Chapter 349: So You’re the Bastard

Lucas stepped fully into the Airbnb.

The place looked worse up close than it had from the doorway. Chairs were out of position. Glass glittered near the entrance in dull little fragments that caught what little light came through the thin curtains. A bottle lay on its side against the wall, its last contents long soaked into the floor. Drawers had been pulled open and left that way, like someone had searched in a hurry and did not care what they destroyed. For a moment Lucas stood still, reading the mess. Either someone still lived here in chaos, or the person who stayed here had been attacked hard enough to leave the whole unit looking gutted.

He moved into the living room first.

Empty.

No voices. No movement. Only the sour mix of beer, sweat, and old blood hanging in the air. The smell sat heavy enough to notice with every breath. A crooked chair near the center of the room still carried the shape of recent violence, one leg scuffed, the seat pushed out of line. Lucas’s eyes moved over it once, then toward the bedroom.

The door was already half open.

Inside, the bed was unmade. Clothes were scattered across the floor and the edge of a chair. The air felt heavier in there, warmer, stale with the leftover presence of a man who had been hiding more than living. Lucas stepped closer, checked the corners, and found no one. The room had the look of a place abandoned in the middle of cleaning up a beating.

Then he caught a sound.

Water.

Soft. Steady. Coming from the bathroom.

Lucas walked toward it without rushing. Each step was measured. He stopped at the door, listened once more, and tested the handle with two fingers. It was not locked. The moment he dragged it open a little, the door gave way easily on weak hinges.

He moved at once.

Inside, Aaron was bent over the sink, trying to clean the blood from his face and the injuries across his body. The tap ran in a thin stream. Pink water swirled around the basin and disappeared down the drain. His left eye was swollen nearly shut. Fresh blood still clung to the side of his mouth and the edge of his jaw. One shoulder moved stiffly, as if every lift of his arm reminded him of the earlier kicks. He had just begun raising his head toward the mirror when a hand locked around the back of his neck with full force.

Aaron barely got a breath out before he was yanked backward.

The grip was brutal and absolute. It closed high near the base of his skull and dragged him off balance so fast the sink and the running water vanished from his vision in a blur. He twisted hard. His hands flew up and clawed at the arm holding him. He struck it once, then again, knuckles hitting solid muscle and bone. It felt less like flesh than steel. There was no give in it. No flinch. No sign the person behind him even registered the hits.

Panic made him thrash harder.

His feet scraped against the bathroom floor as he was pulled through the doorway. One heel kicked the cabinet. His shoulder clipped the frame. A broken sound tore out of his throat, half curse and half plea, but the force dragging him did not slow. In the bedroom he managed to throw one hand out and catch the doorframe.

He held it.

For half a second his whole body stretched between the wood under his fingers and the iron pull at his neck. His swollen eye watered. His breath came in short, useless bursts. Then his grip failed. His fingers slipped free one by one, and Lucas kept dragging him without pause, hauling him clear of the room like the resistance meant nothing at all.

At the center of the living room, Lucas yanked hard and threw him.

Aaron left the ground for a short, ugly moment and hit the floor with a sound that was all weight and no grace. He rolled once. Then twice. His body finally stopped against the base of the crooked chair, one arm folded under him, chest heaving, bloodied mouth open as he tried to drag air back into his lungs.

He stared up in pure shock at the man who had just pulled him out of the bathroom like trash.

Only then did Lucas get a clear look at the face on the floor.

It matched.

Same jaw. Same mouth. Same cheap arrogance now buried under swelling and blood. It was the face from the TikTok profile Rechelle had shown him earlier. Back in the bathroom, Lucas had only caught a partial reflection in the mirror before moving ~ a likeness, a shape, not enough to fully confirm. Now, with Aaron sprawled under the light of the ruined living room, there was no doubt left.

This was the bastard.

Aaron stared up in confusion so complete it almost looked blank.

He did not know the man standing over him. Not the face. Not the presence. Not the calm way those eyes locked onto him like he had already been measured and found guilty. The silence pressing down from above was worse than shouting. It gave his fear nothing to push against.

Panic made his mouth move before his brain caught up.

"Who are you?!" Aaron shouted. His voice cracked on the first word and came back louder on the next. "What did I do?! Who the fuck are you?!"

Lucas said nothing.

He only kept staring.

That silence unsettled Aaron more than a threat would have. His eyes darted over the man again, searching for something familiar, some explanation that would make the scene make sense. Stranger. Strength. The ruined Airbnb. The grip that had felt like steel. Then his gaze dropped to the clothes ~ and he froze.

Those were his.

The trousers. The shirt. The exact set he used to keep at Rechelle’s place. There was no mistaking them. The fit. The color. The cut. Even the way the collar sat looked wrong on someone else’s body and still unmistakably his. A cold, ridiculous realization crawled up Aaron’s spine. This stranger was standing in his old clothes, in his wrecked unit, looking down at him like judgment itself.

Aaron’s mind scrambled and found nothing useful.

Before he could form another question, Lucas moved.

The slap landed hard enough to spin Aaron’s head sideways. His already swollen cheek flared with fresh fire. The gang’s earlier beating had been wild and repeated, all boots and fists and noise. This was different. Cleaner. Heavier. Delivered with precision instead of messy anger. Tears sprang to his eyes at once. A broken sound left his throat as he curled slightly on the floor, one hand hovering near his face like he could not decide whether to protect it or surrender completely.

"What did I do to you?" Aaron cried, voice cracking like a child’s. "I’m not owing you any money! What is my offence?! What did I do?!"

The words tumbled out wet and desperate. Blood and spit mixed at the corner of his mouth. His good eye blinked too fast. In that moment he looked less like a man who had ordered attacks from a distance and more like one who had finally run out of rooms to hide in.

Lucas bent down.

His hand closed around Aaron’s neck again, not tight enough to finish anything, but firm enough to force his attention up and keep it there. Aaron’s breath stuttered. Up close, the calm in Lucas’s face was more frightening than rage would have been.

"So you’re the bastard that has been planning to kill Rechelle," he said.