Intoxication. The state of being drunk, or in overwhelming ecstasy.

  Ian had felt it before.

  He'd felt it when his hands wrapped around that Esper's throat in that first Rift and when he'd heard the Esper who assaulted Lucian scream. Writhing.

  It was a state of euphoria, enough to become an addiction.

  Ian stumbled into the room, one of many in the building. There were others, flushed faces and wandering hands, like a cattle farm made for pleasure, and nothing more.

  His body flared, both hot and cold, spiked in disorientation. Sweat beaded his burning neck, and he gasped as her arms slipped under his, not-so-gently dragging him inside. She flipped backwards, heels kicking to the ground, and pulled him over her.

  "Now, don't try any little tricks, sweetheart. You're the one who decided to play my game," she whispered, playfully tugging at his tie. With a sharp yank, his body fell forward, and his face hovered inches from hers. "Try not to disappoint me."

  Another tug, and the tie unraveled. She stretched out an arm, and the fabric puddled to the ground.

  Ian panted, swirls whirling in his vision. Colors blurred, and a ringing persistently echoed in his ears. He furrowed his eyebrows. His throat felt parched. "What did you give me?"

  "A lady doesn't reveal her secrets." She kicked out a leg, sweeping him onto his back, and straddled him. Her fingers dipped, popping his buttons open slowly. Her lips curved at his squirming. "Although I seem to have misjudged your dosage."

  His head was pounding. Thoughts were dissolving into fragmented sentences. But there was no other way for a woman like this.

  Although he loathed it, Ian's advantage was his low birth.

  He'd lived his entire life as trash and knew better than to underestimate his enemies. To her, he was merely a rowdy toy with.

  How many had she broken? Left to the guards standing outside the soundproofed room, who wouldn't come even if he screamed.

  What was the difference between this soft duvet and the four walls of the facility?

  He was there again, in that claustrophobic space with the pulsing white light.

  There, with predatory eyes raking over his body. Evaluating his worth. Back then, when he'd tested low, they strapped him to a table for weeks and injected liquid after liquid. Futile attempts to revive his guiding strength.

  He was a ghost in the wind. A phantom of existence, neither there nor here.

  For weeks, he stared unblinking at that dull white light. Fire rampaged through his veins, and pain buzzed until he adapted to it.

  Countless experiments were run—it was rare for a high-potential guide to drop to such lows—but all failed. Eventually, they marked it as a consequence of extreme grief and deposited him with the other failures.

  All those drugs, that persisted on an ongoing cycle, gave something akin to immunity without any addictive consequences.

  It gave him endurance.

  The woman mused, her hands trailing across his exposed chest. "You're prettier like this, darling. But there's something familiar I don't like. It reminds me of a wench from the past."

  Ian hummed, pretending to react to her touches. "Who would dare to get on your bad side?"

  "A nobody," laughed the woman, playing with his hair. The walls, Ian realized, had no windows. No witnesses. "But I took care of her a long time ago."

  Ian smiled dizzily. "What'd you do?"

  "Oh, you're a curious one, aren't you?" She chuckled again. She seemed pleased by his obedience and whispered in his ear. "My son died because of that useless girl. So I returned the favor. I recommended her for a special project and several Rifts."

  Ian's knuckles whitened in strain, gripping the blankets. She mistook it for pleasure.

  His hands clenched and unclenched. There was venom on his tongue, a violence eager to perform. He knew his sister. She took her responsibilities seriously. No matter how dire, she wouldn't have willingly allowed somebody to die.

  Yet they blamed her. A misplaced resentment with nowhere else to go. Ian could understand that, but what about his sister?

  Dead in the consequence of grief?

  He flipped their positions, and the thin duvet puddled down. The woman gasped, but her lips curved. "Oh? Eager to be rebellious again?"

  Ian said nothing, but his hands traced up her wrist. Arms. He could feel the string of energy, plucking it with the curiosity of a musician. A strum, and then two. She lay with an apathetic smirk, as if she had no worries.

  Abruptly, her eyes went wide—

  —And his hands found her throat.

  Fire scorched his palms. He grasped at the strings, yanking them into agonizing tauts, coaxing madness.

  They sparked, colliding in waves. Her energy surged toward him in a frenzy, and the woman thrashed. She slammed her elbow into his side, and he kicked her arm down, digging deeper.

  Pain erupted in Ian's stomach. His eyes dipped.

  A knife sank there, right to its dark hilt. Bleeding.

  "You— how dare you!" she hissed.

  He gasped, staggering back. In that second, she lunged like a beast, her hair straggling over her strained face. Ian threw up his arms. They tumbled off the bed, and the lodged knife squished, jerking with their movements.

  Ian groaned, but before she could spin, he slammed his knees into her back. Right between her protruding shoulder blades. He wedged his knee deep.

  Across the ground, he saw his tie.

  He lunged for it. Grabbed it and looped it around her mouth before he twisted her arm against her back. Bones cracked, and her muffled groan sounded against the fabric, but Ian didn't move.

  Her energy sought dominance. Demanded comfort. And Ian denied her of it.

  He yanked a gun from his pants.

  The muzzle slammed against her skull. Her venomous glare sliced backward, before dropping at the spot it'd been hidden, blocked by his jacket. She sneered, her words muffled. "It's unbecoming of a man to fake his grandiosity."

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  Ian drove his knee deeper, feeling her squirm. Another wave of energy, like a thousand insects writhing inside, and she screamed.

  "It's delusional of a woman to think every man desires her," he muttered. "Especially one as filthy and wretched as you."

  The knife in his stomach pulsated madly, and his vision blurred. But Guides had a resilience better than regular humans, and he'd endured many beatings.

  He reached for his ankles and swiftly retrieved a dagger. He rested the serrated edge on her neck and thought he could feel the vibrations of her palpitating heart through it. "Tell me the details of that Guide. Scream, and I'll stab twice. Yell, and it'll go right through your neck."

  "As... if I would—!"

  The knife gored through her palm. She thrashed, wheezing with a strangled cry. Ian only bent closer, by her ear.

  "You screamed." He wriggled it, and a storm of tears bubbled from her pretty, predatory eyes. The Reverse Guiding alone destabilized her. It could only get worse. "But I'll give you a chance—one you don't deserve."

  Ian intended to do so much worse.

  He sucked in a breath and slowly loosened the tie. His vision swam, sweat beading his nape. The surging heat within him continued to climb to impossible heights, devouring his insides.

  "Who are the ones involved in her death?"

  She spat. A blob of spit landed on his cheek. Ian swayed, regarding her with cool disinterest. Then he jerked the knife, tearing it deeper against her hand. Her head flung back around a silent scream.

  The dim lamplight flickered, perched perilously at the table's edge. There were no eyes in here.

  "Tell me. All those you remember, tell me now."

  She coughed. Ian gave the hilt another wriggle, iron permeating the air. She nodded furiously at that, hissing. "Fine! Fine."

  Names spilled from her loose lips. Ian pieced them to his waning mind, repeating them like a mantra. She only had ten names.

  Ten who sentenced his sister to death.

  Two were in the Rift where the woman's son died, and six were involved in the project that catalyzed his sister's depression, which cost her life in the Rift. He didn't know how, but there were two survivors.

  Two survivors. Partners, supposedly. Ian had seen that happen a dozen times.

  "Of course it was an accident," snarled the woman. Blood smeared across her once elegant face. "But she was filthy. I remember her eyes! Just like yours... is that what this pathetic display is? I told her I'd take her brother and make him pay the price."

  He couldn't breathe.

  Ian bent over, clawing the floor. His chest was impossible tight, knotted in ropes that would never cease. Because he could imagine why that determined and bright girl endured all that time quietly.

  "Oh, she sobbed so sweetly! So miserably, pleading for forgiveness. She said she'd do anything, endure everything, like some saint! But my son deserved to live! He—"

  Ian yanked out the knife with a wet slick. Her body spasmed, and he drove the knife into another palm. A terrible scream tore from her throat. Anger consumed his senses, devouring sensibility and control.

  He was a feather in the wind, everything light and broken.

  The woman's wails and curses became a distant blur, and all he knew was a scalding heat. That burning, boiling, and all-consuming fire, coaxing the submission of thought, demanding havoc—

  —and he let it.

  He hardly registered the resounding screams. The sobbing pleas, clawing at the floorboards desperately. Tears and snort. The scent of charred flesh wafted.

  Soon, the woman was no longer in any condition to move, spasming limply.

  "Stop, stop, stop—what the hell is this! It's so hot!" she wailed between gasps. "Stop! I demand that you stop!

  Her skin felt sticky beneath him, vermillion fusing with her flesh, or was it blood? Ian squinted, frowning. Energy tornadoed around him, whispering voices vibrating against his eardrums. It was the utter loss of sense. Of self.

  The lamp toppled, bounding off the carpet before shattering. Shards flew across, intermixing with the clotted blood, and the room plunged into darkness.

  Ian's head tipped back to the ceiling. Drunk in information, intoxicated her screams.

  "My sister begged," he mused, his voice dropping octaves lower.

  They'd both been aware of the extent of horrific punishments the Center would herald. Eloise had begged, likely fearing that he'd be punished in her stead.

  She'd dropped to her knees and sobbed. And instead of mercy, the woman bestowed the most terrible misery.

  "Please! It hurts—my skin!"

  All of a sudden, her cries tappered off into faint whimpers, and then nothing. Stillness.

  When Ian groped aimlessly at the ground, they came slicked with wetness. He staggered up but stumbled. He fumbled to reach out, grasping the edge of the chair before he slipped.

  It thudded heavily, and his hands clutched his face, slumping against a wall. Iron veiled his tongue, and his nails scratched the walls to maintain balance.

  None of his senses was functioning properly.

  He couldn't see, hear, or feel; all he knew was a roaring wrath. And despair, so murky it dyed his vision in black. The names repeated in his mind on a loop. His shoulders slumped, like a puppet without strings.

  Ten names.

  Eleven to blame, and now one was dead,

  The cold butt of the gun fitted in his hands perfectly. An acquaintance to his blood-slicked palm. He lifted it to the blurry figure, slumped against the matted carpet.

  A dizzying smile appeared on his face. "Go to hell."

  And he fired. Once, then twice. Thrice.

  Ian hardly registered the blood or that the body had made no sound. He swayed unsteadily, blinking slowly. The door creaked, but he didn't bother look.

  Blood dripped into his eye, and he blinked it away.

  "You've made quite the mess," murmured a familiar voice. Elegant, unhurried steps neared him. A click, and the corner lamplight was turned on.

  A blinding light spilled into the room. Ian squinted. It turned out he could see, but somebody had turned off the lights. Was that him?

  Blood-soaked duvets and pillows were thrown about, feathers matted with red. He glanced down. There, at his feet, a crooked corpse lay. Festering with boils, and three bullet holes.

  Ian's body felt sticky and feverish.

  The drug. It lingered in his body, even if it didn't prevent his actions. He wanted to claw off his skin. "Tell me, Esper," he muttered, but the hitch of his tone came pleading. Begging, almost. "Have I proved myself?"

  Victor lingered by the desk. "I think you've done more than that."

  Then, with three long strides, he grabbed Ian and settled the Guide against the mattress. He knelt on the filthened ground and fastened something around Ian's jaw. A metallic click. Ian struggled, but strong fingers gripped his chin.

  Indented into his flesh, like a bruising prison. A thumb brushed his ear.

  Ian narrowed his eyes, blinking rapidly. He recognized the shape of it, fastened around his mouth. A muzzle. He glared up at Victor, who only traced the curve of his ears and smiled.

  Ian loathed how he sought the man's attention. To be acknowledged by the divine, the supreme. To be made admirable by a devilish beast.

  "SSS-Level danger. Congratulations, Guide. This is a countermeasure they'd given me for emergencies—it binds you to the owner of the leash." He tugged, and Ian's body jerked. Prominent fingers combed through his hair. "Your hair. It's been burned off."

  His hair, which had been long from the days underground, was now cropped and uneven. Ian furrowed his eyebrows, but Victor's grip returned his attention to the muzzle.

  A laugh escaped Ian.

  Then another, and another until he bent at his stomach, laughing his bleeding lungs raw. As if no position could topple him from his high.

  There was something out of control inside him. Power.

  "They're scared?" A wicked smile stretched on his face. "Before, I was nothing."

  Victor cocked his head, fingers trailing to his nape. "And now you are the most dangerous person in this base. Ian, the Survivor of the Mirror Doors. You've become quite troublesome."

  "Good. You have nothing better to do." Ian felt the skittering cold touch, tracing patterns to his skin. It was itchy. Terribly so, and Ian yanked Victor's collar. His breath hot. "Kiss me, Esper. Take this off."

  The Esper paused, lifting his brows. He rose slowly, pushing Ian back. A firm hand stabilized Ian's back, and a knee wedged between his legs.

  His slender fingers brushed behind Ian's ears. "Do you bite, puppy?"

  The leather unfastened, and the muzzle dropped into Ian's lap. Victor's hands pressed against his nape, and Ian bared his teeth, smiling widely. Dizziness drowned him in euphoria.

  A mad, sensely delight.

  "I bite."

  The Esper laughed, and his lips were on Ian's. A tongue bullied Ian's lips open, prying between his teeth. He struggled, squirming as a small pill was pressed inside, and when he tried to reject it, Victor's grip tightened relentlessly.

  Iron intermixed with their kiss. A kiss seemed far too romantic a word, unsuited for this entanglement. It was more of a devouring.

  Ian's nails dug into the Esper's arms as his vision blurred, but Victor pressed harder. A violent, aggressive kiss that refused rejection. Entangling breaths.

  Then, Victor drewaway, and Ian's body slumped. His consciousness faded.

  Victor easily caught the passed-out Guide. His gaze dipped to the embedded blade, and he sighed.

  He quietly observed the disarray of the room and the corpse on the ground. Compared to the Guide Victor had met at the beginning, with nothing but a snarky attitude, he preferred the one in his arms.

  He found amusements in madness, spectating at a cliffside, and gazing at humanity's foolery. Scrambling to survive like hordes of ants, hoping to prolong their species. When they were doing the very opposite.

  A smile quirked his lips, and he pressed his fingers to it.

  He tasted blood on his tongue.

  How much further would the Guide descend into hell? How much longer until corruption finally smothered the little light left in Ian?

  How much worse until he reached Victor's side?