Ice Palace (Secret Torture Vault)
Ella's eyes fluttered open to emptiness. As she straightened in her seat, her surroundings felt unfamiliar, alien. The more she looked, the darker it seemed, as though the shadows themselves were closing in on her. Her hands moved cautiously over the cold surface, searching for something, anything, that might tell her where she was. But all she remembered was the sharp blow to her neck before everything faded to black.
Whatever game he's playing, he better end it now, or he'll face hell from her. The thought burned in her mind, a desperate anchor as she folded into herself, trying to block out the memories clawing their way to the surface.
Not now. She couldn't relive it. She couldn't face her eight-year-old self, trapped, screaming inside a pitch-black box, her cries muffled by the cloth shoved into her mouth. The tight ropes had sunk into her flesh, the pain sharp with each passing second. She had barely been able to breathe. And even if she had, who would have heard her? The neighbors never came near her caretaker's house. No one would have helped her.
"Get me out of here." Her voice came out in a faint, desperate whisper, a sound swallowed by the suffocating quiet.
She felt her nails digging into her skin, the sharp sensation grounding her as panic surged through her chest. Her mind played tricks on her, replacing the cold walls with the suffocating box from her past. She could almost feel the searing pain of a rod striking her back, the burn of carved steel against her skin. Fear coiled around her like a noose, tightening with every passing second.
"Mia... Mia..."
A voice, low but distinct, cut through the darkness. More voices followed, blending into the shadows.
She knew fear wouldn't help her. She told herself to calm down, to fight against it. But no matter how many times she repeated the words, it did nothing to stop the walls from closing in, nothing to stop the phantom ropes from constricting her lungs.
After what felt like an eternity of silent torture, a sudden burst of blinding white light sliced through the darkness. A figure stepped into the room, carrying a suitcase.
A loud slap echoed as the suitcase was thrown onto the table.
"Now," a voice said, low and taunting, "the show begins."
John leaned back, letting out a satisfied sigh as the crackling tune of his phonograph filled the dimly lit underground room. The melody of "You're the Inspiration" by Chicago seeped into the damp stone walls, its soft, slow jam clashing starkly with the brutal reality of his surroundings.
"You're the meaning of my life," the voice sang, a saccharine whisper in the cold air. "You're the inspiration..."
A smirk played on John's lips as he swayed slightly to the rhythm, reveling in the dark contrast of the moment.
Then came the interruption.
"Sir."
J entered, his voice a dull, professional drone as he dropped a medium-sized steel box onto the single wooden table at the center of the room. The impact echoed in the vast, empty space, the sound cutting through the music like a blade.
John barely glanced at him. His attention was on the box, his box. His pride. His tool of persuasion.
All his previous culprits had been brought here. All had broken, one way or another. Even the toughest, most skilled men had melted under his hand, reduced to sobbing, confessing wrecks.
And now, sitting in that same chair, bound in steel cuffs, was her.
She won't last long, he thought, his lips spreading into a slow, satisfied grin. Perhaps a minute. Maybe less.
With a leisure that reeked of confidence, John entered the code, unlocking the steel container. The lid lifted with a metallic snap, revealing the neatly arranged tools inside. Rows of gleaming knives, pliers, scalpels, and a compact electric drill sat among an assortment of more sophisticated instruments.
"You know what I call it?" He traced his fingers along the edges of a particularly wicked-looking blade. "Death Bar. It's my best buddy."
A chuckle rumbled from his throat as he pulled out the drill, its sharp tip gleaming under the dim light. He revved it up, relishing the mechanical whir that filled the space, a prelude to the screams he knew would soon follow.
"Don't have human buddies?"
His grip on the drill stiffened as the unexpected voice cut through the room, light, teasing, and utterly unimpressed.
John turned.
Ella was watching him, a spark of amusement flickering in her dark eyes despite her restraints. A slow, infuriating smile spread across her lips as she tilted her head slightly.
"Are you a psycho?" she continued, her tone laced with mock sympathy. "Don't have any friends, do you? Quite a pity."
John's patience snapped.
In a swift motion, he closed the distance between them, his hand reaching out to caress her face. His thumb traced along the soft curve of her jaw, an odd contrast to the deadly instrument still buzzing in his other hand.
"Honestly," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips, "you're quite attractive. And that sharp tongue makes you even more desirable." His voice darkened, dropping to a low whisper. "Any man would want to rip those clothes off and fuck the hell out of you. It's just that I despise being challenged."
With a flick of his wrist, he plunged the drill into her thigh.
A sickening whirr filled the air as metal tore through flesh. Blood spurted, staining the floor in thick crimson droplets. Ella's body jerked, her fingers clenching around the arms of the chair. A strangled grunt escaped her lips, but she refused to scream. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip, her breath hitching.
John leaned in, eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to admiration.
"You're strong," he mused, watching the crimson pool beneath her. "But everyone has their limits."
His hand curled around the drill tighter, pushing deeper into her flesh.
He could tell she was a firm girl, but even so, she couldn't stand against torture as hurtful as this. For a man who usually took little pleasure in the agony of others, it baffled him how much he reveled in her every expression. The compulsion in her eyes to shut, the way her fingers tightened on the chair's arm—every second was a new delight.
"Had enough? Ready to talk?" he asked as he washed the blood from his hands under the refreshing water that flowed from the basin. He turned to see her laughing like a maniac, a sound that made him smile despite himself, even as he feigned a frown. In a burst of rage, he trashed the towel he had used to dry his hands.
"I've been through worse," she said between chortles. "This? This is nothing but child's play."
His face went stiff and lifeless, his eyes widening with hard veins of darkness. His head nodded in accord, and he forced himself to relax, walking close to the girl he wanted to inflict intense pain on but was restricted by an uncertain emotion. It must be lust, he concluded, the only reasonable explanation. After all, she was a beauty with a desirable body.
"Then it's a good thing we've just gotten started. J, get her stripped."
Ella's struggles intensified. She abhorred the idea of being stripped of her clothes. Though time had passed, she still recalled that night. The horrible night with Mr. Tee, her caretaker's drunken, gambling, asshole husband. He had come home drunk, broken a few of the many things he called "assets," and scolded his wife's name, but she wasn't home. Ten-year-old Ella came out to help, and instead, he grabbed her, his huge hands ruffling her skin. He slammed her face against the walls as she fought back. With minutes of pushing and pulling, she was able to knock him out with a vase to his bald head. Lucky for him, his breath was only seized for an hour, but she dared not wait. With her freedom, she escaped the house and began a new life on the streets.
"No, no, please! You can't!" she protested, swearing in her heart she would kick the hell out of him if he dared to touch a hair on her skin.
With an eye gesture from his boss, J approached her but was blocked by her leg, which went for his thighs.
"Touch me, and I swear I'll kill you!" she said, and he knew she intended to make good on that threat. Her body was not one to be seen by anyone, especially not by jerkasses like them both.
"Leave it," John ordered, gesturing for J to retreat.
"Are you ready to speak now?" he stared into Ella's eyes, which held nothing but mockery. She seemed completely unbothered by his threats, and her easy chuckle sent a surge of rage through his veins. He clenched his fists, watching her arched brow, wanting to rip the defiance from her but feeling only a burning frustration.
"When do you plan to kill me?"
"You'll talk, and I promise you, it'll be very soon," he said stiffly, his fingers tracing the edges of the various knives on the table.
"Not today, buddy," she said, flashing a smile with her head held high.
"Tougher than I presumed. I fancy tough girls. They always agitate the beast in me." He boldly stated, punishing the curvy knife he had chosen by burying it into her thigh. To his dissatisfaction, she only let out a low grunt, her stern face showing little effect from the pain he was inflicting.
"Is it tougher than you?" she asked, not wanting to hand him the satisfaction he craved. The pain was twice as sharp, leaving her helpless, but she still wouldn't show it to him.
"You will see, Bea," he said with a flirty, yet devious, wink.
He returned to the table, picking up a much longer and wider knife with a straight, sharp edge.
In a second, he drove it into her stomach with multiple twirls. Her body felt forsaken, shattering into darkness as her nerves tried to subdue the pain. It felt like her whole system had stopped functioning.
Her breath seized as a pain like a flame melting skin ignited. With every second, the ice water pooling beneath her darkened with the drops of blood from her stomach. She gasped for air, her hands stiffening around the gaping wound.
"What, giving up so easily?" he asked, though he didn't need an answer.
"Just kill me, you asshole!" she said, spitting in his face. She wished for death, for the pain in her stomach was a form of death in itself, death was better than the thousand pains she was dealing with. She knew she wouldn't survive; it was just a matter of minutes before her body gave up.h