Chapter 64

Chapter 64
The kitchen smelled faintly of cocoa as Grandma stirred the pot, humming softly like the world outside didn't exist. Joy sat on the stool, hands cupped around the mug Grandma slid toward her, the steam fogging her lashes.

"You know," Grandma began, settling down with her own cup, "your grandpa wasn't always the confident man you remember. Oh no. The first time I met him, he could barely string two words together without turning red."

Joy raised her brows, sipping carefully. "Grandpa? The same man who could walk into town and make every shopkeeper laugh in ten minutes?"

"The very same," Grandma chuckled. "Back then, he was just a young man working on the farm. One afternoon, I was carrying a basket of corn, and he—poor thing—tried to impress me. He said, 'Let me carry that for you, miss,' but instead of taking the basket, he tripped over a sack of grain and landed flat on his back."

Joy laughed, a soft sound she didn't realize had been missing from her throat for so long. The image of her strong, steady grandfather sprawled out in the dirt was too much. "Please tell me you helped him up."

"Oh no," Grandma said, eyes twinkling with mischief. "I laughed first. Then I told him if he wanted to impress me, he'd better learn how to walk without falling."

Joy nearly choked on her cocoa, giggling. "You didn't!"

"I did. And you know what? He showed up the next day, all serious, carrying that same sack of grain on his shoulders like it weighed nothing. Bold as ever. That was the day I knew he wasn't going to let me get away."

Something softened in Joy's chest, the warmth of the chocolate mixing with the warmth of the memory. For a moment, the shadows in her mind loosened their grip. She leaned her head against Grandma's shoulder, smiling.

Grandma patted her hand. "See, Joy? Even the strongest men can start out trembling. But love... love makes them bold."

Joy closed her eyes. She didn't want to admit that her thoughts wandered, uninvited, to Adrik's face—the way boldness had twisted into obsession. The laughter in the kitchen dulled for a second, but she pushed it back, forcing herself to cling to Grandma's story instead.

Joy was still smiling into her cup when a small rustle made her glance to the side. Elsa, her rabbit, had hopped in quietly from the corridor, nose twitching, ears upright like she too wanted to be part of the conversation.

Joy set her cocoa down and reached for her, lifting her onto her lap. "Look who decided to join us," she said, stroking Elsa's soft fur.

Grandma chuckled warmly. "That one always knows when we're up to something. Rabbits have sharp instincts, you know."

Joy leaned her face close to Elsa's, whispering, "You just wanted hot chocolate too, huh?" Elsa wriggled her nose, and Joy laughed for real this time, the kind of laugh that loosened the tightness in her chest.

Grandma sipped from her cup, eyes sparkling. "Your grandpa used to say animals come to the kindest hearts. Maybe that's why she never leaves you."

Joy glanced down at Elsa curled up against her, warm and calm in her lap, and something inside her steadied. "Then maybe she's smarter than I am," she said softly, pressing a kiss between the rabbit's ears.

The kitchen filled with the gentle clink of cups, Grandma's voice drifting into another memory, and Elsa nestled deeper into Joy's lap, as though reminding her she wasn't alone in the world.

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"Sir... please," the man's voice cracked, desperation clawing at every word. His wrists bled raw against the ropes that held him down, the mattress beneath him already soaked in sweat. "Please, just give me a little more time. I'll fix everything. I swear."

His wife lay bound beside him, her eyes wide and wild, muffled sobs breaking past the gag pressed tight against her mouth. She tried to twist toward him, tried to reach for him, but her arms were pinned cruelly behind her back. Her tears ran freely, soaking the pillow beneath her.

The third man in the room, seated in the shadowed corner, did not move. His posture was calm, collected — almost bored. He tapped his fingers slowly against the armrest of the chair he occupied, each tap echoing like a ticking clock in the suffocating silence. His voice, when it came, was ice:

"I gave you time." A pause. A small, cruel smile. "But time is a luxury for men who keep their promises. And you?" He leaned forward, his face catching the faint light of the single bulb swaying above them. "You've wasted mine. Now your time... has run out."

The bound man shook his head violently, veins straining in his neck. "No, no, no — please, don't do this. My family—she—" His words broke into a choked scream as another figure entered, silent, carrying a heavy metal canister that sloshed with each step.

The sharp, chemical stench filled the air instantly. Gasoline.

The wife thrashed, muffled cries turning frantic, her body convulsing as the fourth man uncapped the canister. He didn't say a word, only tilted it forward, letting the liquid spill freely. Cold, slick streams ran across their bodies, soaking their clothes, their skin, the mattress. The floor beneath them became a dark puddle, spreading outward like a growing shadow.

The husband coughed, gagged, the fumes burning his throat. "Please—God, please—don't do this! I'll pay you back, every cent! I swear!" His voice rose to a shriek, panic flooding through him. He turned his head toward his wife, her muffled cries tearing through his soul. "I'm sorry," he whispered, sobbing. "I'm so sorry."

The man in the chair finally stood. His shoes echoed heavily on the concrete as he stepped closer, his shadow falling over the bed. He crouched slightly, meeting the husband's terrified eyes.

"You should have thought about promises before you broke them." His voice was calm, almost tender, like a father teaching a lesson to a foolish child. He tilted his head, smirking faintly. "Say hi to the devil for me when you get there."

From his pocket, he drew a silver lighter. He flicked it open with a practiced ease, the flame small but impossibly bright in the dim room. For one fleeting second, the husband thought he might spare them, that maybe this was just a threat.

But then the lighter dipped.

The fire caught instantly, leaping like a hungry beast across the gasoline-soaked sheets. Within seconds, the flames roared up around them, swallowing their screams. The wife's muffled wails turned into shrieks against the gag as her skin blistered, and the husband thrashed violently, the ropes biting into his burning flesh as he tried to break free.

The smell of burning flesh and hair filled the air, acrid and suffocating. The firelight reflected in the eyes of the man in the chair, his face illuminated by their suffering — calm, detached, almost reverent. He didn't flinch, didn't blink, as their bodies writhed in agony.

The fourth man stood back, watching with a blank expression, gasoline canister dangling loosely at his side.

The screaming didn't last long. Soon it gave way to the guttural, broken sounds of lungs collapsing, of throats melting in the heat. And then... silence.

The fire continued to devour the bed, the walls, everything, until the room itself seemed to weep black smoke.

The third man lit a cigarette with the same lighter, dragging deep as he turned away. The words he left behind lingered heavier than the smoke:

"Debts must always be paid."