The Blood Tax

​"Did you really think you could steal the seat from me, Bisma?" ​Zuan's voice cut through the heavy, freezing air like a razor blade. The sound echoed off the damp, concrete walls of the abandoned underground slaughterhouse, located right on the desolate outskirts of Zurich. Outside, a ferocious blizzard roared, shaking the metallic roof of the facility, but inside, the atmosphere was dead silent, save for the steady dripping of blood. ​Bisma hung suspended from the ceiling, his body trembling violently from both the biting cold and the agonizing pain. Heavy iron chains wrapped tightly around his wrists, pulling his arms straight up toward the rusted metal beams above. His toes barely scraped the freezing floor. The metallic stench of old animal blood mingled with the fresh, copper scent of his own wounds. It was 2:00 AM, the dead of night, and there was no one around for miles to hear his screams. ​Zuan stepped forward, the heavy soles of his leather boots clicking against the concrete. In his right hand, he held a specialized hunting knife. The blade was wicked, featuring a jagged, serrated edge designed to tear through flesh rather than slice it cleanly. The dim, flickering light from a single overhead bulb reflected off the polished steel. ​"You became too greedy," Zuan whispered, his face twisting into a cold smile. "The political data you tried to hide was never yours to handle. The syndicate has rules, and the throne belongs to those who understand the balance of power. You violated that balance." ​Bisma coughed, spitting a mixture of saliva and dark blood onto Zuan's polished boots. He forced his eyes open, glaring through the sweat and blood that obscured his vision. "You are nothing but a thief, Zuan. The council will see through this." ​Zuan did not flinch. Instead, he raised the hunting knife and pressed the cold flat of the blade against Bisma's bare, shivering chest. "The council authorized this, my dear cousin. You became a liability the moment you kept those political documents for yourself." ​With a slow, deliberate movement, Zuan pressed the serrated edge into the center of Bisma's chest. He pulled the knife downward, slicing a shallow but excruciatingly painful line across his flesh. Bisma gritted his teeth, his entire body tensing as the jagged teeth of the blade tore his skin. He refused to give Zuan the satisfaction of a scream, letting out only a low, guttural groan that vibrated in his throat. ​"I am not going to kill you quickly," Zuan remarked, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. He wiped the blood from the blade onto Bisma's torn trousers. "That would be a waste of a good lesson for anyone else who thinks of betraying the syndicate." ​Bisma gasped for air, the cold wind howling outside the small, cracked window near the ceiling. The frost was building up on the glass, a stark reminder of how isolated they were. His heart hammered against his ribs, pushing more blood out of the fresh wound on his chest. He could feel his core temperature dropping, his muscles growing stiff from the combination of the blizzard and the blood loss. ​Zuan walked around the suspended man, analyzing him like a piece of meat. He stopped right behind Bisma's right leg. With a swift, practiced movement, Zuan drove the tip of the knife deep into the inner thigh, precisely targeting the femoral artery. ​Bisma roared in agony this time, the sheer intensity of the pain shattering his restraint. The chains rattled violently against the ceiling as he convulsed, trying to pull away from the blade. ​"There," Zuan said, stepping back to avoid the sudden spray of dark red fluid. "The femoral artery is a beautiful thing. If I cut it completely, you would die in minutes. But I only nicked it. Your blood will drain slowly, bit by bit. It will take exactly two hours for your heart to finally run dry. You will die right here, alone, in the dark, freezing to death while watching your life pour onto the floor." ​Bisma hung his head, his breathing shallow and rapid. The pain in his leg was a blinding white heat, radiating upward into his abdomen. He could feel the warmth of his own blood flowing down his leg, pooling around his bare feet on the icy concrete. The world was beginning to spin, the dim light bulb above swaying gently in his blurred vision. ​"Goodbye, Bisma," Zuan said, sheathing his knife and pulling on a pair of thick leather gloves. He walked toward the heavy iron door of the slaughterhouse, his footsteps echoing with finality. "Enjoy your final two hours. By the time the morning shift comes to find whatever is left of you, I will already be introduced as the new head of the Zurich syndicate." ​The heavy iron door slammed shut, the sound booming through the empty facility like a thunderclap. The turn of the heavy mechanical lock followed, sealing Bisma inside his personal tomb. Silence returned, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the whistling wind outside and the rhythmic patter of his blood hitting the floor. ​Bisma closed his eyes, fighting the overwhelming urge to slip into unconsciousness. He knew that if he fell asleep now, he would never wake up. The cold was creeping into his extremities, numbing his fingers and toes. His mind raced, searching for any way out, any sliver of a chance to survive. He looked up at the handcuffs locking his wrists to the chains. They were high-quality, heavy-duty steel, securely anchored to the roof. There was no key, and his hands were far too large to slip through the tight metal rings. ​The blood continued to drain from his thigh, and he could feel his strength fading with every second that passed. He estimated he had less than an hour before shock took over completely. His gaze fell upon his hands. His thumbs were the only obstacles keeping the metal cuffs from sliding off his wrists. ​A desperate, insane thought formed in his fading consciousness. It was a horrific option, one that required a level of pain he wasn't sure he could endure, but it was his only choice. If he stayed here, death was certain. If he acted, he might have a fraction of a percent chance to see the light of day again. ​He took a deep, shuddering breath, filling his lungs with the icy air of the slaughterhouse. He focused all his remaining energy into his right hand. He wedged his right thumb firmly against the rigid edge of the steel handcuff. ​Using the weight of his own hanging body, Bisma threw his momentum downward and backward with a sudden, violent jerk. ​A sickening crack echoed through the room as the bone in his right thumb shattered under the intense pressure. The agony was an explosion of white light in his brain, so intense that his vision went completely black for a second. He almost lost consciousness, but the raw desire for vengeance kept his eyes open. He panted heavily, tears of pure pain mixing with the sweat on his face. His right thumb now hung at an unnatural, useless angle, completely broken. ​Bisma did not hesitate. Knowing the window of opportunity was closing, he gritted his teeth and pulled his mangled right hand upward through the tight metal ring. The jagged edges of the steel scraped against his broken bone and tore through the flesh of his palm, but the hand slid out of the cuff. ​He fell sideways, his left arm still anchored above, jerking his shoulder violently. He hung there by one arm, gasping, his right hand dripping fresh blood. He looked up at his left hand. The process had to be repeated. He grabbed his left thumb with his bleeding, broken right hand, positioning it against the second metal ring. ​He squeezed his eyes shut, picturing Zuan's arrogant face, and pulled down with everything he had left. Another sharp, brutal crack filled the empty room. Bisma collapsed heavily onto the freezing concrete floor as his left hand slipped free, the chains clattering loudly above him. ​He lay there in a heap, gasping for air, his body shaking uncontrollably from the shock, the cold, and the blinding pain in his hands and thigh. He was free from the chains, but he was still trapped inside a locked slaughterhouse, bleeding out in the middle of a Zurich winter storm. He forced himself to roll over, his eyes fixing on the distant, heavy exit door. ​The sound of footsteps suddenly echoed from the other side of the wall, stopping right outside the iron door. Bisma froze, holding his breath as the heavy mechanical lock began to turn once again. ​"Did you really think I would leave without making sure the job was finished, Bisma?" a voice called out from the darkness just as the door began to creak open.