The Price Of Hatred

Chapter 30 – The Human Architecture

​“James, let’s play a game. ‘Death Park’,” Tidder’s tiny, innocent child voice pleaded, her small hands tugging relentlessly at his forearm.

​“No, we're absolutely not playing that,” young James replied, pulling his arm back with a soft sigh. “Mum explicitly said it's far too scary for us to be playing those kinds of games.”

​“No! I really want to!” Tidder insisted, her grip tightening as she forced her weight against his arm, her eyes wide with a little girl's stubborn hope. “Come on, James. It’s just a game. You won't actually be stabbing me with a real knife.”

​James looked down at his little sister, his expression softening. “I will never, ever stab you, Tidder.”

​“Okay, then please let’s play it right now. Just this once,” she begged, bouncing slightly on her heels. “Please?”

​James let out a defeated, running breath. “Fine. Just this once.”

​“Yes! Yesss!”

​“Okay, but I will be the one wearing the mask this time, and I'm holding the plastic knife,” James said, reaching down to collect the play mask from her small hands. “You will be the ordinary human. And I will be the scary, ancient demon chasing you down.”

​“Okay! Let’s do it right now!”

​“RUN! THE DEMON IS COMING!”

​Tidder squealed with delight, spinning around and tearing across the grass, a bright, radiant smile lighting up her face. James ran right behind her, laughing beneath the plastic mask as he chased her with the toy blade.

​But suddenly, Tidder tripped. Her small frame hit the ground with a sickening, heavy thud. She didn't move. She didn't stand up immediately.

​James slowed his stride, his laughter dying in his throat as he noticed her absolute stillness. “Tidder? Get up, or else you're going to get caught by the demon.”

​“...James...” her voice sounded terribly distant, choked.

​“Tidder, get up right now,” James said, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest as he dropped to his knees beside her. Her chest was pressed flat against the damp earth. James reached down, intending to lift her up by her shoulders, but the moment his fingers pressed into her fabric, his hand slid against something warm, thick, and completely drenched.

​He pulled his hand back. It was covered in dark, crimson blood.

​“Tidder!”

​With a panicked cry, James violently rolled her over. His heart stopped. A massive, jagged silver blade was buried deep into the center of her stomach. The child’s eyes rolled back slightly, her small head turning with agonizing slowness to look directly into his tear-filled eyes.

​“James...” she whispered, her lips stained red. “Did you... did you have to stab me?”

​“No! No, I didn't! I would never hurt you!”

​“You killed me,” she gasped, her voice morphing into a hollow, echoing accusation that vibrated through the air. “You really are a demon.”

​“No, I didn't! I swear I didn't! MUUUUUMMMM! DAAAADDAAAAAD!”

​James screamed at the top of his lungs, but as his voice tore through his throat, the sunny park, the grass, and his sister’s body violently dissolved into ash. The world shattered, and he instantly found himself standing entirely alone inside a vast, infinite black hall. The darkness was absolute, pressing against his skin like a physical weight.

​Suddenly, a booming, disembodied voice hissed through the void.

​“James... you let us die, just like you left your little sister to die in the dirt. You are a demon, James. You have slaughtered hundreds upon hundreds of souls.”

​“No, I didn't! Please stop! Please stop it... just make it stop!” James cried out, covering his ears, his knees buckling under the sheer emotional agony.

​“Ooh... oh, little boy. Did you really have to kill them all?”

​The voice shifted, turning into a slick, ancient, scraping rasp that made his blood run completely to ice. It was Nexaroth.

​“No... no, no, I didn't,” James whimpered, screaming into the empty blackness as tears scorched his cheeks. “I want them back. I just want them all back.”

​“But they don't want you, child,” Nexaroth’s laughter echoed through the rafters of his mind. “Because you are a monster. And they are absolutely terrified of what you are.”

​“No... I am not a demon...”

​“Look down, James,” Nexaroth commanded softly. “Do you really think you can escape who you're”.

​Still trapped in the form of his terrified, younger self, James slowly lowered his eyes. The floor beneath his bare feet was no longer solid; it was filled with pooling, undulating water—but the liquid was a thick, dark, reflective red.

​As he stared into the blood-pool, the reflection didn't show a little boy. It showed the fully grown, brutalized version of who he had become. His eyes in the reflection were burning a demonic, glowing crimson, and embedded directly into the center of his ripped chest was the pulsing, jagged shard of the ancient stone.

​“James... do you honestly think you will ever escape me?” the stone whispered, its voice grinding like shifting tectonic plates.

​“No! No! NO!”

​James’s eyes violently snapped open.

​He roared the words into the dark, his breath tearing out of his lungs in heavy, ragged, panicked gasps. He thrashed forward, his vision completely blurred, swimming in a haze of localized trauma and vertigo. Slowly, the agonizing throb behind his eyelids began to settle, and his vision cleared just enough to reveal his surroundings.

​He wasn't in a park. He wasn't on a couch anymore.

​He was trapped inside the dark, metallic interior of a massive, roaring container truck. The air smelled heavily of industrial rust, oil, and damp cardboard. He tried to raise his arms to wipe the sweat from his forehead, but a sharp, metallic clinking sound cut through the drone of the engine. Both of his wrists were bound tight by heavy, industrial steel handcuffs.

​Struggling against the ache in his muscles, James dragged himself up, using the corrugated metal wall of the container to stand. He shook his head, looking back into the deep shadows at the far end of the truck.

​There was another man sitting there. His silhouette was tense, and his hands were similarly bound in identical steel handcuffs.

​James let out a slow, cold breath, his voice weak from the physical trauma but retaining its dangerous, calculated edge. “Where... where the hell am I?”

​The man in the shadows shifted, his boots scraping against the metal floor as he stood up to face James. “Butcher brought you in here last night.”

​James’s eyes narrowed through the dim light. “With who? Who else did he take?”

​“I don't know,” the guy said, stepping forward into the faint sliver of light leaking through the door seam. “It was only you. You were completely unconscious when they threw you back here.”

​James’s gaze locked onto the stranger’s face, analyzing his posture, his breathing, the lack of sweat on his collar. “You called him...  Butcher.”

​The man let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Only his enemies call him Butcher.”

​“And you're clearly one of them,” James said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward, the chains between his wrists rattling in the dark. “Why are you sitting in these cuffs? Why are you here?”

​“I worked for him,” the man said, lowering his head slightly. “...And then I betrayed him.”

​“That doesn't automatically make you his enemy,” James countered smoothly, his analytical mind dissecting the response instantly. His eyes narrowed to slits. “You're lying to me, aren't you?”

​The man let out a slow, heavy breath, realizing he couldn't easily play the room. “I was sent into the grid to kill him. And I failed miserably. Got tricked by a cute girl.”

​“You came completely alone?”

​“No. There were five of us in the infiltration unit. Four of them are currently dead.”

​“Then why are you still breathing?” James asked, his voice dropping into a freezing, clinical register.

​The man shook his head, his jaw tight. “I don't know. Maybe he wanted me alive for a reason. Maybe he was hoping I'd survive long enough to carry a message back to the old man who financed the hit.”

​James took another calculated step forward, the distance between them closing. “You know... a very smart friend of mine once taught me exactly how to study humans. Not people—humans.”

​The man frowned, his brow furrowing in the dark. “What the hell is the difference?”

​“People are entirely different,” James said, his voice smooth, completely detached from the physical pain racking his body. “There are billions of people in this world. They have different names, different faces, different languages, different cultural beliefs. No two people are exactly the same.”

​He took another step, his shadow completely eclipsing the stranger.

​“But humans? Humans are profoundly predictable. Strip away the corporate names, the national flags, the titles, and the status, and they are all driven by the exact same base mechanics.” James raised his shackled hands, pointing a single finger directly at the man’s chest. “Fear. Greed. Pride. Love. Survival.”

​The rattle of the truck chains seemed to fade beneath the weight of James’s voice.

​“So I studied humans. I learned exactly how they think. I learned how they react when they are backed into a corner. How they lie to save their skin. How they beg when the blade touches their throat. How they kill when they think no one is watching.”

​The man’s expression thoroughly hardened, his muscles tensing. “And what exactly did you learn about me in the last two minutes?”

​“I learned that you are absolutely terrified.”

​The man remained dead silent, his breath catching.

​“You're not afraid of Butcher,” James continued, his voice cutting through the dark like a scalpel. “And you're certainly not afraid of the old man who sent you to die. You are afraid because you survived when the other four men in your unit were slaughtered. And deep down, in the dark of your mind, you think there's a specific, horrific reason they left you alive.”

​The man's jaw tightened so hard a vein throbbed on his temple.

​“And that,” James whispered, leaning in close, “is exactly how I know you are lying to me.”

​“Ah... fuck you,” the guy hissed, spitting onto the floor.

​SKRRRRRRT.

​Suddenly, the massive container truck ground to a violent halt, the air brakes hissing loudly from beneath the chassis. The heavy mechanical clanking of a perimeter gate opening echoed from outside the steel walls. Heavy, deliberate footsteps began approaching the rear of the container.

​The guy inside tensed, his eyes darting to the ceiling. “Is he... is he here?”

​James didn't answer.

​Outside, the heavy iron latches of the container doors groaned. The massive doors flew open, blinding morning light pouring into the dark space. Standing in the center of the frame was the unmistakable, brutal silhouette of the Butcher, flanked by two heavily armed syndicate enforcers.

​Before James could even adjust his vision, the two guards lunged into the container, grabbing him violently by his jacket and dragging him out onto the gravelly dirt.

​But the other guy—stepped out of the container completely on his own accord, walking freely without a single hand forcing his movement.

​The moment his boots hit the gravel, one of the enforcers stepped forward and smoothly uncuffed the man's hands. The stranger shook out his wrists, offering a cold smirk, and took his place directly beside the Butcher's right flank.

​They threw James onto his knees in the dirt, the gravel biting into his skin.

​The Butcher kept his hands shoved casually inside his pockets, looking down at James like a piece of meat on a slab. “Chase... tell me. What exactly did you manage to get him to say in there?”

​Chase—the man from the container—looked down at James, his expression completely devoid of his previous fear. “I couldn't pull a single shred of actionable intel out of him, sir. He's incredibly smart, fast, highly sensitive to environmental shifts, and he apparently studies humans, not people.”

​The Butcher let out a dry, rumbling laugh, shaking his head. “Because there are billions of people who aren't the same, right? But a human will always be a human.”

​The Butcher took a slow, heavy step forward, his boots stopping mere inches from James's face.

​“James, James, James...” the Butcher muttered, a cruel, mocking smile stretching across his scarred face. “What about your little friend? The other guy? You both must have been really, truly meant to be together in this life. Neither of you gives a damn shit about ordinary people—especially you. So, I did it. I did some serious digging into the archives last night to find out exactly who you are and how you grew up.”

​The Butcher leaned down slightly, his voice dripping with synthetic pity. “And I see that you have been through absolute hell since you were a little kid. Your poor mum got hit by a speeding car and died right in the street, didn't she? And then your tragic dad also killed himsel—”

​The Butcher didn't finish the sentence.

​Beneath his blood-stained hair, James let out a low, cold, inner smile of a breath—a quiet, terrifying chuckle that vibrated in his chest.

​“That’s the lie,” James murmured gently under his breath, his voice barely a whisper against the wind. “He completely fetched the whole world with that story.”

​The Butcher heard the whisper, his eyes narrowing instantly.

​“Tell me how I got here,” James commanded, his voice suddenly shifting, gaining a strange, resonant power as he slowly, deliberately forced his body up from the ground. Every single muscle in his frame was aching with a white-hot agony. His chest felt impossibly heavy, the stone beneath his flesh pulling at his vitals. His head throbbed violently from the graze of the bullet wound, and his vision blurred into black spots for a fraction of a second before he violently forced it to clear again.

​He stood at his full height, staring directly into the Butcher's eyes.

​A bitter, venomous smile spread across the Butcher’s face as he maintained his stance. “I had the absolute, perfect chance to kill you last night, James. I stood right over your pathetic body. But I didn't. So maybe you should be thoroughly grateful to be breathing  right now.”

​James didn't blink. He raised a shackled hand and wiped a fresh streak of dark blood from his split lips. “You still haven't answered my question. Tell me, how did I get here? how did you find me?”

​“I didn't have to find you, you idiot,” the Butcher scoffed, taking his hands out of his pockets. “I was right there in the shadows last night. I saw every single horrific thing you did in that room. I saw what you become when that thing takes over. And who do you honestly think the guy who shot you down is? It’s the exact same man who just sent the global broadcast to the entire membership of the Pitch.”

​James’s posture went violently rigid, the chains rattling loudly. His eyes burned with a manic, desperate intensity. “Tell me where she is. Is she... is she really dead?”

​The Butcher’s face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. “You're fucking asking me that? You?”

​The Butcher lunged backward, winding up his massive, scarred arm, and put his entire weight into a brutal, driving punch straight into the side of James's face. 

​CRACK.

​The sheer force of the blow sent James crashing violently into the dirt, his vision spinning. Before he could even press his palms to the gravel, the two enforcers descended on him like wolves. They lifted James up from the ground by his armpits, forcing him back onto his knees.

​With a brutal, practiced motion, the two guards seized James's hands, twisting them violently behind his back, cranking the steel handcuffs up toward his shoulder blades while forcing his head back by his hair. The intense, blinding agony tore through James's spine, causing his breath to hitch sharply as the raw pain ripped through his injuries.

​Butcher stood over him, his chest heaving as he let out a ragged breath.

​“You fucking killed her, James!” the Butcher roared, his face turning a dark, dangerous crimson as he pointed a trembling finger at him. “You stabbed her right through the fucking center of her chest! You slaughtered your own goddamn sister, and I guess she was completely, thoroughly fucking wrong about you all this time! You're just a goddamn, hollow psychopath who didn't give a single shit about her!”

Butcher stepped closer, his boots pressing into James's knees.

​“You really want to know what hurts me the most about last night, James? It was the fact that she died right in the hands of the brother she thought could save her from death.”

​“Death...” James wheezed, his voice thick as dark, heavy blood poured freely from his nose, dripping down his lips and chin. He let out a cold, hollow laugh. “Is that... is that what you call it?”

​“You don't fear death, because you're broken, but she did!” Butcher said, his voice cracking with genuine emotion. “She was dying this entire fucking time, James! She didn't just casually decide to use the stone one day because she wanted power! She thoroughly believed the stone could save her from her own fading mortality! But the ancient stone carries a horrific prize. When it gives you life, it takes, and it takes, and it takes until it takes you entirely for itself! And all the advice I could give to her back then was for her to go find the healing stones... but she ended up dying right in your hands. She was fucking really okay until you came back into her life!”

​The room—the courtyard—seemed to fall into a vacuum as the Butcher stopped, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead. He stared down into James's bleeding, unyielding eyes.

​“But I do have one real question left to ask you before I break you into pieces,” the Butcher whispered, leaning down, his face inches away. “What exactly did you see when you touched his memory last night?”

​James’s head was still pulled back by his hair, the warm blood flowing from his nose straight into his mouth, staining his teeth a deep, terrifying red.

​He looked up at the executioner standing over him, his eyes suddenly flashing with a demonic, absolute clarity.

​“Come here...” James whispered, his voice incredibly weak, fading into the wind. “Come closer... let me tell you exactly what I saw.”

​The Butcher, driven by an insatiable curiosity and rage, lowered his torso, bending his ear directly beside James’s mouth to catch the final words.

​James’s eyes locked into the side of the man’s skull, his lips curving into a horrific, lethal smile as he spoke into his ear.

​“I saw your fucking face.”