Simon maybe forces you into the car after the grocery store. Hands rough as he places ties on your wrists, shoving a piece of fruit in your mouth to shut you up— clementine, really? But you still swallow it, savoring the taste of citrus. He loads the rest of the groceries into the trunk, keeping a sharp eye. He noticed the scars on your wrists, the blooming bruises of your back when he pushed you in. How your spine was clearly visible. He smelled the stench. He saw the yellow of your teeth, the oil in your hair. But your eyes is what made him stop. A different shade of brown, almost black. Hardened, wide, glazed. Like you expected danger and were already calculating exits and possibilities. So when he got in the car he wasn't surprised you found one of his guns— that was currently pinned to the side of his skull. "Where are you taking me?" Runt asked, voice low, he noticed the ties were cut off. Smart kid. "Somewhere certainly better." He said low. "Driving us to my flat. About 10 minutes from here." He drags a hand up his face before he feels the rust of a blade press against his neck now. "With whom?" You hiss. He observes that your hands aren't trembling, neither is your voice. Your voice is hard and stoic. He looks at the reflection in the rearview mirror, his eyes soften. Your eyes are wide, pupils dilatated, lips parted, skin pale. You're just scared-- but you're hiding it so well, and damn if it doesn't bring a pang to his chest. "A friend. His name is Johnny, call him Soap. He's friendly, used to seeing runts like you."
