Crimson blood splatters across the cement floor of the prison cell. Dead eyes stare out at the deep red staining the redhead's hands, and, Christ, how she wishes she really was dead now. Josie might be. She hadn't heard a sound out of the woman in the past few hours, which is unusual. The short blonde's rough voice frequently calls out numerous times a day, bounces off the cold walls of their dungeon, mocking guards and drawing their attention away. Benjamin used to scold her, his hoarse Southern accent thick as he told her to 'stand down' and to 'shut her trap'. She never listened.

Josie's dead. After the violence Charlie could hear a few hours ago from a few cells down, the blonde's dead. Silenced for good. And now this man, not a single mark upon his body but the glowing red hands of fury and anger, would do the same to her. It had taken a few men to take Josie Jones out. It would only take one to tear Charlie's head away from her shoulders.

But he toys with her first.

"Confess to your sins," the bulky man demands of the redhead kneeling before him, head hanging as if her head is too heavy to keep upright. Charlie doesn't respond, voice uncooperative with the part of her brain that must control her survival screaming out at her to give the man what he wants. She might live longer. She isn't Josie or Ben. Her bones will break. She'll die from the beatings they've taken.