Chapter 67: It’s time to go
The silence after Viktor left was a tangible thing, thick and heavy as the dust settling on the shattered console. Logan kept up the slow, circling massage on Roman’s back, his own body screaming for respite. The grip on his left wrist was a constant, throbbing benchmark of pain. He watched the sky through the cracked window fade from gunmetal gray to a dull, watery blue.
His eyes grew heavy, the rhythmic motion of his own hand becoming hypnotic. The adrenaline had long since burned off, leaving a deep, cellular exhaustion. He felt his head grow heavier where it rested against Roman’s arm. His breathing slowed, syncing with the steady rise and fall of the chest under his other hand.
He didn’t mean to sleep. It stole over him, a silent ambush. One moment he was tracing the line of Roman’s spine through the robe, the next he was sinking into a dark, dreamless void. His last conscious sensation was the unyielding pressure on his wrist, a tether to the waking world.
He woke near sunset. The light was different, warmer, painting the broken glass on the floor in hues of orange and gold. He felt more rested, a shallow but functional recharge. His body was stiff, still pressed against Roman’s side. He blinked, focusing.
Roman was asleep beside him, still sitting upright. His head had fallen forward, his chin nearly touching his chest. The cruel, aristocratic lines of his face were softened in unconsciousness, but the tension hadn’t fully left. Even in sleep, his fingers maintained their claim on Logan’s wrist, a loose but inescapable cage.
Logan didn’t move. He let the evening settle around them, the city’s noises swelling into their nightly chorus. He stayed there as the orange light deepened to violet, then to indigo. He drifted in and out of a shallow, watchful half-sleep, attuned to every minute shift in Roman’s breathing, every twitch of the fingers around his wrist. The night passed in a long, silent vigil.
Morning came with the sound of the elevator. Roman’s eyes snapped open instantly, as if he’d never been asleep. The confusion was gone. So was the hollowed-out rage. His gaze was clear, sharp, and utterly composed. He released Logan’s wrist as if dropping a tool.
Logan sat up, flexing his hand, the blood rushing back in a painful, prickling flood. The bruises were spectacular, a ring of deep purple and blue. Roman glanced at them, his expression unreadable, then stood without a word. He walked toward the elevator vestibule where Viktor waited, back straight, the robe now just a garment, not a shroud.
“Report,” Roman said, his voice the familiar low silk.
Viktor’s eyes flickered over the wrecked room, then back to his employer. “The storage facility on 53rd was a front. Empty. The coolant plant was a dead end. We found him at the old surgical theater.” A slight pause. “Dyson was there, attempting to set up a new dispersion unit. He did not come quietly, but he is contained. He’s in the basement holding facility. He is… talkative. Arrogant.”
A muscle twitched in Roman’s jaw. “Arrogant.” He turned. “Logan. Call the service. Have this cleaned. I want it pristine by tonight.” The order was casual, absolute.
“Sure,” Logan said, his voice rough from sleep and disuse. He found his phone, making the arrangements with a few short sentences as he watched Roman stride toward the bedroom to dress.
Twenty minutes later, they were in the basement of a nondescript warehouse in the industrial docks. The air was cold and smelled of damp concrete and old motor oil. A single metal chair was bolted to the floor in the center of a room with a drain. Peter Dyson was secured to it. He was younger than Logan expected, with fever-bright eyes and a smirk that didn’t fit his situation.
Roman entered, having changed into a dark, impeccably cut suit. He carried no mask. His face was his authority here. Logan followed, lingering near the doorway, leaning against the cold wall.
“Mr. Sionis,” Dyson said, his voice shaky but defiant. “I’ve admired your work. The efficiency. But you’re operating with an outdated paradigm. Fear is a crude instrument. My formulations are more… psychological. They don’t just scare. They unravel.”
Roman didn’t respond. He picked up a pair of bolt cutters from a tray of tools. “Who funded you? Dent’s petty cash? Or did you find a private patron?”
“The work funds itself! It’s revolutionary!” Dyson’s bravado was a thin veneer. He flinched as Roman took a step closer.
Roman’s first question was answered with a scream as the bolt cutters found the bone of Dyson’s left index finger. The snap was loud and dry. The information, when it came, was gushing and incoherent between sobs. Yes, Two-Face. A grant from a falsified charitable trust. The target was the financial district, a simultaneous release in five major bank ventilation systems. A statement about the corruption of capital.
Roman listened, his head tilted. He got the names of the banks, the access points, the delivery method. Then he set the bolt cutters down.
He picked up a soldering iron next. He plugged it into a nearby outlet. The element began to glow a dull, cherry red. Dyson’s screams took on a new, piercing quality. The smell of burning flesh and polyester filled the cold room. Logan watched from the corner, his face impassive. He understood this wasn't just interrogation anymore. This was methodology. This was Roman reclaiming the control the fear gas had stolen from him, stitch by brutal stitch.
The tools changed. A hammer. A box cutter. A pair of needle-nose pliers. The questions stopped long before Dyson’s voice gave out. The answers had been extracted in the first ten minutes. The rest was a slow, meticulous dismantling. It was punishment for the arrogance, for the poison, for the violation of the greenhouse, for the look in Roman’s eyes when the stronger gas had seeped through his mask.
Logan watched Roman’s back, the precise, almost elegant movements of his shoulders. He saw the focused intensity, the absence of the berserk rage from the night before. This was cold. Surgical. This was Roman Sionis in his purest state. Logan didn’t look away. He knew Roman needed him to see this. To understand the price. To witness the restoration of order.
The night bled on. Dyson’s screams degraded into wet, guttural pleas, then into weak, continuous mewling. The concrete around the drain grew dark and slick. The air grew thick, metallic, and impossibly cold. Logan’s legs ached from standing. He lit a cigarette, the smoke doing little to mask the other smells.
Near four in the morning, the mewling stopped. The only sound was the drip of fluid onto concrete and Roman’s steady, unhurried breathing. He stood over the ruin in the chair, his sleeves rolled up, his forearms and the front of his shirt sprayed with a fine, dark mist. He dropped a heavy-duty scalpel onto the tray with a clean, metallic clatter.
He turned. His eyes found Logan’s in the gloom. They were calm.Empty. Resolved.
Logan pushed off the wall. He walked over, stepping around the expanding pool on the floor. He didn’t look at the chair. He stopped in front of Roman and reached out. His hands, clean and steady, began to stroke Roman’s arms, from the wrists up to the biceps, smoothing over the taut, blood-spattered fabric. His touch was firm, soothing, a direct counterpoint to the last several hours.
“You got messy,” Logan murmured, his voice a low, intimate thread in the horrific quiet. He picked up a clean rag from the tool tray and gently wiped a spatter from Roman’s cheekbone. “Suits you, though. The whole hands-on management style.”
A ghost of something flickered in Roman’s gray eyes. Not a smile. An acknowledgment. He caught Logan’s wrist, his grip firm but not crushing, his own fingers sticky. He held it for a moment, just looking at him, then released it.
“Call Viktor,” Roman said, his voice slightly hoarse from disuse.
Logan pulled out his phone. “Cleanup. Basement three. Bring the heavy-duty bags. And a lot of bleach.” He listened for a moment. “Yeah. It’s… yeah. Just come down.”
Viktor arrived within minutes. He pushed the metal door open, his professional demeanor intact until he crossed the threshold. Then he stopped dead. His eyes took in the scene—the chair, the room, the sheer volume of liquid covering every surface, the state of his employer. His face, usually a stone mask, paled. His throat worked. He looked away, his jaw tightening, a fine sheen of sweat appearing on his temple. He was a man who had seen violence in every form, but the thoroughness, the sheer wetness of this, struck a primitive chord. He swallowed hard, fighting a visible wave of nausea.
Roman ignored him. He grabbed Logan’s hand, his fingers interlacing with Logan’s, and pulled him toward the door. “We’re done here.”
He dragged Logan past Viktor, who was now staring fixedly at a spot on the wall, taking shallow breaths through his mouth. Logan glanced back once, seeing Viktor close his eyes for a second, a man fighting to keep his composure and his last meal.
Then they were out in the corridor, the heavy door swinging shut behind them, muffling the abattoir scene within. Roman’s stride was long and decisive, pulling Logan along toward the waiting car, their joined hands swinging between them, both stained now, one from causing the horror, the other from choosing to stand beside it.