Page 52 of Psycho Obsession
I slide my thumb slowly down the “Descent” track.
Inside the funhouse, the high-pitched whine drops into a low, bone-shaking thrum. It’s the kind of frequency that doesn’t just hit the skin; it moves the organs. I hear her. Through the open balcony door, her voice comes out in a shattered, sobbing mess, competing with the Mayor’s amplified lies.
“Jex… oh my god… fuck… please…”
I take another sip of tea, the floral notes clashing with the smell of the salt spray.
“Listen to that, Dad,” I whisper, my eyes fixed on the back of his silver head. “That’s the sound of your legacy. It’s got a real rhythm to it, doesn’t it?”
“We will build a wall against the chaos!” the Mayor bellows.
I slam the “Peak” trigger on the remote.
A jagged bolt of ultrasonic vibration rips through the wires. Hallow’s scream is a pure, vibrato-less note of agony. “JEX! STOP! PLEASE STOP! I CAN’T?—”
“You can,” I mutter, my thumb twitching on the haptic strip, feeling the frantic, rhythmic slapping of her body against the air. “You were built for this. We both were.”
Suddenly, the “gift” arrives.
From the shadows of the warehouse district across the pier, the Choir moves. They don’t use guns. They don’t use bombs. They use the city’s own infrastructure. A massive, industrial crane—decorated in jagged, neon-green streamers—swings out over the crowd. Dangling from the hook isn’t a banner.
It’s a glass casket, lit from within by strobe lights.
Inside, the body of the Mayor’s head of security is displayed like a piece of taxidermy. He’s been stripped, his skin covered in the same “The Punchline” face paint Hallow is wearing, and his chest has been carved open to reveal a clock counting down from sixty seconds.
The crowd screams. The secret service scrambles. But my father—he just freezes. He stares at the glass box swinging toward his podium like apendulum of truth.
I thumb the remote again, making the anchor inside Hallow twist in a slow, agonising spiral.
“Jex… please… I’m dying… stop it…” her voice is a wet whimper now, a ghost of a sound.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” I rasp, leaning over the railing, my knuckles white against the iron. “The clock is ticking. And Daddy hasn’t even seen the best part yet.”
I reach for the “Sync” button. One press, and the frequency of Hallow’s torture will match the ticking of the dead man’s heart.
The countdown hits thirty.
I thumb the master override on the remote, a jagged “Execute” command that bypasses the funhouse’s internal servers and hacks directly into the massive LED wall behind the podium.
The Mayor’s face, thirty feet high and glowing with projected virtue, flickers once, twice, and then snaps into a high-definition feed of the carnage behind me.
The crowd doesn’t just go quiet; they stop breathing.
There she is. Hallow. Suspended from the rafters like a sacrificial lamb made of sweat and sin. The camera I rigged to the ceiling is wide-angle, capturing every inch of her spread-eagle crucifixion. She’s vibrating so fast she looks blurred at the edges, her skin glistening, her head thrown back so far her throat looks like it’s ready to snap.
“Watch the screen, Dad,” I whisper, leaning back in my chair and crossing my legs. “See what the ‘sanctity of family’ looks like under the hood.”
I slide the frequency up, hitting the sub-bass levels that make the heavy LED screen pulse. The audio feed cuts through the pier, overriding the Mayor’s microphone. Hallow’s voice explodes over the PA system, rawand drenched in a filth that no one in this crowd has ever heard.
“Jex… fuck… Jex, please, oh god, fuck my pussy… it’s so deep… fuck, you’re so fucking good to me…”
The words are a wet, rhythmic chant, punctuated by the mechanical whir-snap of the leads snatching at her labia. On the giant screen, the camera zooms in, clinical and cruel. It focuses on her core—the way the anchor is grinding against her, the way she’s weeping a river of slick, frustrated heat that drips onto the floorboards below. Every twitch, every fold of skin, every drop of her undoing is projected in forty-foot glory for the voters of this city to see.
My father turns.
I see the moment his soul leaves his body. His face goes from presidential tan to a sickly, curdled grey. His eyes bulge, fixed on the screen where his daughter is begging her brother to finish her while she’s tortured by a machine. He looks like he’s having a stroke in real-time. He tries to speak, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on a hook, but the only sound in the air is Hallow’s frantic, pornographic sobbing.
“Oh god, Jex… I’m cumming… don’t stop, bite me… fuck, I’m so wet for you…”
