Aeron stood in the darkness of his private room, watching the screen.
The camera showed Liora sitting quietly on the floor, arms wrapped around herself, still clutching the blanket he had thrown to her earlier. She hadn't spoken since their last conversation. She hadn't begged.
That silence—it burned inside his head.
"Not everyone who's beautiful lies."
Her voice echoed again in his memory.
Lies.Pretty lies.
His fingers tightened on the leather strap he held in his hand. He walked down the long hall toward her room, each step louder than the last.
She would scream.
She would beg.
She would prove she was just like the others.
The door slammed open.
Liora flinched, but didn't move from her spot.
Aeron entered without speaking. He was shirtless now, arms covered in ink and scars. In his hands—a cold metal rod. Sharp at the end. Not hot yet.
He placed it gently on the table, beside a pair of gloves and a black case.
Liora's eyes dropped to the tools.
Her heart pounded.
She didn't ask questions. She already understood.
Aeron walked toward her slowly. His face was blank. A mask behind a mask.
"You said you didn't want to live," he said. "You asked me to kill you."
She nodded, barely.
"But you also said you wanted peace."
Still, she said nothing.
"There's no peace without pain," he whispered.
She closed her eyes.
"Do it," she said.
His jaw tightened. That same voice again. Soft. Not begging. Never pleading.
"Scream," he whispered.
"No."
Aeron knelt beside her. She didn't flinch. He hated that she didn't flinch. He needed her to be like the others.
To cry.
To shatter.
To become proof.
He grabbed her wrist roughly, yanked up her sleeve. Old bruises—faded but clear—painted her skin.
Aeron paused.
These weren't his bruises.
These were someone else's.
"Who did this?" he asked, his voice barely a breath.
"Why do you care?" she whispered.
He gritted his teeth and reached for the case. Opened it.
Scalpels. Small blades. Thin wires.
He picked up one—small and sharp. Not deep enough to kill. But it would hurt.
He pressed it gently to her skin. She gasped but didn't pull away.
"I'm not afraid of pain," she said through her teeth.
He dragged the blade across her arm—just once. A red line followed.
She winced but didn't scream.
Aeron stepped back. Frustrated. Angry.
"You're faking it," he growled.
"No," she replied. "I've just already lived through worse."
That silenced him.
The blade dropped from his hand.
"Why don't you scream?" he asked, voice lower now. "Why don't you cry?"
She looked at him, and for the first time—her tears came.
"Because I'm tired," she whispered. "I cried for years, and no one heard me. Not my mother. Not anyone. I learned it doesn't matter."
Aeron stared at her.
Liora wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
"So go ahead," she said. "Cut me. Burn me. Kill me. But don't ask me to pretend I'm afraid of you."
Silence again.
Then Aeron turned sharply and slammed the blade back into the case. His breath came fast, ragged.
She wasn't breaking.
But something in him was.
That night, he didn't sleep.
He went through the old files again. The photos. The women he'd taken before. Their beauty. Their betrayal. The way they cried, the way they begged, the way they reminded him of her—his mother.
But Liora wasn't like them.
She never lied to him.She never begged.And worst of all… she looked at him like he was a person. Not a monster.
He hated that.He hated her for it.
So why couldn't he hurt her the way he did with the others?
Why did it feel wrong?