Living with my PORNSTAR sisters-Chapter 32: A Sudden Shock

Blair’s room was silent next door—no crying now, just the kind of heavy stillness. He kept replaying her face when she pushed him away that evening night. The way her voice cracked on "it’s me." The way she wouldn’t look at him after.

By early dawn he was dressed—black hoodie, dark jeans, cap pulled low—and slipping out of the hotel without waking anyone. He left a note on the kitchenette counter:

"Gone to handle something. Will Be Back soon. Love you all. —Leo"

He took the subway to Shinjuku, then switched lines, then walked. just movement. Taxi stands. Train stations. Convenience-store parking lots. Anywhere a black cab might wait. He must’ve looked at a hundred drivers—thin mustaches, aviators, cigarettes dangling. None of them were him.

He kept going,for hours.

Meanwhile, in the hotel, Blair had finally opened her door after weeks of isolating herself. The hallway had been quiet, heavy with a strange sense of anticipation. But the moment Raven and the others saw what was inside the room, they froze in place.

Blair was lying on the floor, her wrist cut deeply, blood spilling across the tiles beneath her.

For a split second, none of them could move. The sight was so sudden, so horrifying, that it felt unreal.

Raven’s hands shaking violently, she rushed forward and grabbed her phone from her pocket, immediately calling an ambulance. Her voice trembled as she tried to explain the situation, barely able to form coherent words.

Sasha stood nearby, pale and trembling, her fingers hovering over her phone as she tried to call Leo.

But before she could press the button, Raven grabbed her wrist.

"D... don’t," Raven whispered, her voice tearing. "Not right now."

Moments later, the ambulance arrived, Paramedics rushed inside and quickly carried Blair away on a stretcher.

Raven followed them outside, but when the ambulance doors finally closed, she stopped.

Her clothes were stained with Blair’s blood.

The reality of what had just happened crashed down on her all at once.

Her legs gave out beneath her, and she collapsed to her knees, covering her face as sobs tore through her chest.

Lana and Sasha rushed toward her.

They wrapped their arms around Raven, trying desperately to comfort her, whispering that everything would be okay.

But the words felt empty.

Within seconds, their own voices broke, and they began crying as well.

Midday he hit Haneda again—walked every taxi rank, every pickup zone. Asked a few drivers in halting Japanese if they knew a guy with a mustache who worked airport runs. Most shrugged. One laughed and said "many mustache, many taxi." Leo thanked him anyway.

By late afternoon his feet hurt and his throat was dry from asking the same questions in broken sentences. He sat on a curb near the international terminal, elbows on knees, staring at the pavement.

His phone buzzed—Raven.

"Where are you?"

"Still looking."

"Leo... come back. Just come."

"I know. I’ll be back soon."

He hung up.

Kept looking.

Evening came. He was back in Shibuya now—crossing after crossing, scanning every idling cab. Nothing.

Then he heard it.

A woman’s voice—sharp, furious—Japanese too fast for him to catch every word, but the tone was unmistakable.

He turned.

Across the scramble, near a side street, a small Japanese woman in a navy coat was screaming at a man backed against a black taxi. She slapped him—open palm, hard—then again. A couple passersby stopped to watch; one guy stepped in and shoved the man’s shoulder.

The man stumbled—aviators crooked, mustache twitching.

Leo’s blood went cold.

It was him.

The driver.

Leo moved before he thought about it, he moved fast through the crowd, his eyes locked.

The woman slapped the driver one more time, spat something in anger, then stormed off. Two men lingered, muttering, then left too.

The driver straightened his jacket, wiped blood from his lip, looked around, he saw Leo approaching.

Recognition hit his face.

He smiled—slow, ugly.

"You," he said in broken English. "4 fucker. Come for more?"

Leo stopped three feet away.

He forced a smile on his face.

"You okay?" he asked in Japanese. "Looking rough."

The driver blinked, surprised by his Japanese—then laughed.

"Yeah. Bitch hit hard. But they all do. Deserve it. Big tits, big mouth, only good for one thing."

Leo’s smile didn’t waver.

"Right. Yeah. They deserve it."

The driver’s eyes lit up—thinking he’d found a kindred spirit.

"You understand. Good. You want? I know girls. Good price."

Leo tilted his head.

"Actually... yeah. Drive me somewhere quiet. We’ll talk business."

The driver grinned wider—opened the back door.

Leo climbed in.

The driver got behind the wheel, started the engine, pulled away from the curb.

Leo waited until they were on a quieter street, near a industrial zone, warehouses, not many people came here.

Then he leaned forward—fast—clamped one hand over the driver’s mouth, the other arm hooked around his throat in a rear choke. The man thrashed—hands clawing at Leo’s arm—but Leo was stronger, younger, angrier.

A small cloth—chloroform-soaked rag from his pocket—he pressed over the drivers nose and mouth.

The driver bucked once—twice—then went limp.

Leo eased him against the seat, climbed into the front, shifted the car into drive, and took over.

He drove for almost an hour—out of the city, past suburbs, into low hills. Found an old access road, rusted gate half-open—pulled in.

An abandoned maintenance bunker—concrete half-buried in the hillside, door hanging crooked.

Perfect.

He dragged the driver inside—his consciousness starting to return—leo tied him to a metal chair with zip-ties and duct tape from the trunk. Just enough to hold.

Then he waited.

When the driver woke—groggy, head lolling—he saw Leo leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

The air there smelled, thick with the scent of oil.

He saw the metal rod—rebar, about four feet long—propped beside Leo.

He saw the gun in Leo’s hand.

He started babbling in Japanese first, then broken English.

Leo didn’t answer.

He stepped forward—slow—pressed the muzzle to the man’s left thigh.

Bang.

The driver screamed.

Leo moved the barrel to the right thigh.

Bang.

Another scream—higher, raw.

Leo’s voice was calm.

"Unbutton your pants."

The man sobbed—shaking his head.

Leo shot the left foot.

Then the right.

Then the left hand—twice.

Then the right—twice.

Blood pooled under the chair.

The man was sobbing so violently he could barely draw breath.

Leo untied the ropes first.

Then he first seized a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back, fingers moving to the driver’s belt—unbuckling, unzipping, tugging the pants and underwear down in one rough motion

The driver scrabbled forward on his knees, trying to crawl.

Leo simply grabbed the hair at the nape of his neck again, forcing his face to the floor, hips jerked high.

"You don’t remember me," Leo said, voice low and even. "I’m the one whose family you called whores."

The driver’s eyes flared wide as recognition sliced through the pain.

"You... the four women... the girl in the videos... her ass... I saw the clip, I just—I offered money. A lot of money—"

Leo’s grip tightened until the man’s scalp blanched.

"No one touches them."

He released the hair abruptly. Stepped back. Bent to retrieve the small remote from the concrete.

Then he moved in again—fast—one knee dropping to pin the driver’s lower back, forcing his face flat to the ground once more.

Leo thumbed the button.

A low, whine started overhead.

The driver’s head jerked up. Above him, the drill rig was descending—rusted, heavy, stained, but the bit still turned with patient menace.

He began screaming again—promises, pleas, offers of anything, everything.

Leo pressed the button once more.

The drill continued its steady descent, aimed at the man’s exposed ass. His voice cracked into raw hoarseness.

Leo watched, expressionless.

The spinning bit kissed skin.

Blood sprayed in a bright arc.

The scream became something Monstrous, no longer human.

Leo didn’t even blink.

He let it run for almost a minute—until the man’s voice gave out—until the body stopped jerking.

Then he pressed the button again—stopped the machine.

Silence—except for dripping.

Leo walked over—picked up the gun from the ground—

And fired one last shot into the man’s head.

Clean.

He stood there for a second—breathing steady.

Then he pulled the cigarette from his pocket—lit it with shaking fingers—took a long drag.

Dropped it on the floor.

The blood ran into the puddle of oil Leo had already spilled.

Flames rose quickly, licking the ground fast.

Leo walked out, didn’t look back.

The bunker burned behind him.

But he didn’t gave a shit.

He got in the cab.

Drove away.

When he parked it two blocks from the hotel he wiped the wheel, the door handles, anything he’d touched.

Left the keys in the ignition.

Walked the rest of the way.

The hotel lobby was quiet—night staff nodding politely.

He rode the elevator up.

Stopped at blair’s room.

He knocked once—softly, unaware of what had just happened here.

He leaned his forehead against the door.

"Blair... it’s done."

He stayed there.

Raven rushed in from behind and hugged him tightly, crying.

"Leo... Leo... Blair..."

"What happened?" Leo asked, his voice suddenly filled with rage.

Sasha and Lana stepped forward, tears pouring down their faces.

"Blair... Blair cut her wrist..."

The quietness filled the air. The wind seemed to stop, and the heat rose in an instant.

In a trembling voice, Leo said, "Wh... what?!"