The words hung in the steam and silence heavier than the manor's walls. He didn't say anything more—and yet everything was contained within them. Years of pain, humiliation, trapped in a body that betrayed him, in a role he never chose.
In that moment, the "Devil of Montclair" ceased to exist.
All that remained was a man who had learned to hurt others before anyone could see his own wounds.
I didn't ask. I showed no sympathy. I simply picked up the sponge and finished my bath. As I had promised—caring for my body.
He said nothing more that day.
But as I left, for the first time, his voice wasn't a command.
"You'll be back tomorrow," he said quietly.
There was no threat in it.
There was a request in it.
And then I understood that monsters aren't always born.
Sometimes they are created.
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