The Torturer Writes @thetorturerwrites - Tumblr Blog

Another story with a plot twist ending. This is for everyone who asked for something similar to my Anglerfish-Hybrid!Reader story

Based on a true story. Cw for blood, murder

The contract comes through back channels- the kind that don’t leave paper trails.

Private security needed. Remote estate. Long term placement. Competitive compensation. Discretion required.

Price reads it twice before passing it to Ghost, who reads it once and grunts.

“Too vague,” Gaz says when it reaches him. “No specifics on threat assessment, no client background, no- ”

“She’s offering triple the going rate,” Soap interrupts, scanning the attachment on his phone. “For what sounds like fuckin’ babysitting.”

The client photo is attached. A young woman, maybe late twenties, with soft features and nervous eyes. The kind of face that photographs well, pretty in an understated way, the type men want to protect.

Or ruin.

Price drums his fingers on the table. They’re in a shit pub in a shit part of Manchester, the kind of place that doesn’t have cameras and doesn’t ask questions. The kind of place men like them end up after everything else burns down.

They’d all gotten the same unofficial discharge. No trial. No publicity. Just a quiet severance and an understanding that they’d never work for any government agency again.

The things they’d done had been necessary, Price told himself. War makes monsters of everyone. They’d just been better at it than most.

Better, and worse at hiding it.

“Client is female, alone, no security infrastructure in place,” Ghost observes. His voice is flat, but Price catches the interest underneath. “Remote location. No witnesses for miles.”

“She’s scared of ghosts,” Soap adds, grinning around his beer. “Says the house is haunted. Hear’s things at night.” His grin widens. “Poor lass.”

Gaz shifts uncomfortably. He’s the one who still has enough conscience left to feel guilty about the direction this conversation is heading. Not enough to stop it. Never enough to stop it.

“We taking it then?” he asks.

Price looks at the photo again. Soft. Vulnerable. Isolated.

“Yeah,” he says. “We’re taking it.”

They arrive on a grey afternoon, the kind where the sky and the hills bleed into each other until the world is nothing but shades of colorless damp.

The estate rises from the moor like something out of a gothic novel, all stone and sharp angles, towers that serve no purpose, windows that reflect nothing. The driveway alone is half a mile, lined with trees so old their branches tangle overhead into a tunnel.

“Fuck me,” Soap breathes. “She lives here alone?”

The house is massive. Victorian Gothic, maybe older in places, with additions that don’t quite match: a wing here, a tower there, rooms that jut out at odd angles like the architect couldn’t decide when to stop building.

Or like they’d been following instructions from someone who didn’t think in straight lines.

Price pulls the truck around the circular drive. There are no other vehicles. No lights in most of the windows.

The front door opens before they reach it.

You stand in the doorway, backlit by the warm glow of the foyer, and Price’s first thought is that you look smaller in person. More delicate. You’re wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, hands twisted together, smile uncertain.

“You’re here,” you say, and your voice is soft, relieved. “I’m so glad. I was starting to think- ” You cut yourself off, laughing nervously. “Sorry. I’m rambling. Come in, please. You must be freezing.”

The foyer is beautiful. All dark wood and oil paintings, a chandelier that probably weighs more than their truck. The kind of old money that doesn’t need to announce itself.

You introduce yourself, shaking each of their hands. Your grip is gentle. Your palm is warm.

Price watches your eyes when you look at them, all four of them, big men, scarred and dangerous even in civilian clothes. You should be nervous. Wary.

You just look grateful.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” you say. “I know the job posting was vague, but I didn’t know how to explain without sounding…” You trail off, biting your lip. “Crazy.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning,” Price suggests, voice gentle. Paternal. “Take your time, love.”

You do.

You inherited the estate three months ago from a distant relative you’d never met. A great-great-aunt or something, the family tree was complicated. You’d been living here for two weeks, trying to sort through centuries of accumulated belongings, and-

“Things happen,” you say quietly. “Doors that I know I left open are closed. Rooms that are freezing cold for no reason. I hear footsteps at night in the hallways, but when I check, there’s no one there.” You wrap your arms around yourself. “I know how it sounds. But I swear, there’s something wrong with this house.”

“You live here alone?” Gaz asks.

“Yes. The previous caretaker staff left before I arrived. Something about not being paid in months, but all the accounts are current, so I don’t…” You shake your head. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, it’s just me. And I don’t feel safe.”

Ghost hasn’t said anything, just watching you with that unnerving stillness he has. You meet his eyes once, then look away quickly, color rising in your cheeks.

Good, Price thinks. Be nervous. Be afraid.

It’ll make everything easier.

“We’ll do a full sweep of the property,” he says. “Check the perimeter, test the locks, set up a security protocol. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

The smile you give him is luminous with relief.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Really. Thank you.”

You show them to their rooms in the east wing, you explain, close together. Your room is in the west wing, you add, then immediately seem to regret mentioning it.

The rooms are pristine. Four poster beds, heavy furniture, attached bathrooms with clawfoot tubs. The kind of luxury that makes Soap whistle low under his breath.

“Lass is loaded,” he says once you’ve left them to settle in. “Did you see this place?”

“Empty though,” Gaz observes, sitting on the edge of his bed. The mattress doesn’t even creak. “Too big for one person.”

“Too isolated,” Ghost adds. He’s at the window, looking out over the grounds. Nothing but moor and forest for miles. “No neighbors. No cell service.”

“Checked that already?” Price asks.

Ghost holds up his phone. No bars.

“She mentioned the landline works,” Gaz offers. “In the library.”

Price nods slowly, mind already working. Isolated. No witnesses. No way to call for help except a single landline they could cut at any time.

“We’ll take it slow,” he decides. “Get her comfortable. Let her trust us.”

“And then?” Soap’s grin is sharp.

“Then we’ll see how grateful she really is.”

Later, dinner is laid out in a formal dining room that could seat twenty. You’ve set places for five at one end, candlelight making the crystal gleam.

You’ve cooked. Roast chicken, vegetables, fresh bread. The kind of meal that takes hours.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Price says.

“I wanted to.” You pour expensive wine, from a bottle without a label. “You’re doing me a huge favor. It’s the least I can do.”

The food is incredible. Soap tells you so between bites, and you smile, pleased.

“My family was big on traditional cooking,” you explain. “Recipes passed down for generations. Some of these are centuries old.”

You eat delicately, like you were taught etiquette. But Price notices your eyes track each of them as you eat. Watching. Cataloging.

Prey behavior, he thinks. Trying to figure out the threat.

After dinner, you give them a tour of the main floor. The library with its floor to ceiling shelves. The sitting room with its massive fireplace. The conservatory with dead plants in ancient pots.

“I haven’t had time to care for them,” you apologize. “I’m not much of a gardener.”

The house is a maze. Hallways that branch and turn back on themselves. Doors that open onto other doors. Rooms that seem to serve no purpose, too small for furniture, too large for storage.

“Easy to get lost,” Gaz comments.

“Very,” you agree. “I’m still finding new rooms. Yesterday I found a whole wing I didn’t know existed.” You laugh, but it’s strained. “This place is ridiculous.”

By the time you show them back to the east wing, Price has mentally mapped maybe a third of the ground floor. The rest is a labyrinth.

“I’ll let you get settled,” you say, pausing at the base of the stairs. “My room is in the west wing if you need anything. Third floor, end of the hall. There’s only one door, you can’t miss it.”

You’re telling them where you sleep. Where you’ll be alone. Vulnerable.

You don’t seem to realize the danger in that.

“Sleep well,” Price says.

You smile. “You too.”

They don’t sleep.

Price gathers them in his room once the house goes quiet. Ghost reports what he found during his “bathroom break” earlier: the windows are original, single pane, easy to break. The doors have old locks, the kind you can pick with a hairpin. There’s a servants’ staircase that connects all the floors, hidden behind a panel in the hallway.

“No security system,” he concludes. “No cameras. Nothing.”

“She’s got money but no sense,” Soap observes. “Living out here alone, no protection.”

“Not anymore,” Gaz says quietly.

They look at each other. They don’t need to say it out loud. They’ve done worse than what they’re thinking. In war, in peace, in the grey spaces between. This is just one more thing.

One more sin that won’t matter in the end.

“We take our time,” Price orders. “Build trust. Let her depend on us. Then- ”

A sound cuts him off.

Footsteps. In the hallway. Slow and deliberate.

They freeze. Ghost moves to the door, cracks it open.

The hallway is empty.

But the footsteps continue, receding down the corridor. Getting fainter.

Going toward the west wing.

Ghost steps into the hall, following the sound. The others trail after him.

The footsteps stop at the end of the corridor. Where the hallway branches.

There’s no one there.

“Wind,” Gaz says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“Old house,” Soap adds. “Settling.”

Ghost says nothing. He’s looking at the wall where the footsteps stopped. There’s a door there, narrow, almost invisible in the paneling.

He tries the handle.

Locked.

“Leave it,” Price orders. “We’re not here about ghosts.”

But as they return to their rooms, Price catches a smell. Faint. Metallic.

Like old blood in the walls.

***

Morning comes grey and cold.

You’re already in the kitchen when they come down, humming softly as you flip pancakes on an ancient stove. You’re dressed in soft clothes again: leggings, an oversized cardigan, fuzzy socks. Your hair is pulled back in a messy bun.

You look even younger in the morning light.

“I hope you all slept well,” you say, smiling over your shoulder. “I made coffee. Strong, I hope that’s okay. And there’s tea if anyone prefers.”

The kitchen is warm, full of the smell of butter and vanilla. Soap drops into a chair at the worn wooden table like he belongs there.

“You’re spoiling us, lass,” he says.

“You’re keeping me safe,” you counter. “Fair trade.”

Breakfast is easy. Comfortable. You ask them about their background, military, you already know, but what kind? Where did they serve?

Price deflects, keeping it vague. You don’t push.

“The house,” Ghost says abruptly. “You said you’ve only been here two weeks.”

“Yes.”

“But you knew about the servants’ stairs. Last night, you mentioned a wing you found yesterday.”

You pause, spatula halfway to the plate. “I… yes. I’ve been exploring. There’s a lot to see.”

“House this size, you’d need months to map it properly,” Ghost continues. His eyes don’t leave your face. “But you walk through it like you know where you’re going.”

Something flickers across your expression. Too fast to read.

“I have the original blueprints,” you say. “In the library. They help.”

It’s a reasonable explanation.

Ghost doesn’t look convinced.

After breakfast, you show them those blueprints, massive sheets of yellowed paper spread across the library table. The house is even bigger than they thought. Four floors, not counting the attics and cellars. Wings that branch off like fractal patterns. Rooms within rooms.

“Christ,” Gaz mutters. “Who builds something like this?”

“My ancestor, apparently.” You trace a finger along the main hall. “She started construction in the late 1500s. Kept adding to it for decades. Some of these additions don’t even make sense architecturally.” You point to a tower that seems to serve no purpose. “There are staircases that go nowhere. Doors that open onto walls. It’s like she was building a puzzle instead of a house.”

“She?” Price asks.

“Family legend says it was a woman. Very wealthy. Very private. They say she died here, actually, walled up in one of the rooms.” You say it matter of factly, like it’s not horrifying. “No one knows if it was suicide or murder.”

“Cheerful,” Soap mutters.

You laugh. “Sorry. I know it’s morbid. But the house has history. Dark history. I think that’s why it feels so…” You trail off, looking around the library. The books rise to the ceiling, leather bound and ancient. “Wrong.”

“We’ll make it right,” Price assures you. His hand settles on your shoulder. You don’t pull away. “That’s what we’re here for, love.”

You look up at him with such trust it almost makes him feel guilty.

Almost.

They spend the day doing a security assessment. It’s legitimate work: checking locks, testing windows, mapping sight lines. But it also gives them an excuse to learn the house. To understand the layout.

To plan.

Ghost finds the first oddity in the east wing. A door that, according to the blueprints, should open into a bedroom. Instead, it opens into a narrow hallway that isn’t on any of the plans. The hallway ends at another door, which opens back into the same corridor they started from.

“That’s not possible,” Gaz says, looking between the blueprint and the actual space. “The dimensions don’t work.”

But they do. Somehow.

Soap finds the second oddity in the cellar. A wine rack that swings out to reveal a passage behind it. The passage leads to a room that’s empty except for a drain in the center of the floor.

Just a drain. And walls that show faint, rusty stains.

“The fuck is this?” Soap asks, but no one answers.

Price finds the third oddity on the second floor. A bathroom with a massive clawfoot tub, Victorian fixtures, and a smell that makes his skin crawl. The same metallic scent from last night, but stronger here.

There’s a cabinet beneath the sink. Inside are bottles, old glass, hand labeled in faded ink. He can’t read the language.

He doesn’t take anything. Just closes the cabinet and leaves.

By evening, they’ve barely covered a quarter of the house.

You make dinner again. Beef stew this time, with fresh bread. You’re quiet during the meal, picking at your food.

“Something wrong?” Gaz asks.

“Just tired,” you say. “I didn’t sleep well. I kept hearing…. ” You stop, shaking your head. “Never mind.”

“Hearing what?” Price presses gently.

You hesitate. “Scratching. In the walls. Like something trying to get out.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

“Old houses make noise,” Price says finally. “Pipes, wood settling, animals in the walls. Nothing to worry about.”

You nod, but you don’t look reassured.

That night, Soap offers to walk you to your room. You accept, grateful.

Price watches them go, watches the way Soap’s hand hovers near the small of your back without quite touching. The way he stands too close in the narrow hallway.

When Soap returns twenty minutes later, he’s grinning.

“She asked me to check the west wing,” he reports. “Make sure the windows were locked. Checked behind furniture like she’s five years old.” His grin widens. “She’s scared. Really scared.”

“Good,” Price says.

Day three, and you’re starting to relax around them.

You smile more easily. Laugh at Soap’s jokes. Let Price help you reach books on high shelves, his body warm against your back. You make tea for Ghost without being asked, remembering that he takes it black.

You’re starting to trust them.

You’re starting to feel safe.

That’s when they begin to tighten the noose.

It starts small. Soap stands a little too close when he talks to you. Price’s hands linger when he steadies you on the stairs. Gaz’s eyes track your movements in a way that should make you uncomfortable.

Ghost just watches. Silent. Present. A constant reminder that you’re not alone.

You notice. They can tell you notice. But you don’t say anything.

Maybe you think you’re imagining it. Maybe you think it’s harmless.

Maybe you’re too polite to call them out.

Price starts making decisions for you. Small ones at first.

“Don’t go walking on the grounds alone. Not safe.”

“Stay in the main areas during the day. Some of these rooms aren’t structurally sound.”

“Lock your door at night. Just in case.”

You follow his orders without question. Because he’s the security expert. Because he’s there to protect you.

Because you don’t realize the danger isn’t outside the house.

By day five, you’ve stopped mentioning the ghosts. Stopped jumping at sounds. You’re comfortable now, moving through the house with them like they’re part of the furniture.

You eat dinner with them every night. You sit in the library with Ghost while he reads, working on your laptop in companionable silence. You help Soap fix a loose board in the hallway, laughing when he makes a joke about his carpentry skills.

You’re alone with one of them almost constantly now. You don’t seem to realize they’ve arranged it that way.

That night, Gaz lingers after you say goodnight. Walks you to the west wing. Watches you unlock your door.

“Sleep well,” he says.

“You too.” You pause in the doorway, looking back at him. “Thank you. All of you. I feel so much safer now.”

The irony doesn’t escape him.

By day eight y he smell is stronger now. That metallic, organic scent that permeates certain parts of the house. It’s worst in the bathroom with the clawfoot tub, in the cellar room with the drain, in the narrow hallways that aren’t on any blueprints.

“It’s the pipes,” you say when Gaz mentions it. “I’ve had plumbers out three times. They can’t find the source. Old house, old pipes.” You shrug helplessly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s unpleasant.”

It is unpleasant. But it’s also familiar.

Price has smelled blood before. In sand, in mud, in enclosed spaces where it pools and congeals and rots.

This smells like that. But older. Deeper.

He doesn’t mention it.

That evening, they make their decision.

It’s time.

Tonight, they’ll stop pretending. Tonight, they’ll show you exactly what kind of men you’ve invited into your home.

They’ll take their time. They’ll be careful. When they’re done-

Well. No one knows they’re here. You have no family, no friends who visit. The house is remote enough that you could scream for days and no one would hear.

They have all the time in the world.

Price pours himself a drink in the library, watching the sun set over the moor. The sky bleeds red and orange, beautiful and violent.

Behind him, Soap is checking his knife. Gaz is quiet, but his hands are steady. Ghost is just… Ghost. Still. Ready.

They’re apex predators.

And you’re just a soft, scared girl who made the mistake of inviting wolves into your home.

Price drains his glass.

“Let’s go hunting,” he says.

They move through the house like smoke.

It’s late, past midnight. You’ll be asleep by now, alone in that big bed in the west wing. The door will be locked, but Ghost can pick any lock in under thirty seconds.

They take the main stairs, footsteps silent on the ancient runner. The house is dark except for the ambient moonlight through the tall windows. Everything is shadows and shapes, familiar now after days of mapping.

The west wing is colder. They notice it as soon as they cross into that section, the temperature drops at least ten degrees. Their breath mists in the air.

“Heating’s out here,” Soap mutters.

“Doesn’t matter,” Price says. “We’re not staying long.”

Your room is at the end of the hall. Third floor. A single door, just like you said.

They pause outside it. Price listens.

Nothing. No movement. No sound.

Ghost moves forward, lockpicks already in hand.

The lock turns with a soft click.

The door swings open.

The room beyond is empty.

Not empty like you’re hiding, empty like no one has been there in years. The bed is made with sheets that smell of lavender and dust. The furniture is covered in cloth. The air is stale.

“Wrong room,” Gaz says immediately.

But it’s not. There’s only one door on this floor of the west wing. This has to be it.

Unless you lied.

“Spread out,” Price orders. “Find her.”

They split up, moving through the west wing with increasing urgency. But every room they check is the same: empty, unused, covered in dust. Like this entire section of the house has been abandoned.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Soap says. “We’ve seen her come this way every night.”

“Then where the fuck is she?” Ghost growls.

A sound answers him. Faint. Musical.

Humming.

Coming from below them.

They exchange glances, then move as one toward the stairs. Down. Following the sound.

It leads them to the ground floor. To the back of the house. To a section they haven’t fully explored yet.

The humming stops.

They round a corner and freeze.

There’s a door there. Heavy wood, iron hinges. Old. Very old.

It’s ajar.

Warm light spills from the gap. And that smell- blood and age and something underneath that makes Price’s hindbrain scream danger- rolls out in a wave.

Ghost reaches the door first. He pushes it open slowly.

Stone steps lead down. Down into the earth, into darkness interrupted by flickering light.

Into the place the blueprints don’t show.

“Soap,” Price says quietly. “Go check it out.”

Soap grins, eager. “Finally. Thought we’d never find the fun.”

He starts down the stairs, knife in hand, boots silent on stone.

They wait at the top. Listening.

Soap’s footsteps descend. Ten steps. Twenty. The light grows brighter, warmer.

Then:

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice, awed and horrified at once.

“What is it?” Gaz calls down.

“You need to see this. All of you. Right fucking now.”

They descend together.

The stairs open into a room that shouldn’t exist. It’s massive, the size of the entire ground floor above. Stone walls, stone floor, ceiling lost in shadows. Lit by torches in iron sconces, actual torches, burning with flames that don’t smoke.

And the walls.

The walls are covered in tools. Restraints. Devices that Price recognizes from history books about the Inquisition, about medieval dungeons, about torture chambers that shouldn’t exist outside of museums.

In the center of the room is a table. Stone. Stained. And a clawed bathtub next to it.

And past that, set into the far wall, are cells. Iron bars, thick as a man’s wrist. Empty, all of them.

Except one.

Soap has stopped halfway across the room. He’s staring at the occupied cell.

Price moves to stand beside him.

Inside the cell is a man. Older. Weathered. Wearing clothes that might have been nice once.

He’s dead.

Not recently dead. The body is old, dried and withered. Chained to the wall by wrists and ankles.

His eyes are gone. His mouth is open in a scream that no one heard.

“Fuck,” Gaz breathes. “Fuck, we need to-”

“Going somewhere?”

Your voice. From behind them.

They turn as one.

You’re standing at the base of the stairs. You’re still wearing soft clothes, leggings, an oversized sweater. But something about you is different. Your posture. Your expression. The gas mask on your face.

You’re not scared anymore.

You’re not playing anymore.

“I was starting to think you’d never find this place,” you say conversationally. “Day eight. That’s longer than I expected. Then again, you were… distracted.”

Price’s hand moves to his weapon-

“I wouldn’t,” you say. And your voice isn’t soft now. It’s sharp. Cold. Ancient. “You’re already breathing it. Have been since you came down here. Another minute and you won’t be able to lift your arms.”

Gas. Colorless, odorless. Already in their lungs.

“What- ” Gaz starts, then sways. Catches himself on the wall.

“Old recipe,” you explain. “From before your countries existed. Before your languages. It’s very effective.” You tilt your head, studying them like specimens. “You were supposed to corner me tonight, weren’t you? Force me into a room, lock the door, take your time. I could see it in the way you moved. The way you looked at me.”

You step closer. Soap tries to move toward you and his legs buckle. Ghost catches him, but Ghost is swaying too.

“You thought you were predators,” you continue. “Four big, dangerous men. Military trained. Probably dishonorably discharged for things you can’t talk about. Things that made even your commanders nervous.” Your smile is soft. Understanding. “You’ve killed before. You’ve done worse. You thought that made you apex.”

Price’s vision is blurring. He tries to speak, but his tongue is thick.

“It doesn’t,” you say simply. “It just makes you bait.”

The last thing Price sees before the darkness takes him is your face.

Still beautiful. Still gentle.

With eyes that are far, far too old.

***

Price wakes slowly, consciousness returning in stages.

He’s cold. His head throbs. His mouth tastes like copper and chemicals.

He tries to move and can’t.

Restraints. Heavy metal cuffs around his wrists and ankles, chains connecting them to-

He forces his eyes open.

The clawfoot tub is directly in front of him, white porcelain gleaming in candlelight. It’s full of water. Steam rises from the surface.

The others are there too. Ghost to his left, Soap to his right, Gaz further down. All chained to pipes that run along the walls. All conscious now, struggling against their restraints with increasing desperation.

“Won’t work,” Ghost grunts. “Tried already. Chains are solid.”

Price tests them anyway. Ghost is right. The cuffs are old but strong, the chains anchored deep into the wall. He might be able to break free given enough time and the right leverage, but…

The door opens.

You descend the steps carrying a wooden case, the kind doctors used to make house calls a century ago. You’ve changed clothes. Now you’re wearing something that looks period: a long dress, deep red, with a corset and details that belong in a museum. Your hair is pinned up elaborately.

You look like you stepped out of a Renaissance painting.

You set the case on a small table near the tub, then turn to face them.

“You’re awake,” you observe. “Good. I was worried about the dosage. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

“The fuck is this?” Soap snarls, yanking at his chains. “Let us go. Right fucking now.”

You ignore him. Instead, you open the case. Inside, nestled in velvet, are knives.

Medical knives. Scalpels. Tools for very precise work.

Price’s blood goes cold.

“Let me tell you a story,” you say, selecting a blade and holding it up to the light. Testing the edge with your thumb. A bead of blood wells up. You lick it away absently. “Once upon a time, there was a girl. A countess, actually. Very wealthy. Very powerful. Very beautiful.”

You set the knife down, select another.

“She lived in a castle in Hungary. This was in the late 1500s, early 1600s. A time of war and plague and death.” You glance at them. “A time when people disappeared all the time and no one asked too many questions.”

“You’re insane,” Gaz says. His voice shakes.

“No. I’m a survivor.” You return to the case, trailing your fingers over the blades. “The countess, her name was Elizabeth Báthory and she discovered something interesting about blood. About vitality. About the life force that runs through young, strong bodies.”

You select a larger blade. A hunting knife.

“The legends say she bathed in the blood of virgin girls. That she killed hundreds trying to stay young forever.” Your smile is cold. “The legends got some things wrong. I didn’t need virgins. I needed strength. Vitality. The blood of warriors, soldiers, men who’d killed and survived and had decades of life still pumping through their veins.”

Price watches you move around the room, lighting more candles. His mind races, looking for an escape, a weapon, anything.

“They came for me eventually. Arrested me in 1610. Put me on trial.” You pause in front of the tub, running your hand through the steaming water. “And then they sentenced me to be walled up alive in my own castle. Bricked into a room with no door, no windows. Just a small slot for food and water that they barely used.”

“She died in 1614,” Ghost says flatly. “Elizabeth Báthory died in 1614.”

Your smile widens, and in the candlelight, your teeth seem too sharp.

“That’s what they wanted everyone to think,” you say softly. “That’s what the records say. But here’s what really happened.”

You turn to face them fully, and something in your eyes makes Price’s blood run cold. They’re too old. Too knowing. Too hungry.

“They sealed me in that room on December 21st, 1610. Winter solstice. Left me there to die.” You touch your chest, right over your heart. “No food. No water after the first few weeks. Just darkness and cold and the slow certainty of death.”

You walk closer.

“But I’d been consuming blood for decades by then. Strong blood. Soldier’s blood from the wars that raged across Europe. The vitality was in me, soaked into every cell. It kept me alive when I should have died.”

“You’re saying you’re her,” Price says slowly. “Elizabeth Báthory. Who died over 400 years ago.”

“I’m saying I didn’t die.” Your voice is matter of fact. “I should have. Any normal person would have. But the blood I’d taken sustained me. Preserved me. For four years I sat in that room, starving, my body consuming itself, but the stolen vitality kept my heart beating.”

You stop in front of Soap, looking down at him with something almost like pity.

“Do you know what it’s like to starve for four years? To feel your body eating itself from the inside? To exist in total darkness with nothing but hunger?” You tilt your head. “It changes you. Makes you something other than human.”

Your hand reaches out, touches his face. He jerks away, but your fingers trail down his jaw with surprising strength.

“In 1614, they stopped bringing food entirely. Assumed I was dead. The guards stopped checking.” Your smile is terrible. “So I started digging.”

“Bullshit,” Soap spits.

“Four years of accumulated desperation. Four years of superhuman preservation from all that stolen blood.” You hold up your hands, and in the candlelight, they can see faint scars on your fingertips. “I clawed through the mortar. Brick by brick. My fingers bled down to bone and regenerated. Over and over. The blood wouldn’t let me die.”

You pull away, return to your case of knives.

“When I finally broke through, it was winter. 1614. Everyone assumed I’d been dead for months. The castle was barely guarded.” You select the hunting knife again, testing its weight. “I walked out. Stole clothes. Stole money. And I disappeared.”

You approach Gaz, knife gleaming.

“For 400 years, I’ve been hunting,” you continue conversationally. “It’s easier than you’d think. Do you know what men are consistent about, no matter the century? No matter the culture?” You lean closer. “They want to fuck, and they want to fight. Those two drives make them so wonderfully predictable.”

The blade touches his throat. He goes very still.

“Battlefields are perfect hunting grounds,” you murmur. “The Thirty Years’ War. The Napoleonic Wars. The American Civil War. World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan.” You press the knife deeper, drawing a bead of blood. “Thousands dying every day. Who’s going to notice one or two soldiers going missing? Especially if they’re the violent ones. The ones with blood already on their hands.”

You collect the blood on your finger, taste it.

“Mmm. You’ve killed recently. I can taste it. The guilt. The violence. It makes the blood richer.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Price demands.

“Because you need to understand what you walked into.” You straighten, addressing all of them. “I’ve been doing this for centuries. I’ve refined it. Perfected it. I’ve taken blood from Crusaders and conquistadors. From samurai and Spartans. From every type of warrior humanity has produced.”

You gesture around the bathroom.

“This house? I built it in 1596, before they caught me. When I escaped, I came back here. It’s been in ‘my family’ ever since; distant relatives who look suspiciously like me inheriting it every few decades. The preservation spells I laid in the foundation keep it standing. Keep it hungry.”

“Spells,” Ghost repeats. “You’re saying magic is real.”

“I’m saying blood has power. Life has power. And I learned how to take it.” You move to the center of the room. “For 400 years, I refined the technique. Learned which blood gives the most vitality. Soldiers are best, men who’ve killed, who have violence in their veins. The more blood on their hands, the more years they give me.”

You look at each of them in turn.

“But it’s gotten harder. Technology. Tracking devices. GPS. Cameras everywhere. Dental records. DNA databases.” Your expression sours. “The old ways don’t work anymore. I can’t just pick off stragglers from battlefields. Can’t seduce soldiers in taverns and leave their bodies in ditches.”

You move to the tub, running your hand through the water.

“So I had to get creative. Private security seemed perfect, men with military backgrounds, often dishonorably discharged, working off the books. Men with violence in their past and no one who’d ask too many questions if they disappeared.”

You smile at them, and it’s the same gentle smile you gave them that first night.

“Men exactly like you.”

Gaz makes a sound. Horror and realization.

“The job posting,” Price says slowly. “The whole setup. You were hunting us from the start.”

“Of course.” You sound pleased that he understands. “I researched you. Knew what you’d done. Knew how you’d been discharged. Knew you were the type of men who’d see a soft, scared girl alone in a big house and think…” You pause. “Well. Think what you were thinking.”

You pick up the hunting knife.

“You thought you were predators. That’s adorable.” Your voice drops. “But I’ve been hunting predators since before your countries existed. Since before your wars had names. Since before the concept of ‘military contractor’ was invented.”

You approach Price, knife in hand.

“I am Elizabeth Báthory. I have been hunting and killing soldiers for 410 years. I have bathed in the blood of thousands of men who thought they were dangerous.” The knife touches his throat. “You’re just the latest crop.”

You pull the blade back and swing, right at his neck.

***

Six months later.

You’re in a coffee shop in Glasgow, laptop open, scrolling through job applications.

The posting went live three days ago. Private security needed. Remote estate. Long term placement. Competitive compensation. Discretion required.

You’ve already gotten forty seven responses.

Most are garbage. Too young. Too connected. Too clean.

But then you find one that makes you pause.

Private military contractor. International experience. Specialized skillset. Discrete operations. Two-man team, prefer to work together. Available immediately.

You draft a response:

Thank you for your interest. I can accommodate a team. The estate is quite remote. I can offer accommodation during the interview process.

Could you provide more details about your experience?

You hit send.

The response comes quickly:

We can be there next week. Monday, 1400 hours.

Our experience is extensive but specialized. The kind that doesn’t look good on paper. Your posting suggested discretion. We can provide that.

We don’t separate.

You smile and type back:

Monday is perfect. I’ll send the address. Looking forward to meeting you both.

Send.

Your phone buzzes.