My Taboo Harem!

SLAM.

It was his face-first into the floor.

Blood exploded from his nose in a wet, violent spray that painted the concrete in a grotesque arc. Teeth shattered like brittle glass against the unforgiving surface, shards embedding into split gums and shredded lips.

The impact caved in part of his cheekbone with a sickening crunch that echoed wetly inside his skull.

Still, no sound escaped.

His throat belonged to the dark now, and the dark had no interest in letting him beg, whimper, or even draw one last rattling breath. Black ichor — thick, living, corrosive — leaked from the fresh wounds in heavy, sluggish rivers, mixing with his blood in ugly, hissing puddles that bubbled and steamed like acid eating through flesh.

The mixture gnawed into the concrete, releasing faint wisps of black vapor that crawled upward and clung to his skin like parasitic worms.

The shadowy hands lifted him again.

They hoisted him three feet above the cot, arms wrenched wide in a mocking crucifixion, legs dangling uselessly like broken marionette limbs, blood and leaking shadow dripped from his ruined face onto the thin blanket below in slow, obscene, corrosive rain.

Each drop hissed and smoked on contact, eating through fabric and metal until the cot itself began to sag and dissolve.

The darkness continued to leak from every point of contact — slow, thick rivulets running down his chest, his arms, his thighs, pooling on the floor in an ever-widening circle of death.

The black stain spread outward like living cancer, bubbling and hissing as it ate deeper into the concrete, cracking it with wet, popping sounds and releasing more choking black vapor that filled the cell with the stench of rot and oblivion.

And then the darkness throbbed again.

This time the pulse exploded outward with cataclysmic force in a violent, world-ending ripple of absolute black that tore through the cell like a shockwave of pure annihilation.

The ripple leaked darkness in its wake: thick, living strands of night that dripped from the walls in long, sticky ropes, wept from the ceiling like infected pus, and slithered across the floor like hungry serpents seeking warm meat.

The very air thickened and curdled, turning heavy and metallic on the tongue.

The shadows in the cell tore apart like wet curtains ripped down the middle by rotting, clawed hands, revealing—

A tear in reality.

A jagged, screaming window of pure void opening onto somewhere else entirely.

And floating in that jagged window of screaming void, twin daggers of absolute blackness gripped in her hands, wreathed in shadow so dense it refused to reveal any feature—

A woman.

Morrison’s breath died in his ruined throat like a candle snuffed by an open grave.

She was darkness given exquisite form — carved from writhing, living shadow. Hips that could end bloodlines with a single sway. Every inch radiated lethal temptation, the hottest demon of night any man had ever witnessed.

A vision so beautiful and divine in its erosive darkness it should have made his cock twitch in its final moments even as his brain howled that he was about to be unmade.

But the most terrifying part wasn’t her beauty.

It was the distance.

Through the tear, behind her floating silhouette, Morrison could clearly see the prison’s exterior — guard towers, the empty parking lot, the open night air of Paradise where he had once decided who walked free and who rotted in cages.

She was outside the prison. Standing somewhere in the free night beyond the walls, beyond the fences, beyond anything that should have been able to reach him.

And from that distance — from outside the entire prison — she was ending his life with casual, godlike indifference.

The darkness around her face rippled.

Shifted.

Gave way.

And Morrison saw her.

His eyes widened beyond what physics allowed, bulging until the veins threatened to burst.

His mouth gaped open in a silent, agonized rictus — not to scream, because his throat still wasn’t his, but to form her name, to force out the impossible recognition clawing through his dying brain like broken glass dragged across raw nerves.

She threw the first dagger.

It didn’t fly.

It tore through, rotating so fast it blurred into a howling disk of absolute black, the blade violated the very concept of distance itself. It punctured his chest before his mind could register movement, punching straight through his heart with a cold so absolute the void itself felt warm by comparison.

The impact sent a ripple of black death leaking outward from the wound — thick, living strands of shadow pouring into his chest cavity and devouring everything they touched: muscle, blood, hope, memory.

The dagger vanished the instant it cleared his back.

It reappeared from behind him in the same impossible instant — reforming from shadow, spinning again with a wet, screaming hunger.

It drilled through his left eye and out the front, threading through vision, memory, identity, and everything he had ever been. Black ichor leaked from the ruined socket in heavy, corrosive drops, hissing and smoking where it hit the floor.

Gone again.

Back again.

Through his right eye in the same heartbeat. The twin impacts registered as one single, cataclysmic sensation of ending — a white-hot void that erased thought, erased self, erased everything before his brain could separate the agonies.

Darkness leaked from both ruined sockets like black tears from a corpse, running down his shattered face in thick, glistening rivers that pooled beneath him.

The darkness holding him shuddered with visceral revulsion, as if even the shadows could no longer bear to touch his filthy, dying meat.

They released him.

Chief Morrison fell in a wet, contemptuous heap — the broken husk of a man who had believed his secrets would protect him, meat that had forgotten how to live slamming into the concrete with a sickening, final thud.

Blood and black ichor splattered outward in an obscene halo around his corpse.

He did not move.

He would never move again.

And the most powerful thing was the absence.

No gaping wounds. No pooling blood.

Where the daggers had passed — through his chest, through his left eye, through his right eye — there remained only three thin, perfect black lines.

Dark as the space between stars… absorbing every photon that dared approach.

Lines of absolute nothingness carved into flesh that had stopped being flesh, slowly leaking faint threads of shadow that hissed and evaporated into the poisoned air.

The tear in reality sealed itself with a wet, sucking crunch, like meat being violently pulled back into a gaping wound.

The shadows slithered back into their corners, their walls, their innocent places — ordinary again, peaceful again, as if nothing had happened except the quiet, unmarked death of a man who had thought himself untouchable.

Morrison’s cellmates continued sleeping.

They would remember nothing.

Outside the prison, in the watched darkness of a Paradise night that had just become far more dangerous, a figure of living shadow and burning violet eyes lowered her empty hands.

She smiled — a slow, cruel, satisfied smile that no one living was left to witness.

The first name on her list had been crossed off.

Many more remained.

And she had all the time in the world in her now eternal undying life.