Previous Chapter || First Chapter
Sharon Miller sat in her cell, makeshift shiv in hand, waiting. When Bricks delivered her food she liked him, then scurried into the air vent to make an escape.
She overheard conversations about some business called "The Giggle Room" reopening. She listened too long for details. The stink of her feet from the fish paste invaded the room and gave her away.
When she awoke she found herself under bright studio lights. The debut show of the new Giggle Room
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,211
M/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Non-Consensual | Dark
The cell stank. It was a layered miasma of damp concrete, the metallic taste of rusted pipes, and the cloying, inescapable reek of rancid tuna oil that seemed to sweat from Sharon’s own pores.
She huddled on the edge of the cot, her knees pulled to her chest, rocking slightly. Her hair was a matted curtain hiding her face. Her right hand was tucked out of sight beneath the tattered hem of her grimy slip.
Clank.
The heavy bolt of the door slid back.
Sharon stiffened but didn't look up. She kept her head bowed, staring at her own bare, oil-stained feet.
Bricks filled the doorway. The massive enforcer looked bored, the routine barely registering for him anymore. He held a plastic tray of grey slop in one hand. He kicked the door half-shut behind him but didn't engage the deadbolt. He stepped inside, his eyes drifting to the wall monitor.
"Eat up," he grunted, stepping toward the small metal table in the corner to set the tray down.
Sharon let out a low, pained whimper. She uncurled one leg, letting it dangle off the cot at an awkward angle, clutching her ankle.
"Please..." she croaked, her voice dry and brittle. "My ankle... I think it's broken... from the stocks..."
Bricks paused. He looked back over his shoulder, his expression one of mild annoyance rather than concern. He set the tray down with a clatter.
"Quit whining," he muttered, turning fully toward her. He took a step closer, looming over the cot. "Let me see."
He bent down, reaching for her leg.
As his hand closed around her ankle, Sharon moved.
"Here," she whispered.
Her right hand whipped out from beneath the slip. It wasn't empty. It held a six-inch metal bracket she had worked loose from the underside of the bunk, the tip ground to a jagged needle point against the concrete floor.
Bricks’ eyes widened—a fraction of a second of realization. "What the—"
Sharon lunged upward. She didn't slash; she thrust. She drove the jagged metal spike upward with every ounce of hysterical strength she possessed, aiming directly for the soft hollow of his throat.
THUNK-SQUELCH.
The impact jarred her arm to the shoulder. The shiv stabbing through front of his throat and poking out the back of his neck.
"Ghh-hurrkk!"
Bricks stiffened as if electrocuted. His hands flew up, not to grab her, but to claw at the metal protruding from his neck. A spray of hot, arterial crimson jetted out, painting Sharon’s face and chest in a horrific, warm mask.
She didn't let go. She grabbed the handle with both hands and twisted.
Bricks stumbled back, a wet, gurgling rattle escaping his lips. His legs clipped the edge of the cot, and he went down hard, crashing onto his back. Sharon rode him down, ending up straddled across his heaving chest.
His eyes were wide, staring up at her in shock, the light already fading as his life pumped out onto the concrete floor. He tried to speak, but only a bubble of blood formed on his lips.
Sharon stared down at him, her chest heaving, the blood dripping from her eyelashes. She didn't scream. She didn't look away. She watched until the convulsions stopped and his eyes glazed over.
Silence rushed back into the room, broken only by her own ragged breathing. Hhh-uh... Hhh-uh...
She scrambled off the body, her bare feet slipping in the spreading pool of blood. She wiped her face with the back of her wrist, smearing the red into a war paint.
She dropped to her knees beside him. Her hands were shaking violently as she patted down his pockets. Squish. Her fingers brushed against the wet fabric of his shirt.
She found them. A heavy ring of keys and a plastic access card.
She grabbed them and stood up. She looked at the door. Then she looked up.
Above the door was the maintenance hatch.
She dragged the small metal table over, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. She flinched, freezing for a second, but no one came. She climbed up, her bloody feet leaving prints on the metal surface. She shoved the ceiling tile aside.
It lifted, revealing the dusty, dark throat of the ventilation system.
Sharon pulled herself up, scrambling into the darkness just as the sound of heavy boots echoed from the far end of the corridor. She slid the tile back into place. Darkness swallowed her.
She lay there in the dust, clutching the bloody shiv, listening to the muffled world below.
She began to crawl.
The ventilation shaft was a claustrophobic throat of galvanized steel. It was narrow, dusty, and vibrated with the low-frequency hum of the building's massive HVAC units. It smelled of old lint and dead air, barely masking the metallic tang of blood and the lingering stench of fish oil that clung to Sharon like a second skin.
She crawled on her elbows and knees, the rivets in the metal digging into her skin. Every movement was slow, deliberate. Scuff. Scuff. Scuff. She paused every few feet, listening for the sound of alarms, but the building remained quiet.
She saw light ahead.
A square of yellow illumination slatting through the dusty darkness. A vent grate.
Sharon inched forward until she was directly over it. She peered through the slats.
Below her was Interrogation Room 4.
The perspective was dizzying. From this height, the room looked like a sterile operating theater. White tiles. Stainless steel drains. Harsh, clinical lighting.
In the center, bolted to the inclined medical table, lay Deirdre Sweeney.
The prosecutor was stripped to a ragged grey tunic, her limbs splayed wide and cuffed to the frame. But unlike before, her mouth was free. The heavy leather muzzle sat on a nearby tray, discarded. Her face was flushed, wet with sweat and tears, her chest heaving as she sucked in greedy lungfuls of air.
Standing at the foot of the table was a man Sharon had never seen before.
He wasn't like Bricks or Costigan. He was wiry, almost skeletal in his build, his black shirt hanging loosely off sharp shoulders. He had oil-black hair slicked back so severely it looked wet. There was a fluid, snake-like quality to the way he moved—too smooth, unnervingly precise.
But it was his hands that made Sharon recoil in the vent.
His fingers were impossibly long, spidery appendages. And at the end of each finger was a nail that had been filed into a hook-like point and painted a glossy, obsidian black. They looked less like a manicure and more like weapons evolved for flaying.
Sharon watched as he picked up a clear bottle of oil. He poured it over his own hands, rubbing them together with a slow, grinding motion, coating the black talons in slick, shimmering lubricant.
Then, he gripped Deirdre’s elevated, bare feet.
"Please..." Deirdre gasped, her voice raw. "Bellini... don't do this. I was just doing my job."
The man—Bellini—looked up. His eyes were dead shark eyes, devoid of any empathy. A thin, cruel smile cut across his face.
"Funny," he purred, his voice drifting up to the vent, smooth and cold. "I am just doing mine. Isn't it great when you enjoy your work?"
He sank his thumbs into her arches.
He didn't start slow. He dragged the sharp, black points of his index nails straight down the center of her soles.
Scritch-squelch.
"AAAAH! NOOO! GOD! STOP!"
Deirdre’s head slammed back against the table. Her scream was pierced, high and desperate. Her legs kicked against the restraints, her toes curling and uncurling in a frantic rhythm as the sharp nails found purchase even through the oil.
Bellini leaned in, his face inches from her twitching feet.
"You know, Deirdre," he whispered, his voice cutting through her gasps. "All through that hearing... I wondered what the feet inside those elegant Jimmy Choos looked like."
He ran his nails over the balls of her feet, skittering over the pads before dipping sharply into the webbing between her toes.
"HNNN-HEEE! GNNN-YAAAA! DON'T! EEEEEP!"
Deirdre bucked, a strangled, involuntary giggle bubbling up through her scream as the nerves misfired.
"And now I know," Bellini murmured.
He abandoned the light touch. He clamped his hands around her feet and began to scrub his talons furiously against her soles, digging deep, exploiting the oil to move faster, harder.
"AAAAAH-HA-HA-HA-HA! BELLINI! PLEASE! I CAN'T! I CAN'T! ST-HAAAA-HAAA!"
Sharon squeezed her eyes shut, her hand gripping the bloody shiv so hard her knuckles turned white. The sound of Deirdre's laughter—that terrified, broken sound she knew so well—filled the shaft.
She couldn't save her. The prosecutor was already gone, lost to the man with the black claws.
Sharon pushed herself away from the grate, the image of those obsidian talons branded into her mind.
She crawled on.
The crawl space elbowed left, the air getting colder as Sharon moved away from the heat of the torture chambers and toward the administrative wing. The vibration of the HVAC system deepened into a steady, thrumming bass note beneath her hands.
She was exhausted. Her arms trembled with every pull, the adrenaline of the kill beginning to sour into a sick, shaky fatigue. The blood on her face had dried into a tight, cracking mask, but the smell... the smell was getting worse.
The scent of the tuna oil was a physical weight in the confined space. It was warm, cloying, and undeniably pungent, mixing with the metallic tang of Bricks' blood on her clothes to create a stench of death and decay.
Ahead, another grate. This one was larger, the light spilling through it richer, warmer.
Sharon slowed. She army-crawled the last few feet, holding her breath, though her lungs burned for air.
She peered down.
The Executive Office.
It was a world away from the stainless steel and concrete she had just left. Dark mahogany paneling lined the walls. A thick Persian rug covered the floor. Heavy leather armchairs sat opposite a massive oak desk. The air was thick with blue cigar smoke and the amber scent of expensive scotch.
Two men were there.
Mr. Syndino was behind the desk. He looked relaxed, almost sleepy, swirling a tumbler of dark liquid. His suit jacket was off, his tie loosened. He looked like any other corporate executive winding down after a long quarter.
Costigan leaned against the wall. He was rolling a coin over his knuckles—back and forth, back and forth.
"The numbers from the Hong Kong node are solid," Costigan said, not turning around. "Subscribers are up forty percent since we announced the 'Reboot.' The volatility of the crypto market actually works in our favor. They’re looking for places to park assets."
Syndino chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "Assets. I like that. And the opening lineup?"
"Strong," Costigan replied, turning to face the room. "The Prosecution Rests segment with Deirdre is testing through the roof on the teaser clips. Nails was a good investment. Waiving his fee for breaking Deirdre was generous, but frankly, I think he would have paid us."
Sharon stopped moving to listen. Her breath hitched. The reboot... subscribers... lineup.
Syndino paused, the glass halfway to his lips. "Paid us? The man is a mercenary. Why work pro bono?"
"Because he's settling a score," Costigan said with a grim smirk, pouring the amber liquid. "Nails told me about a freelance job he botched about six months ago. He apparently had that reporter, Camila Reyes, cornered in a treatment room at the Mandarin Oriental. You know, that hot Mexican bitch, she's all over the news lately."
Syndino raised an eyebrow. "Yeah I know the one. And? What happened?"
"And he got cocky. He took too long playing with his food. Security did a random sweep, and he had to bail out the fire exit before he could finish the job. Left the girl alive."
"Sloppy," Syndino muttered.
"It gets worse," Costigan chuckled, walking over to the window. "Reyes didn't go to the cops. She went legal. She knew his real name from somewhere—figure she dug it up during her investigation. She filed a massive civil suit for assault and emotional damages. Froze his verified assets in the Caymans before he even knew he was made."
"That takes balls," Syndino admitted, swirling his drink.
"It took a shark," Costigan corrected. "And you’ll never guess who the shark was. Who represented Reyes in the civil suit that bankrupted Nails?"
Syndino paused. "Get the fuck out."
"Yup," Costigan nodded, turning back with a shark-like grin. "Deirdre Sweeney. She was Reyes' attorney. So watching Nails act as the 'Closer' on the woman who cost him his retirement fund? It's not just business. It's poetic."
"You can't write this shit!" Syndino laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Revenge is sweet, but it doesn't pay the electric bill. Is this guy just here to play, or is there a future?"
"Oh, there's a future alright," Costigan said, walking over to the desk and leaning his hands on the leather surface. "Nails isn't just a sadist, boss. He's the architect. He was instrumental in The Giggle Room for Romano. He knows the lighting, the pacing, the exact psychological break points that the high-end subscribers pay for. He brings the Talent and the Know-How. That's where we come in."
"How's that?" Syndino asked.
"We bring the Infrastructure," Costigan replied, gesturing around the room. "Romano got caught because he was operating out of rust buckets and got sloppy. Nails needs our real estate. He needs our secured servers and our political connections to keep the heat off. He provides the show; we provide the theater."
Syndino nodded slowly, seeing the vision. "A joint venture."
Sharon lay paralyzed in the duct. It wasn't just a gang getting rid of a witness. It was a merger. She was listening to the boardroom meeting of a nightmare factory. She knew she should move—every instinct screamed at her to crawl—but she was frozen by the scale of it. She found herself trying to memorize the terms, the names, thinking this information could be her weapon if she escaped.
"Exactly. We relaunch The Giggle Room tonight. A 60/40 split down the middle. He gets his playground; we get a revenue stream that the Feds can't touch."
Syndino frowned.
He stopped swirling his drink. He sat up straighter in his chair, tilting his head, his nose twitching.
"Do you smell that?" he asked.
Costigan paused, glass in hand. "Smell what? The cigars?"
"No," Syndino muttered, putting his glass down with a clink. "It smells like... the docks. Like low tide."
He took a deep sniff. His expression soured. "Did you stupid fucks microwave fish down here again? How many times do I have to say it?!"
Sharon's heart hammered a panicked rhythm against the metal duct. The realization hit her too late: the tuna oil. The lingering, pungent evidence of her torture was leaking through the grate, heavier than air, betraying her. She started to crawl.
Costigan sniffed the air. He frowned. He walked toward the center of the room, directly under the vent. He stopped. He looked up.
"It’s not the kitchen," Costigan said slowly.
He looked directly at the vent grate. For a second, their eyes locked. Sharon in the darkness, Costigan in the light.
"We have a rat in the ceiling," Costigan said, his voice dropping to a lethal calm.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun. He leveled it at the ceiling.
"Don't move," he commanded.
Sharon scrambled backward, abandoning stealth, scrabbling against the metal. She heard the heavy footsteps of guards running in the corridor outside the vent access panels.
CLANG.
A hatch banged open in the ductwork ten feet behind her.
"DROP IT!" a voice shouted.
A heavy canister was bowled into the duct. It spun toward her, metal on metal. Clack-clack-clack-hiss.
White gas exploded from the cylinder, filling the narrow space instantly.
Costigan didn't shoot. He just kept the gun trained on the grate, ensuring she couldn't move forward.
Sharon was trapped.
She grabbed the shiv, her last line of defense, but the gas was heavy and sweet. She retched, trying to hold her breath, pressing her face into her armpit.
Her vision blurred. The metal walls seemed to stretch and warp. The shiv felt heavy in her hand. Her fingers went numb, uncurling against her will. The jagged metal bracket clattered against the duct floor.
The last thing she smelled wasn't the gas; it was the overpowering, damning scent of the tuna oil on her own skin.
Her head hit the metal with a dull thud.
---
Consciousness returned to Sharon as a rude, sensory shock.
First came the brightness—blinding, studio-quality LEDs banishing every shadow. Then, the cold.
She gasped, arching her back against the resistance of heavy leather straps scissoring across her chest and waist. She was pinned flat on a stainless steel medical table, angled so her feet were elevated above her head.
She looked down. Her dirty slip was gone. She was stripped to her utilitarian underwear, her pale skin stark against the dark leather. Her feet were still caked in grime and blood, a testament to her failed escape.
She was in Interrogation Room 4.
"Ah, the sleeping beauty returns," a voice drawled.
Mr. Syndino stood near the door, impeccable in his suit, swirling a tumbler of scotch. Costigan was beside him, tapping on a tablet.
"What..." Sharon rasped, throat raw. "What is this?"
"This," Syndino said, "is the pivot. You had an exit strategy, Sharon. But then you killed my security guard. Bricks is dead. And that creates a deficit."
He walked over, looking down at her.
"You're not a liability anymore. You're an opportunity. We have a clientele who loves fighters." He nodded to Costigan. "Read it."
"Lot Number 2. 'The Killer Witness.' Condition: Feral, high-stamina, extremely reactive soles. Starting Bid: 75 Bitcoin."
"Auction?" Sharon’s blood froze.
"First, a marketing demo," Syndino said. He pressed a button.
Two guards dragged a man into the room. Roger. He looked wrecked—sweaty, pale, eyes darting with terror. Yet, seeing Sharon strapped down, his gaze dropped instantly to her elevated feet.
"Roger, help me!"
Roger licked his lips, looking at Syndino. "Is this... part of the package?"
Syndino smiled. "Consider it a severance bonus. Sit."
Roger collapsed into a chair.
"Say goodbye to your husband, Sharon," Costigan said softly.
Roger looked confused. "Goodbye? But I thought—"
Costigan pulled a pistol from his jacket and leveled it casually at the back of Roger's head.
Roger didn't see it. He was too busy staring at Sharon’s feet, mesmerized.
BANG.
Sharon screamed as Roger slumped forward, dead before he hit the floor. His blood pooled distinctively toward the drain.
"Get that mess out of here," Syndino snapped.
A guard dragged Roger's limp body out, leaving a smear of Crimson on the white tiles. Sharon stared at the streak of her husband's life, her chest rapid-firing shallow breaths. Hhh-uh-hhh-uh-hhh-uh. Tears blurred her vision, mixing with the grime on her face.
Syndino stepped over the blood smear, inspecting his shoes. He looked back at Sharon, shivering and sobbing on the table.
"He served his purpose," Syndino said coldly. "He broke you." He gestured to the empty space where Roger had been. "Now you have no home. No husband. No name. You are just inventory."
He turned to the door. "Bring in the closer."
The door opened again and this time Nails walked in.
He looked refreshed, sleeves rolled up, carrying his kit. He walked straight to the foot of Sharon's table, ignoring the blood smear entirely. He sat on a rolling stool, bringing his face level with her filthy, elevated soles.
"The understudy gets her turn," he purred, his voice a low rasp.
He reached out and grabbed Sharon’s right ankle. With his other hand, he produced a wet wipe. Slowly, meticulously, he began to clean the sole of her foot. He wiped away the blood, the dungeon dust, and the layers of grime, revealing the pale, sensitive skin beneath.
Sharon tried to pull back, but his grip was iron. The cold wetness on her feverish skin made her shiver violently.
"You look distressed, Sharon," Nails murmured, tossing the dirty wipe aside and inspecting the freshly cleaned, pinkish arch. "Let's put a smile on that face."
"Cameras rolling," Costigan announced.
Nails extended a single index finger, tipped with a long, black-lacquered talon. The nail was filed to a needle point. He didn't strike. He simply touched the very tip of his black nail to the center of Sharon's right heel.
He held it there. Light as a feather.
Sharon flinched, biting her lip so hard she tasted copper. Hhh-uh. She squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to give him anything.
Nails didn't blink. He began to draw a slow, microscopic circle on her heel.
Scritch... scritch...
The sensation was agonizingly faint. It wasn't pain; it was a ghost-touch that signaled the nerves without triggering the muscles. It bypassed her defenses.
"Mmm-ph!" Sharon grunted, jerking her foot against the strap.
Nails moved the nail. He traced a line up the center of her arch—slow, agonizingly deliberate—and stopped right in the divot below the ball of her foot.
He tapped it. Once. Twice.
Tap. Tap.
"Don't..." Sharon whimpered. Her chest heaved. A bubble of hysteria was rising in her throat, pressing against her teeth.
Nails watched her face on the monitor. He saw the crack in the dam.
He began to scratch. Just the one spot. Just the one nail. Light, rapid, fluttery scratching right in the bullseye of her arch.
"P-Please! D-Don't—Hhhh-haha!"
The first laugh escaped. A dry, jagged thing.
Nails kept scratching, varying the pressure—light, lighter, then a sudden, sharp dig.
"NO! STOPIT! AAAAAH-HA-HA-HA!"
Sharon threw her head back. The hysterical dam broke. Her body convulsed, betraying her. The laughter poured out, not joyful, but panicked and breathless.
"Is that laughter, Sharon?" Nails asked softly. "Or are you crying?"
He added a second nail. He placed his left hand on her left foot, finding the sensitive webbing between her big toe and second toe. He scissored his nail back and forth in the gap.
"AAAAAH-HA-HA-HA-HA! NOOO! NOT THERE! GNNN-HEEE-HEEE!"
Sharon was thrashing now, her head whipping side to side.
Nails accelerated. He abandoned the single point attacks and began to spider-walk all ten fingers lightly over both soles at once—a flurry of black talons dancing over her arches, heels, and toes.
"HA-HA-HA-HA! HELP MEEEE! AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
The room was filled with the sound of pure, unadulterated panic, while Nails worked in terrifying, focused silence.
---
The rain in the city was relentless, a grey curtain that turned the world into a smudge of charcoal and neon. It lashed against the stone steps of the Federal Courthouse, drumming a rhythmic beat on the umbrellas of the gathered press pack.
Inside the warmth of a nearby news van, a producer counted down. "Live in three, two..."
The feed cut to the wet steps of the courthouse. Standing there, radiating the polished confidence of a media superstar, was Camila Reyes. She wore a tailored Burberry trench coat that probably cost more than her old apartment in the Bronx. Her hair was perfect, shielding her from the drizzle.
The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: CAMILA REYES - NYT BESTSELLING AUTHOR & SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.
She looked into the camera with the grave, knowing expression that had sold a million books.
"Good evening. In a stunning turn of events, all charges against local businessman Antonio Syndino were dismissed with prejudice this afternoon. The case—which centered on a fatal hit-and-run incident earlier this year—collapsed spectacularly following what the defense called 'catastrophic irregularities' with the prosecution's key witnesses."
She gestured elegantly to the empty bronze doors behind her.
"The District Attorney’s office has remained tight-lipped. But the real story tonight is the silence."
Camila walked a few steps closer to the camera, lowering her voice to that familiar, intimate register that her fans loved.
"Lead Prosecutor Deirdre Sweeney, known for her ferocious courtroom demeanor, was expected to make a statement explaining the dismissal. However, Ms. Sweeney has not been seen or heard from since the mistrial was declared two weeks ago."
She shook her head slightly, a flicker of professional pity in her eyes.
"Sources close to the DA suggest that Ms. Sweeney has taken an indefinite, emergency leave of absence. Given the humiliating public collapse of her case, and the ugly rumors of witness tampering. One can hardly blame her for wanting to vanish."
She turned back to the courthouse, looking up at the stone engraving of Lady Justice, rain slicking the statue's blindfold.
"As for the star witness, Sharon Miller, her whereabouts remain equally unknown. It seems in the case of The People vs. Syndino, the only thing that remains clear is the verdict: Not Guilty."
Camila turned back to the camera, flashing a tight, victorious smile.
"Reporting for WNBC, I'm Camila Reyes."
Behind her, deep in the city’s digital underbelly, a server hummed to life. A notification pinged on a thousand encrypted devices across the globe.
THE GIGGLE ROOM IS LIVE.
TONIGHT'S DOUBLE FEATURE:
LOT 1: THE PROSECUTOR.
LOT 2: THE WITNESS.
The stream buffered for a second, then resolved into crystal clear 4K resolution.
Sharon Miller sat in her cell, makeshift shiv in hand, waiting. When Bricks delivered her food she liked him, then scurried into the air vent to make an escape.
She overheard conversations about some business called "The Giggle Room" reopening. She listened too long for details. The stink of her feet from the fish paste invaded the room and gave her away.
When she awoke she found herself under bright studio lights. The debut show of the new Giggle Room
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 4,211
M/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture | Non-Consensual | Dark
The cell stank. It was a layered miasma of damp concrete, the metallic taste of rusted pipes, and the cloying, inescapable reek of rancid tuna oil that seemed to sweat from Sharon’s own pores.
She huddled on the edge of the cot, her knees pulled to her chest, rocking slightly. Her hair was a matted curtain hiding her face. Her right hand was tucked out of sight beneath the tattered hem of her grimy slip.
Clank.
The heavy bolt of the door slid back.
Sharon stiffened but didn't look up. She kept her head bowed, staring at her own bare, oil-stained feet.
Bricks filled the doorway. The massive enforcer looked bored, the routine barely registering for him anymore. He held a plastic tray of grey slop in one hand. He kicked the door half-shut behind him but didn't engage the deadbolt. He stepped inside, his eyes drifting to the wall monitor.
"Eat up," he grunted, stepping toward the small metal table in the corner to set the tray down.
Sharon let out a low, pained whimper. She uncurled one leg, letting it dangle off the cot at an awkward angle, clutching her ankle.
"Please..." she croaked, her voice dry and brittle. "My ankle... I think it's broken... from the stocks..."
Bricks paused. He looked back over his shoulder, his expression one of mild annoyance rather than concern. He set the tray down with a clatter.
"Quit whining," he muttered, turning fully toward her. He took a step closer, looming over the cot. "Let me see."
He bent down, reaching for her leg.
As his hand closed around her ankle, Sharon moved.
"Here," she whispered.
Her right hand whipped out from beneath the slip. It wasn't empty. It held a six-inch metal bracket she had worked loose from the underside of the bunk, the tip ground to a jagged needle point against the concrete floor.
Bricks’ eyes widened—a fraction of a second of realization. "What the—"
Sharon lunged upward. She didn't slash; she thrust. She drove the jagged metal spike upward with every ounce of hysterical strength she possessed, aiming directly for the soft hollow of his throat.
THUNK-SQUELCH.
The impact jarred her arm to the shoulder. The shiv stabbing through front of his throat and poking out the back of his neck.
"Ghh-hurrkk!"
Bricks stiffened as if electrocuted. His hands flew up, not to grab her, but to claw at the metal protruding from his neck. A spray of hot, arterial crimson jetted out, painting Sharon’s face and chest in a horrific, warm mask.
She didn't let go. She grabbed the handle with both hands and twisted.
Bricks stumbled back, a wet, gurgling rattle escaping his lips. His legs clipped the edge of the cot, and he went down hard, crashing onto his back. Sharon rode him down, ending up straddled across his heaving chest.
His eyes were wide, staring up at her in shock, the light already fading as his life pumped out onto the concrete floor. He tried to speak, but only a bubble of blood formed on his lips.
Sharon stared down at him, her chest heaving, the blood dripping from her eyelashes. She didn't scream. She didn't look away. She watched until the convulsions stopped and his eyes glazed over.
Silence rushed back into the room, broken only by her own ragged breathing. Hhh-uh... Hhh-uh...
She scrambled off the body, her bare feet slipping in the spreading pool of blood. She wiped her face with the back of her wrist, smearing the red into a war paint.
She dropped to her knees beside him. Her hands were shaking violently as she patted down his pockets. Squish. Her fingers brushed against the wet fabric of his shirt.
She found them. A heavy ring of keys and a plastic access card.
She grabbed them and stood up. She looked at the door. Then she looked up.
Above the door was the maintenance hatch.
She dragged the small metal table over, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. She flinched, freezing for a second, but no one came. She climbed up, her bloody feet leaving prints on the metal surface. She shoved the ceiling tile aside.
It lifted, revealing the dusty, dark throat of the ventilation system.
Sharon pulled herself up, scrambling into the darkness just as the sound of heavy boots echoed from the far end of the corridor. She slid the tile back into place. Darkness swallowed her.
She lay there in the dust, clutching the bloody shiv, listening to the muffled world below.
She began to crawl.
The ventilation shaft was a claustrophobic throat of galvanized steel. It was narrow, dusty, and vibrated with the low-frequency hum of the building's massive HVAC units. It smelled of old lint and dead air, barely masking the metallic tang of blood and the lingering stench of fish oil that clung to Sharon like a second skin.
She crawled on her elbows and knees, the rivets in the metal digging into her skin. Every movement was slow, deliberate. Scuff. Scuff. Scuff. She paused every few feet, listening for the sound of alarms, but the building remained quiet.
She saw light ahead.
A square of yellow illumination slatting through the dusty darkness. A vent grate.
Sharon inched forward until she was directly over it. She peered through the slats.
Below her was Interrogation Room 4.
The perspective was dizzying. From this height, the room looked like a sterile operating theater. White tiles. Stainless steel drains. Harsh, clinical lighting.
In the center, bolted to the inclined medical table, lay Deirdre Sweeney.
The prosecutor was stripped to a ragged grey tunic, her limbs splayed wide and cuffed to the frame. But unlike before, her mouth was free. The heavy leather muzzle sat on a nearby tray, discarded. Her face was flushed, wet with sweat and tears, her chest heaving as she sucked in greedy lungfuls of air.
Standing at the foot of the table was a man Sharon had never seen before.
He wasn't like Bricks or Costigan. He was wiry, almost skeletal in his build, his black shirt hanging loosely off sharp shoulders. He had oil-black hair slicked back so severely it looked wet. There was a fluid, snake-like quality to the way he moved—too smooth, unnervingly precise.
But it was his hands that made Sharon recoil in the vent.
His fingers were impossibly long, spidery appendages. And at the end of each finger was a nail that had been filed into a hook-like point and painted a glossy, obsidian black. They looked less like a manicure and more like weapons evolved for flaying.
Sharon watched as he picked up a clear bottle of oil. He poured it over his own hands, rubbing them together with a slow, grinding motion, coating the black talons in slick, shimmering lubricant.
Then, he gripped Deirdre’s elevated, bare feet.
"Please..." Deirdre gasped, her voice raw. "Bellini... don't do this. I was just doing my job."
The man—Bellini—looked up. His eyes were dead shark eyes, devoid of any empathy. A thin, cruel smile cut across his face.
"Funny," he purred, his voice drifting up to the vent, smooth and cold. "I am just doing mine. Isn't it great when you enjoy your work?"
He sank his thumbs into her arches.
He didn't start slow. He dragged the sharp, black points of his index nails straight down the center of her soles.
Scritch-squelch.
"AAAAH! NOOO! GOD! STOP!"
Deirdre’s head slammed back against the table. Her scream was pierced, high and desperate. Her legs kicked against the restraints, her toes curling and uncurling in a frantic rhythm as the sharp nails found purchase even through the oil.
Bellini leaned in, his face inches from her twitching feet.
"You know, Deirdre," he whispered, his voice cutting through her gasps. "All through that hearing... I wondered what the feet inside those elegant Jimmy Choos looked like."
He ran his nails over the balls of her feet, skittering over the pads before dipping sharply into the webbing between her toes.
"HNNN-HEEE! GNNN-YAAAA! DON'T! EEEEEP!"
Deirdre bucked, a strangled, involuntary giggle bubbling up through her scream as the nerves misfired.
"And now I know," Bellini murmured.
He abandoned the light touch. He clamped his hands around her feet and began to scrub his talons furiously against her soles, digging deep, exploiting the oil to move faster, harder.
"AAAAAH-HA-HA-HA-HA! BELLINI! PLEASE! I CAN'T! I CAN'T! ST-HAAAA-HAAA!"
Sharon squeezed her eyes shut, her hand gripping the bloody shiv so hard her knuckles turned white. The sound of Deirdre's laughter—that terrified, broken sound she knew so well—filled the shaft.
She couldn't save her. The prosecutor was already gone, lost to the man with the black claws.
Sharon pushed herself away from the grate, the image of those obsidian talons branded into her mind.
She crawled on.
The crawl space elbowed left, the air getting colder as Sharon moved away from the heat of the torture chambers and toward the administrative wing. The vibration of the HVAC system deepened into a steady, thrumming bass note beneath her hands.
She was exhausted. Her arms trembled with every pull, the adrenaline of the kill beginning to sour into a sick, shaky fatigue. The blood on her face had dried into a tight, cracking mask, but the smell... the smell was getting worse.
The scent of the tuna oil was a physical weight in the confined space. It was warm, cloying, and undeniably pungent, mixing with the metallic tang of Bricks' blood on her clothes to create a stench of death and decay.
Ahead, another grate. This one was larger, the light spilling through it richer, warmer.
Sharon slowed. She army-crawled the last few feet, holding her breath, though her lungs burned for air.
She peered down.
The Executive Office.
It was a world away from the stainless steel and concrete she had just left. Dark mahogany paneling lined the walls. A thick Persian rug covered the floor. Heavy leather armchairs sat opposite a massive oak desk. The air was thick with blue cigar smoke and the amber scent of expensive scotch.
Two men were there.
Mr. Syndino was behind the desk. He looked relaxed, almost sleepy, swirling a tumbler of dark liquid. His suit jacket was off, his tie loosened. He looked like any other corporate executive winding down after a long quarter.
Costigan leaned against the wall. He was rolling a coin over his knuckles—back and forth, back and forth.
"The numbers from the Hong Kong node are solid," Costigan said, not turning around. "Subscribers are up forty percent since we announced the 'Reboot.' The volatility of the crypto market actually works in our favor. They’re looking for places to park assets."
Syndino chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "Assets. I like that. And the opening lineup?"
"Strong," Costigan replied, turning to face the room. "The Prosecution Rests segment with Deirdre is testing through the roof on the teaser clips. Nails was a good investment. Waiving his fee for breaking Deirdre was generous, but frankly, I think he would have paid us."
Sharon stopped moving to listen. Her breath hitched. The reboot... subscribers... lineup.
Syndino paused, the glass halfway to his lips. "Paid us? The man is a mercenary. Why work pro bono?"
"Because he's settling a score," Costigan said with a grim smirk, pouring the amber liquid. "Nails told me about a freelance job he botched about six months ago. He apparently had that reporter, Camila Reyes, cornered in a treatment room at the Mandarin Oriental. You know, that hot Mexican bitch, she's all over the news lately."
Syndino raised an eyebrow. "Yeah I know the one. And? What happened?"
"And he got cocky. He took too long playing with his food. Security did a random sweep, and he had to bail out the fire exit before he could finish the job. Left the girl alive."
"Sloppy," Syndino muttered.
"It gets worse," Costigan chuckled, walking over to the window. "Reyes didn't go to the cops. She went legal. She knew his real name from somewhere—figure she dug it up during her investigation. She filed a massive civil suit for assault and emotional damages. Froze his verified assets in the Caymans before he even knew he was made."
"That takes balls," Syndino admitted, swirling his drink.
"It took a shark," Costigan corrected. "And you’ll never guess who the shark was. Who represented Reyes in the civil suit that bankrupted Nails?"
Syndino paused. "Get the fuck out."
"Yup," Costigan nodded, turning back with a shark-like grin. "Deirdre Sweeney. She was Reyes' attorney. So watching Nails act as the 'Closer' on the woman who cost him his retirement fund? It's not just business. It's poetic."
"You can't write this shit!" Syndino laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Revenge is sweet, but it doesn't pay the electric bill. Is this guy just here to play, or is there a future?"
"Oh, there's a future alright," Costigan said, walking over to the desk and leaning his hands on the leather surface. "Nails isn't just a sadist, boss. He's the architect. He was instrumental in The Giggle Room for Romano. He knows the lighting, the pacing, the exact psychological break points that the high-end subscribers pay for. He brings the Talent and the Know-How. That's where we come in."
"How's that?" Syndino asked.
"We bring the Infrastructure," Costigan replied, gesturing around the room. "Romano got caught because he was operating out of rust buckets and got sloppy. Nails needs our real estate. He needs our secured servers and our political connections to keep the heat off. He provides the show; we provide the theater."
Syndino nodded slowly, seeing the vision. "A joint venture."
Sharon lay paralyzed in the duct. It wasn't just a gang getting rid of a witness. It was a merger. She was listening to the boardroom meeting of a nightmare factory. She knew she should move—every instinct screamed at her to crawl—but she was frozen by the scale of it. She found herself trying to memorize the terms, the names, thinking this information could be her weapon if she escaped.
"Exactly. We relaunch The Giggle Room tonight. A 60/40 split down the middle. He gets his playground; we get a revenue stream that the Feds can't touch."
Syndino frowned.
He stopped swirling his drink. He sat up straighter in his chair, tilting his head, his nose twitching.
"Do you smell that?" he asked.
Costigan paused, glass in hand. "Smell what? The cigars?"
"No," Syndino muttered, putting his glass down with a clink. "It smells like... the docks. Like low tide."
He took a deep sniff. His expression soured. "Did you stupid fucks microwave fish down here again? How many times do I have to say it?!"
Sharon's heart hammered a panicked rhythm against the metal duct. The realization hit her too late: the tuna oil. The lingering, pungent evidence of her torture was leaking through the grate, heavier than air, betraying her. She started to crawl.
Costigan sniffed the air. He frowned. He walked toward the center of the room, directly under the vent. He stopped. He looked up.
"It’s not the kitchen," Costigan said slowly.
He looked directly at the vent grate. For a second, their eyes locked. Sharon in the darkness, Costigan in the light.
"We have a rat in the ceiling," Costigan said, his voice dropping to a lethal calm.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun. He leveled it at the ceiling.
"Don't move," he commanded.
Sharon scrambled backward, abandoning stealth, scrabbling against the metal. She heard the heavy footsteps of guards running in the corridor outside the vent access panels.
CLANG.
A hatch banged open in the ductwork ten feet behind her.
"DROP IT!" a voice shouted.
A heavy canister was bowled into the duct. It spun toward her, metal on metal. Clack-clack-clack-hiss.
White gas exploded from the cylinder, filling the narrow space instantly.
Costigan didn't shoot. He just kept the gun trained on the grate, ensuring she couldn't move forward.
Sharon was trapped.
She grabbed the shiv, her last line of defense, but the gas was heavy and sweet. She retched, trying to hold her breath, pressing her face into her armpit.
Her vision blurred. The metal walls seemed to stretch and warp. The shiv felt heavy in her hand. Her fingers went numb, uncurling against her will. The jagged metal bracket clattered against the duct floor.
The last thing she smelled wasn't the gas; it was the overpowering, damning scent of the tuna oil on her own skin.
Her head hit the metal with a dull thud.
---
Consciousness returned to Sharon as a rude, sensory shock.
First came the brightness—blinding, studio-quality LEDs banishing every shadow. Then, the cold.
She gasped, arching her back against the resistance of heavy leather straps scissoring across her chest and waist. She was pinned flat on a stainless steel medical table, angled so her feet were elevated above her head.
She looked down. Her dirty slip was gone. She was stripped to her utilitarian underwear, her pale skin stark against the dark leather. Her feet were still caked in grime and blood, a testament to her failed escape.
She was in Interrogation Room 4.
"Ah, the sleeping beauty returns," a voice drawled.
Mr. Syndino stood near the door, impeccable in his suit, swirling a tumbler of scotch. Costigan was beside him, tapping on a tablet.
"What..." Sharon rasped, throat raw. "What is this?"
"This," Syndino said, "is the pivot. You had an exit strategy, Sharon. But then you killed my security guard. Bricks is dead. And that creates a deficit."
He walked over, looking down at her.
"You're not a liability anymore. You're an opportunity. We have a clientele who loves fighters." He nodded to Costigan. "Read it."
"Lot Number 2. 'The Killer Witness.' Condition: Feral, high-stamina, extremely reactive soles. Starting Bid: 75 Bitcoin."
"Auction?" Sharon’s blood froze.
"First, a marketing demo," Syndino said. He pressed a button.
Two guards dragged a man into the room. Roger. He looked wrecked—sweaty, pale, eyes darting with terror. Yet, seeing Sharon strapped down, his gaze dropped instantly to her elevated feet.
"Roger, help me!"
Roger licked his lips, looking at Syndino. "Is this... part of the package?"
Syndino smiled. "Consider it a severance bonus. Sit."
Roger collapsed into a chair.
"Say goodbye to your husband, Sharon," Costigan said softly.
Roger looked confused. "Goodbye? But I thought—"
Costigan pulled a pistol from his jacket and leveled it casually at the back of Roger's head.
Roger didn't see it. He was too busy staring at Sharon’s feet, mesmerized.
BANG.
Sharon screamed as Roger slumped forward, dead before he hit the floor. His blood pooled distinctively toward the drain.
"Get that mess out of here," Syndino snapped.
A guard dragged Roger's limp body out, leaving a smear of Crimson on the white tiles. Sharon stared at the streak of her husband's life, her chest rapid-firing shallow breaths. Hhh-uh-hhh-uh-hhh-uh. Tears blurred her vision, mixing with the grime on her face.
Syndino stepped over the blood smear, inspecting his shoes. He looked back at Sharon, shivering and sobbing on the table.
"He served his purpose," Syndino said coldly. "He broke you." He gestured to the empty space where Roger had been. "Now you have no home. No husband. No name. You are just inventory."
He turned to the door. "Bring in the closer."
The door opened again and this time Nails walked in.
He looked refreshed, sleeves rolled up, carrying his kit. He walked straight to the foot of Sharon's table, ignoring the blood smear entirely. He sat on a rolling stool, bringing his face level with her filthy, elevated soles.
"The understudy gets her turn," he purred, his voice a low rasp.
He reached out and grabbed Sharon’s right ankle. With his other hand, he produced a wet wipe. Slowly, meticulously, he began to clean the sole of her foot. He wiped away the blood, the dungeon dust, and the layers of grime, revealing the pale, sensitive skin beneath.
Sharon tried to pull back, but his grip was iron. The cold wetness on her feverish skin made her shiver violently.
"You look distressed, Sharon," Nails murmured, tossing the dirty wipe aside and inspecting the freshly cleaned, pinkish arch. "Let's put a smile on that face."
"Cameras rolling," Costigan announced.
Nails extended a single index finger, tipped with a long, black-lacquered talon. The nail was filed to a needle point. He didn't strike. He simply touched the very tip of his black nail to the center of Sharon's right heel.
He held it there. Light as a feather.
Sharon flinched, biting her lip so hard she tasted copper. Hhh-uh. She squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to give him anything.
Nails didn't blink. He began to draw a slow, microscopic circle on her heel.
Scritch... scritch...
The sensation was agonizingly faint. It wasn't pain; it was a ghost-touch that signaled the nerves without triggering the muscles. It bypassed her defenses.
"Mmm-ph!" Sharon grunted, jerking her foot against the strap.
Nails moved the nail. He traced a line up the center of her arch—slow, agonizingly deliberate—and stopped right in the divot below the ball of her foot.
He tapped it. Once. Twice.
Tap. Tap.
"Don't..." Sharon whimpered. Her chest heaved. A bubble of hysteria was rising in her throat, pressing against her teeth.
Nails watched her face on the monitor. He saw the crack in the dam.
He began to scratch. Just the one spot. Just the one nail. Light, rapid, fluttery scratching right in the bullseye of her arch.
"P-Please! D-Don't—Hhhh-haha!"
The first laugh escaped. A dry, jagged thing.
Nails kept scratching, varying the pressure—light, lighter, then a sudden, sharp dig.
"NO! STOPIT! AAAAAH-HA-HA-HA!"
Sharon threw her head back. The hysterical dam broke. Her body convulsed, betraying her. The laughter poured out, not joyful, but panicked and breathless.
"Is that laughter, Sharon?" Nails asked softly. "Or are you crying?"
He added a second nail. He placed his left hand on her left foot, finding the sensitive webbing between her big toe and second toe. He scissored his nail back and forth in the gap.
"AAAAAH-HA-HA-HA-HA! NOOO! NOT THERE! GNNN-HEEE-HEEE!"
Sharon was thrashing now, her head whipping side to side.
Nails accelerated. He abandoned the single point attacks and began to spider-walk all ten fingers lightly over both soles at once—a flurry of black talons dancing over her arches, heels, and toes.
"HA-HA-HA-HA! HELP MEEEE! AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
The room was filled with the sound of pure, unadulterated panic, while Nails worked in terrifying, focused silence.
---
The rain in the city was relentless, a grey curtain that turned the world into a smudge of charcoal and neon. It lashed against the stone steps of the Federal Courthouse, drumming a rhythmic beat on the umbrellas of the gathered press pack.
Inside the warmth of a nearby news van, a producer counted down. "Live in three, two..."
The feed cut to the wet steps of the courthouse. Standing there, radiating the polished confidence of a media superstar, was Camila Reyes. She wore a tailored Burberry trench coat that probably cost more than her old apartment in the Bronx. Her hair was perfect, shielding her from the drizzle.
The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: CAMILA REYES - NYT BESTSELLING AUTHOR & SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.
She looked into the camera with the grave, knowing expression that had sold a million books.
"Good evening. In a stunning turn of events, all charges against local businessman Antonio Syndino were dismissed with prejudice this afternoon. The case—which centered on a fatal hit-and-run incident earlier this year—collapsed spectacularly following what the defense called 'catastrophic irregularities' with the prosecution's key witnesses."
She gestured elegantly to the empty bronze doors behind her.
"The District Attorney’s office has remained tight-lipped. But the real story tonight is the silence."
Camila walked a few steps closer to the camera, lowering her voice to that familiar, intimate register that her fans loved.
"Lead Prosecutor Deirdre Sweeney, known for her ferocious courtroom demeanor, was expected to make a statement explaining the dismissal. However, Ms. Sweeney has not been seen or heard from since the mistrial was declared two weeks ago."
She shook her head slightly, a flicker of professional pity in her eyes.
"Sources close to the DA suggest that Ms. Sweeney has taken an indefinite, emergency leave of absence. Given the humiliating public collapse of her case, and the ugly rumors of witness tampering. One can hardly blame her for wanting to vanish."
She turned back to the courthouse, looking up at the stone engraving of Lady Justice, rain slicking the statue's blindfold.
"As for the star witness, Sharon Miller, her whereabouts remain equally unknown. It seems in the case of The People vs. Syndino, the only thing that remains clear is the verdict: Not Guilty."
Camila turned back to the camera, flashing a tight, victorious smile.
"Reporting for WNBC, I'm Camila Reyes."
Behind her, deep in the city’s digital underbelly, a server hummed to life. A notification pinged on a thousand encrypted devices across the globe.
THE GIGGLE ROOM IS LIVE.
TONIGHT'S DOUBLE FEATURE:
LOT 1: THE PROSECUTOR.
LOT 2: THE WITNESS.
The stream buffered for a second, then resolved into crystal clear 4K resolution.
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