Page 9 of Contempt

Renzo swallowed hard. “It’s gonna break me.”

Cree nodded. “Yeah, just let it happen. It’s easier. Renzo Zulla, that person who walked in here a few days ago, he doesn’t exist anymore. You get to be whoever you wanna fucking be here, all right? Just let it happen, man.”

He stood, then, despite the fact he didn’t want to. Not that it mattered. The second he was up on his feet, someone knocked him to his back when they hit him across the chest with a bamboo rod. He found the cement almost welcoming, if it wasn’t so goddamn cold.

Letting out a bitter, breathless laugh from the pain, Renzo said, “Jesus, at least let me be dry for this, or something.”

“Learn to enjoy being in a state of discomfort, and it will never be used against you,” Cree murmured from up above him. “Comfort is for the weak.”

Well, then …

“All right,” Renzo muttered.

“Stand again.”

He did.

Only to get knocked the hell down again.

More fun.

• • •

“Scores,” came the voice again through the speakers to drag Renzo from his thoughts once more. “Ten out of ten—hand to hand combat; excellent. Seven out of ten—hacking; moderate. Ten out of ten—weapons, in both practical and applied; excellent.”

The distorted voice continued on describing skills that had been, for the most part, either beaten into Renzo during his first year at The League, or ones he already had that were picked up on and honed. Everything from his understanding of vehicles, to his ability to survive.

The scores went on for at least ten minutes before the man moved onto something else. They’d already described the tattoos on his body that the people behind the mirrored glass might not be able to see fully—he’d been told once not to mark up his skin when he was first allowed a bit of freedom from The League. He went ahead and did it anyway.

Suffered for it, too.

It was worth it.

Renzo kept going until he had one whole fucking sleeve of tattoos. Memories he didn’t want to forget because it seemed like with every passing day that he spent here, he forgot something else. Like the way his little brother sounded first thing in the morning when he got his favorite breakfast. He started to forget the color of his sister’s hair, too. Or how Lucia’s eyes glinted with her slyness when she knew something he didn’t.

He was so controlled—constantly. No phones, no access to the outside without someone else right there. A chip implanted into his arm to keep track of him nonstop. Which lead him to believe, yes, they knew every single time he went in for more ink, and while they could have stopped him, they didn’t.

They never stepped in.

They punished him after.

Worth it.

He was here.

This was his life for the next … well, four years now.

That was the fucking deal.

Right?

He wasn’t gonna forget while he was here.

Simple as that.

“Excelled specialty for The League—explosives,” the distorted voice drawled on, bringing Renzo back to the present. “Bidding will begin at one-point-three million.”

Instantly, those red lights over the windows started flickering.