The screams of pain bouncing around the cement walls are getting a tad annoying.

Sometimes it sucks being the hacker and the enforcer. Z really fucking enjoyed hurting people, but tonight, He have no goddamn patience for this whiny asshole. And normally, he had the patience of a saint.

“This knife is about to go halfway through your eyeball,” Z warn. “I’m not even going to show you any mercy and shove it all the way through to your brain.”

“Fuck, man,” he cries. “I told you that I just went to the warehouse a few times. I don’t know anything about some fuckin’ ritual.”

“So, you’re useless is what you’re saying,” Z surmised, inching the blade towards the man’s eye.

Sweat drips down the man’s nose, mixing with the blood on his face. His overgrown greasy blonde hair is matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. Guess it’s not actually blonde anymore since most of it's painted red now.

The man’s had already cut off one of his ears, along with ripping off ten of his fingernails, severed both Achilles heels, a couple of stab wounds in specific locations that won’t allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly, and too many broken bones to count.

Dickhead won’t be getting up and walking out of here, that’s for damn sure.

“I don’t have patience for bastards like you.” Z growled out, stabbing the knife into the man’s eye, letting him cry out, before cutting the throat. His eyes steely, letting his men handle the dead body.

And, with time and Z’s car. He was soon to reach the 3rd Street avenue to get some food, adorned in all black with his hoodie, and mask covering everything.

Someone bumps into him.

Z turns to glare at the enraged guy behind him, their mouth opening and gearing up to cuss him out, yet the second he gets one look at Z’s scarred face, and heterochromia eyes—he takes off into a half-walk, half-run. Z would have laugh if he weren’t so distracted.

Before him is a picture of an author that’s hosting a book signing. She’s fucking incredible.