You already know what he’s going to say…

Justin smiles a predator’s smile. ‘Human immunodeficiency virus. HIV.’

‘No,’ you grunt, struggling hopelessly. ****-Soo actually claps, the sound echoing around the empty space.

‘Yes,’ Justin replies simply. ‘There are many wonderful things about this virus – did you know, for instance, that it’s sixty times smaller than a single red blood cell? One of the many adaptations that make it so resistant to treatment. But the real selling point, for me, is that there’s presently no way to date the virus. That is, there is no reliable way to pinpoint the actual date of transmission, unless, of course, you’ve undergone sexual health screening in the past. Which, I was delighted to learn, you have.’ Justin leans down again, balancing the syringe lightly in his palm.

‘Now that might have posed a problem, if not for the fact that I am, to put it mildly, disgustingly rich. I have inherited more money than you possibly imagine and it solves a great many problems for me and my friends. Unexpected DUI? My friends can find a cop with a **** habit who can be persuaded to hack his own computer system. Inconvenient allegations of ****? I can settle out of court for half a million dollars and not even notice the difference the next morning.’

‘Impressive,’ you bite out, putting as much sarcasm into the word as you can. But Justin looks genuinely flattered.

‘Thank you. Anyway, the reason I mention it is that money talks wherever you are – and it certainly spoke loudly to a certain nurse with a nasal problem who happened to have access to your medical records. It didn’t take long at all for us to come up with a fake bill of health – or rather, ill-health.’ Justin is smirking again. ‘If you consult your personal medical history, you will find that you contracted HIV very shortly after your last partner cheated on you, which is terribly sad, but not surprising, all things considered. She was a whore, after all.’

‘Fuck you,’ you hiss, red mist gathering around the corners of your vision. More drops of blood from your leg come spattering down, narrowly missing your forehead, as you twist in your restraints.

‘My apologies. She charged men money for sex.’ Justin shrugs carelessly. ‘No need to use the street term, but there it is. A meth habit is expensive, unless you have outstanding self-discipline, and the ability to know when to stop, as some of us do. But this really isn’t about me – or your junkie ex. It’s about you.’