A manipulative ex-boyfriend’s attempt to rekindle a toxic relationship backfires when he’s lured into a deadly trap that seals his fate.
Copyright © Priya Florence Shah
The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat and cheap cologne as Jack lounged in the back of a dimly lit bar. His fingers danced over his phone screen, composing a message he’d sent variations of countless times before.
“Hey. I was thinking about you. Miss you. Let’s meet?”
Jack smirked. He knew Emma was a forgiving soul, the kind of woman who wore her heart on her sleeve. A “revolving door,” he often joked to his friends. She’d always let him back in, oblivious to the trail of betrayals he left behind.
From flings with strangers to crude whispers he’d shared with her so-called friends, he had burned her trust to the ground — and yet, she always seemed to hold the door open for his return.
He hit send and took a long sip of his drink, his grin widening as he imagined her response.
Emma’s phone buzzed on the counter as she stirred a pot of chili in her kitchen. Her new boyfriend, Mark, leaned against the counter, flipping through a magazine. She read the message and snorted, tossing the phone to him.
“Look who decided to crawl out of the woodwork,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery.
Mark read the text, his jaw tightening. “You want to reply?”
Emma met his gaze. “What are you thinking?”
A dark smile flickered across Mark’s face. “Text him back. Let’s arrange a little reunion.”
Jack strutted into the coffee shop, dressed in his usual too-tight jeans and a leather jacket that smelled faintly of mildew. He ordered an overpriced latte and scanned the room, his eyes narrowing when he didn’t see Emma.
Instead, two broad-shouldered men in matching black hoodies sat at a corner table, watching him. One of them stood, a mountain of muscle with a scar cutting across his lip. “You Jack?”
Jack faltered. “Uh…yeah. Who’s asking?”
The man didn’t respond. Before Jack could react, a knife flashed in the dim light and found its mark, slicing into his side with surgical precision. He gasped, clutching his wound, as the second man grabbed him from behind.
“Congratulations, buddy,” Scar-Lip sneered. “You just won yourself a free ride.”
The interior of the white van smelled like mildew and despair. A burlap sack covered Jack’s head, the fibers scratching his face. He squirmed, but his wrists were bound tight with plastic ties.
“L-let me go!” he stammered. “You’ve got the wrong guy!”
“Shut up,” one of the men growled.
The van lurched to a stop, and Jack was dragged out into the cool night air. He heard the creak of a metal gate and the crunch of gravel underfoot before being forced into a building.
The burlap sack was yanked off, revealing a dimly lit room with bloodstained walls and steel tables lined with surgical tools. A man in a lab coat approached, his eyes cold and calculating.
“Alcoholic,” the doctor muttered, scanning a clipboard. “Liver’s shot. Kidneys, no good. STDs…the works.” He shook his head, turning to Scar-Lip. “Useless. Sedate him. Disassemble and discard.”
“Wait! No! You can’t—” Jack’s pleas were cut short by a needle stabbing into his neck. His vision blurred as his captors lifted him onto a table.
Days later, the landfill on the edge of town buzzed with activity. Workers in hazmat suits sifted through mountains of refuse, oblivious to the fragments of flesh buried among the trash.
Emma sat on her couch, sipping a glass of wine. She stared at her phone, the final text from Jack still unanswered in her inbox.
Mark entered the room, his face calm but his eyes gleaming with a dangerous edge. “He won’t bother you again,” he said simply.
Emma nodded, leaning back into the cushions. The weight of the past felt lighter, as though she’d finally shut the door for good.
