for several more minutes which seem like an eternity. My hand is pressed to the glass, and I don't look away.

I owe her that. Owe all of them that. To witness. To acknowledge. To carry the weight of what I've done.

Her hand slowly slides down the glass, and I force myself to lift mine.

I still stand in the machine room when the cleaning crew comes in and starts to methodically drain the tank. Masked workers in protective gear step into the water to retrieve Emily's body. Her limbs float limply, pale and still. One worker places her gently on the waiting gurney while another efficiently disconnects the water supply. The hum of machinery fills the space as they begin dismantling the tank piece by piece.

I turn away, unable to watch the mechanical precision of her disposal. My steps carry me back to the dungeon’s holding area where Astrid waits. She sits cross-legged on her sleeping mat, completely nude but unconcerned about it.

"Congratulations, Astrid." I tell her as I offer her my hand. "Let's go."

She stares at me for a long moment, studying the gesture with cold calculation. Her pale blue eyes hold mine, searching for something – perhaps a hint of sincerity or hidden intent. After several seconds, she slowly reaches up and takes my hand, her fingers cold against my skin.

"Congratulations on surviving," she replies, her voice soft but edged with something unreadable.

She stands, moving with fluid control despite the confined space. The harsh lighting from above catches the pale blue of her irises, making them appear almost luminous in the dimness of the cell.
Astrid doesn't break eye contact as she rises, her small, firm breasts lifting with the movement.

The door leading outside the dungeon opens before us and I lead her outside – her leaving the dungeon for the first time since she got here.

We walk the long sterile corridors of the facility, a tall clothed man and a petite naked girl holding hands like some weird lovers. Except there’s no love in Astrid’s gaze – only uncertainty and fear.

I open the door at the end of a corridor – behind it a small but cozy apartment, similar to a typical luxury hotel room.

Astrid steps into the apartment, her bare feet meeting the soft carpet as I guide her inside. She surveys the space with careful attention – the clean white sheets on the queen-sized bed, the steaming dinner waiting on the table, the plush bathrobe laid out across the armchair. Her pale fingers trace the edge of the bedding before she turns to face me.

"Is this supposed to be some kind of prize?" she asks, her voice carrying an edge of suspicion despite the comfortable surroundings.

She crosses her arms, the motion causing her small, firm breasts to shift slightly under the harsh fluorescent lighting that filters through the window.

“No,” I say, motioning for her to sit on the bed. “The prize awaits you tomorrow. For now just relax and suit yourself."

Astrid's lips tighten into a thin line as she absorbs my words. She slowly uncrosses her arms, letting them hang loose at her sides. Her fingers twitch slightly – whether from nerves or irritation, I can't quite tell. She turns away from me, padding across the carpet toward the table where the steaming dinner awaits.

She pauses, nostrils flaring slightly as she inhales the aroma. Then she sits, back rigid, and picks up the fork with practiced calm. Her first bite is methodical – chewing slowly, eyes fixed on the plate as if measuring every taste. When she finally speaks, she keeps her attention on the food.

"This is good," she admits, voice barely above a murmur.

I smile.

"I'm glad you like it. Enjoy the dinner, take a warm shower – I will see you tomorrow."

Astrid doesn't immediately respond. She cuts another piece of chicken, brings it to her mouth, and swallows before setting the fork down with deliberate precision. Then, without looking up, she finally speaks.

"You're going to kill me tomorrow, aren't you?"

The words are calm, almost detached. She still doesn't look at me, her hands now resting in her lap as she studies the steam rising from her plate. There's no tremor in her speech, no fear in her posture. Just a simple, direct statement.

I shake my head slightly.

"Tomorrow is the award ceremony. Then you get to go free with a fifty million dollars in cash."

Astrid grabs the robe and slowly pulls it over her naked body, her fingers curling into the fabric, knuckles whitening slightly as she processes what I just said. Her breathing catches almost imperceptibly, but her face remains unreadable. She looks up at me finally, her pale blue eyes flickering with something unnameable – calculating, perhaps, or maybe just accepting.

"Fifty million dollars," she repeats softly, tasting the words like a new flavor. She licks her lips unconsciously. "That's... significant."

There's a beat of silence before she adds, "And after I get the money, I get to leave? No conditions? No tricks?"

"Award ceremony, then a small feast in your honor and a private jet back home." My arms are open as if welcoming her back to the world where girls like her are free and don’t get murdered every day.

Astrid's expression shifts slightly – so subtle it might be imperceptible to most. Her gaze intensifies, her mouth opening just slightly as she exhales softly through her nose. She reaches for her water glass, sips deliberately, then sets it down with equal care.

"You make it sound so civilized," she murmurs.

Her fingers tap once against the table before she stills them.

"The private jet... it will just be me? Or do I get to bring the body of Emily, the girl you just murdered?"

There's no inflection in her words—no accusation, no sarcasm, just simple curiosity. She studies me, head tilting slightly as she waits for my answer.

"There's nobody left to murder, Astrid. You won." I keep my voice calm and steady.

Astrid blinks once, then twice. Her lips part slightly as the reality settles in, her fingers tightening against the edge of the table. Her breathing deepens, the slow rise and fall of her chest becoming more pronounced. For a moment, she looks almost childlike in her disbelief – wide-eyed, unguarded in a way I've never seen before.

"I... won?" she repeats, whispering now. She shakes her head, a faint movement, as if trying to anchor herself to the moment. "Not just survived. Won." A short, sharp breath escapes her.

“Good night Astrid,” I say as I leave the room. “Tomorrow’s your big day.”

Epilogue

I spend the evening watching Astrid through the hidden cameras in her new apartment.

At first she is just sitting there – motionless, for what seems like an eternity. I even start to think she’s too traumatized to continue living normally. Then, without warning, she slams both hands down onto the table, hard enough to make the silverware jump. The force of it startles even me.

"Fifty million dollars," she hisses to the empty room, her words low and almost guttural.

She exhales sharply through her nose, her shoulders rising and falling as if trying to suppress the sudden flood of emotion crashing over her. Her hands remain flattened against the tabletop, fingers splayed wide as if she's holding herself in place.

"I did it."

Her words are rough, raw, as she lifts her head and looks around the room. The realization hits her in waves. She stands abruptly, pushing back from the table so fast it almost topples over.

"I won. I won."

The repetition sounds almost like a prayer as she moves. One hand lifts to press against her stomach as if to anchor herself to this moment. Her other hand clenches and unclenches at her side, her knuckles still pale from gripping the table.

She stops suddenly, staring at the mirror on the wall, her back to me. I notice her shoulders rise and fall as she inhales slowly, deliberately, as if forcing control over the riot of emotions churning through her.

"You won't take that away from me," she murmurs to the reflection of her own face.

She closes her eyes for a long moment, then opens them again, watching herself.

"I earned this."

I watch her taking a shower when my inbox pings. The message says ‘Season Highlights’.

I open the message – inside there’s a video compilation. All the girls going through their casual daily life – Cassie wet and happy after having surfed a huge wave, Rita having fun at a rock concert, Amara giving an interview on the television, Emily telling stories as a tour guide… All of them so normal, happy, alive…

What follows is their casting for the ‘beauty contest’ – all of them a little nervous but excited. Beautiful makeup, swimsuits, interviews…

And then the videos of what I did to them.

I find myself surprised that Cassie’s death that seemed so significant when it happened, now was almost out of my memory, completely overwritten by more recent and much more gruesome deaths of other girls.

The videos fuck with my mind in ways I didn’t suspect were possible. Why did they send them to me? To break me completely? As if I wasn’t already broken enough.

I spend what seems like several hours motionless, watching the videos on repeat, having completely forgotten about Astrid. The night brings no comfort.

The door to Astrid's apartment swings open at precisely 9 AM. She's standing by the window, though her posture is straighter now – shoulders squared, back perfectly aligned. She turns with a slow grace, studying the makeup artist and stylist who step inside. Her face remains neutral, but there's something new in her demeanor – a confidence that wasn't there yesterday.

"I assume this is for the ceremony," she says.

The words are even, but I notice the faint catch in her throat, the smallest crack in her otherwise perfect composure.

The makeup artist smiles reassuringly. "Yes, Ms. Lund. We'll just -"

"Call me Astrid."

The makeup artist's hands pause mid-motion.

"Right. Astrid. We'll start with your face first, then move to your hair and makeup." The stylist steps forward with the garment bag containing a luxurious black dress. "I'll get this ready for you while they work."

Astrid nods once, her chin tilting slightly upward as she turns to sit at the vanity. The makeup artist dabs foundation along her face, the brush moving with precision. Astrid watches in the mirror, her gaze locked onto her reflection.

When I enter, Astrid looks like a completely different person – she is wearing a beautiful short sleeved black dress, high heels; her hair has volume I haven’t seen before, dark circles under her eyes completely covered by makeup. She is so gorgeous that I can’t take my eyes off her.

I offer her my hand and we leave the apartment, our looks in stark contrast to the way we looked just yesterday when we came here.

After a short walk through the corridors, we enter a large hall with a stage in the middle. Applause greet Astrid as we climb onto the stage. All lights focus on her and the audience looks like a uniform mass of dark silhouettes. She squints her eyes and raises her hand to shield her from the brightness that suddenly overwhelms her.

I take the microphone, my voice amplified by the PA system.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our last surviving participant – Astrid Lund!"

The crowd erupts again. Giving them enough time to clap, I continue.

“Astrid was brave and defiant in the face of danger and fate has chosen her as our Final Girl!” I wrap my arm around her waist and put the microphone in front of her. “Tell us a little about your experience, Astrid. How did it feel to spend those days in the dungeon watching other girls die?”

Astrid flinches and then freezes in place, her expression a mix of shock and disgust. The crowd emits a short laugh.

Astrid’s mouth opens but no words come out, as if she is struggling to breathe.

“It’s ok, take your time,” I tell her calmly, then turn to face the crowd. “It must have been overwhelming for you.”

Astrid finally gathers herself and speaks up, her voice monotonous, almost robotic.

“I… It was scary,” She pauses, taking a deep breath. “John did terrible things to other girls. But I am.. I am grateful to you for this opportunity.”

Her voice cracks on the last few words, her no longer able to maintain her composure and continue this performance.

I signal the assistant who brings five large suitcases, one by one, onto the stage and opens them. All of them are full of cash, smell of paper and paint typical of new bills filling the air.

"As promised, Ms. Lund… Astrid – fifty million dollars, all in hundred dollar bills." I calmly stroke her back. “No need to be scared anymore – your new life is ahead of you.”

Astrid puts on a fake smile and I feel her body trembling under my touch. We thank the audience and walk off the stage.

“Just one last touch and it’s over.” I whisper as we are walking towards the dining hall.

The applause fades as me and Astrid descend the steps together. The crowd parts before us like the Red Sea, men and women in evening wear whispering and staring as we pass. The guests are not wearing any masks and the number of faces I recognize makes me feel uneasy. Astrid walks beside me, her head held high, her black dress clinging perfectly to her slender frame.

The dining hall doors swing open to reveal a long table, white tablecloths glowing in the candlelight. The chandelier above casts golden reflections across the polished wood. Astrid freezes just inside the doorway, her breath catching audibly.

I guide Astrid forward, my fingers resting lightly on the small of her back as she moves with careful, measured steps. The table groans under platters of poached lobster, roasted quail, truffled risotto – delicacies I know she's never tasted before. Bottles of Dom Pérignon chilling in ice buckets beside crystal flutes placed across the whole length of the table.

Astrid approaches the table with the crowd coming back together behind us, looking from the feast to me and back again. Her eyes lock on a large empty silver tray in the middle of the table. It is at this moment that everything changes.

Astrid's breath hitches as masked crew members materialize around her. Their hands are firm but not cruel as they lift her with practiced precision, her back arching slightly as she's placed supine on the silver tray. The candles flicker as her body settles on the cold metal surface. Her pupils dilate as she looks up at me standing above her.

"I knew it," she whispers, though no real surprise colors her words.

Her pulse thrums visibly at her throat. One of the crew fastens leather restraints around her wrists, drawing them down to the corners of the table. She doesn't resist as they do the same with her ankles.

The dinner jackets and evening gowns of the guests provide a dark, aristocratic backdrop as the masked crew members efficiently slice through Astrid's dress with razor-sharp blades. The fabric parts like tissue paper beneath their practiced hands. Astrid lies exposed, her silver-blonde hair spilling across the tablecloth, her pale skin luminous in the candlelight. Her breathing has become shallow and rapid, but her gaze remains steady – watching me with a strange, detached fascination.

A woman in emerald silk leans forward from the opposite side of the table, her jewels catching the light as she studies Astrid's body.

"Magnificent specimen," she murmurs to her neighbor.

Astrid's nostrils flare slightly at the woman's words, but she doesn't look away from me. The restraints creak as she tests them, confirming their tightness. The guests continue settling into their seats, their voices blending into a low hum of conversation as servers move among them with silver trays.

I lean down, placing both hands on the edge of the table beside her hips. The wood groans under the pressure of my weight.

"Tell me," I say quietly, my words for her alone even as dozens of eyes watch, "when did you realize you weren't actually leaving here alive?"

Her lips part slightly, breath coming in soft little hitches. Her blue eyes flick down for just a moment before meeting mine again.

She studies me for a long moment, then says with a faint smile, "The moment you smiled at me while showing me the money." Her voice is clear, steady despite the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat.

"And when you showed me this room with all this food..."

She watches as I stand straight and motion to the servers. They begin lifting silver lids, revealing steaming platters of food. "...I knew it was all just... decoration."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." She says it without accusation. Just fact. "You're sad about it. But you're not sorry. If you were sorry, you'd tell me the truth."

She's right. Again, someone's right about what I am.

I straighten up and motion for the feast to begin.

The servers descend on Astrid with surgical precision, their blades flashing as they begin the first incisions into her tender body. A server presses a heated grilling fork against her inner thigh, searing the skin pink before expertly peeling away a strip of flesh. The aroma – coppery and faintly sweet – rises between them as he tosses the sizzling morsel onto a plate.

Astrid gasps at the pain, her back arching slightly against the restraints. Her pale skin turns pink where the heat touches it, the edges of the wound already blistering. Her lips part, and for a moment it seems she might cry out, but instead she exhales slowly through her nose, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

The next server works on her abdomen, making small, precise cuts to create a pattern of crescent moons across her stomach. Her muscles tense and quiver beneath the knife, but she doesn't look away from me. A third cuts into her breast, carving a thin slice from the underside and tossing it onto a waiting platter where it joins the others.

"Don't worry," a guest across the table says, his words dripping with false concern as he sips his wine. "It's a delicate technique – keeps the meat tender."

He gestures to the piece being prepared for him, a pink spiral of flesh still glistening with blood and juices.

I sit down, my chair located right across Astrid’s head, her eyes filled with tears of pain and yet still focused on me. I have now completed my final act, the ultimate betrayal, and she won’t let me forget it.

Jeff, the show’s producer who sits next to me, touches my hand

“Which part of her would you like to eat, John?” His voice soft but his eyes looking at me with cruel mockery.

I shrug, his words hitting me like an electric current, and then everything freezes inside.

“I.. I’ll pass, thank you.”

“Oh, but I insist,” Jeff’s hand covers mine as he orders the server to serve me Astrid’s pussy.

The lead server nods, setting aside his carving knife. He produces a larger blade, the edge wickedly sharp.

"The labia majora and labia minora, sir?" he asks, already positioning the tip of the knife at the base of her vulva.

Astrid's breath comes in shallow gasps now, her gaze locked on mine with a strange intensity.

“Oh, John here deserves all of it. Nothing but the best for our dear host.” Jeff’s smile could freeze hell. “Right John?”

The lead server doesn't hesitate. With swift precision, he presses the blade against the base of Astrid's vulva, drawing it upward in a single smooth motion. The meat separates with a wet sound, blood welling up as he creates a vertical incision. Astrid's entire body tenses, a strangled cry escaping her throat as the knife parts her flesh.

The guests lean forward in their seats, some reaching for their wine glasses, others already savoring the appetizers being served. The server's hands are steady as he makes the next cut, this one horizontal, connecting the first and forming a crude 'T' shape. The blood flows more freely now, staining the white tablecloth beneath her.

Astrid's breathing becomes ragged, her body shaking with the effort of not screaming. Her mouth opens in a silent gasp as the server peels back the outer layers, separating the labia with careful precision. A guest near me sniffs appreciatively as the aroma of fresh meat rises from the table.

"Oh, I do love it when they're still alive for the initial cutting," an older man beside me murmurs, cutting into his own plate with delicate precision. "Makes the flesh so much more tender, don't you think?"

He holds a bite up to examine it, red against white china.

"Though I suppose this particular cut will need a bit more seasoning than usual." He smiles at his own joke.

The server places a small silver tray on my plate, Astrid’s pussy already grilled and brownish in color, adorned with slices of vegetables, seeds and drips of various sauces. It smells delicious but I can’t make myself take the knife and fork.

Jeff watches my hesitation and does everything for me – cuts a piece, lifts it on a fork and brings it up to my mouth.

“Eat.”

The warm flesh gives way beneath my teeth with satisfying resistance, the seared surface crackling slightly as I bite down. The texture is firm but yielding, the taste rich and slightly metallic. As I chew, Astrid maintains eye contact with me. Her pupils dilate, her throat working as she swallows against the pain and the horror of watching me eat her.

"You -" she begins, then stops, breath hitching. A single tear escapes down the side of her face, catching the candlelight. She presses her mouth shut, then opens it again. "You... filthy... monster. Fucking coward."

Her words come strained and faint. I can see the muscles in her thighs and abdomen tremble as she fights to stay still.

She stares at me, watching my jaw work as I chew, studying my face. The servers continue their work, one preparing the next cut while another dips a cloth in warm water to clean away the blood that pools around her groin. I notice her breathing has taken on a rapid, shallow rhythm – an autonomic response to the agony.

Her eyes though… I am the only thing in the whole room that she has been looking at. Her gaze is full of suffering and hatred, draining all hope for redemption out of me. There’s no redemption, no salvation. Not after this.

I learned to be kind. I connected with them. I treated them like humans. And I'm still eating her flesh at a billionaire's dinner party.

Her eyes continue to look at me long after she’s dead, her head remaining the only part of her body that has not turned into a bloodied skeleton. And I can’t force myself to look away either.

Jeff is talking about some nonsense, but I think about how hard it is for the Devil. God has created both good and evil, created the world, humans in it and the Devil himself, yet it is the Devil who gets blamed for everything wrong – the ultimate scapegoat. I feel like I’m the Devil in this twisted parody of the world.

Jeff repeats something to me and I meet his eyes with a blank stare. He snaps his fingers before my eyes.

“Ground control to major John,” he smiles. “I was asking what great ideas have you got for us in Season Two now that the first season is such a success?”

I stare at him. Season Two… Of course there would be a Season Two – there’s no way these sick motherfuckers would let this horror happen once and be done with it. Next year everything will repeat.

“I have… some ideas,” I try my best to look confident and powerful, like the host should. “I’m sure you will like them.”