The sound only inflamed Nate further.

Nate's eyes blazed red, his breathing ragged like a feral animal's.


His movements grew increasingly violent and erratic.

He brutally restrained his victim, howling with savage glee:

"Scream! LOUDER! Your pain is my pleasure!"


"Tell me, Sis—who's better? Me or that worthless Marcus Mitchell?"

Wilson whimpered pathetically.


A man accustomed to being the predator had become the prey; how could he possibly endure such violation?

Nate was young, powerful, at the peak of physical strength.

The drugs had stripped away any remaining humanity.

There was no finesse to his assault.

Each movement was pure, destructive violence.

The aging director lay helpless beneath him, eyes rolling back in agony.

His screams grew increasingly feeble.

The pool's surface churned violently.

Slowly, the clear water bloomed with crimson tendrils.

Director Wilson was utterly destroyed.

Nate was relentless.

The drug he'd brought—his own special formula—was devastatingly potent.

All night long, Nate continued his savage assault, a tireless predator consumed by drug-fueled mania.

Even as exhaustion set in, his body continued its mechanical violation.

It wasn't until Wilson's assistant arrived the next morning that the horrific scene was discovered.

The once-clear therapeutic waters had turned a sickening crimson.

Wilson lay unconscious, his body a map of trauma.

Nate remained atop him, still moving mechanically, mumbling incoherent endearments.

The assistant, horrified beyond words, fumbled for his phone to call emergency services.

When authorities arrived,

Nathan was still in a drug-induced psychosis, attempting to continue his assault on Wilson's barely living form.

It took multiple officers to restrain him, and he only quieted after receiving a powerful sedative.