Chapter 3

The world dissolved into a blur of teeth and fur. I was a rock in a raging river of snarling dogs. I swung the rebar, connecting with flesh and bone, but for every one I pushed back, two more took its place.

A dog clamped onto my arm, its teeth grinding against the bone. I roared in pain and slammed its head against the wall until it let go. Another one latched onto my already injured leg, dragging me down.

I fell to one knee. The rebar slipped from my bloody fingers. I was losing. The pain was overwhelming, a constant, screaming fire that consumed my thoughts. I was going to be torn apart on this filthy floor.

With a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, I launched myself forward, not away from the dogs, but into them. I grabbed the one on my leg by its throat and squeezed, my thumbs digging into its windpipe. It thrashed, its claws tearing long, deep gashes across my chest and stomach.

My shirt was in tatters. My skin was a roadmap of bites and scratches. Blood was everywhere, slick on my hands, matting my hair, pooling on the floor around me. I was a mess of torn flesh.

The dogs sensed my weakening state. They paused, circling me, their low growls a promise of the final attack. They were waiting for me to collapse.

Up on the catwalk, the scene finally seemed to register with Jesse. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a horrified shock that looked genuine. This was messier, bloodier, more real than she had imagined.

"Duard," she said, her voice a shaky whisper. "The dogs... I didn't think they'd... they're not supposed to actually kill him."

Her naivete was almost as monstrous as her cruelty. What did she think starving pit bulls would do? Lick me to death?

A flicker of concern crossed her face. For a second, I saw the woman I married, the one who would get worried if I had a common cold. "Kai... oh god, Kai..."

"Duard, stop them!" she commanded, turning to him. "Call them off now!"

But Duard wasn't listening to her anymore. He put on a show for her, his face a mask of sorrow. He rushed to her side, putting a comforting arm around her.

"Jesse, I'm so sorry," he whimpered, a master manipulator at work. "I didn't know he would fight back so hard. He's agitating them."

He made it sound like it was my fault. Like my struggling for life was an act of aggression.

"Look at his injuries," Duard said, downplaying the horror. "They're just scratches, Jesse. He's being dramatic. He's a tough guy, he can handle it."

He then played his trump card, leaning in close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper only she could hear, but I could guess the context. "Remember what he did to me, Jesse. He humiliated me. He ruined me. Doesn't he deserve to feel just a little of the pain I felt?"

She looked from Duard's pleading face down to my bloody form. I saw the conflict in her eyes, a war between her twisted loyalty to him and the dawning horror of what she had done.

She looked at Duard, and her resolve hardened again. She comforted him, patting his arm. "You're right, Duard. You're right. He needs to learn his lesson."

She agreed. She actually agreed to let this continue. To satisfy him.

Hearing that, something inside me broke. Any last, lingering shred of hope that this was a twisted game gone wrong evaporated. This was calculated. This was evil. My wife was watching me die, and she was comforting my would-be murderer.

Jesse turned back to the livestream, her composure regained. "As you can see," she announced, her voice steady again, "Kai is refusing to cooperate. He's choosing this path. This is a consequence of his own actions."

The online audience, fed this narrative, ate it up. 'He's getting what he deserves.' 'So arrogant.' 'Serves him right for hurting that poor Duard guy.'

I lay on the ground, bleeding, listening to the woman I loved justify my murder to a global audience. The pain from my wounds was nothing compared to the pain in my chest.

But amidst the despair, a new thought took root. A cold, hard, and desperate plan. If I was going to die, I wouldn't die for their entertainment. I wouldn't be their victim.

Even with my body screaming in protest, I made a decision. A critical, final decision.