Between His Claws

Chapter 4: The Map of the Dominated 2

Alyssa

The room is vast, lit by cold neon lights. It's not a medieval torture chamber. It's worse. It's a makeshift operating room, nightmarish and hygienic. A stainless steel table, saws, clamps, scalpels much larger than mine are laid out on a tray. And on the walls, it's not chains, but maps. Detailed geographical maps of the United States, Mexico, with pins of different colors. The network of his empire.

And in the center, there is a man.

He's tied to a chair, face swollen, one eye closed, lip split. He whimpers faintly. This isn't one of the cartel men. He's dressed in a bourgeois suit, now torn and bloodstained.

Silas is there, standing near him. He's not wearing a jacket. His forearms are bare, and he's methodically wiping a dark stain from his fingers with a white cloth. He looks up when I enter. His expression is neutral, professional.

— Doctor Bennett. I'm glad you accepted my invitation.

My throat tightens. I remain frozen on the threshold, my whole body screaming at me to flee.

— What… what are you doing?

— A geography lesson, he replies calmly. He tosses the stained cloth into a metal bucket. And business. This man… he gestures with a tilt of his head towards the prisoner… thought he was smart. He diverted a shipment belonging to me. He thought he could steal from the shadow without the shadow noticing.

The prisoner sobs.

— Please… Señor Cruz… I have a family…

Silas ignores him. His gaze is fixed on me.

— The question isn't whether you pay for your mistakes, Alyssa. The question is how. There's the gentle way. And the hard way.

He walks to the instrument table. His fingers brush the blades, with terrifying familiarity.

— He chose the hard way. Now, he's going to show us on the map where my product is. And the names of those who helped him.

I shake my head, slowly, horrified.

— No. You can't…

— I can, he interrupts, his voice becoming a razor's edge. And I will. The only variable is you.

He picks up a thin, sharp metal tool. A probe.

— You.

He walks towards me and holds out the instrument. The metal is cold between us.

— Show him the gentle way.

The world wavers. I step back, bumping into the doorframe.

— You're insane. I won't do this. I'm a doctor.

— Exactly, he hisses, his eyes igniting with intense light. You know where to hurt without killing. You know pressure points, nerves. You know how to inflict pain… precise. Economical. Make him talk. Spare him the worst.

The prisoner looks at me, his one good eye wide with pathetic hope. Save me, that look pleads.

— I am not your executioner, I whisper, nausea rising.

— We are all someone's executioner, Doctor, Silas retorts, without breaking eye contact. At the hospital, you cut, you burn, you inflict temporary pain for a greater good. It's the same here. This man's pain will serve to restore order. To avoid other deaths. It's… preventative medicine.

His logic is twisted, diabolical. It finds a crack in my own code, a crack I didn't even know existed.

— I refuse.

Silas's face hardens. Tension in the room becomes palpable.

— Very well. The hard way, then.

He turns and, with a movement too fast to follow, drives the probe into the prisoner's shoulder.

The scream that tears through the room is animal, blood-curdling. The man thrashes, wracked with spasms, his chair scraping the concrete floor.

I close my eyes, but the sounds are worse. The groans, Silas's steady breathing, the clink of the instrument when he withdraws it.

— Where is my product? Silas asks, his voice calm again, almost gentle.

The prisoner gasps out unintelligible words.

Silas sighs, like one would at a stubborn child. He picks up a larger clamp.

— Stop! The cry rips from me before I can hold it back.

Silas freezes. He turns to me, one eyebrow raised.

— You have a better suggestion?

Tears stream down my cheeks, burning with shame and helplessness. I look at the man, I look at the map, I look at the instruments. I'm trapped in his ethical nightmare.

— Let him go, I plead, voice broken. Please.

Silas's gaze rests on me, for a long moment. He assesses my distress, my revulsion. I see the calculation behind his eyes.

— No, he says finally. But you just bought him a reprieve.

He throws the clamp onto the table with a metallic clang that echoes like a cannon shot.

— Take him away. We'll resume this conversation when he's regained his senses.

The guard enters and unties the semi-conscious man. He drags him out of the room, leaving a trail of blood on the floor.

Silas and I are left alone. The smell of blood and fear envelops us.

He approaches. He no longer looks angry. He looks… satisfied.

— You see? he murmurs, stopping before me. You already have power over me. A word, an emotion, and I changed the course of events. You chose not to inflict pain. That was your decision. Your first act of power here.

— That wasn't an act of power. It was weakness, I whisper, sickened.

— Compassion is never weakness, Alyssa. It's a weapon. And I will teach you how to use it. He brushes my tear-stained cheek. Today, you learned a lesson more important than geography. You learned that you are already part of the equation.

He leans in, his warm breath against my ear.

— Next time, I might not give you a choice.

He leaves, abandoning me alone in the middle of the torture room, with the echo of screams in my ears and the bitter taste of my own complicity.

I didn't touch the man. I didn't hold any instrument.

Yet I feel more sullied than if I had.

He didn't need chains. He used my own morality against me. And it worked.

The map on the wall mocks me. I am a new pin, planted in the heart of his domain. And I'm only beginning to understand the rules of his game.