|| ℜ𝔢𝔡 𝔗𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔬 || navré + dan cody || mafia || ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀs: ɴᴏɴ-ᴄᴏɴ, ᴅʀᴜɢɢɪɴɢ, ᴀʙᴜsᴇ, ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

[navré]

⊱⊰

ｒｅｄ ｔａｔｔｏｏ

⊱⊰


“ᵀʰᵉʸ ˢˡⁱᵖᵖᵉᵈ ᵇʳⁱˢᵏˡʸ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ ᵃⁿ ⁱⁿᵗⁱᵐᵃᶜʸ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ʷʰⁱᶜʰ ᵗʰᵉʸ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ʳᵉᶜᵒᵛᵉʳᵉᵈ.” ― ᶠ. ˢᶜᵒᵗᵗ ᶠⁱᵗᶻᵍᵉʳᵃˡᵈ, ᵀʰⁱˢ ˢⁱᵈᵉ ᵒᶠ ᴾᵃʳᵃᵈⁱˢᵉ

A lawless city with rules.

A girl who's just broken one.

The Reaper who's after her.

Sometimes a red mark will be on your skin long after it has healed.



​

 

[Dan Cody]

“Now, let’s run through this again. If you’re not too busy, of course?” James gave the man a polite smile and a tip of the head. The man himself, Eric Andres, spit a glob of blood at James, though doing so while tied upside down from the scaffolding of a half-finished building made his attempt far less accurate than he hoped, and thus the crimson gob hit the plywood floor instead. James wagged his finger, before sending a harsh kick into the ribs of his victim “I’ll take that as a yes. So Antonio enters the building. He kicks the door open. He sweeps inside. And instead of pressing forward, he’s met with a slug to the head from his blindside. Unless you’re telling me Antonio suddenly forgot his twenty years in the business, he clearly was only taken by surprise because of the failing of others. Which begs the question, Mr. Andres, who was with him on the mission – not covering his blindside in those sweeps?”

Eric began to open his mouth, but James leaned down and pressed his finger against the mouth of his victim. He crouched right up next to the phase of the man and in a low growl continued on “Now, there are times in a man’s life when he needs to pick his next words very carefully. I don’t have to tell you that you won’t see the sunrise if you lie to me. But neither will that pretty little blonde piece downtown.” James stood up and broke into a warm smile, pushing the wrinkles out of his midnight black suit, before clasping his hands together and continuing on. “How rude of me. You were saying, Mr. Andres?”

A deathly silence hung in the air, only interrupted by the cool breeze of the city and the sound of a distant car alarm. “O-ok. It was a new girl. Sh-she had a f-funny name. O- something. Owen? I think?” James tilted his head at Eric. “Owen Rooke! I d-didn’t know her. The h-high ups vouched for h-her, alright. She was s-shadowing him. That’s all I know, I swear!”

James crossed his arms and walked towards the edge of the room, the half-finished construction allowing him a view of the city below him. He took a deep breath of the slightly chilled air, holding it for a second before exhaling. It was perfectly possible that they sent him with her to get rid of him – knowing the girl wasn’t ready. It was also possible that she simply got him killed. The reason didn’t matter much – he owed Antonio a life debt and he would have to hunt her down. He hadn’t decided to kill her – but whatever he did she might wish he had by the end.

He walked back over to Eric with wide arms and a broad smile. “See, that wasn’t so hard. Imagine if you had talked an hour ago – we wouldn’t have to have gone for this ride, my friend.”

"S-so you’ll let me go?” Eric asked hopefully, one of his eyes so bruised that it was now swollen completely shut.

“Oh, Mr. Andres,” James said with a grim smile. In one fluid motion, he flung open a butterfly knife from within the folds of his well-pressed suit and sent it right between the ribs of Eric and into his heart. He pulled the knife back, and stepped back in one fluid motion, narrowly avoiding the blood spatter as Eric died near-instantly. “If you wanted to live, you shouldn’t have lied to me,” he growled as he stepped forward again to wipe the blood off the steel of the knife. He sheathed the instrument, and stepped away from the hanging corpse.

⊱⊰​

Owen. Rooke. She hadn’t been hard to find. Amateurs never were. They were sloppy about all the details – it was why so few lived so long in the industry. A few threats was all it took to find her little apartment. She certainly could have chosen a less conspicuous name – the mere mention of it caused tongues to run. She was certainly building a case for incompetence – which would result in a little leniency at least.

Standing outside the apartment, he took the same breath of air as when he had been standing above it all. He pressed his black tie down, and pushed back his hair into its carefully arranged position. He took one precise set of steps forward, and raised his right hand. Knock. Knock. Knock.

 

[navré]

The apartment's narrow walkway, with a blinking bar lamp and half-done concrete floor, would have been relieving to see if she didn't open the door to find two naked bodies entwined, for the third time this week, laughing while they went about deflowering one another on the cracked leather couch. Her roommate, Pix, and a different boyfriend. The only light came from a weird strobe light in the corner, that alternated between throwing two colours of light. The dark hid the laundry, pizza boxes, and stacks of paper strewn about, showing up only in flashes of green and purple. The metal rock shredding the air went from loud to suddenly very soft when Pix knocked the knob on the radio down by accident, gasping.

Already carrying a look of distress on her face, Owen only continued to look even more distraught, her lips parting in front of gritted teeth. When she dropped her keys on a leaning stack of cardboard boxes that had served as a makeshift shelf, they froze, sweating. Pix looked like she just saw a bus run a puppy over, and her boyfriend went soft. Owen was covered from the chest down in blood.

"It's not mine," she said simply.

Walking past a dark kitchen into the single bathroom, she slapped the light switch on and peeled her shirt off, the white light making her skin look the same colour as the stained bathroom tiles. There was a bucket full of cleaning supplies -- she emptied it roughly and filled it with water, dumping her shirt in. The moth wings tattoed on her back flexed as she did. Turning the tap on and pressing down on the basin, Owen looked herself in the mirror. Her hair was dishevelled, her face just pale, if not a bit grimy.

Antonio just died. In a sick way, it was just like yesterday, when she hit a cockroach in the apartment: it didn't die; so she hit it again, then it was dead. The split second when it rolled a leg in the air, with its other body half-crushed; that stuck in her head for longer than it should have. This time around, it was just traumatic. To think that it was her fault, telling him the building was clear from behind a screen.

What made it more chilling was two opposite reactions happening at once. News spread fast because she was supposed to call and report for him, and she did, her voice very steady, but her hands shaking violently.

The event unfolding afterwards was slow, almost as if the kingpin on the top of this underground food chain had his fingers laced, quietly thinking of how he wanted things to go down next. She walked out of the building, on edge, waiting for her head to be smashed in by thugs swearing revenge. Nothing happened, except that in the dark, on the way out of the building, she walked straight into Antonio's propped-up corpse, her arm brushing a section of hair then a section of warm mush. She had brushed his hair before in a different instance; now she could only freeze, trying not to breathe in the sickly smell. She could only be gracious of the dark's kindness that spared her the sight. The yellow streetlights would show her the blood that was soaked into her clothes on the way home in the street, where people fell quiet and looked away at the sight of her. God knows how many times the residents of Glass City saw blood in public; if people still believed in a god.

At the bathroom sink, the water hissed, coming out as a white spray. The inside of the pipe was probably choked with sediment.

Owen washed her face, then her arms. There were bruises that seemed imperceptible behind her heavily tattooed arms; as if either could occur naturally on her skin.

With most of the grime off, she kicked off the rest of her clothing and stepped into a hot shower.
There was a hard knock on the door right as she stepped out of the bath, nearly slipping on the ground as she jumped.

"Pix, can you get that?" She called out, wrapping a towel around herself. Owen got an unhappy grunt that she took to mean 'okay'. She ran into her room, shut the door, and locked it before she dropped the towel.

⊱⊰​

Pix had just changed into her pyjamas, too lazy to take a shower. She flattened her hair and tugged her fingers through the length a few times.

Owen was hogging the bathroom anyway, and Pix was unsettled by the gore she brought home. She'd always known her roommate was involved with the underground, but with the amount of time she spent on her computer, she could guess that it was in hacking; never something on the field. She was fine with thinking that Owen worked in proximity to it rather than inside it, because the latter was highly unsafe. When she opened the door, she saw exactly the definition of unsafe: The Reaper, but as someone from the outside, she would not know him by that name. What she did know was this, that men in suits did not turn up late at the doors of dingy apartments. Something bad had gone down and Owen was involved, now she made somebody look mad. Just from his glare, Pix's palms grew clammy.

"Owen's in her room," she rattled off, nervous, stepping on her own foot.

 

[Dan Cody]

James smiled at the unfamiliar face, despite the fact that she was clearly terrified. This wasn’t his mark – he had made sure to get detailed descriptions off of his sources when hunting the girl down. He had learned the hard way on that one – when a mark had opened the door and replied that his real target was the roommate on the couch. The bastard had taken a good three months to hunt down after that, and James had never forgotten that lesson.

The apartment itself was a shithole. At least by his own standards – which were admittedly high. “Thanks for the help, mademoiselle,” he gave Pix a small nod of the head and a polite smile, but pushed past her immediately. Hopefully, she wasn’t going to be trouble when the time came for the toll to be paid.

His eyes scanned the entire place as he entered. Some young man was lounging on the couch, though he seemed more likely to shit himself than to do much to James. Nonetheless, he made a mental note to keep track of the kid – sometimes people did the dumbest things and James was not the type to fall prey to stupidity. Metal music played throughout the apartment – only adding to the grunge of the atmosphere. “Point me to Owen’s room, James stated calmly.

Pix’s hand trembled a little as a single finger lifted and pointed itself towards the room of Owen. “Thank you, my dear,” James said. He took a few confident strides across the dirty apartment and appeared at the front of the door. He raised his right hand again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time, however, he did not wait for an answer. He pushed the door open – it seemed Owen was either not expecting retribution or wasn’t foolish enough to think a lock was going to stop him. He stepped inside and immediately closed the door behind him, leaving him alone with her.

“Owen Rooke, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said plainly, a hint of a forced smile on his face. This was about as close to rage as James exhibited. He prided himself on his control. She was in nothing but a towel, and he gestured at what he presumed to be her wardrobe, remarking “I assume you know who I am. Would you like to get dressed before we talk?”

Without asking, he took a seat where her laptop rested, crossing his legs over each other and patiently digesting her thoughts. The reaper had all the time in the world to do his work, and James was no different. “I should warn you, that if you run things will only get worse for you,” he added as he folded his hands together.

 

[navré]

Owen was about to put on a large shirt, but when she heard a man's voice at the door, then footsteps towards the room, she quickly grabbed the towel to wrap around herself again, swearing.

"Mister Oyama," Owen said, throwing him a look over her shoulder, surprise crossing her face. Her voice nearly cracking. "Well--" her face warmed. "Obviously!"

"Would you like to wait outside before I get dressed?" She copied his tone.

She bristled when he sat near her laptop. It's okay, she thought. I've got everything backed up, on a hard drive in my other bag. The most trouble she had to go through was to burn a few thousand dollars on another computer. If he decided to take that one, she had everything double-encrypted, but he could probably find someone to break that... She supposed she had to hack into her own computer with the new one later and wipe the files. If it came to that.

"Got nowhere to run, don't worry," she said bitterly, throwing him another glare. "Out. Please. See this room?" She waved around. "Ain't got no windows. No nothing. Just the door. I'm not about to dig a hole through the concrete to escape."

 

[Dan Cody]

James flashed her a smile. A genuine one. She was either blissfully unaware of how serious her error had been, or quite well-suited under pressure. Either way, this was more fun than the typical bargaining and pleading his profession usually invoked. He stood up calmly from the chair, with the same signature lack of hurry that seemed to accompany most of his movements. It was surprising to many how quick he was when things became serious.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to intrude upon you in that way.” He stood up to leave, but before doing so grabbed the laptop from the desk, unplugging the cables attached to it in one swift motion. “I’ll just be borrowing this while I wait,” he remarked casually, slipping the laptop under his left arm. Of course, unless she was an absolute amateur it would no doubt be encrypted, but he needed to secure it for later regardless. He decided to see how cooperative she was going to be “Passwords?” he asked calmly.

Receiving an answer or not, he stopped outside of the room. “You might want to pick something warm. It’s rather chilly out, tonight,” he added, before pulling the door closed behind him.

 

[navré]

She ignored him when he asked for a password, and when he closed the door behind him, she dropped the towel again with an exhale. She noticed that her heart was thrumming. The Reaper. He didn't send anyone, he came here himself. This was big.

Owen slipped into a shirt, and pyjama pants. Put on something warm? But she wasn't going outside. Her brow knitted unconsciously at the thought; what he said was vague in terms of indicating what he wanted to do, but it was unsettling nonetheless. She grabbed a thin coat and pulled it over the shirt, after some deliberation. Might as well, since she wasn't wearing a bra.

When she was done, she opened the door, but stood at the doorway leaning on the frame with her arms crossed, so he wouldn't walk into her bedroom again.

"What are you looking for?" She asked, hostility in her voice. She couldn't help it if the President was asking for her laptop password. This was her life's work, not something to be given away just like that.

 

[Dan Cody]

James didn’t bother messing with the laptop whilst he was outside. He didn’t have the tools or time to break any sort of encryption at the moment, nor was he in a hurry to. No doubt Owen was pining to delete the files off of the laptop, but he would control when and if she would have the ability to do so, seeing as they’d be spending some quality time together.

He leaned against the wall next to the door as he waited, her roommates watching him clear apprehension. He supposed they grasped enough to know to be afraid of him, but not enough to know how afraid or why. When Owen finally emerged from her room, he stepped off the wall and gave her a another warm smile. “That should suffice. Owen, let me be frank with you. I don’t want to talk here. You don’t want to talk here. And I’m certain your roommates don’t want to have this conversation here.” James pointed at the two quivering bodies on the couch, who nodded in agreement at the sentiment.

"There’s this absolutely lovely spot just a few blocks from here. We can go there and hash out what needs to be said.” He extended an arm, gesturing for her to join him in leaving the apartment. “I promise you that you don’t have a choice,” he added.

 

[navré]

"Hold on."

She slammed the door shut, and rummaged around her room to grab her bag. It was likely that his lovely spot was secluded, deserted, and would be big enough to stifle screams. Owen checked the hidden camera on the bag, then turned it on. It was a small black bead, stitched into the cloth to look like a button. It was wired to both her and her technician's laptop. This was for, well, in case she didn't come out of this alive, she trusted her technician, at least, to know what happened. Her head was swimming in fear, and couldn't come up with a better workaround for this.

She took another deep breath and opened the door, wordlessly shoving past him. At the entrance of the apartment, Owen picked up the keys then let herself out, waiting for Oyama.

 

[Dan Cody]

James adopted a bemused grin as she grabbed her bag from her room. No doubt there was something in there that she hoped would save her skin. A gun? A bargaining chip? Something else entirely? He had seen it all at this point. Unfortunately for her, he wasn’t quite that predictable, and he doubted she would have much of an answer for what he planned.

Once she left the room, he followed briskly behind, eventually taking the lead and remarking “This way,” as he led her out of the apartment complex itself and into the evening streets of the city. “So, you live there with those two? Must not have been in the business very long if that’s all you can afford,” he remarked casually, standing side by side with her, though slightly ahead as he led the way down the streets of the city.

The neon lights and billboards reflected off the dark pavement of the city, and the scant amount of people out and about at the hour led to this sort of haunting, futuristic vibe that James always enjoyed. It was one of his favorite times to walk the streets – business or not, and he had a wide smile on his face as they did so.

It wasn’t long until they arrived at their destination – a small, open diner that amounted to nothing more than a bar counter with seats that were covered by a tin awning over top. A solitary chef was perched disinterestedly on a chair behind the bar. When he saw James, he perked up. “Ah, Mr. Oyama! Always a pleasure. And your companion?”

“This is Owen. She hasn’t been here before,” he said. He took a seat at the end of the bar and gestured for her to do the same, the seats slightly cold from their outdoor nature. “Mind giving us a few minutes, Harvey?”

The squat man bowed deferentially “Of course not, Mr. Oyama. Let me know when you need me.” With that, the man disappeared into the back of the establishment – the part that was actually indeed indoors, and the two were left alone – albeit essentially on the sidewalk of a public street.

He turned to face Owen. His grey eyes now had an intensity that had been lacking before. “Now, Owen. My dear friend Antonio dies, and I do a little digging, and I find out he’s been shot in his blind side. I’m not sure how familiar you are with him, but you don’t eke out that many years in this business from being that sloppy. Which means his shadow failed him, and got him killed.” He pulled his right hand out of his coat pocket and pointed his index finger straight at her “Which means you, my dear Owen Rooke, got him killed.”

He paused and inhaled deeply. “So, tell me what happened. And pick your next words carefully.”

 

[navré]

"I'm saving up for something else," she said simply. "I'm not completely new."

Oyama was dressed formally, Owen was in pyjamas and a thin coat. He strode down smiling while Owen took halting steps with the face of someone who's thinking they were about to be killed.

Owen looked nearly relieved when Oyama brought her to a fast food bar -- even if there was only one chef, it was one person. That meant he probably wouldn't stick a knife in her here, not in front of somebody else. The police usually turned a blind eye to gang activity but they couldn't outright act blind. Though the way the chef went about with the rectangular meat knife, letting out thumping sounds from the inside... no. Owen pushed the thought away. Maybe he isn't one of Oyama's men. Maybe he's just a chef. She could be overthinking.

"We were... close friends. I wouldn't do that." Her voice was flat. "I'd ask you to ask him about it. But he's gone."

"You know how things work down here, Mister Oyama. Nobody gets hired if nobody trusts you, and nobody gets paid if nobody trusts you. It's all about it. I'm new, he's old world. No chance I'll be working right beside him if he thinks I'm going to get him killed, right? As you said, he's neck-deep in this, he can watch his own back."

"If you ask me, you're better off checking out which of your many enemies saw it beneficial that night to want him dead. He was propped up after he died, Mister Oyama. At the door. Whoever did it wanted me to walk into him, too. Only a man with a cruel sort of vengeance would choose not to let their corpses lie on the ground in rest. The kind you should be looking for instead. Definitely seemed like your kind of person to me."

"I'm not that," she finishes, looking him dead in the eye. He seemed reasonable, though, letting her explain. Or maybe he isn't. Maybe he'd kill her now.

 

[Dan Cody]

James was silent throughout the entirety of her time talking. He leaned against the counter, though he had spent far too many years in discomfort to ever slouch, so even that hardly came off as casual. Despite how relaxed his movements were, they resembled that of a coiled predator, one waiting for a situation to go bad before springing.

He raised an eyebrow at the mention of them being close friends. Surely Antonio wasn’t dumbstruck enough to compromise himself so easily. He knew the man well – close friends wasn’t referring to a shared cup of tea after jobs or paternal relations. He sighed inwardly – it was certainly starting to sound like Antonio had brought this on himself.

When she had finally finished her story, James was silent. It was convincing, if a bit lacking on details during the act. That was the biggest red flag to him – she prattled on and on about the aftermath, but barely mentioned the act itself. Now he had to weigh his options.

She was right that he’s have to go after whoever did this to Antonio – he owed the dumbass that much. Yet he didn’t feel like he was getting the whole truth out of Owen. Something about her was off.

James gave her a warm smile “Hmmph. I suppose I will have to check out a few more corners than I thought I might have to. It’s nice to clear someone off the list, though,” he added. “I’ll need some names and descriptions from you, but I’ve harassed you long enough for now. Let’s eat first – my treat.”

James raised his hand and stretched out his thumb and forefinger “Two shakes. Couple burgers. And a plate of fries to share, Harvey!” James called out to the chef in the back. The squat man peeked his head out, locked eyes with James, and nodded.

“You got it, Mr. Oyama!”

What Owen was likely not aware of was that Harvey was indeed one of Oyama’s many contacts. And the way he had ordered indicated the addition of paralysis agents into her food and drink. One of the nice things about the locale was the soundproofed basement below that James had installed when he had helped fund Harvey’s storefront.

The burgers, which were smashed and grilled perfectly, arrived with hearty vanilla shakes and a plate of greasy fries. Both Owen’s burger and shake was drugged. James smiled and raised his own shake, indicating a toast. “To Antonio,” he said.

 

[navré]

Owen knew, at this point, that Oyama would have everyone under his thumb; she'd expect no less from a man who ruled the city like a faux king. She caught an eye lock between them, not too long to be noticeable, but a little over the time of a glance.

Her mind races. How to get out -- she'd refuse. Yes. Thank him politely, get home. But if he wanted her to stay here, he'd make it happen. He could be violent.

She was close to refusing his offer, but Harvey was quick with the food, and soon they were both served. Owen picked at her food, and ate some fries, feeling like he was watching her, waiting for it to happen. After picking around for a bit more, chewing longer so he'd see her eating; the fries weren't drugged, she felt fine. Just stick to eating the fries, then get up and go.

"To Antonio," Oyama raised his shake.

Owen curled her fingers around the glass and smiled weakly.

"To Antonio," she muttered.

He ate painfully slowly, and Owen ended up convincing herself to just be done with it. There really wasn't use in resisting, the cards were stacked in his favour.

She drank the shake, and the drowsiness settled in, heavily fatigued.

⊱⊰​

Heavy eyes opened to a windowless room, concrete on all sides. It was dim, and there were stores of food, packages of meat and boxes of ice. Underground, likely some sort of basement.

She was tied at the wrists, from a low ceiling, but high enough so that she needed to stand on the tips of her toes. She struggled to avoid swinging; if she did, hanging like this, she might dislocate her shoulder after a while. Any move forward or back or to the sides was impossible, and Owen grit her teeth and squirmed, trying to pull at her hands, chafing her skin. Her breathing started to grow frightened and irregular as she scanned the room slowly, expecting to see Oyama's thugs. Maybe he was already gone, to deal with bigger problems than her. He might just be doing this for vengeance for a friend. That wouldn't be uncommon in this part of the city.

 

[Dan Cody]

James watched her from the corner of the room, the one she couldn’t see. In front of her was a mirror, smudged slightly from its time in the cellar of a restaurant, but still clear enough to reflect her image. He had left her mouth free of a gag – he needed her voice, and even if he didn’t he preferred her to scream. There was something too bloodless about a silent victim, it felt wrong in a way.

He watched her struggle for a while. She was quite beautiful, and quite helpless. He was going to enjoy this.

“My dear Owen, why must you insist on making my job hard?” he said as he stepped out from his corner, revealing his presence to her. James walked behind her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back, so that she caught just a glimpse of him. “You know, Antoine and I used to argue all the time. He told me, torture doesn’t work.” As he talked, his other hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed slowly, constricting more and more air till he cut off her windpipe completely as he spoke, “He told me that someone will say almost anything to avoid more pain. That I was better off consulting a gypsy than beating the truth out of someone.” He held the grip on her throat, until she was struggling for air, before releasing entirely and letting go of both her neck and her hair.

He was no longer wearing a blazer, just a rolled up dress shirt, and he pulled from his belt a switchblade. He flicked it open and walked around in front of her, the blade glinting off the solitary light that hung in the basement. He slipped the knife into her shirt, gave her a smile and added “Don’t move too much. Wouldn’t wanna slice anything off just yet,” before slicing straight down her shirt, separating into two halves.

“So what do you think Owen?” He made a few more slices, pulling her shirt off her completely, the tattered affair falling to the ground in a heap around her feet. Seeing as she hadn’t put on a bra, her entire top was now bare, the cold air of the basement no doubt harsh to her skin. “Do you think our friend was right?” He turned his attention to her bottoms, slicing through the fabric. “Or am I going to get every bit of information I want out of you?” He made a couple more slices, and her pants joined the slices of shirt on the ground, leaving her in nothing but panties.

Before she could answer, he dropped the knife and sent a hard punch to her gut, knocking the breath out of her. “Sorry, you were saying?” he said, with the same level tone.

 

[navré]

Owen caught sight of a dirty mirror in front of her, and turned away sharply, putting half her face behind her arm. Her spiteful gaze followed Oyama as he walked out.

"I told you everythi-- ack!"
Her head snapped back when he pulled her hair, and her breaths started to come fast and shallow, her chest shivering at the exertion. She was starting to panic -- she didn't know what to do, and she couldn't guess what he would do. She previously knew him as the street lord with the most restraint and a rigid moral code; at most turning a blind eye to brutality, which was usually dished out by his thugs. Antonio spoke very highly of him, and it rubbed off so she couldn't help feeling the same admiration too. In fact, nobody's ever been in a scuffle with Oyama himself before or lived to talk about it. But everything went out of the window then. What more did she expect? Everyone at the top was a monster; Antonio only saw some mask of restraint on the outside because he was a close friend.

Owen wheezed, her windpipe flexing against his hand as it tried to open and expand. Her lungs started to hurt, and she knew she shouldn't move, but her body panicked and she kicked weakly, though only managing to brush up his leg. She gasped the instant he let go, and her vision blacked out momentarily as she started heaving in air.

When he came with the switchblade, Owen started to tug at the rope more desperately, chafing her wrists further. She squirmed when he came near her, but when she felt the cold blade under her shirt, a leg jerked up reflexively. She stopped it halfway and immediately dropped back onto the floor, afraid of kicking him, because he had a knife and it was dangerously close. Owen buried her face in her arm in shame when he cut her shirt open, immediately feeling herself flush, heat rushing to her face while she tried to swallow a sob. The chill in the air raised goosebumps in her skin and she felt her nipples harden, making her flush even more. The knife slid into the waistband of her trousers, and she sobbed something like no, twisting and squirming as he continued to negotiate. How was he expecting her to answer?

He wasn't.

"I--" she wheezed when he hit her, and buckled, shuddering from the rope when she bent over.

"I already told you everything," she repeated, her face still in her arm, without looking at him. Her voice cracked in the way that's close to crying.

 

[Dan Cody]

James gave her a faint smile as she protested against his demands. “It’s OK, love. I can tell you’re not ready to talk. Take your time,” he said. His voice was firm, but not particularly loud. He didn’t need to shout at her, his actions spoke far louder than any words ever could. He took a step back and admired her nude form for a moment – under different circumstances their dinner might have been a social occasion and not a testing of the waters. The tattoos against her pale flesh were near-luminescent in the dim lighting of the basement.

He stepped forward and ran his hands along her body. His touch was firm, but not painful. He wasn’t trying to hurt her, not right now. They lingered on her breasts, before traveling along her taut belly and probing down over the thin fabric of her panties. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear “You and I both know no one’s coming for you. I want you to know that. The only thing that will change depends on how you respond to me.” To emphasize his point, he pressed his fingers hard against her sex, before pulling away completely.

Without warning, he sent a hard slap against her face. He knew enough to not ask her questions yet. If you started with questions, they had something to resist – a fight to take. Right now, she was enduring this for nothing, and it had to be eating away at her. “You’re experiencing something that very few people get to, my dear Owen,” he added, arching his shoulders back and rolling his neck side to side. “You see, I have two purposes tonight. The first is pretty standard in this business – I need information out of you. I’ve made so many people squeal that it’s hardly anything new for me,” he added, leaning down to pick up the knife from the concrete.

He walked around behind her, pressing the edge of the blade against her exposed rib cage. “And you will squeal,” he said, his voice a husky whisper in her ear as he pressed the blade into her skin, a thin trail of blood following the path of his blade as he ran lengthwise, from the top to the bottom of her ribcage. It was enough to hurt and draw blood, but not enough to put her in any danger. He knew exactly where to cut to cause the most pain and the least risk. She wasn’t getting out that easy.

He flicked the knife closed again, putting it back into his belt and continuing on, “The side you’re so privileged to see it is the part of me that’s going to enjoy this. You killed a dear friend, Owen. Not directly, but all the same I won’t ever see Antoine again. I’m here for my pound of flesh, metaphorically speaking.” To emphasize his point, his hand flitted across her stomach, and this time plunged between her panties, his fingers pressing against her folds, rubbing away at them with a sudden burst of intensity. As fast as they entered, however, they left and his other hand grabbed a chunk of her hair, forcing her head backwards again, “So, enjoy yourself. Or don’t. It makes no difference to me,” he whispered in her ear, biting hard on the lobe.

 

[navré]

"The fuck do you even want?" she growled through gritted teeth.

She tensed when he touched her, expecting another hit, instead of a firm stroke, his hands roughing over her skin to her hip. Owen gasped when he prodded her with a finger, feeling herself start to throb, her blood rushing between her legs. She quickly pressed her legs together in response.

"You bastard," she hissed; and cried when he slapped her face, the hit stinging her skin. If her face had not already been burning from the indignity from it all, the heat and sting might have been more of a shock.

"I'm fucking glad very few people ever come across you. They don't need to. And you really don't need to go to them. I'm sure they're happy to be left alone."

She bit into her cheek when he pressed the knife into her. Her eyes watered, and she inhaled sharply, then her chest heaved hot, heavy breaths when he pulled away. But she didn't scream. She stubbornly held on to what she thought was the remainder of her dignity and decided she wouldn't give him what he was used to just like that.
Owen glowered at him as if he thought to dish out torture was a privilege, that entitled bastard. Owen was nothing, especially with Antonio gone now, but she didn't put anyone's enjoyment on a pedestal. He was on a fantastically high horse, higher than she ever thought, and her admiration was evaporating fast. He wasn't noble, just another wolf in a man's form, and a well dressed one at that. It was depressing, like watching a celebrity you knew for their decency get pulled into a police station.

"You're disgusting," she muttered. Her vision was blurring, her eyes welling up when he stuck his finger into her but she couldn't stop her own body from straying to an altogether different reaction. She blinked a tear out and wiped her face quickly on her arm while he rubbed, hoping he wouldn't notice; he was applying intense pressure and it gripped her, making her arch her back involuntarily with a low whimper before he left, which worsened the feeling.

It's been a while, and her shoulders were starting to hurt. She tried to move her legs, but they were growing soft, and she felt her increasingly slippery folds whenever she shifted. She bent her head back when he slipped his fingers into her hair and pinched her eyes shut, already anticipating the yank.

She only shook her head at him. She was breathing onto his neck as he bit her, but tried to stay still, because the rope had loosened slightly, and she wanted to try to pick it loose with very small movements -- which she did, as well as making sure that it didn't look any different from struggling.

 

[Dan Cody]

His free hand collapsed over her mouth, cupping over it so that she wasn’t able to try a stupid thing like biting. “Did I ask you to talk? I haven’t even asked my questions yet, Owen. You’re not ready to talk. This is just a prelude.” He sighed and let go of her mouth, stepping away from her again. “You’re being difficult, and I expected more out of you, Owen,” he said, though from the faint smile on his lips it was clear he was enjoying the game. He flicked the knife back out – it seemed that it would be seeing more than enough time out of her.

He pressed the flat of the blade against her flesh, the cold steel meeting her warm flesh. He pointed at the mirror; the knife pressed against her ribcage again (her right side this time.) “I’m going to cut you again, Owen. Not because you’ve done anything, but because I can,” he said plainly, before pushing the tip of the blade into her flesh, pulling the blade down along her skin, drawing a near identical line down her skin, crimson blood leaking from the wound. He let the blade linger in her for a second, before withdrawing it entirely. “Now, if you want to keep talking a big game, I’m happy to slice somewhere more painful.

He pocketed the knife and stalked around her, eyeing her up and down as she struggled against the rope. He didn’t particularly care if she broke out – she was a computer junkie, not a fighter. If he had been worried about that, he would have gone with a type of binding more secure than what he had put her in. Without warning, he sent another hard punch to her gut, his fist punching against her flexed abdominals. “You see, I could make this a lot more miserable. You ever pulled someone’s fingernails off one by one? Not to mention their toenails,” he added with a feigned look of horror.

He walked around her again, slipping his hands underneath her panties once more, feeling the wet folds swallow a pair of fingers with ease. “I don’t have to ask to know you’re enjoying this more than you would that,” he mused. He probed deeper with his fingers this time, his other hand roaming upwards to paw at one of her breasts. “You haven’t even asked if I’m going to let you live, Owen,” he mused, pinching a nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

He leaned forward in her ear and whispered “Watch yourself. Watch me take what I want, or I’ll find somewhere much more unpleasant to cut.”

 

[navré]

Her eyes flicked down to his hand over her mouth, with resentment. She tensed at the touch of the blade, reflexively exhaling in momentary relief at the cold that didn't cut into her. Yet. She hissed as it did, sucking in air through her teeth, but feeling the knife push deeper as her chest rose. He knew these physical reactions, and he was informed in his inflicting pain. This time, she did properly cry, gritting her teeth so hard it hurt, her throat betraying a whine at the hard sting of the blade, much worse than the first. Her body started to shiver as he held the blade on her for a while longer, starting to go into shock. She's felt this before, it always came about four or five hours into a tattoo session; she didn't know why her vision was narrowing and her palms were sweating now. It had to be the fear that kicked her into a sensation she was familiar with, a sensation she usually found relaxing. He meant well on what he said and there was no comfort in any of it.

She watched herself the whole time -- she had turned away from him, but the mirror was there so she couldn't ignore what played out. The girl in the mirror kicked and shivered, pink-faced, crying, keeled over at every hit, her body like the sharply jumping line of a cardiograph. She felt like something hung up after a slaughter. Like a piece of meat. Owen felt more foreign to herself as she watched the girl in the mirror. The stranger's mouth opened in a gasp when James fingered her, legs bending again. The open hand over her breast soothed the pain, like a nurse pressing down on your arm after she draws blood; against what she wanted to feel from him, and his pinch only tickled a mindless, animal desire.

​

The knot had been figured out -- she prodded and found where to pull that would drop her, but she couldn't do it now. With his finger in her, she'd hurt herself. Owen instead stared at the mirror, but this time as a device to look around for a viable exit, so that she could run once she dropped. She wouldn't have time for her clothing or her bag, but there wasn't anything too important in them. She'd just grab something for cover on the way. There might be larger towels in the kitchen she could use.

 

[Dan Cody]

James smirked, "Very well, keep quiet. I enjoy a challenge, love," he mused as his hands roamed down her sides and pressed firmly into the cuts, massaging the wounds with his fingertips, coating the tips of them red and no doubt causing Owen another wave of pain. "You're not much of a negotiator, hmm?" His fingers left the wounds and wiped themselves on her cheeks, marring her red with her own blood. "Look at yourself. You're helpless, Owen. You're trapped and helpless and alone." He slipped his fingers back between her legs, enjoying the extreme reaction of her legs from the onslaught of pleasure. "Most people would be begging for their lives right now, and all you can muster up is insults and silence." He chuckled a little and whispered in her ear, "It almost makes me want to let you go." He paused, "Almost."

He pressed deeper and deeper, his fingers coaxing around her walls, occasionally flicking the pad against her most sensitive spot. He whispered in her again, his voice as sultry and as deep as it had been all night, "You pretend to be this hard girl. This street rough with a heart of iron and an impenetrable head. The way your legs shake and your eyes roll back in your head tells me otherwise, Owen. You aren't going to fight me. This is a marathon you can't ever finish," he whispered. He pushed his fingers in as far as they could go, before pulling them out completely.

He walked around in front of her, eyeing her up and down with a smirk. He was only a couple of inches away from her, his breath hot on the top of her head. "So, I'll ask you again, Owen. Do you want to live?" He said the words so plainly, like a disinterested waiter asking for an order.

 

[navré]

It did, it was an even deeper, rough stinging, like falling on gravel with more intensity, so much that it made her twitch, crying out sharply. She was panting, which would chill his fingertips, slick with her blood, as he passed them in front of her face to wipe them on her cheek; Owen tasted a tinge of it in the side of her mouth. The skin on the back of her neck, starting to bruise slightly, tingled at his whisper, but her stomach dropped at the 'almost'. He wouldn't.

But oh, how she vied to stay at that moment. He always followed a bout of pain with gut-wrenching pleasure, coaxing shivers from her. Wincing, head pressed back as if the flash of her pale neck wasn't exposed from the move, within reach to more choking. She was starting to feel the first wave of tensing; and she tightened around his finger as he pushed all the way in.

Her fingers pinched the end of the rope, and she was tense, hyperaware, heart pumping and ready to spring. Now there came a question she could answer, with steel in her eyes. Street rats survived.

"Yes."

With the flick of her wrist, the rope relaxed and dropped her; she kicked off the ground right as she touched down, and she was beside then behind him in a blink, bolting for the door. She nabbed her bag on the way out.

Escape, she's done before. If you were taller you were gifted with an advantage in a fight, but street rats were made to run. Childhood memories were about to flood her, but she reigned in the experience without the visual. The rough floor on bare feet, peripheral vision cut away cleanly, only the door in sight; that was her coming of age. At the edge of the basement, she threw her hand out to wrench the knob open and kick it shut with a bang behind her as she ran up, feeling a toenail crack against the side of the stairs, swearing and completely blinded in the dark.

Light at the top spilt in together with a large arm, one that cut up meat for a living.

"Please," Owen whispered. The chef, Harvey, was bewildered, only reacting to grab her out of instinct; he'd been at the door the moment he heard the slam from below, about to check on James.

"He'll kill me," she said, with certainty. Harvey was only bewildered because she wasn't dead yet, but she was naked. He looked away and shrugged off his oily coat, which was big enough to cover her down to the tops of her knees, and the manoeuvre to get it to her without loosening his grip was a small struggle in itself. He was thinking during that while. Favours would always be nice to have, from anybody. His thought process was fast; it had to be in this world. If he let her go, he saves her life. A favour like that... if someone wanted to kill him, he could very well do something as big as trade her in instead. It was like picking up an extra heart in a video game to cushion you.

"If I let you go, you live, and he may take it out on me. You will have to owe me a vios favour."

Vios, Owen had only ever heard of it. Greek for life, belongings; she would owe him her life, and the token proof for it was gory. This was as high a stake as it got. You had to give the holder a fingerprint from your ring finger to signal consent; forced deals were invalid, though there was no outright rule on pressure or blackmail. Then the holder would take that finger -- so you can only ever make one deal with one person because you only had one life to give.

Owen's head was on adrenaline, but it ran some semblance of logic by instinct. She knew Harvey would turn her in if James took it out on him for letting her go, that's why he wanted the favour, to be safe. But it meant that she would be, for the rest of her life, however long it lasted, would always be on the brink of being traded in for someone else's; and James would also be able to end it if he wanted since he had that control over Harvey. It still tied her to him irrevocably, but it meant she wouldn't die now. Harvey was looking at her with the same thought. He knew only James was supposed to walk out from the basement before Harvey was supposed to go in to clean up for him.

"Yes," she said quickly. Oh, the joys of being alive.

The exchange was swift, prick, print. She was shaking. Harvey was fast with taking her finger; he took up his knife and pressed her hand onto the cutting board -- she felt the ridges of the wood press into her skin, the outside draft cool the sweat off her palm. In the middle of turning away there came the sharp thud and she jumped, her ears ringing at the sound, her vision blacking as if she was back in the basement stairway she was in only seconds ago. Her hand burned, the sensation dulled by adrenaline. She could still function. The pain would be worse later. There was little other exchange -- Owen bolted into the night, and not to her own apartment, it wasn't safe any more, and she'd never think to go back again. A few stations away, her technician, Kim, would be woken by a dishevelled girl at his door bleeding through a yellowed coat.

⊱⊰​

Harvey watched her go, trying to piece what happened together in his head. He held the girl's finger in his palm. It was still warm.

Not dead, but naked; James had taken a liking to her. Harvey knew it happened occasionally. The man was all murder but it didn't kill his drive, though he was, at the very least, interested in what would happen next. She did agree to the vios, so she must believe that she had a chance, and a decent one, enough to lose a finger over, marked for all of the underground to see. That she would give her life before it was taken. She must have seen something in him that made her believe she had a chance, but knowing James, Harvey was also willing to believe that it was something that he showed her.

 

[Dan Cody]

James was enjoying every second of her struggling. As his fingers probed deeper and deeper, she squirmed more and more and her arousal only grew. He could feel her body giving in to him, he knew this was the beginning of the end of her struggle. He had seen it so many times before, where their pride and stubbornness fell and was replaced with something more primal and animalistic. That was when his real work began.

Perhaps he was too transfixed by her, because he reacted far too late when she dropped from the rope and dashed out of the room in an instant/ A million thoughts dashed through his mind - how long had she known about the weakness in his knot? How had he not grabbed her? How was she still conscious after the sheer amount of pain and pleasure he had inflicted, or least conscious enough to run that fast? He shook his head and scampered off after her, charging up the stairs. It took him longer than he would have liked - the darkness of the stairs impeding his vision and progress significantly. By the time he barreled through the hidden door into the cafe, she had disappeared into the night.

He turned to look at Harvey and grimaced. It was then that he noticed the finger. "You took a Vios from her?" Harvey nodded. "I should kill you, right now," James growled.

Harvey gave him a weary smile. "You like her, James. At least a little. Or you wouldn't have been toying with her like you did. You're glad she was smart enough to fight back a little. And desperate enough to give a Vios."

James sighed. "Yes, I suppose so. I still have to kill her though, Harvey. You got nothing more than a finger out of it,"

Harvey shrugged, "Maybe, she's got this far, James. That's more than most."

"Indeed it is," James said, shaking his head and walking off without another word.

⊱⊰ ​

Kim watched the monitor with awe. He couldn't tell whether to be horrified or incredibly turned on. As Owen struggled against her ropes, taking abuse after abuse, finger after finger, he couldn't help but get hard at the sight. She had always been beautiful, in a deadly and quiet way. If he hadn't worried about a swift kick to the nuts, he would have made a move on her when they first started working out. As it was, she had instead occupied the occasional fantasy of his.

His hand roamed down his pants as he watched her panting, her legs wobbling from his touch. What he wouldn't give to have her like that, completely at his whim. The thought only aroused him further. Sure, he was watching his partner-in-crime meet her demise, but it hardly meant he couldn't enjoy himself.

And then, she did the impossible. She escaped and it pulled him out of the fantasy entirely. He sighed and pulled his hands from his pants. She may or may not escape James, but if she was going to come here, he needed to be prepared to hide her. He immediately ran to around his home and unplugged the security cameras, de-powering them completely. They were hooked up to his computer, and he wanted no evidence of her arrival. Something stopped him from turning off the one in his bedroom. Maybe he could take advantage of the situation were it to arise. Instead, he walked over to his computer and switched the camera so it would record to its own internal memory and not to the computer.

He heard a knock at the door. He looked on his monitor and saw her, bleeding and half-naked on his doorstep. Kim was still incredibly aroused. He took a deep breath - now was his chance to take advantage. He walked to the door, opened it and pretended to be surprised. "Owen! I thought you were dead! You came here? With what happened between you and The Reaper? Give me one reason I should fucking let you in this house - you know what he'll do to me!"

 

[navré]

He finally opened the door after her pained hammering.

Owen couldn't even believe him, and she only managed to wince and push past him into his house, his groans and complaints about blood on his floor just turning into ringing in her ears.

"Emergency kit," she rasped, and it was impossible to scan his house, with the black spots in her vision. She was feeling incredibly light-headed at the third step she took past him.

In the same night, she had shown up bloodied on two doorsteps; the first time, her own house, with someone else's blood. Now, someone else house, in her own blood. Kim was the last person she could trust; she didn't have many friends, and Kim had always been friendly with her. Once or twice she caught him looking shiftily at her from the side, but he was generally harmless and seemed like he'd be as long as she continued to carry a flat face around and look like she'd punch any man that touched her. But she couldn't do that now.

And he knew. It was almost certain to happen -- at the third step in, Owen stumbled and collapsed. He caught her by the waist, but as his hand went over her ribs he dropped her with a yelp, feeling the fabric of the coat she was wearing slip over an open wound on her skin. This much blood made him queasy. It hadn't looked so bad on camera, she must have hurt herself further on her way here. Kim's initial envy for James turned into a more stirring hatred for a while, hating that he had all the fun of ruining her and he had to do the cleaning up. But he knew that a small part of him was glad he sent her to him like this. Passed out. Her vulnerability stirred something in him.

He lowered her onto a spot on the floor that he cleared up by pushing aside a vintage radio and a stack of magazines, the one on the top some lewd gentleman's sort of newsletter. Kim grabbed the kit and started to clean Owen, then patch up most of her wounds -- she had a broken toenail, which he washed then wrapped up. While cleaning the two cuts on her chest, he couldn't help letting his eyes linger on her curves; she was coated in so much grime, but this was all still a good sight of a woman. When she was wrapped up in gauze and bandages, expending his entire kit, to his vague irritation; he laid her on his fur couch. On top of a towel, of course, it was still a fur couch. He sat on the ground, watching her out cold. He couldn't go back to sleep. He had half a mind to... do something. He went to make himself a cup of coffee. Stirring impatiently. Why bother, she was as good as a corpse now. But in the morning he could tell her he saved her. For now, he went into the room designated as his office to continue looking at the folder. She wired it to him, and she was here without her laptop. She'd never do that. He had a feeling she would want him to run the system that would wipe her laptop, so he might as well start setting it up.

⊱⊰
​

Owen woke up around mid-afternoon, with a splitting headache, in clothes that felt too big to be her own. A clustered one right above her eye. She felt like a hot poker was being pushed into her eye socket and sat bolt upright, jostling and bringing herself more sharp pain from her chest, and for a reason that she couldn't exactly remember, her foot as well. Everything was a blur, and the strange room she was in was spinning, and when another spout of pain came into her head she couldn't help swearing with a cry.

 

[Dan Cody]

"Morning sunshine," he gestured at her hand, "I patched up your hand. I should have left you out there to die." Of course, he wasn't too worried about himself. Unlike Owen, he was far more careful with his footprint. James might be able to find him, but there was little linking him to Owen. He had been certain to operate that way from the beginning. Operatives, especially new ones, were always risky. No, he was fine letting her in, but he was going to milk this for all it was worth. She had, after all, given a Vios to someone. She was desperate and likely without an ally or asset in the world.

"You're going to need the laptop wiped. Or you'd have it with you, wouldn't you?" he smirked a little, knowing he was right. "Here's the problem, Owen. I don't see a reason why I should. What if it gets traced back to me. Look at yourself. See all those bruises? They'll look like nothing if the Reaper finds out I helped you. If a single soul knows I wiped that fucking laptop, I'm a dead man walking, if I'm lucky."

He made a show of sighing as he walked over to the couch. He reached towards the little coffee table and grabbed a cup of coffee, handing it to her. "Here. Drink up. I know you feel like hell, and I need you awake right now." Of course, in the coffee was a mild aphrodisiac. Not enough to fully impair her, but enough to get her a little excited. A little greasing of the wheels so to speak. "You're also going to need a new laptop. Unless you plan on leaving this place as empty-handed as you came." He waited for her to drink from the mug before her made a move.

"Course, we both know you can't pay, Owen." His hand roamed onto her thigh, squeezing lightly as he talked. "Which means, we're going to have to come to an understanding, you and I. If you want my help, which you need, you're going to have to give me something that I want," as he said so, his hand roamed futher along her thigh, before brushing up against her sex, just over the fabric now above it. "Come on, Owen. I saved your life, after all," he added, his hand pushing against her a little.

 

[navré]

Owen was dazed by how he was just ignoring the splitting fucking headache she was in.

"Kim, I've always paid you for whatever I needed you to help me with in the past," Owen managed to say, between gritted teeth. She was irritated. "And you're overreacting. I've just come out of an encounter with the Reaper and he'd mostly leave you alone. You're not even tied to the underground, just a freelance hacker people use to help guard their backup drives." It was the truth, but because the truth hurt, it would come off as an attempt to poke holes in his pride.

Owen took the coffee with one hand, the other still pressed over the eye that now felt like it was being repeatedly mashed with a grill, making her whole head throb. It was just the right temperature, and smelled good; Kim always made good coffee. Probably the one thing hipsters like him were good for.

He started to stroke her thigh, and she reared up on the inside, her anger raising an ugly head. He couldn't be fucking serious right now.

"No, Kim. And I'm not asking for that big of a favour from you. I can just pay you, like how I usually do. You're not that hard to afford." He was the kind of person, thoughtless, insensitive, a little vain, that you couldn't resist shading in every sentence.

She tried to shift away from him, but was surprised to find a sudden flare of desire burn between her legs, a soft aching for pleasure when he pushed against her.

Owen dropped her hand and stared at the now empty coffee cup, remembering a strange taste in hindsight. She widened her eyes at Kim.

"Did you drug me?" She yelled, fingers curling in the air, getting up so quickly on her feet that her vision blacked out. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She whispered, betrayal mixing with an already pained expression tinting her face so bitter it turned it completely inappropriate for proper conversation. She subconsciously took a step back, but it wasn't a big living room, and she felt the wall behind her.