#reader discretion advised

You hadn't intended to access it. At least that's what you told yourself when you'd found it. You had simply hacked into Northland's mainframe and were taking a look around. It was your hope that you could mine out some useful information that you could sell on the black market. Bank records weren't anything of real value, they were a dime a dozen on the open market. You could care less about those. It was general knowledge, at least amongst your circle of comrades, that Northland was little more than a cover for the Fauti's less than scrupulous practices. Meaning if you could find any information on the organization's plans or movements, you would hit the proverbial gold mine. 

When you had discovered the server all the way at the bottom of a nested list, you already had enough information to get you through the next few months. You should have left it alone. But your curiosity got the better of you. The higher security protocols triggered your interest in a way that the standard Northland servers hadn't. This singular server was a puzzle to you and you being you, viewed the stricter restrictions as a challenge. This server's security wasn't a standard system that could be easily overridden. You quickly discovered that the protections around the server were custom made. Meaning its owner had intended for it to be fool proof when it came to keeping any unwanted individuals out. That thought only intrigued you more. What could be so precious that this level of security was required? Was it weapons codes or plans for world domination? Surely whatever was there would be profitable enough that you would never have to work again, right?

After days of trying, to the point that you were nearly exhausted, you finally got in. It had taken a monumental amount of research on your part to figure out a way around the complex coding. What you discovered was well worth your efforts. On a server for one was a treasure trove of videos. All of them private, all of them explicit. You could hardly believe it.  

You should have just left well enough alone after that. The knowledge that you could watch the Regrator get off in some of weirdest ways possible should have been enough. Even in your greed, you should have grabbed some of the more disgusting videos and sold them for a large profit. The funds would be more than enough for you to evade the harbinger’s wrath and start a new life elsewhere. Most importantly, after you had accessed the server, you should have checked for additional security measures; namely tracking. If you had, you would have realized that the access records were being monitored. You would have known your IP address and location had been captured. You would have realized that your fate, at least where the Regrator was concerned, was already sealed. Unfortunately for you, that wasn’t what happened. Instead, in your own depravity, you had set an alert to be notified of any updates to the server so you could see what perversion he indulged in next. 

Pantalone knew the second the server was breached. He was in the middle of a meeting when he received the notification. It was only by the grace of the heavens that he managed to keep himself contained. Security breaches weren’t an uncommon thing. Northland was a common target for hackers and resistance fighters alike. It was why he laced lies and false plans throughout the servers. Pantalone had more than enough data on what they were looking for. All he needed to do was place it in specific areas so they wouldn’t have cause to go deeper. Not many people were inclined to keep digging after they’d already found the treasure. You were obviously the exception. That told him you were either abnormally greedy or you didn’t know what was good for you. It didn’t matter to him. You had made yourself a target. The question was how best to deal with you? Finding you would be simple. His tracking software would see to that. Pantalone only needed to assess the damage to determine whether he needed to act now or if the matter would keep until his afternoon tea.

After the meeting’s sudden adjournment, in the privacy of the now empty space, the analytics gave him surprisingly good news. Nothing had been taken. You had breached the security, but you hadn’t stolen anything. In fact, all you had done was browsed his videos like it was your going through your own personal library. He supposed for now it wasn’t that bad.Clearly you’d been snooping and that was all. The matter could be fixed with additional security to stop you from coming back. If word of the videos got out, it was something he could easily deny. From his end of things, you had no proof. Even if you’d taken screen captures, you still risked exposing yourself and your less than legal activities. You would have to publicly admit you had committed a crime. If you did, then it was nothing to him to silence you for good. After all, any number of nasty accidents could be arranged and none of them would be traceable to him. All he could do now was wait and see.

It took you a few days to go back and try again. After your first encounter with videos, you’d set the notification and promptly walked away. You’d told yourself the notification was enough. You didn’t need to go back unless he posted something new. The image of him looking so vulnerable though. Of him gasping and moaning and whimpering as he ran his hands over himself was a tough one to forget. Despite everything that made him terrifying, beneath it all, the weakness he willingly put on display was utterly alluring. You knew the videos were for his eyes only. That the exposed nature of them was for him to enjoy. But you couldn’t help but allow your mind to wander back to them. God he had looked so pathetic. Pantalone always projected an image of strength to the public. To see him so weak and needy was addictive. Your own desire to see him make an absolute mess of himself demanded it. Which was why, despite your better judgement, you found your way back into Northland’s systems. 

The additional security should have been a red flag. You hadn’t sold what you’d taken a few days earlier, meaning that there was only one reason for the additional firewalls; your visit to the private server had been discovered. Your own need to peer back into Pantalone’s private world dismissed the additional security as little more than red tape. The bank had instituted a new security policy or something like that. Breaches were common, so it’s likely they were attempting to dissuade smaller hackers with new measures. For you though, they weren’t anything. Not after you had figured out how his security worked. You bypassed them easily enough, quickly tunneling down into the treasure trove that rested at the end. 

This went on for weeks. You tried not to make it a daily thing as that felt excessive, but every time he posted a new video, which was becoming more frequent, you found yourself going there right away. The temptation to see his latest perversion was simply too great, especially since watching him had helped bring you to some of the best orgasms of your life. At this stage, at least in the back of your mind, you felt he had to know. Different aspects of his videos had changed. It was nothing dramatic, but you had noticed slightly improved lighting, better camera angles, and above all, the mumbled utterances of are you enjoying this as he got himself off. It was hard to believe he enjoyed being watched when he was like this. His image was always so controlled. As you sat in a post orgasmic bliss after his latest video, you wondered if he was doing just that? Was he tailoring this image of himself specifically for you, based on what you enjoyed? You scoffed at the possibility. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know, right? 

As you thought about it over the next day or so, you swore to yourself that you’d been careful. You hadn’t given him a way to know you had been there or at the very least you appeased yourself with the idea that he couldn’t find you. You had cracked his security protocol enough that the normal alarms wouldn’t trigger. On his side, you should have looked like a regular user and nothing more. Even if he had figured out specific videos were being watched without his consent, he wouldn’t go so far as to bait you, would he? 

Your answer came in the form of another video, one where he explicitly used your name. 

The second it passed his lips your entire body went cold. All you could do was blankly stare at the screen as he sat there in all his magnificence, looking utterly proud of himself. For a moment you thought you’d misheard it. He hadn’t said your name, he didn’t know it. Again, you swore to yourself that you had been careful. He couldn’t know anything about you. Then, as if on que, he said it again. This time, with a smirk so sinister you leapt up from your chair just to get away from it. God he knew. Oh fuck, he knew. You immediately went to close the screen, your arousal long forgotten due to the reality that was now seeping in. The Regrator knew what you had been up to. He likely had known for weeks now. It explained the changes and tweaks made to the content. It explained his utterances and questions as he stroked himself. He was imagining you watching him. That fact sent a chill down your spin. He shouldn’t know you exist. Yet he did and worse than that, he was getting off on the fact that you watched him. 

Your hand was on the button. You were seconds away from closing the window when his melodic voice washed over you again. “Before you close this darling. Just know, this one tells me how far you got.” As your eyes drifted over to the screen, you saw a shudder ripple its way through his body. On top of everything, the bastard had the nerve to be close. “End the fun too soon and there may be-” He gasped as he ran his fingers over the tip of his cock. “Consequences.” You swallowed, not daring to imagine what those might be. He had your name, which meant he knew how to find you. Even if you tried to run, you wouldn’t get far. Your funds might get you to somewhere like Nod Krai, but you wouldn’t have enough to pay the guilds for their silence. It wasn’t like you were well equipped to survive out in the wild either. To stand a chance of making it there or really anywhere, you would have to take a job in the city. That meant a proper address tied to your name. All it would take was for Pantalone to get a hold of your paperwork. After that, you were a sitting duck.

From the screen, he smiled at you again, moaning your name as his movements grew more erratic. He was going to cum. As you stood there and shook in fear, he was going to have the nerve to cum. “Fair’s fair-” He groaned out another darling. “You obviously enjoy watching me.” He paused long enough to get the rest of the sentence out. “It’s only right I should get to see you.” Your stomach collapsed to the point that you felt like you were going to be ill. He wasn’t serious. “You’ve…” He groaned in satisfaction as he teased the tip of his cock with his fingers. “Definitely caught my attention dearest.” Pantalone tightened his grip slightly, his hips jerking and stuttering as his movements grew messier. He was getting close now. You could see it in the way he furrowed his brow. The regrator was desperate to hold on, but you knew him well enough to know that wouldn’t be the case. The second he drew his bottom lip into his mouth, it was over. In what you would consider a truly glorious display, Pantalone came moaning your name. 

“You-” His voice was heady with lust as he came down from his orgasm; pleasure and satisfaction dripping from every single word. It was as annoying as it was alluring. You had just watched the regrator get off to you or at least the idea of what he was going to do to you. Despite everything you were feeling in the moment, you couldn’t help but be a little flattered. “Have 24 hours to respond. I won’t bother with access rights. If you’re clever enough to get through my security, then I’m sure you're clever enough to figure out how to get a video of your own onto this server.” You gapped at that your temporary sense of pride long forgotten. Not only did the bastard want payback, but he was going to set you up for failure to get it? It had taken you days to understand how the server worked. Even then you’d only barely gotten into it with read-only access. Now he expected you to update your permissions, on your own? In less than 24 hours? He had to be insane. “I do hope you’ll give me a good show. After all, I’ve made quite the effort for you. The least you can do is return the favor.” The pause after that overtook everything. Your spinning mind automatically went into overdrive. What were you supposed to do? What could you do? You had hacked your way into the private server of one of the most powerful men in Sneznaya and stolen from his public servers. That alone was enough to earn you a ticket to jail. Then, with his full knowledge, but not his consent, you had been pleasuring yourself to him for weeks. Now, he was demanding compensation in the most humiliating way possible. He couldn’t actually expect you to film yourself, could he? At least not in the same method he did for himself. Surely he was joking. He had to be. “If I don’t see anything from you as of the time you started this little video then I’ll take that as an invitation to see you in person so that we might experience this little delight together. It has been ages since I’ve had anyone fun here.” Your legs automatically gave out. You fumbled your way back into your chair, tears forming in your eyes as reality finished setting in. He was going to make you do it. Come hell or high water, the Regrator would get his way with you. The question was, could you get the video on the server in time or would it be easier to sort this out in person? Despite your lack of funds, could you try to get to another border or at least out on the open sea? Could you swing that before your time ran out? “Before you think I can’t find you, or you believe you can get away, just know I have spies close by watching your every move. If they catch you trying to run, then we’ll meet each other much sooner than expected.” Of course he already had people on you. He’d probably sent them as soon as he’d begun this sick little game with you. “I’m eager to see how you’ll respond dearest.” Your eyes came back up to the screen before you realized they’d fallen away. The sinister smile he’d held the whole time mocked you from the other side of the screen. “Don’t keep me waiting for too long. It ruins the fun.” With one last laugh, the video ended. Leaving you in complete darkness. 

What now? Was it worth your time to meet his challenge? Did you really believe you could get the necessary access rights in time or would your time be better served trying something else? You thought about trying to find his spies. There couldn’t be that many, could there? Maybe you could take what you had and buy them off. Maybe you could try to use force as a means of escape. Even if you managed it, there was still the matter of trying to get away. The cities were warmed to make them habitable. But in the frozen tundras of Snezhnaya, you doubted you would make it a mile before you froze. Were those your choices? Comply or die? Was that all he had left you with? You let out a broken sob at the thought. 

With tear filled eyes, you looked back at the dark screens. He’d insisted you shouldn’t disappoint him. You knew that applied to your actions as much as your video. If you forced him to wait for nothing, you knew the consequences would become more severe. Right now he had given you a choice. He’d only asked for one video. If you didn’t acquiesce to his request then one could turn into an infinite number with a snap of his fingers. Worse still, he could find you and he could demand that you give him what he wanted in person. If those were your only options, then you preferred to keep him as far away as humanly possible. 

With shaking hands, you reached for the keyboard and mouse, closing his video. You had to try, didn’t you? Even if you hated it, even if you failed, you still had to make an effort. Because even the smallest effort might be what stayed his hand. At least, you hoped it did. In all honesty, nothing actually would. Even if by some miracle you managed to meet his deadline, that only opened the door to additional demands. More videos, tougher challenges, and tighter timelines. Because that was the real payoff for him, wasn’t it? The show he wanted wasn’t the video, it was the challenge in getting the video to him. Pantalone wanted to be impressed to the point that he had demanded it. The price of his individual attention was that you show him how capable you really were. He wanted to see if your meddling was a fluke or if you were as competent as you had shown yourself to be. If that was the case, then you decided you would rise to the occasion. As the terror of the situation settled into anxiety, you decided he didn’t matter. You would do what he wanted, but you wouldn’t do it for him, you would do it for yourself. You would prove that you could beat him at his own game, even if you had to humiliate yourself to win. 

You fade in and out, your head swimming with nothing and everything all at once, empty, yet foggy, heavy, yet so light it feels like it could float away if it weren't attached.

You hear the creaking of wagon wheels, voices speaking low and indistinct. You couldn't make out what they were saying, even if you had the consciousness to try.

You try to move your hands, your feet, but you're tied up. Wrists bound together behind your back in an uncomfortable way; ankles roped together, as if you could run in the first place.

The night air is too chilled for your clothing, now mostly soaked from the struggle with the woman in the bath.

If you were all there, you might ask who the people were, or where they're taking you. But you're not all there. Your brain is nowhere to be found, even though the throbbing in your head is insistent that is in fact still in your skull.

The wagon jostles hard during a turn, the horses taking it too fast over the rough terrain. Your head slams against the wooden bed, making you groan against the cloth gagging you as the throbbing in your head grows.

The wagon comes to a halt, and you feel yourself being picked up, someone tossing you crudely over their shoulder and carrying you. You open your eyes, but you can't make anything out.

Too weak to do anything, You listen to the voices. A man yells, another laughs. A lady, presumably the one who helped kidnap you, giggles, her voice girlish and strange sounding.

Then, you're being tossed onto a rough, straw-tick mattress on an old, wooden frame. You can feel the straw poke through the fabric covering, prickly on your legs and face.

You're left alone for a while, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but hope that soon it would be all over.

Arthur Morgan looked around the saloon. He didn't see you anywhere, and his last two beers had been delivered by a man who he assumed was the owner. The man was dressed sharper than you had been, and than the bartender. He had money for sure, at least some. And he was looking very displeased about something; likely the fact that he was serving drinks to the rowdy saloon instead of you doing it.

Javier and Sean were off trying to flirt with some of the local women and saloon girls; hell, Sean was practically teasing one of the whores into letting him go a round for free.

Lenny and John were sitting at the table, arguing about something, going mostly unnoticed by him.

"That ain't a real word!"

"No, it definitely is a word, John."

"It sounds like somethin' Dutch would say when he's lyin'."

"It probably is."

"See? You just admitted it! It ain't a real word!"

"Most of the words Dutch uses when he's lying are still real, John."

"…No they ain't. He uses words like ambivalent and… quintessential."

"… And?"

"And those ain't real words! I'm telling' you, he's makin' 'em up, Lenny!"

Arthur turned to them, interrupting the argument.

"Where's the girl?"

Both men look at him, confused.

"What girl?" asks John.

"Y'know, the server."

"Ain't she just… I dunno… serving drinks?" John asked.

"You know," Lenny started, "it has been a while since she last came by here. It's been that man serving since then…" His gaze went around the room, until he found the owner, who was frantically running around the floor, trying to serve drinks to the rowdy patrons.

Without another word, Arthur stood and made his way over to the man, standing in front of him and stopping him in his tracks. He loomed over the man, crossing his arms.

"Where's the girl?"

The saloon owner, Mister Smithfield, shook his head, responding exasperatedly.

"What girl?! There's girls all around here, you brute, I can't keep track of all–"

"Not any girl. Her. The server. Where'd she go?"

Mister Smithfield let out an irritated huff.

"She ran off on me, in the middle of a rush, and didn't even think to say so much as 'I quit'! Leaving me to fend for myself in this pack of– of– of animals!" he sputtered, his tray of empty glasses almost flying from his hands as he tried to gesture wildly.

Arthur's expression went cold.

"She run off. In the middle of a rush? Now, you tell me what's wrong with that statement."

"How am I supposed to know? She hasn't been working here for more than a couple of months, and now she leaves– If she thinks she's gettin' her job back, she can think again!"

The bartender, Cliff, suddenly spoke up from behind the bar, having overheard.

"Now boss, you know Miss wouldn't do that…"

Arthur, realizing he'd likely have more luck with the seemingly sympathetic bartender rather than the angry owner, turned to Cliff and asked.

"When you last see her?"

Cliff's hand stilled from wiping down the bar, his other hand coming up to stroke his chin as he thought.

"Well… last I saw her was… maybe an hour or two ago? Hard to keep track of time when we're busy… haven't seen her since she went to tend to that deluxe bath for the one lady…"

"What lady?"

"She was sittin' right over there. Blonde, short… didn't look like a very– eh– Christian lady, if you asked me; but who am I to judge? Had a couple o' men with her. Real rough types…"

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Rough types? How so?"

"Just… looked like the kind of folk you had to be careful of. I seen my fair share of men you don't wanna mess with…"

Arthur's mind briefly went to the fight with Tommy, how he'd been underestimated in his ability to take on the man. This very bartender was the one working… Yeah. He probably would know the rough types…

"They leave with the lady?"

"No, they waited a bit. I didn't see 'em leave, just realized they were gone at some point after Miss went to tend to the bath."

Arthur's jaw clenched and his fists were balled up at his sides. It smelled a whole lot like trouble…

"Where do ya give the baths?" he asked.

"Uh… back there. Straight back, to the left. Door on the right is the stock room, but when she's tending to someone it's where she sits and waits for 'em to call her in."

Arthur didn't waste any time, going behind the counter, stalking down the hall. He was a man on a mission, determined to see just why you hadn't returned… his stomach was twisting in a way not unfamiliar to him. Like when you hear a gunshot ring out and you go looking for the source.

When he got to the back of the hall, he briefly glanced in the stock room to the right, noting the chair she likely sat in while waiting. Nothing out of the ordinary there. The he turned left, looking at the door to the bathing room. There was no noise coming from inside, no sloshing of water in the tub, no sighs of contentment from a hot bath, no murmuring voices in quiet conversation. It was eerily quiet. The sign said 'PRIVATE' in big, dark lettering. And the door was just ever so slightly ajar.

He pressed it open, door creaking slowly, and went inside.

You wake up to a splash, someone throwing a bucket of cold water on you. You gasp from it, the cloth tied around your mouth muffling the noise as you open your eyes and look around with bewilderment.

Still out of it, the shapes of wooden furniture and the dirty torn curtains blowing from the wind of the open window turn into unidentifiable objects to you. You squint your eyes trying to make them out, head throbbing, and a sickly, sweet taste in the back of your throat, like some kind of fruit gone rancid. The room is spinning but slowly stills, allowing you to focus on what was in front of you.

Colm O'Driscoll.

"There she is… our own Sleeping Beauty…"

His deep, dragging voice makes your hair stand on end, like a spooked cat. He stands in front of the rough straw-tick you're laying on, looming over you, then walks around the side with slow, heavy steps, each one like another thump to your already racing heart. His gaze is assessing, a predator watching his prey, seeing if they're fit for eating or just trash to be discarded.

"I think you'll do just fine. My boys picked out a real winner with you. A fine little piece to play with."

You want to get up, to run from the cabin, to scream. Anything. But you can't, you're stuck just listening. Stuck listening to a man describe how perfect you are for his idea of 'playing', of 'fun'. Hands bound together behind you uncomfortably with a rough length of rope, feet tied at the ankles, too.

Your body shivers and you can't tell if it's from the chill of your wet clothing in the cold air, or if it's just because of how he's looking at you.

"You know, I think you might serve real well here. A lot longer than them other girls they brought me. Most of them…" he lets out a huff, somewhere between amused and annoyed, shaking his head, "they don't last more'n a couple a' days. But you… you got fight in ya, girly, don'tcha? You could probably last me and my boys a good bit. Unless… I go a little too hard on ya… But I'd only do that if you're bad. You gonna be bad for me, girly? Or… are you gonna be a good little thing and play along?"

He reaches down to touch you. His hand comes up to caress your face, knuckle running along your cheekbone. It wasn't gentle, it was possessive. He was looking at the gift brought from his men to him. His new toy. You..

Arthur stepped into the room. It was… eerie. Like some scene in an unsettling painting where the artist used all those strange shadows and disturbing undertones.

The air was still, the steam that was there once now hung low. The bathtub water was cool, only a little above room temperature, a light film of soap and oils on top. The sounds of the saloon were quieter back here, the laughter muffled and the notes played on the piano sounding discordant and off. All of that wasn't to mention the glaringly obvious truth of this room: something happened here.

There was a struggle.

The floor had puddles of water here and there, a towel lay half dragged from the tub, partially soaking wet and the other part still dry. There were muddy footprints on the floor… one smaller set: the woman who had the bath, and two larger sets: the men she was with. No second set of women's. Like she came in and just… never walked out. They led to a service door that he could assume was normally locked from inside, but wasn't right now.

He spotted something on the ground by the tub. It was a white handkerchief, crumpled up and half wet from sitting in a puddle, looking like a little drowned dove.

When he grabbed it off the floor to look at it, the smell coming off it hit his nose. He brought it a little closer, giving a small sniff.

He instantly recoiled at the cloying, sweet smell of it, like fruity and floral but inherently wrong. The taste lingered in the back of his throat and his sinuses.

Chloroform.

He knew the smell. Hosea sometimes used it when they were desperate and had to get someone knocked out, though he preferred not to. And he knew some of the more nefarious uses people had for it, drugging people for all manner of things.

He spat hard on the ground, trying to clear the lingering taste from his senses. His jaw tightened, and he clutched the rag in his fist while turning on his heel and storming out into the front of the saloon.

Mister Smithfield was still out there, currently speaking to a customer about your 'running off'.

"And if she says anything about back wages–!"

Arthur grabbed him by his collar and held the handkerchief against his nose for a moment, just long enough to make him gasp it into his lungs.

"She didn't run off," he growled as he pulled the handkerchief away, tossing it onto the bar counter.

Mister Smithfield sputtered and gasped, both from the sweet air he'd just inhaled and from the shock of being grabbed by a man who looked like a storm-cloud.

"What– what the hell is that?" he yelled as he stumbled back, feet unsteady from the now slowly, spinning room.

"She was drugged and taken. All because you decided a couple o' coins was better than havin' her out here doin' her job!"

John and Lenny smelled the scent off the handkerchief waft toward them as they stood nearby.

"What the hell is that shit? Smells like Uncle brewed a bad batch o' hooch," John said as he eyed the handkerchief with disgust.

"I opened a can of peaches that had hole in the bottom, once. Smelled a whole lot like that," Lenny said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

But it was Cliff's face that said the most. His skin had gone pale and his normally friendly expression looked haunted.

"Chloroform. Knockout drops. That's a smell a man never forgets… Doctor's would use it in the war… I helped hold a few men down after they got near knocked out from it for their surgeries. Docs claimed they couldn't feel anything, but it made 'em real… agitated and restless sometimes. Had some myself once, when they were digging bullets outta my leg. It helped, but if I knew my head would be poundin' like it was afterward, I would'a gone without."

Everyone was silent for a moment allowing the statement to settle over the group like a weighted blanket, the noise of the saloon itself seeming to fade into the background. But then, someone unexpectedly cleared their throat. Arthur's head whipped around to see who interrupted.

"Y'all ain't talkin' about that girl that was in here earlier, are ya?"

It was one of the girls Javier and Sean had been talking to. Their group had overheard as they wandered closer to Arthur and Cliff's conversation.

"Yeah, you know her?" Arthur asked, seeing the glimmer of recognition on her face.

She nodded, her earlier laughter nowhere to be found.

"Honey, that's Pearl White. She's a mean little thing… We worked the same line down in Blackwater before everything went to shit there. Used to be a good girl 'til that devil Colm O'Driscoll got his claws in her."

"Ye sayin'… she's Colm's girl, now?" Sean asked, slurring his words from having taken too many shots of rye. "I been a couple'a rounds meself wit'… wit' ol' Pearl. Never t'ot she were the type ta go wit' the likes a' him! Right bastard…" Despite being three sheets to the wind, his anger was evident.

"Mhm… she is. He uses her as his sweet face to make people trust 'em more… and if that's sweetwater y'all got on that there in your hand, it's definitely hers."

"Sweetwater?"

"That's what she called it anyway. Used to use it on men after they passed out from a night with her, to make sure they stayed passed out 'til she left with all the money in their pants… used it on me when she left our group, a few other girls, too. The bitch took everythin' and ran."

"Should'a figured O'Driscolls would be behind this shit…" John muttered, shaking his head.

Arthur shoved the crumpled handkerchief in his pocket and squared his shoulders.

"Lenny! Get Sean back to camp. He ain't gonna shoot straight in the state he's in. Let Dutch know what's goin' on. John, Javier? You're with me." He turned, grabbing Smithfield by the collar of his shirt and shoving a finger against his chest. "And if we don't find her, I'm burning this place to the goddamn ground," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Smithfield didn't even have time to react before Arthur let go, pushing him back and making the man stumble. He stormed to the back hall towards the service door, not bothering to look behind him to make sure they followed.

He was carrying the weight of your survival on his shoulders, and he didn't care what anyone had to say about it.

"Don't you worry, girly… this bed? It's temporary…" Colm's breath smelled like rot and whiskey and stale cigars. He was on the mattress with you now, next to you, face inches from yours and his voice a whisper that seemed to get colder with each word. Every time you looked away, he gripped your chin and turned your face back towards him. "We'll be movin' out here in a few hours. Then you'll have a nice, comfortable bed… one you won't mind cuddlin' up to me on…"

He punctuates his words by licking a long stripe up your neck to your ear.

It felt slimy, and violating, making you recoil with a small involuntary whimper.

He inhales the scent from the hair, behind your ear, then gives the side of your head a testing kiss. It would almost be considered tender if not coming from him.

He lets out a low, creeping chuckle.

"Girl, you smell like fear. I like that, you know. Means you know what I can do to ya…"

He pulls a knife from beside the bed, and traces it up your arm, to the front of your blouse, then slowly pulls off each button with the knife, each thread popping as they snap off.

He uses the tip of the knife to open your blouse with slow, delicate precision, revealing your chemise and stays. Then, with more force and less restraint, he slips the knife blade under the neckline of your chemise and yanks downward, tearing through the chemise and stays in one smooth motion.

As he takes a moment to look over your exposed chest and stomach, you vaguely register somewhere back in your brain, behind the fear, his expression reminds you of a child opening a present on Christmas day.

You barely notice the tear running down your cheek, but he does.

"Aww, don't cry now, girl… I ain't gonna hurt ya that much… Hell, maybe if you're good enough, I'll keep ya. How's that sound? You wanna be mine?"

You shake your head no, more frantic tears now spilling down from your eyes, vehemently against letting him have any ideas about you wanting this. Who could want this?

He just chuckles again at your frantic look, amused with your defiance.

"Oh, you're gonna be a fun one, huh? Most girls, they realize by now they ain't goin' anywhere… they find it easier to be… agreeable. But you… you're different, huh? You're gonna give me a hell of time."

He laughs at the thought, grinning ear to ear.

"Don't you worry none, I like me a challenge. I like breakin' in a feisty little filly like you. Now, how 'bout we get you out of those ropes, hm? Just for now. You can let me see just how much fight you got in ya."

He takes his knife again, grabbing you and pulling you to sit up by your arm, and roughly reaches behind your back to cut through the rope. The sawing only takes a moment, and when your hands are free you pull them back, rubbing your wrists as if you could make the burn of the rope go away. He pushes you to lay back again, then unties the long strip of fabric his men used to gag you.

"There. Now we can hear how pretty you sound…"

You don't say anything, refusing to interact as much as you can with your limited autonomy. You don't look away, knowing he'll just grab your chin and make you look at him anyway. But the look you're giving him… it's no longer fear. It's daggers.

You're interrupted by someone pushing the door open and walking just into the doorway.

Colm turns his head, looking at whoever dares intrude right now.

"Pearl…" he growls, "you better have a damn good reason to be in here right now, woman.".

He turns to look back at you.

You watch as she shrinks back a little, but she still has a slight defiance to the set of her jaw as she answers him.

"The boys are gettin' into the moonshine you said not to touch. Casey's tryin' to pick a fight with the scouts already. If they're too drunk in the morning' to sit on a horse, we ain't goin' nowhere…"

Your hands, now free, don't move yet… you feel the steady pressure of your revolver tucked and still hidden in the waistband of your skirt…

If he just looks away… just for a moment…

It takes what feels like forever, as he rubs your jawline in steady, smooth strokes… but finally he turns his head to answer her.

A slow, sadistic grin spreads across his face.

"Now Pearl, you're a terrible liar when you're poutin'. You come in here when I'm havin' a bit o' fun like there's a fire out there… tell me, that really what's goin' on, or you just burnin' up 'cause I ain't lookin' at you?"

Pearl looks like he's slapped her, flinching at his cruel words, her face turning red. You use the opportunity to slowly guide your hand down to your waistband…

Pearl stammers, trying to think of something to say, but can't. She ends up looking at you, her eyes burning holes into you. This is your fault to her… a distraction, not a prisoner. Thankfully, Colm's body is blocking the view of your hands.

She leaves, slamming the door behind her.

Colm slowly looks back at you, about to say something, but you draw the gun from your waistband quickly and pull the trigger, the gun aimed at him.

Right before the pull, in a flash, his hand pushes the one you're holding the gun in up, above your head.

BANG!

The gun goes off, and the bullet grazes the top layer of skin on Colm's shoulder.

He doesn't react much, aside from how heavy he's breathing. His eyes, full of rage now, stare into yours, deep and cold.

You're shaking.

Then, he begins to laugh again, that slow, deep chuckle of his. He's amused. He's furious. He's danger.

He pries the gun from your fingers and tosses it across the room on the floor.

"Thought I didn't know 'bout that piece you was hidin' from me, huh? Yeah… I knew… I was wondering how long it'd be before it made its appearance… you really are a little fighter, huh girly? Don't worry… you ain't gonna be fightin' for long."

Suddenly he lifts your skirt up, bunching it around your waist, then with no hesitation he tears through your drawers with his knife, ripping them off and throwing them to the side.

"There… now we can have a good time… c'mon now, I'll make sure it's real good for ya… gonna make you squirm on me, girly," he taunted, his vile commentary making your gut twist in revolt. You feel like you're gonna throw up…

He starts slithering his hand up your thigh, making you shudder.

"Bet you want this… bet you're just achin' for it. Let's see, shall we?"

His words are so disgusting.

Disgusting.

Disgusting.

Before his hand reaches its destination, you spit in his face, landing the glob warm and wet on his cheek.

For a moment, neither of you move. The warmth of it seemingly contrasting against his icy, cold glare.

Then, he smiles.

He reaches up, not to wipe it from his cheek, but to smear it across his face with slow, terrifying deliberation, like he's applying some kind of twisted warpaint.

He leans in closer, his rancid, rotting breath right under your nose.

"Now," he whispers in an almost fond tone, "that wasn't very agreeable, was it?"

He doesn't give you a chance to answer, his hand a blur as he backhands you with a closed, heavy fist.

Your world shatters, the tang of copper in your mouth as everything goes black. The last thing you register is Colm's deep, guttural chuckle, and his hands, slithering up along your thighs before prying them open.

When you wake, it's slow and cold. Rain pattered on the canvas covering the wagon, a sound that sooths your mind, giving it a small background to listen to instead of focusing on the dull throbbing sensation in your head. Your thoughts are sluggish and thick. The wagon creaks as it rolls along, and the damp wood underneath you is a welcome, if temporary, respite from the poking straw-tick.

Your shirt was tucked into your waistband in crude effort to cover your chest, considering the buttons were snapped off, but it didn't provide much warmth or modesty, especially with nothing underneath. Your skirt was at least pulled back down to cover your legs, but you no longer had shoes on, your toes chilled from the exposure to the cool air.

There's a small, gray stream of soft light coming through the canvas. It must be early morning, you think.

You realize that though your feet around bound and the cloth is back wrapped around your mouth, your hands are still free…

You frantically reach behind your head, trying to find where the knot to your gag is. It all feels like one continuous piece of fabric, making the knot impossible to locate. You try and slide the cloth up or down, to pull it off, but it's tied tight enough that it's deep in the groove of your mouth, making that impossible, too.

Finally, you reach down to try and untie your bindings on your feet. You could jump out of the wagon, be free… but your fingers are too cold and numb from both the chill in the air and from how tightly they were tied just hours before. You pick desperately at the knot, the hemp biting into the skin around your ankles more each time you think you got something loose, a testament to Colm's men knowing their trade. You pick at it… pick for what feels like forever.

But eventually, the rough rope against already cold, numb fingertips makes you lose all feeling in them entirely.

You close your eyes, trying to think of something, the tears brimming in them again.

Your hands begin to search your pockets in hopes that you could find something, anything inside them that could be of use. But you quickly note that the men must have cleaned them out, nothing left inside… nothing except one thing, folded up and laying against the lining on the edge… something they missed.

You pull it out and clumsily smooth it before holding it up to the small strip of gray light.

A five dollar silver certificate.

A gift from a ghost.

Your tears still as your eyes trace the lines of the scene on it… tracing the lines of Lady Electricity… of her wings…

You know Mister Smithfield won't come for you. Nobody would likely come for some forgotten widow like you. Nobody would ask where you were, or talk about you.

Nobody would come for a ghost.

But this… this was proof that someone had thought about you… Somebody had seen you.

Another ghost.

And as you realized that, looking at Lady Electricity and her wings, letting them carry you, you held to the desperate, foolish hope that that other ghost would come for you; you were unaware that he was already looking.

"Is this Simon?"

"Yes."

"Hi! I'm Millie. You know, from the party last month?"

The screwdriver in his hand goes still as he tries to recollect this voice. Truth be told, he didn't recollect for any more than a second since his mind is still occupied by the leaky pipe. You'd asked him to accompany you at someone's birthday party, that much he remembers. But you'd also been the one to suggest bailing out early. He couldn't recall staying more than twenty minutes. How this woman had his number, or who she was for that matter, was beyond him.

"Sure," he manages to reply finally and goes back to inspecting the pipes for any more leaks.

"Sorry to call you like this-"

He tunes her out a bit as she rambles through some aimless small talk, clearly circling around something. But he perks up the moment he hears your name.

"-talked to her recently? No one's seen this week and she's not checking her dms. It's like, so weird, you know? We were worried that maybe she is sick-"

If you are, then you're doing a great job at hiding it from him. And weird might be an understatement. Skipping classes was out of character for you. His best friend was a nerd even if she didn't like admitting it for the fear of being type casted. You reminded him of quirky nerds from old fantasy movies or books that only come in the spotlight long enough to solve a riddle for the hero and then fade into the background as a caricature. It was usually a guy (with glasses) who was casted to be the unrealistic walking encyclopedia.

You, on the other hand, had a more selective memory and no glasses. That never stopped you from borrowing his reading glasses when you found him wearing them. The oversized frames always made you look adorably out of place. The sight of you with his glasses, failing miserably at mimicking his accent, never failed to make his lips quirk.

"-and I would visit but I've never been to her house so I don't know if it would be, like, rude or something. And it's like really far so I'm gonna' have to take the bus-"

He interrupts her as he stares out the window at the setting sun. "I'll talk to her."

That was his way of saying Jenny needn't ring him up again. He likes to think he is a gentleman (in the making), but chatting up with strangers who clearly seem to give you a hard time wasn't his cup of tea. "Okay! Please tell her to call me ASAP. I really need to talk to her-"

"Got it. Thanks for callin'."

"Oh-Thanks! I really appreciate this-"

Simon sighs as he watches the clock out of boredom, realising he is running behind schedule. "I've gotta run. Goodbye."

"Oh-"

He cuts the call and without missing a second, he places a call to you as he goes back to his work. He really needs to be done with this damn pipe so he can get started on dinner. He'd be damned if he orders in for the fifth time this week.

It's your fault really for refusing to move in with him. Maybe he should bring it up again. Maybe he should joke, once more, about being your unofficial boyfriend. It'd be so much easier to keep tabs on you if you just lived with him. Maybe this time, you wouldn't hit him with the 'You deserve better' speech.

As the call rings long enough for him to expect the robotic voicemail voice, he sits down, rubbing his hands clean on his faded jeans. He opens your chat and sends a couple of quick messages:

Simon: Call me

Simon: As soon as you can

He has no idea what you're up to. He hopes you're not sick. He can't think of any other reason you'd be deliberately skipping lectures. It can't be your period since those usually hit near the end of the month. Then again, he doesn't know the exact dates so he might be wrong.

When no reply comes from your end, he puts the phone down and returns to his tools, trying to distract himself. If you don't call back by the time he's finished, he's going to drive over to your place. Dinner be damned.

*****

Y/N: What happened?

Simon: I told you to call me

As Simon sends the message, he sees you typing back and rolls his eyes, placing a call. While he understands you don't like calling people, he'd made sure you were past that stage at least with him. Because as much as you hated calling, Simon hated texting even more. He always felt people listened better when they heard him. Something about the scary neutrality of his voice. They listened even better in person, something about the murderous neutrality of his face.

The call rings endlessly. He's already got his interrogation lined up in his head, but when the robotic voice finally comes through, inviting him to leave a message, his suspicion solidifies.

Y/N: Okay, hear me out.

Simon: I will when I get there

Y/N: Simon, please. I'm not well and everyone's been bugging me. I just need some time alone.

Y/N: I'll call you later.

The gears in his mind are running in overdrive. First, you'd said you had a big project and asked for space. But apparently, you haven't even been to college, and you're asking for more space?

He knows you well enough not to get worked up yet, not that he could ever stay mad at you. You weren't a saint, sure (though he's open to debate), but you were too anxious, too inwardly tangled to be actively stirring up any trouble.

Simon: What do you mean not well?

Y/N: Fever. Nothing major.

And he can see you're typing again but he quickly sends his text first.

Simon: Then pick up the call

Y/N: It hurts to talk. Strep throat.

He wants to believe you, he does trust you after all. It took him a while to get there, but with you, he'd stopped treating every interaction like an intelligence brief. Still, right now, his military brain is in overdrive, scanning for inconsistencies. He needs to check on you in person, just to scratch the itch in his head.

Simon: You need any meds?

Simon: I'm coming over with some food I'll bring you meds

Y/N: Already ate.

Y/N: Got meds too. Don't worry about it.

Y/N: I am going to sleep soon so you don't have to come over.

Simon's eyes narrowed as he read your response. Okay you're definitely hiding something.

Simon: You're lying

Simon: Spill it out or I'm coming over

Y/N: Stop accusing me when I'm sick :(

Y/N: I took meds earlier, I really need to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow morning.

Y/N: Promise.

Somehow, he doubts it. He is on the verge of making dangerous assumptions. Dangerous because they would fire up his old temper issues.

This, right here, is one of the few reasons he doesn't like dating or socializing. The lies, the games, the little performances. It's all exhausting. He already spends too much time on high alert, reading every micro expression and intention at work. He doesn't want to have to do it around his friends too. Hell, the only reason he liked you was because you don't date much, haven't in a long time, which meant that you didn't know how to play games like this.

Simon stares at his phone debating whether he should reply something back or straight up barge into your house.

Simon: Lie to me again and I'll bring Soap too

With that, he puts his phone down and washes his hands, checking the sink one last time before he grabs his jacket and keys. He also grabs something from the stash of snacks he keeps for you. It's mostly different brands of white chocolate but he doesn't waste time choosing and grabs some randomly and puts a few in his pocket. He's still sore from training today, and lunch at base has started to taste like dogshit ever since you started cooking for him now and then.

He takes a chunky bite of the chocolate as he locks his door and immediately he regrets it because it's too sweet and buttery. How did you eat this shit all at once?

He checks his phone one last time before he gets on his bike, knowing you must have texted him again after his threat to bring Soap.

Soap acted like (for lack of better words) a drunk mother hen when it came to you. Overtly concerned but for mostly wrong reasons.

You always get uncomfortable with that kind of attention, but it is harmless enough for Simon to let it slide. Besides, he couldn't deny how much he loved the look you gave him whenever Soap started scheming you into doing something painfully extroverted. Something about your silent pleading when Soap went on about how "ye'll grow roots under yer legs, bonnie", it made Simon feel heroic. He liked being a knight, rescuing you from Soap's version of peer pressure. After all, he'd been at the receiving end of it for years. He couldn't help but pity you a little.

* * * * *

It's a little past nine by the time he reaches your apartment and for a moment, he's actually afraid you've gone to sleep and that he's overthinking. But he can see your lights are on and your roommate is out of town this week so evidently you're up to something.

As he marches up the stairs, the wood cracks under his boots and he's reminded how awful this place is. The walls are damp, almost moldy and there is a chilling stench of night air which triggers some sensory part of his brain, making him walk faster. Not to mention the loud trucks constantly rumbling down the street nearby. Simon's used to worse noises, of course, but he still couldn't imagine living in a place like this.

When he's working, he has no choice but to block out all kinds of sensory input. But living here? That would've just made his therapist richer.

He knocks a few times and almost expectantly, you don't open the door. He looks around for the doorbell, having forgotten where it is, and when he finds it, he pushes it hard.

You've never liked having Simon over. You always preferred going to his apartment instead. The idea of his massive frame in your chaotic, crumbling place made you self-conscious. A part of your broken ceiling is always on your mind when you watch him thump around like Bigfoot.

And while Simon agreed with all your reasons, he especially preferred having you over because you always cooked something for him before leaving. Then you'd end up cleaning together and watching some TV. It's...pleasantly domestic, he thinks.

Fuck, why won't you move in with him?

You're basically dating him. Even aside from the fact that he likes you, just having you around his house feels more natural now than being alone. Why can't you see you're good for him? Enough for him, even. He no longer feels the need to go out and make more friends since you and Soap have cornered the market on his friendship. He can rely on either of you no matter the situation. Sure, he has other friends at work, but personal details? Those stay between the three of you.

The door hasn't opened and Simon really can't stand the chill of the hallway with a reeking atmosphere, it's bringing back a familiar sensation up his neck that he detests. He can't tune out the honking from the intersection or the faint sound of water running somewhere above or below. He rings the bell again, impatiently this time. He hears quiet shuffling from the other side and much to his relief, you open the door.

"Seriously?" You whine, rolling your eyes at him, exasperated. "I'm fine. Look."

At that, Simon scans you from head to toe, taking in your casual clothes and slouched posture. You don't look healthy, he thinks. But sadly, that's not unusual. And of course, he's never happy to find you like this, consistently worn down and tired. Right now, though, there's an itch in his brain that hasn't gone away and even if you look mostly fine, something is still off.

You look normal but not...right.

Simon levels with your annoyed look and tilts his head. "Don't look fine to me. Move."

He steps forward, and you have no real choice but to step aside. What can you possibly do against your brick-wall-of-a-friend?

He walks in and turns around assessing your house while you close the door and awkwardly move past him to the living room. The place is just as dull as the last time he was here but you keep it clean which makes it easier on the eyes. He follows you to the couch and makes himself comfortable, settling in like he belongs there, his eyes fixed on you the whole time.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, gaze averted in quiet irritation. You're wearing an oversized hoodie he got you for Friendship Day, because you wouldn't take it otherwise. Sometimes, he wishes you'd just take the damn money. He's tired of Googling dumb holidays to justify giving you things you obviously needed.

"What do you want, Simon? I want to sleep."

"I want you to stop lyin' to me."

You roll your eyes at him. And Simon can tell you are a little annoyed at the way he's barged in your house for apparently no reason, but he knows you never truly get angry on people. It's apparently a problem because he can think of at least five people who deserve the look you're giving him right now, maybe worse.

"I don't know what you mean. I'm not well, and I just took meds," you reply in a resigned tone, stepping closer. And for a second he almost believes you. The irritation on your face changes into a sad frown, your voice quieter now. "I swear I'll visit tomorrow if I feel better."

You're a bit unnerved by the way he simply stares at you in response but you don't let it get to you and you stare right back at him, hands still crossed. When a few seconds pass, his eyes relax slightly as if is done with an assessment of you then his brows furrow in what you're assuming is concern. "Did you get a checkup?"

You nod, your eyes darting away before landing back on him. If it wasn't a common display of your anxiety, he would think you're still lying in some way.

"Good. Go sleep then, I'll crash in Nina's room." With that he gets up, presumably to your roommate's empty bedroom and you move quickly to stand in front of him.

"What? Why?!"

"You'd rather sleep alone?" He asks with a raised brow.

And damn it, he's right. You don't like sleeping in an empty house. Every dark corner feels like a hiding spot for a criminal. Simon should've been suspicious the second you didn't invite him over the day Nina left.

He watches you closely as you visibly debate something. Your eyes shift again, darting toward the floor, and you start chewing on your bottom lip.

"I mean... I was doing fine with it so far..." you mumble. Simon could swear he hears the crack in your voice. He waits for you to say more, but you just keep staring at some invisible spot on the floor, brows furrowed.

"Hey," he says, a little softer since he's worried he's offended you maybe by implying you can't manage a few days on your own. "I'll leave if that's what you prefer."

His suspicions are slowly confirming themselves the longer he watches you.

You're always a little gloomy, but tonight it's....different.

Your hands have started fumbling with the strings of your hoodie and you keep shifting your weight like you're trying to hide. Something's definitely wrong and it's not just your fever. But he doesn't want to interrogate you, especially not while you're sick. He'll wait until you're feeling better, then gently coax it out. Once he knows what the problem is, or who the problem is, he'll be sure to fix it.

"Just thought you'd feel better havin' me here," Simon continues, softening his tone even more. "Reckon it'd make me look like a dick of a friend, leavin' you alone in this state."

Once the words are out, he regrets them as fresh tears fill in your eyes and you look away blinking rapidly, your brows pinched in an attempt to not cry. He isn't sure what caused this but he is mentally kicking himself, clearly he's pushing too hard.

".....What's wrong?"

You shake your head and he doesn't know if it is to say no or to imply you don't want to talk about it.

"Somethin' I said?" You shake your head again. That one was a 'No'.

"You want me gone?"

At that, you don't respond but your jaw tightens as your expression hardens at the edges. You swallow against the pressure in your throat, but the lump is so thick it hurts. The effort to hold back tears only makes them more determined to fall. You sink into the couch, dropping your face into your hands. Your fingers press hard into your eyelids, as if sheer force could stop the tears from leaking out.

Simon sits still beside you and waits for you to explain what's happening. When you finally look up at him with misty eyes, he can see your hands gripping the edge of the couch aggressively from the corner of his eyes.

"What's wrong, love?" He asks again, resisting the urge to demand things in a bit more assertive way.

As much as he's worked on controlling his temper, it still flares when someone shuts him out so blatantly, especially you. But he bites it down, reminding himself of all the times you've been patient with him. He watches your chest rise and fall with shaky breaths.

Maybe he's the trigger. Maybe this is his fault.

"I..." you start, but the lump in your throat closes off your voice. You reach for a water bottle nearby. He tracks your movements with quiet focus. When you sit beside him again, he sees how badly your hands are shaking as you unscrew the cap and take a few small gulps. Now that your throat feels clearer, you start formulating your thoughts and immediately that fills your eyes with tears again. Your hands tighten around the bottle as your face twists in pain and your eyes screw shut. "I... I did something stupid," you croak out.

Simon could list at least twenty things you've done that you would call stupid, but were actually harmless. He hopes to God it's one of them.

"What?" he asks quickly. You look at him helplessly, bracing yourself for judgment. And that expression is enough to make something cold settle in his gut. He doesn't like that look directed at him, not from you.

"I did something stupid," you repeat under your breath, as if confirming it to yourself. "You're going to hate me." Your voice is small but final. Like you've already accepted your fate.

He leans in, his hands clench together an effort to not grab you by shoulders and shake you into coherence. Every muscle in his body wants to react and just to do something, anything.

"I won't hate you, love," Simon states as a matter of fact. "Don't think I can." He can see you're shaking you head at his words. "Tell me what you did."

"You're going to hate me," you whisper again, more to yourself this time, the words tangled in some type of silent sob. "You don't understand."

More tears slip free. And Simon feels the familiar surge of rage, not at you but at whoever drove you to this. He knows you. You don't make reckless decisions without reason. You're smart, disciplined in your own way, harder on yourself than you should be. If something "stupid" did happen, someone have had pushed you to that point. He just needs a face and a name.

He feels himself grow agitated the longer he goes without a proper explanation. "Then make me understand," he implores. "Tell me what's wrong before I jump to conclusions."

You nod, swallowing hard. The breath you draw is too fast, and you release it even faster. Your hands tremble as you wipe at your face, forcing yourself through a few more deep inhales which are loud and uneven.

Finally, when you meet his eyes, something has changed. There's a resolve in your expression as if you've already decided it's going to hurt either way so fuck it.

"I- I will tell you but you have to promise," you say with pleading eyes. "Promise you won't tell anyone."

Simon would roll his eyes at your words under normal circumstances. The only person he talks to, other than you, is Soap. And lately, Soap has been getting tired of hearing about you.

So no, he hasn't exactly been chatty these days.

"I promise."

You nod to yourself.

"Okay, I just-" you begin before cutting yourself off. "But you have to know, I wasn't really... I wasn't-" You're about to cry again but you groan under your breath, your head tilting backwards towards the ceiling, eyes blinking fast.

And that's when Simon notices a faint mark on your neck, his face evens out within a second. That is proper discoloration and not just some rash.

His first immediate thought is your parents. He didn't know much about them, you refused to go into details, but he knows a lot of your behaviour is a direct result of shitty parenting. His jaw tightens and he almost asks you about it but when you look back at him, you have that same dejected look on your face like you're expecting something worse from him so again, he holds his barrage of questions back.

"It was so stupid. And I don't know if I can even explain why I did it without sounding insane or suicidal-"

Those words hit him like a punch and Simon's entire body goes rigid.

What the fuck did you do?

He knows you battle intrusive thoughts sometimes and they're aren't all harmless. He's heard you joke around them, mention a few here and there when you're trying to keep up with his morbid humour, but he figured.....you were grounded. And Smart. And so fucking self-aware.

Right now, though? Right now, you're unraveling right in front of him.

You glance at him, and he forces his face to stay neutral even as alarms blare in his head. You keep talking, with you voice breaking but he's probably missed a few words.

"-but you have to understand, I just wanted to... get used to it- No, fuck, that's wrong-I wasn't going to... It wasn't supposed to be this way- wasn't a serious attempt even....No, it's just-"

A chill runs across his spine as he starts connecting the dots and he can sense what you might be referring but god, he doesn't want it to be true. That the oversized hoodie is meant to hide something.

And not just the hoodie but the unusual silence and the sudden isolation.

You didn't just do something stupid. You hurt yourself.

And suddenly, he hates every second that he wasn't with you this week.

He can only stare when your rambling turns incoherent as your voice cracks and chokes through your words. He takes a deep breath, deeper than he has taken in hours

"Y/N," he speaks firmly, halting your broken sentences. His voice was too loud for the room and it left you with no choice but to make eye contact with him. His resolve breaks at the tears streaming down your face but you're quick to wipe them away. "Tell me what happened on Monday. After we talked."

You wipe your nose and look at your lap trying to recall the events. "I... I had dinner then I went to sleep."

That tracks. You sounded okay on the phone. He would've known if something was wrong then.

So not Monday.

"Tuesday."

Your next pause tells him everything.

His voice had been neutral, and you know he's trying to be careful but you still flinch almost imperceptibly.

"I had to leave for some work but..." Your voice trails off as your eyes glaze, filling again with tears. You glance at him, but his face, which is blurred by your tears, looks unreadably intimidating and it makes you look away quickly. "It wasn't that important so..I figured I'd stay home. I... wasn't feeling well."

"What did you do at home?"

You pause, swallowing hard. Your fingers tremble as they pick at your cuticles. "I wasn't feeling well..." you repeat, your voice cracking. The words are hollow now to him. Hollow and meaningless.

Simon's gaze drops to your hands. The nervous movement. The hoodie sleeves pulled low. Something inside him settles in the worst possible way.

He knows.

He doesn't have proof yet, but he knows.

"I didn't want to die," you murmur suddenly, still not meeting his eyes. "Not really. I know it will sound like that but it wasn't like that."

Your voice is raw, but firm, as if you're not just trying to convince him, but yourself. "I just... I had the house to myself and I don't know, I guess I wanted to see what it'd be like. I wasn't even serious. It was like-" you hesitate, searching for the right words, "-like a stupid dare. Just to know how it felt, not to actually... do it."

"You didn't want to die," he repeats slowly. "But you still hurt yourself."

You wince. Not from his tone but from his words because...you want to think they're not true but you can't tell anymore. You shift uncomfortably, crossing your arms as if to shrink away from it.

"It wasn't like that," you whisper, more fragile now. "I wasn't... I didn't mean anything by it. It's embarrassing, honestly. It was just... dumb. I thought if I could just get used to the pain, maybe I'd stop being so scared of everything else. Like... If I just tried it once-maybe it would make me...less of a coward."

Simon's expression doesn't change, but you can feel his attention sharpen. "And what did you try?" he asks, his voice quiet but scary.

You close your eyes. Your body tenses, like you're bracing for impact.

"I just...found a rope...," you murmur, almost inaudibly and when you see the slightest shift in his face, your eyes widen defensively. "I didn't mean to actually hang! I just thought... I don't know what I thought."

You don't know why you're still justifying yourself. This man has seen literal war and you're sitting here trying to explain why you wanted to experiment with your stupid urges. You're convinced he's going to lecture you so much tonight, you can sense a rant coming your way.

"And anyway I slipped," you continue, hating how you sound. You certainly feel like a lunatic convincing someone they're not crazy. "I lost my balance before I could even finishing tying and it wasn't tight or anything-" you know you're rambling but if you stop talking then he might start talking and you want to delay that as much as possible. "-I didn't even hurt myself that bad."

You feel pathetic right now.

He is looking straight ahead somewhere, you can't gauge how mad he is. "Did you hit your head?"

You shake your head quickly, too quickly maybe because you wince a little so maybe you did hit something but what does that matter now?

"How's your neck?"

"It's fine, just sore." You hate the sound of your own voice. It's as if you've been rehearsing excuses your whole life which... is not far from truth.

His voice sounds rehearsed too for some reason, like a cop who has just pulled you to the side. "Did you pass out?"

"No," you mumble, discreetly trying to get a read on him. "I am fine, just some small bruises. It will go away within a few days," you try to explain, but Simon's still not looking at you. He's probably running something through his head, some type of military protocol for such situations maybe.

You barely realize when he stands. He starts moving, slowly, deliberately. He's not even looking at you, just dragging a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that you can't quite understand.

Here, it comes. A worried rant or a lecture on safety.

You sit frozen on the couch, watching him with your arms wrapped around yourself, feeling unbearably hot now, like your entire body is in a furnace.

You didn't actually have a fever, you just had a stuffy nose because you spent an hour crying in Nina's room after the incident. And you did go to the doctor. So you haven't technically lied to him.....right?

You're so anxious right now, you can't help but open your mouth to break the tension. "Simon, I'm fine now," you try, forcing a thin smile. "Don't be so worried."

And that...was the wrong thing to say. You realize it immediately.

He stops dead still, his shoulders stiff as he finally turns to look at you, his expression unreadable, except for the heat in his eyes.

"Fine?" he repeats, voice low and sharp and you flinch. "You almost fucking died," he says, and he's not yelling at all but the words feel louder than if he'd screamed them. "Don't you dare tell me you're fucking fine."

You've been yelled at by many people, mainly your parents, but sometimes teachers or friends too. You know how to brace for impact, how to zone out while they unload their disappointment. The perfect grey rock.

But Simon isn't yelling and somehow, that's worse. You don't have much choice but to take his words in.

"You're not bloody fine," he says, voice flat. Controlled, but barely. "You're sitting here...shaking like a leaf, tellin' me how it wasn't serious while I'm picturing you dangling from a fan, too scared to call anyone-too ashamed to call me as if I don't mean anything-..."

Your lips part at his blunt words, your eyes filling with tears. You want to explain yourself, to defend yourself again, because he's getting this so wrong.

"No, it's not about that-" you start. Your throat tightens, your vision blurs again but you try anyway. "I was ashamed because...like I said-it was a stupid thing and you've probably seen people do much worse. I didn't want to bother you- And like I said, I didn't mean to die-"

Simon doesn't let you finish that sentence. He's already moving and with one heavy thud he's kneeling in front of you. You instinctively pull back a little when his hand reaches out and rests in a fist on the edge of the couch near your knee, like he's bracing himself. And with this position you have no choice really but to face him.

"I don't give a shit what you meant." Again, he doesn't even raise his voice but his next words cut deeper than anything loud ever could. He doesn't even flinch as your face falls. "I care what happened."

You really wish he'd yell so you could block this all out and pretend you're not here. You really wish he'd get angry the way people do, loud and messy and predictable. But Simon doesn't blow up like that. He just becomes quieter, more serious, more dangerous until everything around him folds into silence.

"I really wasn't trying to die," you whisper again, and this time it's more like a confession than a defense.

"But you could've," he says softly, and that's just him twisting the knife now. You look away, unable to hold his gaze anymore, you hate to think that expression on his face is one of hurt. A beat passes before he speaks again, quieter this time. "And you didn't even call me." There's no accusation in his tone. No heat. Just... something hollow and wounded.

"I didn't want you to see me like that." You drop your head, staring at the floor between you. "I didn't want to be a burden," you say quietly. "I didn't want to pull you into something that wasn't even serious, and I didn't even plan what I was doing, and then it just... happened so fast, and I felt like if I told you...I would just have felt worse for bothering you at 2 am. It would have made it seem like I'm more messed up than normal-"

You cut yourself off because it feels like you're talking in circles. You're annoying yourself now.

Simon finally speaks, his voice rougher than before. "You think I'm stickin' around this long because I don't want to be bothered?"

You glance at him, startled by the subtle weight in his tone.

"I'm not a nice person, love," he continues. "If I didn't like you, you would have been the first to know. And I sure as hell don't go 'round acting like you're made of stardust unless I bloody mean it."

You wish your brain wasn't so scrambled right now so you could make fun of him for saying something even remotely cheesy like that.

He's running a hand over his face again as if that's the only way to keep himself contained and keep his trademark neutral expression on.

"I've watched some mates bleed out with less fuckin' calm than I've got right now," he mutters before looking up. "I've done stupid things too. I've walked into fires without backup one too many times. Slept on the rooftop of a safe house during a snowstorm once because someone's snoring reminded me of my dad. There used to be days I tried everything to get myself killed on the field 'cause I didn't have a home to go back to. But I didn't do any of it 'cause I was fuckin' brave. I did it 'cause there was no one I could talk to, no one who could have showed up."

You could cry again, your lip wobbles as you keep your lips pressed tightly. He pauses, catching that reaction, and when he looks at you again, his brows furrowed in some sort of disappointment.

"And you're sitting here telling me the one person I'd actually show up for didn't think I'd care enough to pick up the fuckin' phone. or make a 10 minute drive in the middle of the night."

That breaks something in you.

You don't want to cry too loudly, you refuse to. You're already coming across ugly enough right now. You look away, jaw tight, and press your fingers into your eyes like that'll push the memories out of your skull.

But they come anyway.

The sound of your sobbing that night after you slipped. The blinding panic in your chest when you realized you couldn't breathe -not from the fan, but from what you'd just done. The silence of your apartment as you sat on your roommate's bed (because your room felt like a crime scene) with your knees to your chest, too ashamed, wide alert, counting the trucks going by.

The worst part wasn't even the incident itself. The worst part was waking up hours later into the evening to a pitch black house that terrified you all over again. And then, somehow, you ended up watching a sitcom all night with annoying laugh tracks because the alternative was staring at the ceiling fan and thinking about what might've happened if you hadn't slipped.

That. Was the worst part. Not the bruises, not the panic, not the silence, but the realization that if anything had actually happened, it could've been days before anyone noticed. No one would have found out until your roommate came back.

The next day, you went to the doctor with a conveniently stuffy nose and let them prescribe something that might help you sleep.

But it hadn't helped. Nothing was helping really. Not until Simon showed up at your door like a storm.

You can't tell him all of this. Not yet, maybe never. It's not that you don't trust him. It's that you can't explain this without admitting to yourself that it was more than just a stupid dare.

You lower your hands slowly, wiping your face. Your throat burns from trying not to cry.

Simon breaks the silence and for once, you're glad he did.

"To think I call you a friend but you've gone and convinced yourself you're not worth anything to me. Like I'd rather find you half-dead than have you inconvenience me with a goddamn phone call."

You don't have a defense for that except...

"I didn't think it would matter," you wince even as you say it. "You would've talked me down or helped me but it would have ruined your night and I already owe you so much-"

"Don't finish that sentence," he cuts in flatly. "You're about to say something ridiculous, and I'm too bloody tired for it. Why don't you believe me when I say I like you? I've been saying it in every bloody way except spelling it out on a sign and taping it to your forehead. How daft can you be?"

And your heart stops for a second and you blink quickly.

"No..you're just- you're wrong," you say automatically because even the thought of anyone liking you is so ridiculous. No one just likes you romantically like that, not someone like him. "You just think that because-"

Simon snorts once humorlessly. "Jesus, ya' don't even listen."

"I just mean..." You stammer. "You say that, but you don't... I mean, we can't be-"

"Together?" he finishes, a slight edge to his voice. "You've got half your stuff at mine. You feed me like it's a job. You nick my shirts, you decorate my house. We talk every bloody day but sure, we can't be together."

You don't know what to say to that. The way he says it...it sounds true. Still, a part of you won't let it in. Like there's a wire in your brain that short-circuits the moment you try to believe someone could love you. Not out of pity or obligation but...choice. There has to be something wrong with him to like you, especially after today.

You glance at him again. His profile is unreadable. You shift slightly on the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest, not knowing what to say.

The silence stretches on until Simon finally exhales heavily, breaking the moment. You glance at the clock above the TV. Nearly midnight. Have you really been talking (or does it count as arguing, confessing, unraveling?) for hours? No wonder your head is pounding.

"Look, it's late-" he says quietly, his voice rough with fatigue. "-and you're exhausted." He pauses, eyes softening as he takes in your slightly swollen look. "You need to sleep. We'll figure this out in the morning." You nod as you let out a slow breath you've unknowingly been holding.

"You gonna let me stay?"

You shrug lightly, looking down at your feet. "Don't think I can make you leave even if I wanted to."

He makes some appreciative noise. "Good, you're starting to understand."

You wish you had the energy to roll your eyes but you settle for a bored look as mumble under your breath, "I understand you're stubborn as fuck." Your words land somewhere between tired and affectionate because it's all you've got left in you.

Simon doesn't respond, he just nods as if you hadn't tried to make a joke but said something obvious. You see him glancing toward the corner where the spare blanket usually resides.

"I'll take the couch," he says after a pause, already starting to move like it's decided.

But you don't want to move. You're sitting as if your bones haven't caught up to your brain yet.

Eventually, Simon glances at you again expectantly, his brow raising slightly.

"I think-I'd sleep better...if you were in the same room," you admit. You really don't want any intrusive thoughts to come back. You don't want to sleep with the lights on again.

He watches you for a thoughtful moment before he just nods quietly.

Later, when you're both lying in Nina's bed on separate sides, with separate blankets, you stare up at the ceiling, too exhausted to be awake and too wired to sleep. You feel a little re-energized after he fixed up quick sandwiches for both of you but your body feels sore almost.

You're surprisingly not having too deep thoughts unlike previous nights. It's pleasantly trivial things like how you've never told Nina about how many times Simon has slept in her room, you always wash the sheets and pretend nothing happened.

The silence feels full but not awkward, not from your end at least. You hope he's thinking about something trivial too but somehow you doubt it. You fear if you looked at him, he'd be staring at the ceiling with a frown, you can sense his lucidity in the air. There's a certain presence he has which never quite fades, like he's aware of you and it forces you to be aware of him in return. Some type of contagious hypervigilance.

"You still awake?" His words make you jump slightly.

"Yeah," you whisper back.

There's a pause before he speaks again. "If anything happens, if you get any funny thoughts in your head that make you want to run away, you wake me up, okay?"

Your throat tightens, but you manage to let out an "Okay."

And you think that's that but his next words come more firmly.

"I mean it. I'd rather lose sleep than find you worse off beside me," he speaks. "Don't even think about being a bloody nuisance."

You swallow, turning to look at his shadowed profile in the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. He gives you a warning look which makes you look back at the ceiling. You let a truck pass by before you reply. "I'll try."

My arms stung, they felt so warm, strangely comforting as it grew weaker in the school bathroom, with the razor in my hand, I felt weirdly calm, at peace… I missed this feeling. I was tired, so tired. Before I knew it, I was laying on the acrid, unsanitary floor, everything was going quiet, the fan, the blood rushing in my ears, the teacher on the other side of the door, trying to get me to let her in. The slamming only grew louder, but that doesn’t matter anymore, nothing did really. I just wanted to sleep.

Maybe they'd start small... just a leg, maybe two, not even a foot- your legs from the knee down are going indefinitely. Maybe even the whole thing if certain people do it impulsively, and aren't thinking - aside from the fact that they need you close, but they just have to get these things out of the way. To lessen your struggle, to reassure themselves you won't run, of course - after all, you can't run if they just... take away that option, right? It's for the best, they'd tell themselves, they need to do this. They have to. You gave them no other choice- and now... now they had to make a tough choice. They have to do this.

If it's done impulsively, it's messy. I guess not having a lot of experience cutting off limbs or disabling someone isn't going to make things easier, who knew, am I right? Taking lives (for some of them), and beating people up is one thing, but cutting off arms and legs? It's weird to think about until you're the one doing it, and in a frenzy no less.

Some of the more impulsive ones you really have to look out for, because if they do it then it is painful, and that is no exaggeration. As much as they're thinking about you, they also aren't at the same time - at least not you in the present as they're doing the removal. You'll pass out from pain, or just the visceral sight right before you witness your leg getting torn off. Real messy stuff. It's not subtle at all, they barely hide it - if they even try to allow you that luxury. If anything, you see too much of it. Either way, you're out like a light, and left with whatever you saw as nothing is left to the imagination. Unless your fucked up mind makes it worse, to which- a lot is left to the imagination as that nightmare of a scene is messed with and mixed in your head like a toddler left in the kitchen.

Of course, the family will take care of the messy outcome, and get you to another room and everything (after all, they have one too many spar ones), but, well, that won't change the reality of the situation, will it? Hell, get one of the more rough ones pissed off or just do something one of the more impulsive ones doesn't like, and you'll lose your arms, and depends on who does it - you'll lose them just as you lost your legs, and you'll get to watch... before you pass out, of course.

Maybe they'll get you things to help, like robotic limbs and such, though its not that great and doesn't make things easier. Not even a little. They'll be able to control everything you do, essentially, down to what you can even touch or interact with.

You'll feel more trapped then you ever have before, as even your body, every limb attached to your torso is theirs. Theirs to control. To mess with, and just like before, they'll take it away if you do something that makes them upset.

Step 9 By now, your girl should be cooperating and obedient most of the time. But is she really yours? It’s possible, but most girls require a final push into total subservience. You’ve likely broken her down by now, so it’s time to make it official. 

The light flicks on, the buzz that heralds nothing but horror startling you from uneasy sleep. 

“Good morning, cunt,” he says cheerfully as he thunders down the stairs. His noisy steel-toed bootsteps reverberate through the concrete floor you’re sprawled across before one of them kisses your ribs with the same gentleness he always shows you. 

Which is to say that you’ll have another blossoming bruise there later. 

You groan, and he chuckles. 

“Up and at ‘em,” he says.

You know the drill by now. The path of least punishment. Another groan escapes you as you drag yourself to your knees and open your mouth, jaw already aching. 

“That’s a good girl,” he drawls disdainfully. “A good little piss hole.”

And he starts his day as he always does, now that he’s living the dream. He empties his bladder down your throat, snickering as your eyes burn with the rancid taste. There’s no reprieve. As you gulp down the last of his urine, he starts to fuck into your mouth, the fat head of his cock plugging you like a wine cork. 

Sometimes it goes down easy. Today is not one of those times. 

Your stomach roils, you can feel his hot piss still sloshing around inside as he starts to add his cum to the mix and it doesn’t take. Your body rejects it and no matter how hard you try to hold it back, to swallow it down before it’s too late, you’re vomiting around his softening cock. 

He sneers and pulls back, wiping himself clean of your sick by rubbing his dick on your outstretched tongue. You know better than to put it back inside your mouth. 

“Look at you, makin’ yourself breakfast,” he jokes, like he always does when this happens. He smirks at his own words and steps back. “Hurry up. Got a special treat for ya today.”

You’d feel dread, if it wasn’t already a permanent fixture in your gut. You felt dread the moment you first laid eyes on Joel Miller and you were right. But he was inevitable. 

He clomps back up the stairs, leaving you to clean up the floor and yourself. You don’t dawdle, of course, The sooner you finish, the sooner you can go upstairs where the fresh spring air will fill the small cabin, the sunlight’s pale tendrils awaiting you. 

By the time you’ve crawled up, he’s taking sausages off the stove and humming to himself while the coffee pot percolates noisily. You reach his chair and wait, trying to ignore the way your kneecap shifted. 

“Got good news for you,” he says with a smug smirk. “You’re dead.”

You plummet, or so it seems. The blood rushes, your eyes widen, your breath stops as if he’s a fortune teller. But no, it picks back up shallow and rapid. 

He laughs and dangles a newspaper clipping in front of you. 

Police Call Off Search for Missing Woman

“They had you declared dead. Probably to collect on your life insurance,” he says, looming, shadows darkening his satisfied sneer. “Ain’t that somethin’? Nobody’s looking for you anymore. Nobody’s gonna take you away from me now.”