QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 153: Better place

Chapter 153 – Estela POV

I check into work, same as always. Sling my bag over the hook near the office entrance, smooth my shirt, and greet the others with a tired but genuine smile.

Routine.

Simple.

Safe.

"Morning, Estela."

"Hey, good morning."

But then—

One of the ladies rushes toward me, her face pale and tight.

"Estela—" she breathes, "it’s Mary."

My heart drops. "What happened?"

*

I don’t remember the drive.

I just remember the cold fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway, the antiseptic sting in my nostrils, the shaking of my hands as I demand the room number. I think I left my bag in the car. I think I forgot to lock the door.

I rush in.

And freeze.

Mary.

Lying there.

Unconscious.

Her face is bruised. A deep violet blossoms around her eye. Her lip is split. Her arms—bandaged. Her fingers—scraped and swollen.

I cover my mouth with one hand.

There’s a machine beeping steadily beside her, a slow, cruel rhythm that says she’s alive, but only just.

I edge closer, barely breathing.

"Who did this?" I whisper.

No one answers. Not yet.

But in the pit of my stomach?

I already know.

Her husband.

I grip the rail of Mary’s hospital bed, my fingers bone-white against the metal. Rage coils low in my gut, thick and hot, flooding my chest and neck until even my breath feels poisoned. It sits in my mouth like metal.

Heavy.

Undeniable.

Apparently, he came to the shelter last night. Said he’d changed. Said he wanted to make amends. Promised he wasn’t that man anymore. And Mary, my sweet Mary, so open-hearted and hopeful despite everything—she believed him. She stepped outside with him. Just to talk.

Now she’s lying in a hospital bed with her face barely recognizable, wrapped in gauze and purple-blue bruises, her lip split, her eye swollen shut.

A slow, raspy breath passes between her lips, like even unconscious, her body isn’t sure it’s safe enough to rest.

I can’t listen anymore. I can’t breathe in that sterile room.

I walk out without a word.

The air outside is cool, but I don’t feel it. My body moves without instruction, with a clarity I haven’t felt in years—muscle memory from a version of me that hasn’t entirely died.

I find a corner store. Tacky, overlit, and playing muffled pop through tinny speakers. The man behind the counter glances up as I enter, his eyes flicking briefly over me before darting away.

I don’t speak.

I go straight to the back, pick up a metal baseball bat from a cluttered rack meant for sports gear and discount brooms.

When I place it on the counter, the man hesitates. His mouth opens like he’s going to ask something—but I meet his eyes, just once. That’s all it takes. He doesn’t say a word.

He just scans it, hands me the change, and looks down until I leave.

The bus ride is quiet. I take a seat near the back, the bat resting across my knees like an old companion. No one sits beside me. No one makes eye contact. It’s better that way.

I get off a few streets away from his place. The walk is long enough to cool the outside of my skin, but not the fire underneath. My boots crunch against gravel and cracked concrete. The bat swings lightly at my side, brushing my thigh with each step.

His house is small, unremarkable. The paint is peeling. The porch light is broken. I walk up the steps slowly, deliberately, and knock once. Not hard. Not fast. Just enough to be heard.

I wait, staring at the door. I already know how this will go. My breath is steady. My mind is clear. I don’t flinch when the door opens.

He’s there, shirtless, hair a mess, confusion turning into something smug the second he recognizes me.

"You’re the bitch that works at the shelter," he says, tone soaked in disdain, like I’m some meddling insect beneath him.

I don’t respond.

I don’t need to.

My hands tighten around the metal bat, and with a clean, silent swing—deliberate, practiced—I strike him in the groin.

The sound is blunt and dull, like the thud of a hammer against meat.

He lets out a sharp gasp, knees buckling beneath him as he crashes to the floor with a howl.

"What the fuck— You crazy bitch!" he wheezes, curling in on himself.

I step closer.

He’s trying to crawl backward, hand outstretched as if to shield himself, but it’s too late.

I raise the bat again.

Aim lower this time.

And bring it down with everything I have.

The bat crashes into his thigh, maybe his knee—it doesn’t matter. The bone crunches beneath the metal like wood snapping under pressure.

His scream tears through the hallway, ragged and broken, the kind that scrapes the back of the throat and leaves silence raw behind it.

I grab him by the hair—fist clenched in greasy strands—and drag him inside. He thrashes weakly, kicking, sobbing, cursing, but I barely feel it. His weight is nothing. His noise is nothing.

The door slams shut behind us. The lock clicks into place.

Inside, the house is as pathetic as the man who lives in it. Dim light filters through bent blinds, dishes piled in the sink, the sour smell of stale beer and unwashed sheets clinging to the air. But it’s the wall that stops me.

A picture.

Framed.

Hung carefully above the entryway.

Mary.

Smiling. Dressed in white. Her hands folded so delicately over his, face turned to him like she believed in forever.

My stomach turns.

He’s screaming now, still. Words, maybe. Pleas. Slurs. I don’t know. I don’t hear them.

I’ve stopped listening.

Usually, my kills are quick. Swift. Efficient. A blade to the neck. A shot through the skull. No time for suffering. No risk of evidence.

But not this man.

No—he doesn’t deserve mercy.

I raise the bat again.

And swing.

Once. Twice. Over and over. Not aiming to kill. Not yet.

Just enough to make him feel everything he ever made her feel.

Pain. Helplessness. Fear.

His ribs give a little under the impact. He howls. His hand reaches for mine and I stomp it down with my boot until I hear the fingers crunch.

He tries to crawl.

I drag him back again.

Tears streak his face now. Blood coats the carpet in ragged smears.

He’s crying. Begging. His words incoherent through the spit and blood in his mouth.

I stand over him, breath steady. Bat heavy in my grip.

Blood pools under him in thick, dark halos. His breathing is ragged, a wet rasping noise that stutters in and out like a wheezing machine. One of his legs is bent at a sick angle. His arm twitches uselessly as if trying to shield what little he has left.

He looks up at me, one eye swollen shut, the other glimmering with terror.

I tilt my head. Watch him. Just for a moment.

Then I speak—quietly. Calmly. A sentence I don’t need to shout to make true.

"I think the world would be a better place without men like you in it."

And I swing again.