CHAPTER 113: CLEAN OR DIE ( LUTHER’S POV )

"Are not scared anymore?""

"Should I be?"

I raised my brow annoyed. At least let me eat in peace.

Emiliano wasn’t looking at me. He was just dragging his fork on the leftover pasta, making it inedible for someone who doesn’t want to taste his spit all over the food.

Eat properly.

"I’m sorry for what happened in the basement... I-I didn’t think it through. It was just an instinct."

"Yeah, the usual body response to fight, fight or stab the dude you are f-cking with a syringe in the middle of the act."

He smiled humorlessly.

"I worked all my life to make my dream come true. My body seemed to prioritize that over you. But I don’t want that, puppy! I want you."

"That’s it? A half-hearted sorry and a lame excuse?"

"Would you like me to restart from where we left off in the basement?"

"You lost that chance long ago."

He looked at his clock theatrically.

"Yeah, about three hours ago. But I could go for another round. I don’t think poor Tom can."

"Is he gonna be ok?"

My voice cracks when I try to speak. The sound is thin, like it’s slipping out of me by mistake. It shakes at the edges, weak and small.

I push the words out but they stumble, breaking apart in the air.

My throat feels tight, like it’s closing around every syllable.

Each breath trembles.

The sound doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It’s heavy, full of something I can’t swallow down.

Guilt burns in it. Sadness drags every word low, until they almost fall silent.

He keeps staring.

I can feel it.

My hands press hard on my knees.

I don’t move. I keep breathing slow. My jaw hurts from holding back the shake. My stomach turns.

I don’t want him to see more.

The pasta threatens to resurface.

His fork drops soft on the plate.

The sound is small but it cuts through me. I keep my head down.

I try to make my face plain, empty. My chest still beats fast.

I hope he looks away.

The last thing I need is to comfort him.

It’s my ex that lies unconscious because of me. No, because of him! So why should I comfort him?...

This is so unfair.

"He is fine. He’ll be up and annoying in about three days if not faster."

"How can you know that? Claus flatlined twice in the hospital because of the pheromone overdose!"

His eyes widen fast. His mouth parts like he forgot what to say. The surprise is clear. It hits me first like a punch, sharp and sudden. My chest goes tight.

Then it shifts.

Slow, heavy.

His face settles, eyes narrowing a little, his jaw pulling in.

Deep thought.

He’s gone quiet, locked inside his head, and that’s worse. I can almost hear him thinking, weighing, dissecting.

My palms feel damp.

I press them against my legs, hard.

I keep my breathing even, or I try.

Every second drags.

"You didn’t know..."

The realization came to me like Miley Cyrus’ wrecking ball.

"The hospital is lacking information. Research. They are poking pointlessly. How sad. Claus ended up from where he started..."

"What do you mean?"

"We-I met Claus in an institution that used disposed orphans to test secondary-gender medicine. Their true goal was to perfect a secondary-gender switch."

My heart dropped in my throat. I couldn’t help but stare at him. Not comforting. Not reassuring. Stunned.

"They experimented on us. Whatever chemical solution they could think about, they would use it. Same needle for dozens of children. Stupid, cruel and pointless."

I stand without thinking.

My chair scrapes the floor, loud in the quiet.

Emiliano doesn’t move.

His eyes flick up once, then drop again. I walk around the table, quick, my steps uneven.

My chest feels too tight, like it’s pushing me forward.

I reach him before I can stop myself.

My arms go around his shoulders, strong, hard. I pull him in.

His head hits my chest, and I hold him there, tight, like I’m afraid he’ll slip away if I let go. His hair brushes my chin, soft against my skin.

I press his face into me, forcing him close.

He doesn’t move.

Not a sound.

His hands don’t rise.

His shoulders stay stiff under my grip.

No push, no pull.

Just still.

Like I’m hugging a wall that breathes.

It was an eerie feeling to hold the ruins of Emiliano Sanchez, that’s for sure.

My arms squeeze harder. My fingers dig into his back. My breath shakes out against his hair. I want him to do something.

Anything.

A hand, a word, a sign that—

What do I even want him to do?

Nothing.

Just his weight and his silence.

My heart pounds so loud I’m sure he hears it. I feel heat climb my neck.

Why was I comforting him?

I guess it’s only human to do so. Because now I wasn’t holding in my arms the most feared man of the underground illegal world.

I was holding the ghost of his childhood. Lacked of love. Or care. Or humanity.

I was holding a shivering, broken kid that has gone through the hell of the greed of the adults.

That does not excuse his actions.

But, just for a moment, that ghost of the child he once was– scared and abandoned,

Made me squeeze him into an embrace tight enough to glue his broken pieces back.

His body goes rigid under my arms.

A sudden lock, like a rope pulled tight. I feel the change before I see it.

His muscles turn hard, and then he’s gone. Breaking out of my grip like it was nothing.

He shoves past me, hard enough to spin me half around, and he runs.

Fast.

No sound.

I freeze for a second, thrown off, my arms still hanging stupid in the air.

Then I go after him.

My shoes hit the floor loud, my breath chasing me.

I call his name in my head, not out loud.

I can’t catch my breath.

The stairs shake under his weight.

He takes them two at a time.

I almost slip trying to keep up. My chest burns.

My legs feel slow, heavy.

He doesn’t look back.

Halfway up, I smell it.

Rot.

Thick, sweet, wrong.

It seeps into my nose and throat, coating my tongue. I gag once, keep moving.

The smell grows heavier with each step, clinging to the air like something wet and rotten.

Then I know. Where he’s going.

Who he’s going to.

Tom.

The door is open when I reach the top. Emiliano’s already inside.

The smell hits me like a wall, crawling into my mouth, my eyes. It’s strong, like a fruit gone bad in dirt and heat.

I fight the urge to cover my face.

Tom’s on the bed.

His body jerks, hard and sudden.

His arms slam against the mattress, his legs kick weak.

His skin is wrong. Gray with a yellow tint, slick with sweat that shines under the weak light.

His lips are cracked, teeth clenched.

His whole frame shakes like it’s tearing itself apart.

I can’t move for a second.

My brain stumbles, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

Then Emiliano grabs the sheets. He rips them off fast, pulling Tom’s twitching body free.

Tom makes a sound, low and broken, then nothing.

Emiliano hauls him up like dead weight, drags him across the floor.

His arms are locked, his face hard, no hesitation.

I follow without thinking, my legs moving on their own.

My head spins with the smell, with the sight of Tom’s skin crawling like it’s alive.

The bathroom door slams open. Emiliano shoves Tom into the tub.

The thud echoes off the tiles, sharp and cold. Tom’s body folds in on itself, knees and elbows hitting porcelain.

Water blasts from the faucet, loud and rough, splashing across his twitching limbs.

Emiliano grabs a bar of soap from the sink, tears the wrapper with his teeth, and starts scrubbing.

He doesn’t stop to check the temperature.

Doesn’t check if Tom can breathe.

His hands move fast, hard, rubbing until his knuckles go white.

The soap foams, brown and gray mixing into the water, running down the drain in streaks.

The smell doesn’t go away. It sticks, even stronger now with steam carrying it up.

Tom jerks under the force of the scrubbing.

His chest rises and falls sharp, shallow.

Emiliano presses him down with one arm and scrubs with the other.

His jaw is tight, teeth clenched so hard I hear it over the water.

His breath is ragged, almost a growl.

I’ve never seen him like this before.

I grip the edge of the sink.

My hands slip.

I didn’t notice I was sweating until now.

My throat aches.

My heart pounds so loud I can feel it in my ears.

I want to ask what’s happening, but my voice is gone.

Emiliano doesn’t slow down.

The soap bar shrinks, slips from his hand, and he grabs another without looking.

His nails drag over Tom’s skin, tearing into the surface.

I see red mix with the dirty foam. He doesn’t stop.

He scrubs until a layer of skin peels back in strips, raw and pale underneath.

"Clean or die. Clean or die. F-ck."

The only thing I could hear from Emiliano, echoing raw and painful into his throat, almost mindlessly.

Then it happens.

Tom’s chest jerks high, his mouth opens wide.

Air rushes in like he’s been drowning for hours.

His body arches once, then drops.

No more spasms.

Just stillness, his breathing deep but rough, throat rattling.

His eyes stay shut.

He’s not awake, but he’s here.

Alive.

The water keeps running.

Emiliano’s hands fall into the tub.

His shoulders shake once, then go still. The foam swirls red and gray around Tom’s limp body.

I stay frozen at the door, my legs locked, my breath short and broken.

I look at Emiliano.

His head is down.

His chest rises and falls, fast, like mine. There’s blood on his wrists, not his own. His clothes are soaked through.

He doesn’t look back at me.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just stand there, the smell still clinging to everything, thick and sweet and rotten, refusing to let go.

"What happened?", I finally seemed to mumble.

"He had everybody fooled."