Hazing Revenged

 

Chapter 1: The Last One

Eighteen year old Frat Pledge Mike Ryan was the last. His three buddies were already prepared and put into the frat van. Wearing an extra long white undershirt, jeans, and baseball hat backwards one brother pulled his arms behind his back and crossed tied and frapped his wrists with clothesline. Another brother blindfolded him with a bandanna, gagged him with a knotted bandanna, and taped up his head. "At least they're not putting the tape on my hair," he thought. They poured beer into pitchers from the tap and he was doused with it until his whole t-shirt clung to him. Tugging his wrists to make sure they were tied tight, they put him in the van with the three other pledges, tied his ankles above his sneakers, and drove off to what the 4 pledges knew would be hell.

This is just like the stories. Like what Ryan went through. Uncomfortable, embarrassing, but it ends. Brotherhood on the other side.

The van reeked of stale beer and nervous sweat. Mike could hear Tommy whimpering softly to his left, could smell the fear-piss someone had let loose despite themselves. His own bladder pressed urgently, but the rope around his ankles made shifting impossible.

Jake Morrison tried to mumble something through his gag, the words coming out as muffled sounds.

"You trying to say something, pledge?" Derek Santos laughed from the driver's seat. "Too bad we can't understand you. You'll know where we're going when we get there."

It's all theater, Mike told himself as the van lurched around a corner. They're trying to scare us. Ryan said they took his pledge class to some cabin, made them do pushups in their underwear, drink warm beer until they puked. Gross but survivable.

The rope around his wrists had already begun to chafe. The beer made his shirt sticky and cold against his skin. But underneath the discomfort was excitement—he was finally going to be a Sigma Chi. His older brother's fraternity. Following in Ryan's footsteps like he'd always dreamed.

The blindfold blocked out everything. Mike could only judge their progress by the van's movements—turns, stops, the change from smooth pavement to rougher road. They'd been driving for maybe twenty minutes. Long enough to get them somewhere isolated.

"Almost there, pledges," Derek announced. "Hope you're ready for a long night."

The other pledges shifted anxiously. Mike heard Tommy making soft, muffled sounds that might have been prayers.

Just get through it, Mike thought. Tomorrow this will all be a story to tell Ryan.

The van began to slow, gravel crunching under the tires. In a few minutes, it would begin.

Chapter 2: Arrival

The van doors slammed open, letting in a rush of cold night air that cut through Mike's beer-soaked shirt. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him out onto uneven ground. His legs, numb from the tight ankle ropes, buckled beneath him.

"Easy there, pledge," Derek's voice came from somewhere above him. "Don't want you falling and breaking something. Not yet."

Laughter rippled through the group of brothers who had driven out in separate cars. Mike counted at least six different voices, maybe more. All of them already drunk from the sound of it.

Six against four, he thought as someone grabbed his elbow and forced him to shuffle forward. Those aren't bad odds for a normal fight. But we can't even see.

Gravel crunched under his sneakers, then wooden steps creaked as they guided him up what felt like a porch. The smell hit him as soon as they pushed through a door—stale beer, old cigarettes, and something else. Something that made his stomach turn.

"Welcome to Camp Sigma Chi, pledges!" Derek announced. "Your home for the next... well, we'll see how long you last."

Mike felt himself being pushed down onto what felt like a wooden chair. The rope around his ankles was cut, circulation flooding back with painful pins and needles, only to be retied to the chair legs. His wrists remained bound behind his back.

Still just hazing, he told himself as he heard the other pledges being positioned around him. Uncomfortable chairs, some mind games, make us sweat a little.

"Brothers!" Derek called out. "Time to get this party started right. Coolers are in the kitchen. Let's get properly fucked up before we really get to work on these pledges."

The sound of bottles clinking, caps popping, beer cans cracking open. Someone turned on music—heavy metal that made normal conversation impossible. Mike could hear the brothers getting louder, more aggressive with each drink.

Tommy was making soft whimpering sounds to his left. Jake seemed to be trying to work his gag loose, the chair creaking as he moved his head back and forth.

How long do we sit here? Mike wondered. Ryan said his pledge night lasted maybe four hours. We've been here maybe twenty minutes.

"Check this out," a voice Mike didn't recognize called out over the music. "I brought some rope from my climbing gear. Way stronger than that clothesline shit."

"Nice thinking, Brad," Derek replied. "We're gonna need it."

The casual way they discussed the rope sent a chill through Mike that had nothing to do with his wet shirt.

Just trying to scare us, he told himself. But for the first time, doubt crept into his thoughts. Ryan would have mentioned if they used climbing rope.

The brothers kept drinking. And drinking. The music got louder. The laughter got meaner.

And in his chair, Mike began to realize that maybe this wasn't going to end the way his brother's hazing had.

Chapter 3: First Escalation

The music had been pounding for what felt like hours when Mike heard Derek's voice cut through the noise.

"Alright, Brothers! Time to get these pledges properly prepared!"

Heavy footsteps approached. Mike's chair scraped against the wooden floor as hands grabbed it from behind.

"Let's start with this one," Derek slurred. "Ryan's little brother. Time to see if he's got the same fight in him."

Fight? Mike's stomach dropped. Ryan never mentioned fighting.

Rough hands grabbed the collar of his soaked t-shirt. The fabric was already weakened from the beer, and it tore easily as they yanked it over his head, the blindfold and gag staying in place. The cold air hit his exposed chest and shoulders, raising goosebumps across his skin.

"Look at this hairy bastard," someone laughed. "Just like a fucking animal."

More laughter. Mike felt his face burn with humiliation as hands poked at his chest hair.

It's just embarrassment, he told himself. Ryan said they made them strip down to underwear. This is normal.

But then he felt the new rope—thicker, rougher than the clothesline around his wrists. Someone grabbed his left elbow, yanked it toward his spine. Pain shot through his shoulder as they did the same with his right elbow, binding them together with the climbing rope.

"Tighter," Derek commanded. "I want those elbows kissing."

The rope bit into Mike's skin as they pulled. His shoulders screamed in protest, muscles straining against the unnatural position. He tried to make a sound through the gag, but only a muffled groan escaped.

This isn't normal, panic crept into his thoughts. Ryan never mentioned this.

"Now the biceps," Brad's voice. "Two inches apart, just like we practiced."

More rope circled his upper arms, cinching tight. Mike's circulation was already compromised, his hands going numb behind his back. The binding forced his chest out, made breathing difficult.

"Perfect," Derek said. "Now let's get him up."

They untied him from the chair, but before Mike could even attempt to stand, ropes went under his armpits. The climbing rope, he realized—they were going to hoist him up by his bound arms.

No no no no, his mind raced. This is going to dislocate my shoulders.

"On three," Derek counted. "One... two..."

Mike tried to scream through the gag as they hauled him up. His feet left the ground, his full weight suspended by the ropes cutting into his armpits and around his bound arms. The pain was instant and excruciating—fire shooting through his shoulders, his chest muscles cramping from the forced position.

His feet dangled inches from the floor, toes barely brushing the wooden planks. Every small movement sent new waves of agony through his shoulders and back.

"Beautiful," Derek breathed, and Mike could hear the sickness in his voice. "Just fucking beautiful."

This isn't hazing, Mike realized with crystal clarity as he hung there, his body screaming in pain. This is torture.

Through his panic, he heard one of the other pledges—Tommy—making desperate sounds through his gag. Then Jake. Then the fourth pledge, Marcus, whom he'd barely heard speak all night.

They were all going to get the same treatment.

Ryan, Mike thought desperately as the rope cut deeper into his flesh. You never told me it would be like this.

"Now," Derek said, his voice taking on an excited edge, "let's have some real fun."

Chapter 4: The Dissenter

Mike had been hanging for what felt like an eternity, his shoulders on fire, when he heard a voice cut through the drunken laughter.

"Derek, this is fucked up, man. This isn't what we talked about."

The music stopped abruptly. The room went quiet except for the muffled whimpering of the four suspended pledges.

"What did you say, Steve?" Derek's voice was dangerously low.

"I said this is fucked up," Steve repeated, his voice shaking but determined. "Look at them. They can't even breathe properly. This isn't hazing anymore, Derek. This is—"

"This is what?" Derek interrupted.

"This is torture, man. We're gonna kill somebody."

Someone else sees it, Mike thought desperately through his pain. Someone's going to stop this.

"You having second thoughts, Brother Steve?" Derek's voice dripped with mock concern. "Getting a little squeamish?"

"I'm being fucking reasonable!" Steve's voice cracked. "My dad's a lawyer, Derek. You know what this is called? Assault. Kidnapping. Maybe attempted murder if one of these kids dies."

Mike heard footsteps moving across the room. Heavy, deliberate steps.

"Brad, Tony, grab him."

"Derek, no—wait, what are you—GET OFF ME!"

The sound of a struggle erupted. Chairs overturning, bodies hitting the floor, Steve shouting as multiple people wrestled him down.

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME! DEREK, YOU'RE INSANE!"

They're turning on their own, Mike realized with growing horror. If they'll do this to a brother...

"Strip him down," Derek commanded, breathing hard from the fight. "Steve wants to join his little pledge friends."

"Derek, please!" Steve's voice was desperate now, the fight gone out of him. "I won't tell anyone, I swear. Just let me leave. I'll say I was never here."

"Too late for that, Brother. You made your choice."

Mike listened in sick fascination as they tore off Steve's clothes. The brother's protests grew more frantic as they bound his arms, the same brutal elbow-to-elbow tie they'd used on the pledges.

"This is insane," Steve gasped. "You're all fucking insane. My parents will—"

The words were cut off as they gagged him. Mike heard the distinctive sound of duct tape being pulled from a roll, wrapped around Steve's head.

"Blindfold too," Derek ordered. "If he wants to be a pledge so bad, he gets the full treatment."

Five of us now, Mike thought as he heard them hoisting Steve up, the brother's muffled screams of pain matching what Mike had experienced. And nobody's coming to help.

"See that, pledges?" Derek called out, his voice echoing in the room. "That's what happens to anyone who doesn't follow the program. Anyone who tries to ruin our fun."

Steve's breathing was ragged, panicked. He was hanging somewhere to Mike's right, close enough that Mike could hear him hyperventilating through his gag.

"Now where were we?" Derek continued, and Mike could hear the smile in his voice. "Oh right. We were just getting started."

Ryan, Mike thought desperately as he heard Derek moving toward him again. How could you not know this would happen? How could you not warn me?

But deep down, a terrible realization was forming: Maybe Ryan had never made it through his own hazing night either.

Chapter 5: Hours of Hell

Time became meaningless in the darkness. Mike's world had shrunk to the burning agony in his shoulders, the rope cutting deeper into his flesh with each passing minute, and the sound of his own ragged breathing through his nose.

How long? The question echoed endlessly in his mind. How long have we been hanging here?

His hands had gone completely numb an hour ago—or maybe it was three hours. The rope around his biceps had cut off circulation so thoroughly that his arms felt like dead weight hanging from his shoulders. Pins and needles had given way to nothing at all.

"Look at this," Brad's voice came from somewhere below him. "Kid's turning blue around the rope marks."

Mike felt rough fingers poking at his arms, examining the deep indentations where the climbing rope had bitten into his flesh. The skin was swollen and discolored, he realized with detached horror.

My body is shutting down.

His mouth had gone completely dry, his tongue thick and swollen behind the gag. The beer they'd doused him with had long since dried, leaving his skin sticky and tight. Sweat mixed with tears he hadn't realized he was crying.

"Time for some variety," Derek announced, his words heavily slurred now. "I'm getting bored just watching them hang there."

No, Mike's mind screamed. Please, no.

He heard the scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor, positioned directly in front of him. Derek's beer-reeking breath was suddenly close to his face.

"You know what I think, pledge? I think you're getting too comfortable. Too used to the pain."

A hand grabbed Mike's hair, jerking his head back. Something cold and sharp pressed against his throat—not cutting, just resting there. A knife blade.

He's going to kill me.

"Relax," Derek whispered, his voice sickeningly intimate. "I'm not going to hurt you. Much."

The blade moved down, tracing along Mike's collarbone, then lower to his chest. The tip caught in the thick hair there, tugging slightly.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

To his left, Tommy was making high-pitched keening sounds through his gag. To his right, Steve was hyperventilating so hard Mike was afraid he might pass out and choke on his own vomit.

"Look at all this hair," Derek mused, his voice filled with disgust. "Like a fucking gorilla. Maybe we should clean you up a little."

The blade pressed deeper, not quite breaking the skin but close enough that Mike could feel the sharp edge against his flesh. His chest heaved with panicked breaths.

Ryan, he thought desperately. Did they do this to you too? Did you go through this and never tell me?

But the terrible truth was becoming clear: Ryan had never gone through this. Because this wasn't hazing anymore. This was something else entirely.

Derek's drunken laughter echoed through the room as the blade moved lower, following the trail of hair down Mike's stomach. Other voices joined in, encouraging him, cheering him on.

And Mike realized with absolute certainty that he was going to die in this room.

I'm never going to see Ryan again. Never going to tell him I love him. Never going to graduate. Never going to—

The blade stopped just above his belt line.

"Not yet," Derek said, pulling the knife away. "I want to savor this."

Mike's relief was so intense he nearly vomited. But it was short-lived.

"Besides," Derek continued, "we've got all night. And I haven't even started on the rest of you yet."

All night. The words hit Mike like a physical blow. They'd been here for hours already, and Derek was just getting started.

His shoulders screamed in agony. His circulation was cut off. His body was shutting down.

And they had all night.

Chapter 6: Breaking Point

The knife returned without warning. This time, Derek wasn't teasing.

Mike felt the blade bite into the hair on his chest, not deep enough to cut skin but close enough that he could feel the steel scraping against his flesh. Derek worked methodically, sawing through patches of thick hair, letting the dark strands fall to the floor below.

He's actually doing it, Mike's mind reeled. He's cutting me.

"Hold still, pledge," Derek slurred, his hand unsteady from hours of drinking. "Wouldn't want to slip."

The blade nicked Mike's skin—just a scratch, but enough to draw a thin line of blood. Mike's muffled scream was lost in the gag as Derek laughed.

"Oops. My bad."

This is it, Mike thought as the knife moved to a new patch of hair. This is where I die.

His shoulders had long since stopped screaming—the pain had become a constant, overwhelming presence that his mind could no longer process. His vision, what little filtered through the blindfold and tape, had started to blur. His body was going into shock.

Derek finished with Mike's chest and moved to his stomach, the blade following the trail of hair down toward his belt line. Each scrape sent new waves of terror through Mike's nervous system.

"Beautiful work," Brad called out drunkenly. "Really brings out his... what do you call it... definition."

Laughter echoed through the room. Mike could hear Tommy sobbing openly now, the sound raw and desperate even through his gag.

"My turn," another voice said—Tony, Mike thought. "Let me try the one on the end."

Marcus, Mike realized with sick horror. They're going to do it to all of us.

He heard Marcus's muffled screams as they began working on him with the knife. The sound was barely human—pure animal terror mixed with unbearable pain.

"This one's not as hairy," Tony complained. "Not as fun."

"Just wait," Derek said, moving away from Mike to admire his handiwork. "We'll make it fun."

Mike hung there, his chest and stomach raw from the rough treatment, blood trickling from a dozen small cuts where the knife had slipped. His body felt disconnected from his mind, as if he was floating somewhere above the scene, watching it happen to someone else.

Dissociation, some distant part of his psychology training whispered. Your mind is protecting itself.

But then Derek moved to Jake, and the sounds that followed snapped Mike back to horrible reality. Jake was fighting the restraints with everything he had, his chair having been brought close enough that Mike could hear his desperate struggles.

The knife work was getting sloppier. Derek was drunker now, less careful. Mike heard Jake's sharp intake of breath through his gag—a different sound than before. A wet sound.

He cut him. Really cut him.

"Shit," Derek muttered. "That's more than I meant to—"

"Keep going," Brad encouraged. "He's fine. Look, it's not even bleeding that much."

But Mike could smell it now—the metallic scent of blood, more than just the scratches he'd received. Real blood. Enough to smell.

We're going to die here, the thought came with crystal clarity. All of us. They're going to keep going until we're dead.

To his right, Steve was making sounds that didn't seem human anymore—guttural noises that spoke of a mind breaking under unbearable stress.

I wonder if Ryan went through this, Mike thought with strange detachment. I wonder if this is how he died.

The knife moved to Tommy next. Sweet, quiet Tommy who'd never hurt anyone in his life. His screams through the gag were the worst yet—high-pitched and desperate, like a wounded animal.

And as Mike hung there, his body failing, his mind fragmenting, he finally understood the truth: There was no brotherhood waiting on the other side of this. There was no tradition being honored.

There was only madness. And death.

Derek's laughter filled the room as he worked, the sound echoing off the walls like something from hell itself.

And Mike began to sob—deep, broken sounds that came from somewhere beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond hope.

Ryan, he thought as the darkness closed in around the edges of his consciousness. I'm sorry I never got to say goodbye.

Chapter 7: Rescue

The sound of splintering wood cut through Derek's laughter like a gunshot.

"POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!"

Boots thundered across the wooden floor. Shouts erupted from every direction as the brothers scattered in panic.

"GET ON THE GROUND! NOW!"

It's not real, Mike's broken mind whispered. You're hallucinating. You're dying.

But then hands were on him—gentle hands, not the brutal grips he'd grown accustomed to. Someone was supporting his weight, taking the pressure off his shoulders.

"Jesus Christ," a voice said close to his ear. "Get the paramedics in here NOW!"

The rope around his armpits was cut, and Mike collapsed into strong arms that lowered him carefully to the floor. His shoulders screamed as circulation returned, but it was a different kind of pain—the pain of healing, not destruction.

"You're safe now, son. You're safe."

Mike felt the blindfold being carefully peeled away, the tape removed from around his head. Light flooded his vision—harsh fluorescent bulbs that made him squint and turn away. But it was light. Real light.

The gag came out next, his jaw cramping as it was freed from the forced position. He tried to speak but only managed a croak.

"Don't try to talk yet," the paramedic said, shining a penlight in Mike's eyes. "Your throat's going to be raw. We're going to take care of you."

Through his blurred vision, Mike could see the chaos around him. Brothers in handcuffs, some still fighting the officers. Tommy being lowered from his suspension, his body limp and unresponsive. Jake bleeding from multiple cuts, paramedics working on him frantically.

Steve, Mike thought desperately, trying to turn his head.

"Easy there," the paramedic said. "Your friend is alive. They're all alive."

Mike's eyes found Derek across the room, face-down on the floor with a knee in his back, screaming obscenities at the officers. The knife lay on the floor beside him, dark with blood.

"How?" Mike managed to whisper, his voice barely audible.

"Anonymous tip," the officer kneeling beside him said. "Someone sent photos to the wrong number. An alumnus who called it in immediately. We've been searching for three hours."

Three hours, Mike thought. It felt like forever.

"The photos..." Mike's voice cracked.

"Evidence now," the officer said grimly. "Every single one of these bastards is going away for a long time."

An oxygen mask was placed over Mike's face, and he felt himself being lifted onto a stretcher. As they wheeled him toward the door, he caught sight of Tommy on another stretcher, his eyes open and tracking movement.

We made it, Mike realized with dawning amazement. We actually made it.

The night air hit his face as they carried him outside, and Mike saw the full scope of the rescue operation. Police cars lined the gravel road, their red and blue lights painting the trees in alternating colors. An ambulance waited with its doors open, engine running.

"Ryan," Mike whispered as they loaded him into the ambulance.

"We'll call your family from the hospital," the paramedic assured him. "You're going to be okay. You're all going to be okay."

As the ambulance pulled away, Mike saw the cabin in the side mirror—a small, unremarkable building that had contained such unimaginable horror. Soon it would be nothing but evidence in a criminal case.

But for now, he was alive. They were all alive.

And Derek's reign of terror was over.

Ryan, Mike thought as the morphine kicked in and darkness claimed him. I'm coming home

Chapter 8

Three weeks later, Mike sat in the witness chair of the county courthouse, his hands steady on the wooden rail as he faced the jury. The rope burns on his arms had faded to angry red welts, but the memories remained crystal clear.

"Mr. Ryan," the prosecutor said gently, "can you tell the court what happened on the night of October 15th?"

Mike's voice was calm, measured. "They tortured us. For hours. They suspended us by ropes, cut us with knives, and threatened to kill us."

In the defendant's section, Derek Santos sat in an orange jumpsuit, his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. Brad, Tony, and the other brothers flanked him, their expensive lawyers whispering urgently in their ears.

Look at me, Mike thought, staring directly at Derek. Look at what you did.

"Can you describe the physical restraints used?" the prosecutor continued.

"Climbing rope. They tied our elbows together behind our backs, bound our biceps two inches apart, then hoisted us up by our armpits. The circulation was cut off completely. My hands were numb for days afterward."

Mike's testimony was clinical, detailed, devastating. He described every rope, every knot, every cut from the knife. The jury listened in horrified silence as he recounted Derek's escalating violence, the moment Steve tried to intervene, the hours of psychological torture.

"They used a hunting knife to cut the hair from my chest and stomach," Mike continued, his voice never wavering. "Derek Santos was drunk and unsteady. He cut me multiple times, drawing blood. He said he wanted to 'savor' the experience."

Several jurors looked sick. One woman covered her mouth with her hand.

Good, Mike thought. You should be horrified. This is what they did to us.

Tommy testified next, his voice breaking as he described his terror. Jake, still bearing visible scars from the deeper knife cuts, showed the jury his wounds. Marcus spoke quietly about thinking he was going to die.

Steve's testimony was perhaps the most damning. A fraternity brother, supposedly part of the inner circle, describing how the hazing had spiraled into torture, how his attempts to stop it had been met with violence.

"I told Derek this wasn't hazing anymore," Steve said, his voice steady despite the trauma. "I told him we were going to kill someone. His response was to have me tied up and tortured alongside the pledges."

The defense tried to paint it as hazing gone wrong, a tragic accident fueled by alcohol. But the prosecution had the photos—dozens of images Derek and the others had taken with their phones, documenting every moment of the torture.

"These photographs show premeditation," the prosecutor argued in closing statements. "This wasn't hazing. This wasn't an accident. This was systematic torture, documented and celebrated by the defendants."

The jury deliberated for less than two hours.

"Guilty on all counts," the foreman announced.

Mike felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him as Derek's face crumpled. Attempted murder, aggravated assault, kidnapping—the sentences would be measured in decades, not years.

Two days later, Mike sat before the university disciplinary board. The hearing was brief—Sigma Chi's charter was revoked immediately, their house closed permanently. Several administrators were dismissed for failing to properly oversee Greek life.

"This institution failed in its duty to protect students," the board chair announced. "We take full responsibility for allowing a culture that enabled this tragedy."

Too little, too late, Mike thought. But it's something.

As he walked out of the hearing room, Mike felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Ryan, his older brother's face etched with guilt and grief.

"Mike, I—"

"It's not your fault," Mike said quietly. "You couldn't have known."

"I should have warned you. Should have told you to be careful."

Mike looked at his brother—the person he'd idolized, whose footsteps he'd wanted to follow. "Your hazing wasn't like this, was it?"

Ryan shook his head. "Nothing like this. Pushups, drinking games, embarrassing stunts. Stupid stuff, but not..." He trailed off, unable to finish.

"They're going to prison," Mike said. "All of them. For a long time."

Ryan nodded, tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Mike. I'm so fucking sorry."

Mike pulled his brother into a hug, feeling some of the anger and resentment drain away. "I know. It's over now."

But even as he said it, Mike knew it wasn't really over. Not yet. There was still one more thing he needed to do.

One more way to make sure Derek and his fraternity brothers paid for what they'd done.

The newspaper interview was scheduled for tomorrow.Chapter 9: The Interview

The reporter shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Mike settled across from him in the coffee shop. David Mitchell had covered crime for fifteen years, but something about Mike Ryan's calm demeanor unsettled him more than the usual victim interviews.

"Thank you for agreeing to speak with us, Mike," he said, adjusting his recorder. "I know this must be difficult."

"Not difficult at all," Mike replied, his voice steady. "I want people to know exactly what happened."

David nodded, consulting his notes. "The court records show that you and four other students were held for nearly twelve hours. Can you walk me through—"

"They tore my shirt off," Mike interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact. "Ripped it right off my body. Derek Santos wanted us exposed and vulnerable."

David blinked, caught off guard by the immediate graphic detail. "I... yes, the court mentioned—"

"They bound my elbows together behind my back until they touched," Mike continued, his eyes never leaving his. "Used climbing rope, not the clothesline they started with. Then they tied my biceps exactly two inches apart—Derek was very specific about that measurement. He wanted maximum restriction of blood flow."

Jesus, David thought, his pen hovering over his notepad. He's going to tell me everything.

"The suspension was the worst part," Mike said, leaning forward slightly. "They hoisted us up by ropes under our armpits, feet barely touching the ground. Within an hour, my hands were completely numb. My shoulders were dislocating from the weight."

David's stomach turned, but he kept writing. "How long were you suspended like that?"

"Eight hours," Mike replied without hesitation. "Eight hours hanging there while they got drunk and decided what to do with us next."

"The knife..." David began hesitantly.

Mike's expression didn't change. "Derek Santos used a hunting knife to cut the hair from my chest and stomach. He was drunk, unsteady. He cut me seventeen times—small cuts, but deliberate. He told me he wanted to 'clean me up' because I looked like a 'fucking gorilla.'"

David felt his face pale. The clinical way Mike described his torture was more disturbing than if he'd broken down crying.

"He did the same thing to all of us," Mike continued. "Tommy Morrison, Jake Williams, Marcus Chen. Even Steve Patterson, the brother who tried to stop it. They stripped him down and tortured him just like the rest of us."

"Mike," David said gently, "you don't have to go into such detail—"

"Yes, I do." His voice was firm, controlled. "People need to understand this wasn't hazing. This wasn't boys being boys. This was systematic torture performed by sadists who got off on our pain."

David stared at him, realizing he was witnessing something unprecedented. Most victims struggled to recount their trauma. Mike was weaponizing his.

"Derek took photographs," Mike said, his voice taking on a harder edge. "Dozens of them. Close-ups of our injuries, our faces contorted in pain. He sent them to other fraternity members like trophies."

"The photos that led to your rescue—"

"Were sent to the wrong number by accident," Mike finished. "If Brad Thompson hadn't been drunk and hit the wrong contact, we'd all be dead. They weren't planning to let us go."

David's pen had stopped moving. "What makes you say that?"

Mike's smile was cold, calculating. "Because Derek told us. While he was cutting Jake's chest, he said we were going to be 'blood brothers' whether we wanted to or not. He said the only way we'd leave that cabin was if we earned it."

"Earned it how?"

"By dying."

The words hung in the air between them. David felt sick, but he couldn't look away from Mike's steady gaze.

"I want every detail in your article," Mike said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Every cut, every scream, every moment of terror. I want people to know exactly what Derek Santos and his fraternity brothers are capable of."

David nodded weakly. "The sentencing—"

"Twenty-five to life for Derek. Fifteen to twenty for the others." Mike's satisfaction was evident. "But that's not enough. I want their names and faces in every newspaper, on every website. I want them to be unemployable when they get out."

This isn't about healing, David realized with a chill. This is about revenge.

"People will read this article," Mike continued, "and they'll remember. When Derek Santos applies for parole in twenty years, when Brad Thompson tries to get a job, when any of them attempt to rebuild their lives—people will remember what they did to us."

David closed his notebook, his hands shaking slightly. In fifteen years of journalism, he'd never interviewed anyone quite like Mike Ryan.

"Thank you for your time," he managed.

Mike stood, straightening his jacket. "Thank you for listening. Make sure you spell their names correctly."

As he walked away, David sat alone with his recorder, staring at pages of notes that detailed horror beyond imagination. Mike Ryan had given him the story of her career.

And he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to forget it.

The next morning, the headline would read: "FRATERNITY TORTURE: Survivor Speaks Out." But it was the unflinching detail in Mike's own words that would ensure Derek Santos and his accomplices would never escape what they'd done.

Justice, Mike had learned, wasn't just about prison sentences.

Sometimes it was about making sure the whole world knew exactly who the monsters were.