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shintin · 1 year

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Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 4 (Bogeyman)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gun-play, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: Sam Tinnesz - Ready Set Let's Go

Note: Don't hate me after reading this chapter. I promise there'll be fluff.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

TW: This chapter is covering a huge amount of violence, gore, and triggering matters. Please, be aware.

Midvalley's bloody mouth formed around the word 'fuck', and it didn't take a genius to know he was about to unleash a barrage of expletives. So before the first syllable could escape his lips, Vash swung a punch at his nose and silenced him instantly. The crunch of bone beneath his fist was nearly orgasmic, mixed with a rush of adrenaline, and by the time he pulled his fist away, blood was squirting from his victim's broken nose.

Midvalley spat, and a tooth landed close to the blond-haired man's boots.

Disrespectful dog!

Vash was going to shove his foot up his ass just for that. He stood up, flexed his fingers, and circled the man, brimming with disgust at his behavior. With a scowl, he paused and glared at him with contempt.

That tight black suit looked like it'd been painted on, highlighting every bulge and curve of his middle-aged physique. And that jasmine-colored button-down shirt? It was like he was trying to blind people with his poor taste in color coordination. And let's not forget that slick black hair that'd probably been drenched in way too much hair gel. He probably thought he looked like a suave ladies' man, but in reality, he just looked like a desperate dog trying to impress his owner. It was a sad sight, really.

The said man attempted to protest, but the words became garbled when Vash grabbed him, seized him by the collar, and began pulling him towards a room he despised the most in his own house. Usually, he would delegate such tasks to his trusted men, but this time, he felt compelled to handle it himself. After all, it was a personal matter that he couldn't entrust to anyone else. Besides, he was hungry for revenge, and the goose before him was ripe for the taking.

With the Midvalley’s limbs tied up, he felt every drop and bump as Vash dragged his ass in the corridor and hauled him towards the table. The black-haired man squirmed and wiggled like a worm on a hook, and Vash could tell by the panicked look on his face that he had exactly that feeling. The sinking feeling that his life was balancing on edge, and Vash was about to fucking Sparta kick him off.

Mercy was deemed unnecessary as they quoted the age-old warning that one who fights monsters should be wary of becoming a monster themselves and that gazing into the abyss for too long can cause it to gaze back. The realization that it was already too late to avoid this fate dawned on him, as he believed he had no place in heaven, though he couldn't be sure if that were yet another falsehood.

Buybull!

Midvalley fought valiantly, but Vash managed to maneuver him onto a metallic table and untied specific ropes so that he could strap the freak to the table while simultaneously rendering him immobile.

Midvalley's eyes darted to the corner of the room, where a lifeless body lay in a pool of blood. Yep. It was yet another victim of the Saverem Mafia's ruthless tactics, as they continued their campaign of torture and killing useless pieces of shit to extract information on Nicholas D. Wolfwood's murder.

Even though the young Don already had a name, he was obsessed with finding the person who had pulled the trigger and made it his mission to turn the perpetrator into a perfect punch bag. So when he received word that one of the murderer's underlings had been captured, he couldn't wait to meet him in person.

And so far, it’d taken all of Vash's willpower not to put a bullet in this meathead's hollow brain. But he had to admit that his torture methods had become more extreme ever since losing Nick, probably driven by his never-ending grief. With him gone, he had no one to keep him in check or remind him of the consequences of his actions. No. He no longer had anyone to tell him wrath was one of the seven deadly sins.

Bible basher!

Midvalley recoiled in horror and disgust at seeing the dead man's bloated face. His voice was thick with terror as he spoke. "What the fuck, man? Is that Hoppered?" he spat out, his eyes fixed on the lifeless body. Realizing what had happened seemed to dawn on him slowly as the situation's implications sank in.

Vash's response was nonchalant, as if the sight of the dead man's body was nothing out of the ordinary. "Consider it a friends' reunion," he said with a shrug.

His voice was always calm and collected, belying the violence and danger surrounding them. It was clear that he had become desensitized to the brutality of his world and had learned to detach himself from the emotions of others. His words were like a cold reminder of the harsh reality they all faced and the cost of doing business in the underworld.

Midvalley spoke through split, puffy lips, his broken teeth making his words garbled and difficult to understand. Even with his injuries, he tried to maintain a calm demeanor as he negotiated. "Look, whatever my men have done, we can work out a deal," he said, strained with pain. His nose was swollen and bruised, and he looked like he had gone five rounds in a boxing match with his hands tied behind his back.

"I have nothing against them," Vash said calmly. "Not really." His words belied the dark and dangerous glint in his eyes. Very clear that he was a man of few words and that his actions spoke louder than anything he could say.

Midvalley was silent for a beat, staring at Vash incredulously as his brain processed that the man before him wasn't after what he thought he might be. "Then why the fuck are you doing this?" he asked, his voice rising in hysteria.

Vash leaned close, letting him get a good look at his face. The deadly glint in his eyes usually did the trick if it wasn't the gun that warned people away.

"D-do you want money? I can arrange that."

Vash let out a weary sigh and straightened, his eyes fixed on his prey. He knew trying to explain himself to this man was futile and would only waste his time. Besides, he didn't give a shit enough to bother.

His attention was drawn to a tray of utensils lined up neatly. Without looking away, he grabbed the first tool his hand landed on. A serrated screwdriver. Specially made for torturing. One of his brother's favorites.

The black-haired man's eyes widened comically when he caught sight of the screwdriver. Oh, yes!

Vash smiled. "Haven’t gotten to use this one yet,” he observed, his voice dripping with satisfaction. He twisted the screwdriver and gave them both a good view of each sharp point. For some reason, he had turned into a master of this craft. Once this sucker went in, taking it out would hurt even worse. He couldn't fucking wait.

Midvalley's voice was strained and pleading as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the screwdriver. "Let's talk about this. Why are you doing this? Why do you want to kill me?" he asked, his voice shaking with fear. "Whatever has made you upset is not worth you killing me over. My men won't let you be." Too desperate to save himself, he was willing to try anything to convince Vash to spare his life.

“Did you really think I was going to kill just you?” Vash volleyed back, quirking a brow to show how unimpressed he was with his warning. Midvalley's face turned beet red, like the geraniums Rem used to put in little Vash's room when he was a kid. He always loved those flowers.

Focus!

Midvalley's rage boiled over, his threats spilling from his mouth in a torrent of fury. Veins had popped from his forehead. Not a pretty thing to watch. Too bored to care, in response, Vash stabbed the screwdriver straight into the man's stomach. Midvalley gaped at him; his mouth parted in shock. A moment passed, and then he was coughing up blood.

Red.

Everywhere.

His favorite color.

It'd sliced through Midvalley's flesh, eliciting a cry of pain and horror. The blood poured from the wound, staining his pink shirt and the metallic surface beneath him.

An array of emotions filtered through the stabbed man's eyes. Pretty sure Vash could see the five stages of grief in there, too. How delicious!

Vash's hand reached out towards Midvalley's forehead, pushing back the black strands of hair with a casual flick of his wrist. The other man gritted his teeth in pain and discomfort.

Vash's voice was amused as he spoke, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm. "I don't enjoy empty threats."

“You’re fucking crazy,” Midvalley choked out, looking down at the screwdriver sticking out of his abdomen in disbelief. Definitely, a vital organ had been hit.

Vash's hand moved slowly, deliberately, as he pulled the screwdriver out, the suctioning noise barely audible, drowned out by the other man's screams. It was a moment of intense emotion as Vash's unleashed anger pulsated through him. He remembered how this maniac had sent pictures of Nick's corpse to prove his death. The memories flooded back, and Vash could feel the weight of his loss bearing down on him.

There were five nails embedded in Nicholas' flesh. Not one. Not two. Not three. Not four. Exactly five nails. Two pins in his wrists. Two on his ankles and the last on the left side of his chest, in his heart, as if making a shitty replicate of Five Holy Wounds.

And he had no idea whether the nails had been pounded into him while he was still alive or if his dead body had been crucified as a form of post-mortem humiliation—senseless violence.

Rage was a factor. Gasback's mercenaries had made it clear that they could nail an angel to prove a point. Nick's face was unrecognizable from the blood and bruises, but Vash would know his Wolfwood blind. He would know him in death, at the end of the world. He had memorized every inch of his body, every scar and curve, and edge, with his lips and his hands, and this mother fucker Gasback dared not only to take him away but to send fucking pictures instead of his lifeless body.

No ablution.

No funeral.

No farewell.

The pain fueled the violent storm in his head, and he plunged the screwdriver back in when the images flickered before his eyes. He had to kill all of them and very soon. The pain in his chest was becoming unbearable.

Vash's hand shook as he ripped the screwdriver out of the body and took a deep breath. He had to remind himself that this man didn't know him yet and needed to keep his cool to get the information. Rubbing his forehead, he tried to steady his nerves. “Have you heard of Wolfwood?” he asked, taking out the screwdriver. He grabbed a white napkin and started cleaning it. It was a strange sensation. The more blood stained the napkin, the more his inner peace increased.

“I don’t know,” Midvalley shouted in frustration. “Maybe, I guess. The fuck does it matter?” Writhing in agony, he let out a guttural groan as his body convulsed with each wave of pain. His struggles were in vain; he could not find relief. But Vash, standing over him, continued to intensify the pain with his forefinger, leaving him feeling fucking helpless.

“I need you to think,” Vash said, ignoring the stupid fucking question. “You were there the night he was killed," he continued, his eyes narrowing. "Your boss had beaten him so badly he was barely recognizable when you took pictures of him and sent them to me.” Renewed anger punched him in the chest, and it took all his self-control not to plunge this screwdriver in his eye right then and there. He still needed to learn the truth. He needed names—those of anyone who had laid a finger on his beloved Nicholas.

"You're Vash the Stampede!" the man mumbled, his eyes widening in recognition. He knew he was in deep trouble, and there was little chance of forgiveness or mercy knocking on his door. The Saverem family was known for always paying their debts. Vash. The legendary outlaw was known for his brutality and ability to overtake anyone who crossed him.

Midvalley sniffed, with no remorse reflected in his eyes. The professional hitmen never were. Somehow, they had long ago twisted their morals and ethics to justify the violence they inflicted upon others. In their minds, the victims deserved their fate, and any injuries were their own fault.

“The faggot had interfered in things he should not—” he replied petulantly, and before he could even finish his sentence, Vash brandished the screwdriver and shoved it in the man's crotch. A tremor of rage ran through his fingers. So much anger that it blocked Midvalley's screams and cries. He pressed the tool harder, and his crazed eyes watched as blood spurted out and stained his gloves and dark purple sleeves.

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

He needed to do it harder because the pain-soaked screams sent shots of pleasure down his spine. And every time he heard them, he could only think about Nicholas. He could never stop thinking about him, even as the begging followed the screams.

Harder. Harder. Harder.

He pushed the screwdriver harder.

Midvalley's insult was like a sharp dagger to his already bleeding soul, piercing right through the little leftover of his being. The pain and anger he had been suppressing for so long flared up like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.

The plea came out breathlessly, a desperate "please" that hung in the air. The speaker's desperate plea, however, was not enough.

“Please, what?” Vash demanded through gritted teeth; his brow furrowed with sweat dripping down his temple from exerting himself. It still wasn't enough. It would never be.

Because Nicholas was gone, Vash would never see him again. Because they had taken him away and with him, all of their shared futures and dreams. Because—FUCK THIS! He had to carry this loss for the rest of his life. All by himself. This wasn't fair.

“Please.”

Vash took a step back and stared at his masterpiece, the screwdriver suspended on the flesh that used to be the man's dick. He had intentionally pressed it far enough to ensure his balls would be pierced.

Midvalleys’ cries were full of agony, and his desperate pleas made Vash feel as good as he was capable of feeling. Not fucking enough. He wanted him to scream so loud until his cries would give out and his voice box would shatter completely.

Psychologists have indicated four ways for the human mind to cope with grief: sleep, forgetfulness, insanity, and death. Sleep allows them to step back from painful things, like when someone gets injured or bad news, they often pass out. But at times, wounds get too deep to be healed easily. The saying that time cures pain is a fallacy. Yes, time heals most pains, but the rest are doomed to be forgotten. Rarely does the mind suffer such a heavy blow that it takes refuge in insanity. Because most of the time, the truth is nothing but pain, and the reason abandons it to rid itself of suffocating pain. Here comes the last escape way, aka death. When someone dies, nothing can hurt them anymore. At least, that's what's being said.

Vash's eyes were wild and fierce, his pupils dilated and his irises pulsating strangely. They were constantly moving, never able to settle on one spot for long, as if he was possessed by a demon, unable to control himself and driven by a violent madness, as if he couldn't focus on anything except his own twisted thoughts. At that moment, he indeed had the potential to be the mania kingdom’s king, ruling over a land of bedlam and destruction.

"Who pulled the trigger?" Vash asked, his tone unpredictable and chaotic.

“FUCK YOU, SAVEREM,” he snapped back.

Vash nodded, accepting his answer for what it was. He walked across the titled room in quick, jerky steps, seemingly just going through the motions to stop himself from ripping the man's gut out with his bared teeth.

Vash suddenly stopped and looked up at the white ceiling, his mind racing with a thousand dark thoughts. After a pregnant pause, he turned and asked in a low, intense voice, "Which of you nailed him to that cross?"

Midvalley spat on Vash's shirt, but he didn't react. He just watched, waiting for the answer he knew he would finally give. Though the man attempted to intimidate him with his false bravado act, Vash could sense the fear and desperation hiding behind his façade. The idiot wasn't desperate enough yet, wasn't scared enough. He was still attempting to keep his dignity. But that would change very soon.

Midvalley smirked, the corners of his mouth curling up in a cruel grin. "You can't bring him back,” he trailed off, licking his lips vulgarly. “Accept it and move on," he added as if to taunt Vash further.

Again, Vash nodded his head. Good. Because this kind of behavior fueled precisely what he had planned for him. His last cries would be such a soothing, beautiful song. He was going to enjoy every bit of hurting him and making him bleed, and Midvalley? He would wish he had never been born.

It smelled like rain in the morning.

The room.

It was thick with the scent of wet stone and upturned soil, the air dank and earthy. You took a deep breath, trying to keep the smell in your lungs as you tiptoed over to the pipes that ran around the room. Pressing your face against the cold, hard surface, you closed your eyes and listened to the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the metal somewhere outside.

The raindrops were your only connection to the outside world, a lifeline that kept you from drowning in the suffocating stillness of your nest. As you stood there, feeling the rhythm of the rain in your ears, you were reminded that clouds had a heartbeat, that you, too, had one.

The rain was relentless, as if someone had emptied their pockets over the earth, not caring about where the contents would fall. The raindrops burst upon hitting the ground, shattering into a million pieces like shards of glass, and people cursed the days the drops dared to tap on their doors.

You were a raindrop.

Your own father had emptied his pockets of you and left you to evaporate on a concrete slab.

This was your new life.

Your room —your cage with four walls—was located in the basement of the house, decent size but sparse in terms of furnishings. The cramped space contained only a few essentials: a mirror, a lumpy bed with a deflated pillow and scratchy blanket, a nightstand, and a dresser. Just like the rest of the house, the wooden floorboards creaked with every step, announcing your presence to anyone nearby. You had a feeling that you would soon learn the exact spots that wouldn't make any noise as you tried to move around without drawing attention to yourself. On the bright side, you had light bubbles here, and a bathroom was attached to your room, with a door providing much-needed privacy. It was a relief to be able to take a shower without worrying about prying eyes.

Piteous!

You couldn't help but feel ashamed as you realized that even the most minor things, like a bathroom door, had become a source of comfort and relief for you. It seemed pathetic, in a way, that you had been reduced to finding closure in having basic human necessities.

Fuck it!

You had to do it. You had to find solace wherever you could. At least, this was better than planning your miserable end.

After all, you were a prisoner. A captive. A slave. A toy. A leverage, as they said. Your life was no longer your own. So you had to act like one.

With a heavy sigh, you turned away from the pipes and made your way over to the bed. Your steps were slow, your body heavy with exhaustion. You collapsed onto the mattress and felt the bed sink beneath your weight, enveloping you in a warm embrace.

As you lay there, your mind drifted back to the past few days, to the moments when you had crumbled and wept until your eyes were swollen and raw. It had taken an indiscernible amount of time for you to piece yourself back together, to gather the strength to function again. You still felt messy, like some parts of you had been rearranged in ways you couldn't quite understand. But you were no longer in ruins, and that was the best you could do for now.

You had managed to survive, right? Despite all the odds, and that still was a fucking win.

Although you tried to keep yourself occupied, you still managed to think about the reasons behind your predicament. It all traced back to him. Vash. You found yourself thinking about him more often than you cared to admit. It was a dangerous game to dwell on the memories of his eyes, odd kindness, and cruel, calculating attitude. You remembered how he had held you as you fell apart, his gaze unwavering as you poured out your soul to him. And yet, you also remembered the coldness on his face when you had begged him to end your suffering, the way he had almost seemed to enjoy your pain. There was a strange pull towards him, a magnetic force that drew you in, even as it threatened to destroy you.

The thought of facing Vash again filled you with a dilemma. You wondered how he would greet you and whether he still had any use for you after your failed attempt to escape. You had no idea what had driven him to this miserable, murderous lifestyle or what your father had done to him to make him so vengeful. It was tempting to try to find some humanity in him, to make excuses for his bloodlust and cruelty.

No! Stop it!

Any attempt to justify or excuse his actions would only lead to further danger and harm.

He was a monster! He was a monster! He was a monster! He was a monster! He was a monster!

As if the universe was eavesdropping your thoughts, the door creaked open, and a tall, blond man stepped inside. His eyes wandered around the room before finally settling on you, startled by his sudden appearance, sitting on the bed. His hair, styled in a 90s fashion, gave him a retro look that contrasted with the drab surroundings. His friendly blue eyes and the slight wrinkles around them suggested a certain maturity and experience that set him apart from the other assholes you had encountered in this place.

While you were shocked to see someone so unexpected in this grim situation, the man's smile put you at ease, as if he were a kind father playing with his son and their Golden Retriever dog in the park. He wore a graphite grey sweatshirt and matching pants that gave him a casual yet stylish appearance, in contrast to your own attire of a loose shirt and leggings, which suddenly felt inadequate and exposed.

Feeling vulnerable, you pulled the sheets over yourself, fearing the worst, even though the man seemed like a good person. The lighting in the room was dim, casting shadows that added to the moment's tension. It was as if the Gods had conspired to bring this man into this room, but you couldn't be sure if it were for better or for worse.

"Seven Hells!" the man exclaimed in a worried tone, his hands on his waist as he looked around the windowless room. "This place is like a prison." He locked eyes with you again as if just realizing the situation's awkwardness. He scratched the back of his neck nervously and approached you, his expression apologetic.

As the man approached, you felt a twinge of fear, and you backed up on the bed with fisted hands under the sheets. You watched him warily as he came closer, unsure of his intentions. "I forgot to introduce myself," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm Bradd, the counselor." His voice was gentle and reassuring, and he offered you yet another kind smile.

You gazed at his outstretched hand and then up at his face, but you didn't make a move to shake it. You had learned the hard way that trust was a luxury in this place, and everyone had hidden motives and agendas. As you sat there, frozen in place, Bradd's smile faltered slightly, and you could see a hint of disappointment in his eyes. It was a small gesture but enough to make you feel guilty, like you were somehow letting him down by not accepting his offered hand. Yet, you couldn't bring yourself to take the risk, not when so much was at stake.

"Oh," he said, pulling back his hand with a resigned sigh. "I should've expected this." He flexed his hands and cracked his knuckles.

Bradd shrank back a little, and an awkward silence settled between you. The elephant in the room did not dim his smile, or the sparkle of curiosity in his eyes. "I wanted to say that I hope you're enjoying your stay," he said, his voice tinged with irony, "But I don't think that would be an appropriate sentence, given the circumstances." He looked around the room, tapping his pants nervously before deliberately sitting on the furthest corner of the bed from you. A small act to make you feel a sense of relief. Unlike Vash, who had no concept of personal space, Bradd seemed to understand the importance of boundaries. As you watched him, somehow, you felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, he was someone you could trust.

You're an idiot!

"What do you want from me?" You were tired of asking the same golden question to everyone you encountered, and it seemed like no one had a clear answer.

"Straight to the point. I see." He took his time breathing. He took his time shifting in his seat. He studied your eyes, chose his words, and touched two fingers to his lips. He seemed to have dominated the concept of time. Impatience was likely not a word in his vocabulary. “I’ve heard . . . stories. About you.” A small smile played at the corners of his lips. “I simply wanted to know if they were true.”

"What have you heard?" you asked, your fists clenched tightly beneath the sheets.

Bradd opened his hands and studied them for a moment before looking up at you with a grin. "I heard," he said. "That you bit his finger, then ran away and shot someone before passing out in his arms." His tone was light and casual as if he were discussing the weather rather than a potentially severe trauma. You couldn't help but feel shocked at his words. It was true that you had been through some tough times recently, but you had never imagined that your experiences would turn into a joke in such a way.

A wave of hot, terrible shame washed over you, creeping up your neck and forcing your head down once again. Never in your life had you felt this. Nothing like this. This sense of humiliation and regret seemed to consume you from within. It was a consequence of your own actions, of acting like a clown and making foolish mistakes. Who in their right mind would return to the cage of their own accord, willingly subjecting themselves to this kind of torture and abuse?

“Is it true?” he asked, his voice probing.

It was clear that he was not trying to make fun of it, yet you still felt as though you were climbing a mountain of air, struggling to find solid ground amid the shifting sands of speculation while your feet kept slipping. You needed to get a grip on something, to find a way to anchor yourself before the tide swept you away. “Rumors are more likely to bite you than I am,” you said, your voice dripping with bitterness.

He studied you for too long, then chuckled and shook his head, the amusement still evident in his features. “You really did it!” he said, his voice tinged with both admiration and disbelief. Why the fuck were these assholes getting off on your misery?

You couldn't afford to be lulled into a false sense of security by this dude's friendly tone. You had been through too much already, had seen too much horror and pain, to trust anyone blindly. You needed answers, and you needed them now. "I want answers to my questions," you said, your voice firm and resolute. "I want to know what you're going to do to me, and I want to know that my sister is safe. He threatened me with her life, and I must ensure she's healthy and unharmed. I won't cooperate otherwise." It was a bold move to assert your agency and right to know the truth.

Again, you're an idiot!

Bradd's eyes lingered on you for a few moments longer as if assessing your character and gauging your resolve. "Your loyalty is refreshing," he said, his voice sincere and genuine. He clearly appreciated your determination and willingness to stand up for yourself and your sister. "You'll do well here."

“My sister—”

"Follow me," Bradd said, already on his feet and walking towards the door, leaving you with questions like why wasn't he pointing a gun at you, or at the very least, keeping a closer eye on you? It all seemed too easy, too convenient. Shitty good cop, bad cop game.

Hesitantly, you stepped outside and looked around. The basement was dimly lit, with only a few small windows near the ceiling letting in a meager amount of light. The walls were made of rough stones, giving it a cold and musty feel.

In one corner were a few old couches arranged haphazardly around a low coffee table. The couches were worn, their cushions sagging from years of use.

The rest of the basement was mostly empty, with a concrete floor and a few support beams running along the ceiling. You guessed before turning it into a slammer, once upon a time, it was a place to escape the hustle and bustle of the outside world and relax.

Based on the look in his eyes, Bradd noticed it was your first time seeing the space beyond the confines of your cell.

He cleared his throat but said nothing.

He shook his head.

He started walking.

He didn't touch you, and you shouldn’t notice, but you did.

As you walked deeper into the bowels of the building, you had no idea what to expect. Everything around you was a blur of exquisite embellishments, lavish accessories, and superfluous decorations. You wanted nothing more than to burn the whole place to the ground, to watch as the flames consumed every inch of the house and reduced it to ash.

As you walked through the maze-like corridors, you noticed the armed men passing you by, nodding at Bradd and walking away without so much as a second glance in your direction. Being left to roam freely amid such danger was a strange feeling. You couldn't decide whether Bradd was a skilled, professional who knew how to handle his charges, or a complete idiot who was placing too much trust in your willingness to cooperate. As you pondered this, Bradd turned to you and spoke in a soft tone. "I don't want you to hate me," he said, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hostility. "I'm only your enemy if you want me to be."

It was an odd thing to say, as though manipulating you to gain your trust and lead you into a trap.

“We’ll always be enemies,” you replied, your voice cracking into ice chips. The words felt heavy on your tongue, but you knew they had to be said. "You people have kidnapped me," you added, your tone accusing and resentful. It was true, and you couldn't let Bradd forget it.

Bradd sighed. “I think you’ll change your mind.”

Did he really think he could simply talk you into surrendering to your captivity? He glanced at you with a small smile. It was a shame, you thought that such a kind face should be wasted in such a horrible place. “Your life could be a lot better than before. You can have whatever you want.”

You refused to look at Bradd, even as you felt his gaze resting heavily upon you. "No, thank you," you replied, your voice firm and resolute. It was a small victory, but one that you clung to nonetheless. No matter how tempting they might seem, you couldn't let yourself be swayed by his words.

You followed Bradd down a long, carpeted corridor until you arrived at an elevator made of rattling metal. He swiped a key card, and the doors opened with a soft hiss. As you stepped inside, you felt a sense of apprehension growing within you. The elevator began to descend deeper and deeper into darkness. Suddenly, he touched your elbow, and you pulled away from him, your eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You might reconsider," he said persuasively.

"I don't think so." The elevator doors opened, but you didn't move. Instead, you finally turned to face Bradd, unable to contain your curiosity any longer. He cocked a brow at you and offered you his arm as if he were a gentleman escorting you to a ball. What the fuck? You pretended not to notice it and walked off the elevator and down the hall, keeping a safe distance between the two of you.

“It'll be in your best interest to give him what he wants.” He wasn't looking at your eyes.

"What?" you asked, your breathing coming fast and sudden. You looked up and noticed someone approaching you. Who was this person, and what did they want?

Bradd leaned in close and whispered, his lips barely moving. "Tell him everything now that you have time," he said urgently. "His patience is ticking." Your jaw locked tight, and your teeth began to ache as you tried to process his words. Was he trying to warn you about something, or was this just another one of his ploys to manipulate you? You couldn't be sure, but something inside you begged you to take his warning seriously.

Bradd averted his gaze as if he wasn't talking to you at all.

"Sir," the man said, bowing his head respectfully. You'd seen him before. What was his name? Rollo. He couldn't have been more than 20 years old, with a stocky, sturdy build that suggested he was packed with muscle. He spared you a sidelong glance. His brown eyes were warmer than you had expected them to be. "I'm sorry for the interruption, Mr. counselor," he continued. "But everything is ready, and we are waiting for you."

You wondered what he meant by 'everything' and whether it had anything to do with your current situation. But you kept your thoughts to yourself and simply waited to see what would happen next.

"Thank you." Bradd smiled too slowly. "We'll be there in a minute."

"Where are you taking me?" you asked as Bradd stepped toward the door; your heart quickened with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. You didn't know where you were or what lay beyond that threshold, and the lack of knowledge made your palms slick with sweat. Your eyes darted around, searching for any clue or hint as to what awaited you on the other side, but all you saw was the looming door and the blank walls surrounding it.

Your companion reached for the door handle, and you held your breath, your body tense with fear. What was waiting for you on the other side? Death? Torture? Or something even worse? The not-knowing was almost unbearable, and your mind raced with all kinds of possibilities, each more terrifying than the last.

As the door swung open, your eyes widened in shock. What you saw was beyond anything you could have imagined, a big ass room, white tiles covering every inch of the floor and walls. But the pristine surface was marred by splotches and spatters of blood as if someone had been dragged or thrown across the room.

You were already on the verge of vomiting when you spotted two bodies lying in a twisted heap, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing. The bodies belonged to two men, one dressed in a rumpled suit, while the other had a screwdriver stuck in his temple. Both had clearly suffered brutal injuries, with deep gashes and contusions marking their skin.

You stepped back, trying to gulp but your throat all dry.

The center of the room was dominated by a giant metallic chair, its cold surface gleaming in the harsh overhead lights. The chair was massive and imposing, with thick straps and restraints wrapped tightly around it to hold the person in place.

Oh, Gods! Someone was there.

You shuddered involuntarily and glanced towards the elevator, but your knees shook. You wanted nothing more than to turn and run and get as far away from this room as possible, but you couldn't move. You were frozen in place, trapped by the horror of what you had seen. Then you felt Bradd's hand on your back, pushing you forward. You looked at him with scared eyes and shook your head. Nothing good could happen in this room.

"Don't worry," Bradd said, his voice low and reassuring. "Today is not your turn." But his statement did little to calm you the fuck down.

As you walked forward, your eyes landed on a familiar sight: a strawberry blond-haired woman who had been captured like you. She was tied up and gagged, with tape over her mouth, and she immediately started screaming and wriggling as soon as she saw you.

You couldn't tell if Elendira— your dad's favorite assassin or better to call 'whore'— was screaming because she thought you could/would help her, or if she was just shocked to see you still alive after weeks of being left on your own. You had no idea what the fuck she was doing here and why they had beaten her perfect, smooth face. Her tailored jacket and skirt didn't seem that special now.

For all your care, she didn't seem to be in a position to help you at the end of the day so you couldn't give less of a shit at this point. A sudden feeling of animalistic rage and resentment swept over you in addition to your fear. A hope that they would force her to atone for her sins and then kill her for them.

Even in this small way, the thought of hurting your dad brought you a faint sense of happiness, which surprised you the most. Living among devils was starting to turn you into one, it seemed. After all, there was a saying: "Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas."

"Does she know you?" Bradd asked, coming to a stop. You hummed in confirmation, taking in Elendira's appearance and broken bones. Nope. You felt nothing.

When she saw your indifference, she looked like she had seen a bogeyman. But she was wrong because she had yet to meet the real bogeyman. "Tie her tighter. She's a sneaky one," you said, still keeping your gaze fixed on her.

"We do this all the time," he answered simply, walking behind you.

Trying to focus on the hatred bubbling up in your throat instead of thinking about what awaited you, you looked at the enormous one-way mirror wall as Bradd led you behind it. Inside the room, all was quiet. It was soundproof, with speakers and cameras in the corners that you guessed would help you and Bradd hear whatever was going to happen on the other side. What kind of horror was about to happen?

You inspected Bradd from the corner of your eye, looking him up and down. "You kill people often?" you asked, trying to keep your tone neutral. He seemed like a gentleman, but then again, didn't they all? For sure, you were no expert in recognizing Mafia freaks.

He shrugged in response. "Not until I have to," he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

You smiled and raised your arms, clasping your wrists together and holding them up before Bradd's chest. He raised an eyebrow, his gaze going back and forth between your face and your hands in surprise. You tilted your head and asked, "You won't handcuff me?" You looked at him with questioning eyes, wondering why he wasn't taking the usual precautions to keep you under control.

He answered your question with another one. "You want me to handcuff you?" he asked. You weren't sure what to make of it.

"You're not worried about me losing it and killing another?"

"Aha!" Bradd said, rubbing his earlobe. "You mean that incident?" He started chuckling, and your confusion only grew. "You didn't kill Steve—"

"I didn't?" you jumped in the middle of his sentence, taking a step forward which caused Bradd to take one back. Of course, they still found you an abomination, and your position hadn't changed, but you were just happy you hadn't taken any innocent's life.

"No," Bradd responded and crossed his arms across his chest. "Even though I hoped you would. I hate that prink!" He rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. How the hell did this man end up here, at a place with no roots of humanity?

You were about to open your mouth to speak when Bradd pressed his forefinger to his lips, signaling you to be silent. "Now," he said, pointing to a chair with his head. "Go sit there and try to keep it quiet. I have a gigantic headache and can't handle annoying cries." He massaged his temple, and you could tell he was in a bad mood. Before you could ask any questions, the door behind Elendira opened, and Vash walked in, dressed in black and scowling. You felt a shiver run down your spine, realizing you hadn't seen him this scary.

You quickly made your way to the chair and sat down, trying to make yourself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Now you knew why you had to keep your mouth shut. Bogeyman was here to punish a bad girl.

Vash walked in, and Livio and Rollo followed behind him like obedient servants. Livio seemed to be the type of person who would follow his boss everywhere, like a loyal dog, while Rollo appeared to be a bit more reckless and would do anything to prove his loyalty—a young, stupid boy.

Just as expected, when Vash ripped the tape from Elendira's mouth, she started hurling curses and threats at him. But the instant he slapped her mouth with the back of his gloved hand, her face turned red to ashen grey, drained of all color. She looked at him as if he was the grim reaper.

He smiled.

He was the fucking grim reaper.

Vash ignored Elendira's protests as she tried to justify her actions with lies like she had no choice but to kill Wolfwood and her pathetic attempt to point the blame on Gasback while citing her own innocence. But Vash wasn't the person he was for being swayed by such shallow lies.

He listened to her with delight. Free stand-up comedy. Then he turned to the glass wall and tried to imagine how your eyes might look now that you had realized that one of your daddy's mistresses was here.

Your eyes. They fascinated him the most, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. Your sultry, slanted eyes always looked seductive without even trying. But the selling point wasn't the color, shape, or lashes; it was how they reflected your fear in the most fantastic way possible.

Vash knew one look at you was enough for any man to turn into an addicted sadist. And lucky for you, he was already one.

Your lips were pouty and pink, and they quivered as you cried, trapped between his arms, begging to die. You weren't the type of beauty that people saw lining the magazine rack, though you could easily make it on one of those covers with the help of your daddy's wealth. Sadly. You lost the chance and, instead of photoshoots, ended up in the middle of gunshots.

Vash didn't know if mankind had ever walked on the moon or if parallel universes existed. But what he did know was that you were something else entirely. There was a certain intangible quality about you that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

He had seen a lot of beautiful women in his life. Fucked a lot, too. But there was something about you that captivated him like no other. It was as if a hurricane was at his back, pushing him towards you and leaving no room for resistance.

Your desperate sight had stirred something inexplicably dark in his chest, something black and evil and cruel. Dangerous, even, and he knew that he was about to do something terrible, something that would cross lines he would never be able to come back from. But there wasn't an ounce of him that gave a fuck. He was angry, pissed off at the world, and if you weren't capable of forcing your father to make a deadly mistake, then one way or another, you had to pay for his sins. The sins you claimed you didn't know about, but luckily, today was the day of judgment when all the secrets would be revealed.

Elendira's useless whisperings continued, and Vash wasn't surprised that she was so quick to pass off the blame to others. She seemed selfish, narcissistic, and a complete imbecile. In the short time he had taken her name out of Midvalley's mouth, he had discovered how loud, boisterous, and outspoken she was. She always tried to be the smartest person in the room and quickly escaped when things went wrong.

Vash had also heard through the grapevine that Elendira was known to spread her legs for powerful men, using her sexuality to seduce them and find their weaknesses.

Such a shame her pussy wasn't his type. Especially since he hadn't been in any holes since Nick's death.

Anyway. Vash didn't give two fucks about the game going on between her legs, but he knew that it meant she was a treasure trove of unspoken secrets that he wouldn't fucking mind unlocking.

“Whatever you think I did—”

"Don't insult me by questioning my knowledge," he cut in, his voice deadly calm. "You know me better than that."

The warning rang a bell in Elendira's mind. Her lips tightened into a white line, but she had enough sense to reestablish her fragile composure of confidence. She struggled to maintain a calm expression, with her fists clenched and shaking and sweat lining her hairline.

He could see the fear in her eyes. It could never match the perfection of yours.

She raised her head before him with her nose in the air. She wanted to die with her head held high.

How naïve.

She would bow at his feet, begging for forgiveness, and lips pressed so far into his boots till her teeth would leave imprints behind.

“Where is his body?” he asked, his voice cold and devoid of emotion—no interest in playing games.

She stared at Vash, her throat bobbing as she worked to swallow. "I wasn't told the location," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

He pulled out a chair and sat before her, his blue eyes boring holes into hers. “But you’re in contact with the man who has him,” he countered.

Elendira blinked, licking her lips to stall while she found the proper response. “I fulfilled the job. He transferred my percentage, and we cut ties.”

He knew she was hiding something; there was more to this story than she let on. He pursed his lips, the scars on his chest crinkling, nodded his head, and leaned toward her slowly, like a cheetah stalking its target. A trickle of satisfaction dripped into his bloodstream when she tensed, solidifying beneath his eyes. He had her right where he wanted. “And you’re telling me you cannot contact him? I find that hard to believe," he continued. "You're a resourceful woman, Elendira. I'm sure you can find a way to get in touch with him." With that, he leaned back in his chair and waited for her response, his eyes never leaving hers.

She swallowed and shook her head. “I haven't seen him since that day. It's been three months. Gasback disconnected his phone after the transfer went through. Probably to hide from you.”

Vash hummed, dragging his eyes up and down her form, noting her awkward stance and how her feet were angled inward. She was seconds away from pissing herself. “You knew me, Elendira. You knew you shouldn't provoke Saverems. I thought we had established this. You were never untouchable. So, why did you do it?”

"You killed my brother, so the deal was off," Elendira spat, her fury flashing in her irises.

Vash stilled, staring at Elendira as he processed her words. Years ago, when she was just starting to make a name for herself as a mercenary, Kni had made a deal with her. He promised not to harm her brother, and in return, she agreed to stay away from this family. It had taken kidnapping and torturing her brother to drive home the point, but she had kept her word. Until recently. The funny thing was Vash had never killed her brother.

“Excuse me?”

She blinked, her face gradually turning red. “You kill—”

“I heard what you fucking said,” he barked. “What made you think it was me?”

Elendira's face contorted in anger. "Because you fucking said it was," she bellowed, taking a shaky breath.

"Me?" He smirked and lunged in her face, causing her nose to bleed. He caught her by the collar of her jacket and jerked her close. “Explain, Elendira,” he snarled. “Because I didn’t fucking kill your brother. If I had, I would've killed both of you. We made a fucking deal, and I kept my word.”

She shook her head, breathing fire. “I have the records of you torturing him to death. He was yelling your name, begging you not to kill him!”

Vash's anger boiled over, his veins pulsing with fury. "Did it sound like my voice?" he demanded, his tone aggressive.

“Wha—I don’t know! I don’t have a goddamn recording of your voice to compare it to. All I know is that it sounded similar to yours.”

He nodded, letting her see in his eyes just how much she fucked up. It didn't take a genius to figure out who actually killed her brother.

“Did you bother confirming if it was me?”

“Oh, my bad! I’ll call you up next time,” she retorted.

Vash grinned savagely. “Are you telling me you’re this idiot, Elendira? Because if you're going to get revenge for a murder, then you better be sure about who actually fucking did it.”

She fumbled, her mouth agape as she realized the gravity of her actions. She had acted impulsively. She saw her brother dying a brutal death, made a poor judgment about who it was based on a single sentence, and sent Wolfwood to his demise.

Vash struggled to keep his anger in check, feeling a surge of fury rising inside him. It took all of his control to keep it at bay, just because he wanted to witness every moment of her downfall to ensure that justice would be served.

“You want to know who killed your brother, you brainless moll? The very man you let dick you down," he stated. "Gasback killed him, so you would betray my family and kill off Wolfwood. You fell right into his fucking trap and did all the dirty work for him.” He remained neutral, refusing to reveal any of his inner thoughts or emotions despite the seriousness of his words.

She shook her head in rejection. “How would he know about our deal and what Knives did to my brother years ago?”

Vash had always harbored suspicions about his twin's involvement in Nicholas's death, but he had refused to believe that Kni was capable of such a heinous act. No. His brother wouldn't cross this line. No.

His voice was sharp with frustration as he addressed Elendira. “I don’t know, Elendira, did your brother open his fat fucking mouth and flap it to anyone who would listen? Did you? Whining about how Kni kidnapped and threatened him. You tellin’ me neither of you didn’t go around bitching about it to anyone with ears?”

Her teeth clicked, confirming his presumption.

Vash's tone was biting as he spoke. “It’s not hard to find out about our deal when you don’t shut the fuck up about it,” he hissed, venom all over his words.

Elendira let out a sharp gasp as his hand closed around her throat, her feet scraping the tiles and nails clawing the arms of the fucking chair. He planned on taking this very slow with her, getting as much information as he could before he sent her down below, but maybe he should just get rid of her.

Her voice was strained as she struggled to breathe under Vash's grip. "Wait, please, it was a mistake," she gasped, her words coming out in short bursts. She knew she needed to find a way to defuse the situation before it was too late. "Let's talk about this and see if we can work something out," she suggested, hoping to appeal to Vash's sense of reason.

He grinned at her with malice in his eyes. "Wanna bring Wolfwood back?" he asked, his voice laced with contempt. "But don't worry, Elendira. We have many things to discuss, or rather, I'll make sure to extract them from you," he added, his expression and tone stoic. "Now, it's time for you to tell me everything."

"I swear, I don't know anything!" Elendira lied through gritted teeth, her words barely audible through the pain. Her lipstick was smudged on her cheek, evidence of the brutal slaps she had endured so far. Even Vash couldn't deny the severity of the situation, and he paused momentarily to consider his next move.

Vash leaned forward and grabbed Elendira's hand. He slowly inserted the tip of his knife under her crimson nail and plucked it off with a sharp jerk. She screamed bloody murder, but the sorry piece of shit hadn't even felt the real pain yet.

“Try again,” he said evenly. She continued to deny knowing anything, lying through her veneers, so he ripped off another nail. She finally gave in when he positioned his knife under the third nail and lifted it. He wanted to laugh. The Rookie criminals would last longer with torture than she did.

“Okay, wait, wait!”

He paused, raising an eyebrow as he waited for her to continue. Her breathing was ragged, and tears ran down her face. After a moment of hesitation, she nervously licked her lips and began to confess. "Wolfwood... he found out about Gasback's illicit dealings and was trying to stop them. That's why Gasback wanted him gone. He asked me to take care of it, and I did. I wanted you to feel the same pain that I did."

A sharp pain stabbed the hole that used to be called his heart, and he doubled over in agony. His hands were about to clutch at his chest when he saw Livio coming closer. The silver-haired man's expression had transfixed as Elendira revealed her sin.

Vash shot Livio a warning look, silently commanding him to stand down before returning his gaze to Elendira. "Tell me about these deals," he said calmly, though a burning heat simmered beneath the surface. It took practiced control to keep his voice even.

"I—I don't know," she stammered, her voice choppy from the strain on her body. "Wolfwood had heard some rumors about the containers at the port. He was asking questions about them…" she trailed off, her words faltering as she struggled to speak. Finally, she forced out her next words. “He wanted to know what Gasback was smuggling.”

A growl rumbled in Vash's chest, but he wrestled it back down. His hand nearly trembled with the need to plunge this knife deep into her throat, but he resisted the urge. “What was the product? Coke? Meth? Or wait! Was Gasback interfering with our business? Had he gotten involved in the organ trade?”

She shook her head, a cruel smile spreading across her lips. "No, he wasn't trying to steal your legitimate business of butchering people for their organs," she sneered.

"Don't be disgusting, Elendira. You know we're better than this."

"Oh really? And how the hell you politely traffic organs?"

Vash knew there was little point in explaining the intricacies of their family business to a woman who was barely clinging to life. However, he was aware that you were watching from behind the glass mirror, someone who could potentially be swayed into revealing information about the dirty deeds of Gasback. With this in mind, Vash decided to reveal some truths, hoping that it would gain your trust and encourage you to share what you knew.

Vash clenched his jaw and let out a deep sigh. "We handle the organ extraction process before selling them," he explained, his voice heavy with resignation. "If the donors are already deceased, we purchase their bodies at an inflated price, remove the valuable organs, and dispose of the rest. Then we sell the organs on the market. If the donors are still alive, we send them home," he said, realizing Elendira was in no position to react. "We monitor the market, track what comes in and out, locate the product, set up deals, negotiate prices, and handle the money. Kni is responsible for removing and preserving the organs while I conduct the deals once the terms have been agreed upon. However, my top priority is to intercept humans being sacrificed for their organs and return them to their homes," he added, hoping his words would be enough for you.

“But you assholes do sell people’s organs?”

"Indeed, we do sell to individuals who provide a vital service to families in dire need," Vash agreed. "Many of our clients have been waiting for transplants for years or cannot afford the exorbitant healthcare costs in our current system. Though our business operates underground, we strive to ensure that the organs we sell go to deserving individuals who need them the most. The black market may be rife with evil, but not all of us who operate in it are wicked. It is necessary for us to appear as such, however, if we wish to continue helping those in need."

"If you claim that you only extract organs from the deceased, does that mean you only sell bones and skin? It doesn't seem like a particularly profitable business! How do you even do that?" Elendira challenged, her voice laced with skepticism. Her shrewd and inquisitive nature was unaffected by her weakened state. What a bitch!

Rollo and Livio exchanged a quick glance, silently communicating their confusion at Vash's decision to reveal so much information. In the midst of their reservations, they remained silent and attentive to their boss's speech. Vash arched a brow and continued, “The organs we sell are in high demand," he cleared out. "We painlessly put them to sleep.”

“For good,” she said, filling in what he didn’t say.

Vash nodded, his eyes flicking to Rollo and Livio as he tried to discern their thoughts. "Yes, it's true," he confirmed, his voice steady. "We do assist with consensual suicides. These people have a low quality of life, whether it's due to terminal illness, old age, or other mental health issues. They have chosen to donate their organs, and we help them do so painlessly. We sedate them deeply, extract the organs, and then they pass away peacefully. You happy now?" Vash's tone was somber but resolute as he spoke.

“And the money you fuckers get for their organs. Where does it go?”

“Depends on their wishes. Sometimes they ask for it to go to the family, and I honor the request. But in most cases, whether it’s because they are not on good terms with their family or they don’t have any at all, they don’t care what we do with it, as long as it’s helping someone.”

Elendira cocked her head. “So honorable! Then that's why Wolfwood wanted to save those girls.”

"What girls?" Vash asked, stressed for the first time.

She worked to swallow; her face pinched in pain as she struggled to answer. “I-I don’t know too much," she gasped. "I told you, I ha-hardly knew stuff! Gasback only mentioned something about Wolfwood wanting to stop a container from shipping, which would have caused a significant financial loss and—"

"I don't give a damn about Gasback's accounts!" Vash snapped, his patience wearing thin. "Tell me about the containers and the girls!" He picked up his knife again, dragging the tip against the web of skin between her two fingers. When she didn't come up with a new answer, he spread the knife and snipped the delicate flesh. She screamed, but the sound wasn't quite anguished enough. Not yet.

Elendira licked her lips, her eyes drooping with exhaustion. "Gasback was involved in the Skin Trade, and your boyfriend was too curious about saving the girls."

Vash's vision blurred with fury at the revelation. If he was being honest, he could hardly think straight, with every organ in his body seized by the agony of Nick dying because he had a kind heart that cared too much.

This was too much.

This pain.

Too much.

"Gasback killed him just because he found out about his goddamn business?" Vash roared. "He condemned an innocent man to torture and death because he knew —" He cracked at the end, fists balled tightly at his sides, and his body trembled with anger. He was falling apart at the seams, tears building in his vision.

She shook her head and whined, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Breathing in and out, Vash regained control slowly. He nodded, acknowledging the information that she provided. They both knew there was absolutely nothing she could say to atone for what she'd done.

In one swift motion, Vash flicked his knife, slicing off another nail. Elendira's scream echoed through the room but did little to abate the fury that crawled throughout his body. He felt a sick satisfaction at the thought of killing this woman, of hearing her tortured cries as she died. It would be his lullaby before he slept at night. Elendira's eyes shifted nervously, and her mouth flopped open, but she remained silent.

Vash positioned his knife under another nail, preparing to inflict more pain on Elendira when she finally spoke again. Blood was already dripping from her hand, but Vash had barely begun to make her bleed. He paused, his eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“Wait! I said, wait, goddammit!”

Vash cocked a brow at her again, urging her to continue.

“Gasback held auctions.” She tightened her lips, a pained expression on her face. “The girls were forced to wear obscene clothes and were exhibited on a stage." She confirmed what they did to the women, and Vash made sure to have her clarify the details of those fairs to the last bits.

"What about now? Are the auctions still held?"

"No," Elendira explained that he didn't take any chances after what happened and got rid of all the evidence.

“Hm.” He clipped the skin between her pinky and ring finger.

She clenched her teeth, but it didn't prevent the scream from slipping through the cracks of her teeth. “God fucking dammit!” she burst, panting through the pain.

He was only keeping her alive long enough to get answers.

“Boss, can I take over now?" Livio asked impatiently from beside him. He was vibrating with the desire to avenge his childhood friend's death, and at that moment, Vash could relate to him more than anyone else in his household. They shared the same goal: to exact revenge on Nick's killer.

“I have a couple more things to get out of this dear lady first,” he conceded, nodding toward the woman tied to the chair.

As annihilation drew nearer, Elendira shouted desperately, "If you don't release me, I won't divulge anything else! Nothing!"

“You’re a pathetic woman. Once the pain becomes too much, you’ll tell me anything I want to know. You either die slow or quick,” Vash clarified and crouched down, getting eye level with her. He took out a big Pole Barn nail from his pant pocket and placed it against her throat. Her favorite tool for tormenting her victims. For nailing them to a cross. Vash was confident he would end her life by driving the nail through her throat while she was still alive.

“When did Wolfwood learn about Skin Trade?” Vash asked.

Elendira stuttered, her gaze shifting nervously between the nail and Vash's face. Vash responded with a smirk and pressed the nail further against her throat. Her eyes snapped back to his at the apparent threat. “Focus on me, darling,” he said darkly. “When did he learn about Gasback's shady business?”

Licking her lips, she asked, “What?”

“You killed him because he caught Gasback red-handed, right? How much time passed between Wolfwood's discovery and his murder?" Because Vash knew Nick would tell him about it. He would tell.

He knew the answer before she opened her fucking mouth and said it. The dimming of her eyes as she accepted that she was about to suffer a great deal more pain. “He died the night he found out,” she whispered.

Vash lost his composure for just a second, enough to snarl and pound the nail across her right earlobe. She screamed, her face red from the excruciating pain, but he was far from finished. He had much more in store for her.

“HE GAVE THE ORDER TO KILL HIM WITHOUT EVEN WAITING TO SEE IF HE'D EXPOSE HIM OR NOT? AND YOU COMPLIED?” he barked, losing control over the beast threatening to rip out his chest. When Elendira continued to groan in pain, he took off the nail and poised it right back over her eyelid, applying just enough pressure to break the skin but not enough to pierce her eyeball. Not yet.

“P-please,” she cried, sobs racking her throat. Snot dribbled from her nose and into her mouth, and all he saw was someone who was only sorry because she got caught. A woman who was too arrogant and too stupid to think she wouldn’t suffer the consequences for her actions. “I only did it ‘cause of my b-brother.”

The ache in his chest widened, devouring the last vestiges of his conscience. His soul had no place within a monster like himself. So, he got rid of it.

“He died alone,” he told her, his voice deepening with unbridled ache. Those pictures haunted him. "Can you even begin to fathom how much pain he must have endured?"

She shook her head, her legs trembling.

“It’s all I can think about,” he choked out in a whisper. “I’m plagued by the torture he must have borne—the pain and how he probably wanted to die. I can't stop thinking about how I failed him when he needed me the most. The loneliness and fear he must have experienced in his final moments torment me. I let him down when he needed me the most. And you know what's even more painful? I was in this damn house the whole time, completely unaware of what was happening. I thought I would see him before dinner, but instead, you people sent me those fucking photos. I wanted to die, and if I'm standing here right now, it's because I won't rest until I make that man pay!" Vash snatched her hand again and flicked off another nail, her answering scream doing nothing to quell his rage.

All he could see was the image of Nick's lifeless body in the photo. His grief consumed him so much that he could have chopped off his own fingers and wouldn't have even noticed. These people, they hurt his Nick. Scarred him. Made him bleed.

His blade sliced through her flesh and muscle, causing her to emit a bloodcurdling scream that surpassed even the most terrifying sounds in horror movies. The sound could only be born from the type of pain very few humans experienced. To him, it sounded like music, a symphony of pain. Was Wolfwood making the same sound when he was being tortured?

The blood gushed out, painting both Elendira and him in a deep shade of red. She gasped for air, preparing to unleash another scream that no one else would ever care about.

She looked like she was fading, so he roughly slapped her cheeks a few times. She grunted at him but kept her eyes open.

“Do you know how many men sat in this very chair before you?” He asked casually, glancing at her pitiful face.

“N-no,” she cried, dragging the note out in a sorrowful wail.

“Me neither,” he shrugged. “Lost count. But I do remember that I broke every single one of them.”

She squeezed her eyes shut when he leaned forward, not brave enough to face his tormentor. “But you’re the first to have broken me first, Elendira. I can admit that. You broke me into tiny pieces when you took Nicholas from me. Because of you, I’m no longer a man.”

He straightened his spine and continued, "Do you know what that means for you? It means that I have no trace of humanity left within me. No empathy. No guilt. Nothing. I could do this all fucking day, and even when your body gives out, I'll just bring you back again."

Tears spilled from the corners of her eyes, but they had no effect on him. "I'm s-sorry. It was an honest mistake," she groaned in a feeble attempt to plead for mercy.

Vash laughed, the sound wet and humorless. "Did he have an accomplice? Someone from his family to cover for him?"

"Is this why you've kidnapped his daughter?" She sputtered out a wet chuckle. Bitch! "She has no value for him, useless just like the rest. He might even thank you for getting rid of her."

His stomach swirled, plummeting down his spine like a deflated basketball rolling down a staircase. You must be the unluckiest person on earth. He briefly glanced at the glass, then grabbed her other hand and clipped the skin between her pointer and middle finger, purely because he didn't appreciate her attitude. Not because of you. No. Not you.

Her chin trembled in pain, her body ready to give up. He had to be fast.

"Give me the names of everyone who was there that night."

Elendira hesitated, sensing that she would no longer hold any leverage if she confessed. In response, he dug the nail deeper into her eyelid to emphasize his point.

“I know you don’t care,” she forged on, noting the soulless look on his face. “But the second my crew finds out I’m dead, they’ll come after you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly.

Vash let out a slow breath and nodded. Things couldn't go any better.

“I-If you let me go, I can get you in,” she bartered desperately. “I’ll help you, and you can do whatever you want. Just as long as you let me live.”

"As you can see," he pointed to the corner of the room, "Midvalley and Hoppered are dead. I don't think the rest would be brave enough to stand against me." He let out a laugh. An angry one. A disturbed one. "Fucking names," he boomed. "Now, tell me their names."

She sniffled but gave him the names he needed to know, the names of the people who had stood by and watched as Nick was attacked without offering any help. The names were most likely aliases, but it was a start. He would hunt down every one of them until Gasback was forced out of hiding.

Fiddling with the nail in his hand, Vash refocused his attention on Elendira. "Do you know where they plan to transfer the girls?" he asked, his tone serious. Normally, he wouldn't have cared about such matters, but Nick had given his life to protect those girls, so it had become Vash's priority to fulfill his lover's final wish.

“No,” she admitted, her lip trembling. “They wouldn’t tell us until afterward.”

Vash nodded, lifted his hand, and forcefully pushed the nail deep into her eye socket. Her screams did little to alleviate the pit of dread and anger churning in his stomach.

Elendira had played a massive role in the pain that infected Vash's veins, and that… that was just unforgivable. Un-survivable.

“Boss,” Livio called. “Please.”

Vash looked over at the silver-haired man with the bloody nail in his palm. The man looked a little nauseous but couldn't find it to care right now. “She killed Nick,” he said flatly.

Livio nodded. “She did. And I’m ready to take over now.”

Standing up, Vash yanked out the nail and took a step back from her.

Before coming to this room, Vash wanted to keep Elendira alive just to line her with the others they'd catch and test if he could shoot through all their heads at once, but Livio wanted her to swallow the same pill she'd forced down Nick's throat. While he wanted her to suffer as he did. To choke on the bitterness of having her life in someone else’s hands, just to have it thrown to the ground and fucking stomped on. Only a monster could create another monster. And that was exactly who he had become.

Elendira's agonized screams reverberated through the house. Not. Enough. He swiped at his nose and turned away, his hands trembling with the urge to continue driving the nail into her skull until it resembled a colander.

Livio cleared his throat. “Stay awake! We're not done with you.”

Vash turned towards the mirrored wall. The deep sadness etched on his face was palpable, his eyes heavy with unshed tears. It was as if a dark cloud had descended over him, casting a shadow over everything he did and said.

Did you witness his anguish? Would you continue to defend the man you called your father, knowing he had abandoned you and committed murder?

Today, you witnessed the depth of Vash's affection for his partner and how he had been taken from him in a senseless act of violence. You saw his grief, his anger, his despair, and his exhaustion. He revealed to you the heavy burden he had been carrying for a long time and that he was finally reaching the breaking point.

You just had to give him something, anything to hurt Gasback, and he would let you go.

A promise.

Vash heard the sound of skin being slapped and glanced back to see Livio roughly striking Elendira's cheek. Her head lolled to the side, and more groans escaped her throat.

"Please... show mercy," she whispered, her voice hoarse. But Vash knew he wouldn't be satisfied even if she begged until her voice was depleted. Livio's pain was too great, and he needed an outlet for his anger.

"Did you show mercy to Nico?" Livio's voice broke as he spoke. Tears filled his eyes, and it only fueled the flames in Vash's chest. Livio and Nick were like brothers, and because Nick was Vash's family, that made Livio family too.

Elendira swallowed, but words failed her for several moments. "It wasn't personal," she croaked. "I was only doing what Gasback told me to do."

"Oh, is that so?" Livio countered, his fist curling into a tight ball. Vash hoped he would use it, as he would only stop his man only to deliver a few punches of his own before letting him end her miserable life. "Did Gasback tell you to nail him to the fucking cross?"

“No, but—" she said and gulped, her last tries to survive. “L-look, I’m sorry for my share in this, but you have to understand that Gasback is crazy.”

When Vash stepped closer, not a shroud of understanding reflected back at her, she became more desperate. “Seriously! He'd have me if I didn’t do what he said."

“You chose to disrespect his dead body."

Elendira floundered, her mouth opening and closing as she searched for the right answer, or rather, the right lie. Livio's eyes were fixed on her as he held his hand out to Vash expectantly. Vash didn't look away from Elendira as he handed the barn nail to Livio, knowing precisely what he was asking for.

Livio didn't waste any time, didn't hesitate for a second. He just gripped it in a tight fist, the metal glinting off the tiled room's lights as he raised it above her and plunged it into her throat. The sharp metal cut through flesh and bone, silencing her pleas forever.

Her eyes widened into round discs as she stared at her reaper with disbelief. It was always disbelief as if they didn’t see it coming. Or maybe, they just couldn't accept the fact that they were actually dying.

People like Elendira, who had lived their lives so selfishly and with no regard for others' lives, were always the most desperate to live forever. However, they never understood that this was what made them so weak. The ones like Vash were the most deadly since they had no regard for their own lives. Nothing, not a single thing, would stop him from taking people down with him when he was going to hell.

There it was.

Your head, lying on the floor, cracked right open, your brain spilling out in every direction, and you wouldn't, you didn't, you couldn't even… You were sitting here, struck, numb, slightly dizzy. Horrified. Shocked to the core.

Scientists were liars.

This world was flat.

You knew it, too, because the truth had tossed you right off the edge, and it probably wouldn't matter if you even tried to climb back because you'd never be able to beat the gravity when the sins of the man you shared blood with were this heavy. The weight of his crimes had trapped you like a chain, and you couldn't escape the feeling that you were somehow complicit in his actions simply by virtue of being related to him. It was a burden you couldn't shake, drowning you in a sea of guilt.

Humanity was dead.

Your father was a human trafficker. He was involved in stealing and selling young girls to the highest bidders. And to make matters worse, he had played a role in the death of Vash's lover or something, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, the one who wanted to save some of those girls. A good man. Probably. You didn't know much about him, but from what you had heard.

Those men tortured him to a slow death by nailing him to a wooden cross, an inhumane punishment. But the cruelty didn't end there, as the twisted minds behind it had sent pictures of his dead body to this monster to confirm his death—a sickening display of power and brutality.

You remembered the pain in his eyes as he stared at the glass as if he could see you. As if he was waiting for you to do something, begging you to do something.

It wasn't a mirage.

In that brief moment, you had sensed a depth within him that belied the surface-level facade he had created. You could discern the pain and loneliness on his face, and you almost felt his emotions as though they were yours. There was an unspoken understanding between you, a connection that transcended words. It was as if you had known him for eons despite only meeting recently. But that moment had passed, and you couldn't ignore the damage he had done.

It may be that he deserved to suffer for his actions, for being the one who had to carry on without the other.

Bradd was staring at you.

You were still reeling from what you had just heard, unable to spit the chalk out of your mouth long enough to string a sentence together. “Considering what you heard," he said, rushing to speak now. "Do you still want to defend your father? I understand that he is your family, but—”

You stood up, the word "No" escaping your lips in a choked whisper. Your world seemed to be spinning out of control as you tripped sideways. "No" became a mantra, tumbling from your lips over and over again. In all this chaos, it was as if you were trying to convince yourself of something.

You stared at your feet and hands, feeling like the blot pressing down on your shoulders. The walls were closing in on you, and you wanted to scream and stumble toward the door, searching for an outlet to escape this nightmare that was your life. The reality of your fucked up family was like a punch to the gut; you didn't know how to process all the emotions swirling inside you. You felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of your own thoughts and feelings. All you wanted was to get away, to escape this prison of your own making and find some semblance of peace. But the door felt impossibly far away, and you didn't know if you had the strength to make it there.

“Ms. McFly—please—”

Hearing the last name, your heart almost stopped. You didn't want to carry his name, not after everything that had been revealed. You forced yourself to turn around to face Bradd, but his mouth fell closed when he met your eyes. His arm was outstretched toward you, trying to stop you from 10 feet away, but you felt like you were a million miles apart. You wanted to sob and laugh at the same time at the terrible hilarity of how the fuck your entire life had crumbled to pieces.

Bradd spoke in a gentle tone, addressing you as "Ms. McFly." He acknowledged the difficulty of the situation, recognizing that it might be hard to stomach the truth. He emphasized the importance of the information you could provide, stating that it would benefit a lot of victims in the long run. Even though this was a personal matter, he appealed to your sense of morality and urged you to help.

“Is this why,” you asked, your voice breaking. “Is this why he kidnapped me? Is this why he's keeping me here, beating me, humiliating me, forcing me to watch him joyfully torture others and spill their blood? How are you people any different than the ones you're slaughtering?” you demanded, your words biting. You were caught in a war between two sides, neither of which seemed to have any regard for the sanctity of human life.

Bradd's silence spoke volumes, and the unspoken words hung heavy. This fucking room was unstable, spinning too much, too fast, and you wanted to throw up.

“You don't like it here, too, do you?” Your voice was even shakier now, too close to tears. “I saw how you were trying to look away from them all the time and distract yourself with the phone, but your ears aren't deaf. You heard all the violence." Bradd was clearly uncomfortable, and you hoped you could appeal to his compassion. “You have to help me," you pleaded. "You have to help me. You know how fucked up he—"

“Ms. McFly, please—”

“DON'T CALL ME BY THAT NAME!" you shouted, your fingers trembling. "Just please answer the question.”

“All I heard was the hurtful truth,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “And yes! Certainly, I don't particularly appreciate how the twins, especially Vash, have turned out, but having known him for some time, I know the circumstances that shaped him into this person. You see yourself; sometimes, you must claw to survive in a predatory environment." He watched Vash talking to Livio through the window, not caring about standing in a bloodbath. "I've watched that boy grow up, and he trusts me enough to listen to my pieces of advice from time to time. So, I won't talk shit about him. The weight of what he has endured in the last months cannot be ignored. Wolfwood meant a lot to him. He was his everything and beyond. I think he was his salvation. I'd never seen him that happy since he lost his mother. He—"

“Oh, God, I—I can’t—” You tripped and covered your eyes with your palms. No wonder he was pissed when you insulted his mother. His dead mother, no less. Why the fuck you always had to be like this?

Your legs felt weak, your head still spinning, and your eyes blurred as if the surroundings were being washed of all its color. You were barely able to keep your balance when suddenly, you felt arms wrap around your waist, pulling you backward. The sudden touch startled you, and you struggled against the embrace.

“Are you okay?” Bradd asked, so urgently, “I need you to—”

“Let go of me.” Your voice was barely a breath. “I don't—I don't know—”

Bradd hesitated but walked back, raising his hands to show he wouldn't approach you without permission. He moved over to a chair pushed against the wall and carried it to a spot close but not too close to where you were standing. He sat down, propping his ankle on his knee, and leaned back, linking his hands on his knees.

You noticed Bradd nodding at you, offering a strained smile and allowing you to lean against the one-sided mirror that separated you from the harsh reality of what was going on on the other side. As you tried to steady yourself, you felt your legs give out, and you collapsed onto the cold floor, sliding down the glass. It hurt, but that wasn't why muffled tears flowed down your cheeks. Silence poured into the space.

It took a few moments for your breathing to stabilize. You closed your eyes, allowing your thoughts to drift as memories flooded your mind. Each memory felt like a jolt to the heart, reminding you of all the pain and trauma your father had caused you.

You knew him.

You always knew how he was.

You had incontrovertible evidence for his savagery.

Damn, you were even carrying some of them with you, etched to your skin, seared into your mind. It dawned on you that there were others, countless others, who had suffered at his hands as well. You had always believed his violence was limited just to you and your sister, but now you understood that there were so many.

How did you spend all these years in neglect? For fuck's sake! Perhaps you knew this all along but had put it aside in order to remain hopeful about the future.

After all, you were a victim too. What about your mom? After her death, was she able to find peace?

“I may be his daughter,” you finally said and hated yourself for saying it. “But I didn't know anything about his business.” Your thoughts were tangled in words that were not your own. You took a sharp breath, trying to clear your head, and clenched and unclenched your fists.

What a mess.

You tried to meet Brad'd eyes. You wanted him to see the truth in your gaze. You needed him to understand that you did not know of your father's involvement in criminal activities. However, he didn't look up or speak but remained lost in deep thoughts, tapping his foot too fast against the floor. Something was off.

After what felt like hours, Bradd's foot stopped tapping, but he still didn't meet your eyes. He covered his mouth with his left hand, then dropped it and cleared his throat. "You're telling me he kept his family out of his business?" he asked, facing you with a scrutinizing gaze. The intensity of his stare pinned you in place. He was trying to read you, figure you out, and decide whether he could trust you.

"I've never heard about these things before," you heard yourself whisper. "I swear—I didn't know about—"

"Are you sure?"

"What?"

"It’s a question. It’s a legitimate question," Bradd said, his tone serious. "I suggested bringing you here because Vash wanted answers you weren't eager to give. I thought if you saw the depths of the misery he can cause, you'd be more willing to cooperate. But here we are. You seem to be learning everything from us with nothing to offer in return." His words stung.

“I’m sorry, I really—”

"That's not even the only problem on the table," Bradd continued, his voice tinged with frustration. "Vash will be angry that this plan didn't work and want to take his revenge personally. He won't listen to me anymore, and I won't be able to do anything to calm him down. I know his brother can stop him, but that will cause new strife, and you know who will suffer the consequences?" He paused for a moment, then answered his own question. "You. He'll take it out on you."

The gravity of the situation hit you like a ton of bricks.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were surprised it wasn't bleeding. The fear and anxiety building inside you were almost too much to bear. You struggled to take deep breaths to calm yourself down, but it was difficult to shake the impending doom.

“So I’m wondering,” Bradd said, his gaze locked on you as he leaned forward, propping himself up. “If you know exactly what you're doing and you're a hell of a lot sneakier than you pretend to be, or if you really have no clue what you're doing and just have shitty luck. I haven't decided yet."

“What?” you gasped. “No!” Your eyes are wide, horrified, caught.

He leaned back and pressed his forefinger to his lips, contemplating his next move. "Do you want to spell out?" he asked, his voice soft but firm. "Or do you just want to get tied to that chair?" He pointed to the metal chair where Elendira's body had been left to bleed out. Vash, Livio, and the others had left the room, and you hadn't even realized from the horror gripping your throat.

“I swear, I don't—I n-never—” You had to bite back the words to blink back the tears. It was crippling, this feeling and not knowing how to prove your innocence. It was your entire life repeatedly replayed, with you constantly trying to convince people that you hadn't done anything wrong, that your father had hit you for no reason, and that you never intended for things to turn out this way.

But it never seemed to work out.

"I know nothing," you choked out, the tears flowing freely now. You felt disgusted with yourself, as if you had let everyone down by not being strong enough to resist or be useful. You had wanted so badly to protect your sister and make a difference, but now it seemed you had only succeeded in ruining and losing everything again.

You didn't even know how to tell him you weren't a liar. Because he might be right, maybe you should have tried harder, better to prove to the people around you just how sick your father was. Maybe then Wolfwood would live, and your life wouldn't be this miserable.

You heard Bradd sigh as he shifted in his seat, and you couldn't bring yourself to lift your eyes. "I had to ask," he said, his tone uncomfortable. "I'm sorry you're crying, but I'm not sorry for causing it. It's just my job to constantly think of ways to keep my circle of people out of danger from someone like you."

You looked up too fast. “But I’m not—I’m n-not trying to—”

"It means nothing," Bradd said, standing up from his seat. "You are not one of us but within our territories. It doesn't make you any different than a parasite." His words were harsh. So harsh.

Bradd knocked on the door three times, and you noticed two men standing behind it.

"I didn't want to be here in the first place! Why don't you let me go? " you asked, looking at Bradd. He avoided your gaze, staring at the wall or anything but you.

He pushed his hair out of his eyes, considering your question momentarily. Finally, he spoke. "There's no way out of here for you," he said, his discomfort evident. You remained rooted in place. You noticed how his eyes seemed too tired, too strained. He looked like he hadn't been eating enough and hadn't slept in weeks. He hesitated and licked his lips before pressing them tight before he spoke. “I’m sorry,” he added as two men entered the room.

They came toward you, your eyes pleading, but they grabbed your arms and lifted you off the floor. You struggled against them, but it was no use.

Every touch in this house was painful, and this was no exception. Because you were nothing here. Bradd's words confirmed how they saw you. A parasite. A fucking parasite that hadn't chosen to be here. They brought you here by force, but you guessed it didn't matter.

"What about my sister?" you asked, turning your head to see Bradd's face as they dragged you out of the room.

"She has no idea about anything!" you exclaimed, tears streaming down your face. You knew your sister was utterly innocent, and the thought of her being caught up in a situation like you was almost too much to bear. "Will she be safe?"

Bradd's hand hesitated on the doorknob. "She'll be alright." And the door closed behind.

"I don't want any liability here," Vash said, and his hands trembled slightly as he picked up the gun, his fingers wrapping tightly around the cool metal. He slid the firearm out with practiced ease, the bullets clinking against each other and filling the room. He counted them silently, checking each one for any imperfections or damage. Satisfied, he slid the firearm back into place with a soft click, his eyes trying hard not to leave the gun as he pulled back the slide and let it snap forward with a metallic clang.

Distraction.

He needed a distraction.

The torture wasn't enough.

He repeated the action several times, each time with a little more force until the sound echoed through the room like thunder. Finally, he flipped off the safety catch with a sharp flick of his thumb and took a deep breath.

Relax.

He needed to relax.

The alcohol wasn't enough.

"But you watched the tape yourself and heard her words. We're sure she doesn't know anything," Bradd declared and leaned casually against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched Vash nervously checking his gun over and over and over again. His eyes flicked over the weapon with a cool detachment, his expression giving nothing away.

Vash completed his meticulous maintenance of the gun and turned to face Bradd. Though Vash appeared intense, he met Bradd's gaze with unflinching confidence. He had learned early on that hiding his emotions was critical to survive growing up with Kni, who tended to take away anything he grew too attached to.

With a far-off look in his eyes, his hand reached to the small glass on the table. He raised it to his lips and downed the whiskey in one smooth motion, the burn of it doing almost nothing to dull the pain in his heart. Immediately, he poured another shot.

Numb.

He needed to be numb.

The blood wasn't enough.

He brought the glass to his lips, hoping that the alcohol would offer some relief from the constant torment in his mind. Would drinking be enough to make him forget his brother's possible involvement in Nick's death? Would this shit somehow solve all his problems? The pain persisted even when he was drunk most of the time. The grief had remained unrelenting. His eyes were bloodshot, and nightmares were lullabying him to awakening.

Nothing could help him. No one could ease this suffering.

Setting the barely touched glass on the counter, he slumped back, defeated by the weight of his emotions. He glanced at his councilor's worried eyes.

"I didn't say she's lying, Bradd." He sighed. His face was twisted in distress, his brow furrowed, and his eyes closed tight. This headache was throbbing behind his eyelids. But this was nothing compared to the ache in his veins.

He did slaughter Nick's murderer. Hooray! But why the fuck he hadn't calmed down even a bit? How the hell should he find his peace of mind? The answer eluded him, and he was left alone to grapple with his demons.

"Then why do you wanna do that?" Bradd questioned and tilted his head to the side. He then started talking and talking and talking.

Vash's eyes were half-lidded and unfocused as he listened to him. His shoulders were hunched as if he was trying to shrink away from the conversation, and his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the armrest. He sighed deeply every so often as if he couldn't quite muster the energy to keep up the pretense of interest.

"She…she has no use anymore." His speech was slow and slurred, betraying the fact that he had had a few too many shots, and his words seemed to come out in a lazy drawl. He seemed disinterested, but there was a hint of mischief in his eyes, plotting something twisted in his mind.

"You're not thinking straight! How can you make a decision about her life in this state? What's wrong with you?" Bradd exclaimed, throwing his arms up in disbelief as he approached the couch. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"A lot of things are wrong about me. Where do you want me to start?" Vash leaned his head back and let out a quiet yawn. His hair was disheveled, and red circles were under his eyes and on the tip of his nose. Obviously, he had shed one or two tears, but no one would point it out. He had just learned why his boyfriend had been nailed to a cross like Jesus Christ. Let him be!

His shirt was untucked, and his holster loosened, giving him a slightly disreputable air. As he shifted in his seat, alcohol wafted off of him, mingling with the room's scent.

"You'll regret this, Vash," he said, sitting on the couch, looking away from the man before him.

Bradd's disgust was all over his face, and he couldn't blame him. He despised himself as much as Bradd did. Maybe even more.

Finally, Vash let out a loud sigh and leaned forward. "You really think I'll regret getting rid of someone who even her almighty family doesn't give a shit about?" His laughter bubbled up from deep within him, a wild and uncontrollable sound that echoed in the silent house. It was a high-pitched, almost manic sound punctuated by sharp gasps for air. He threw his head back and let out a series of cackles coming from somewhere beyond reason.

There was something almost frightening about him, as if he had lost all control and was careening towards some unknown edge. Finally, the laughter petered out, leaving him gasping for breath and wiping tears from his eyes. Tears that for sure weren't from happiness.

With his cheek resting on his hand and his eyes narrowing, he braced himself to ask the question tickling his mind. "Bradd, can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Do you want to have her?" His eyes were deep-set and shadowed, holding a glint of wickedness that could make Bradd easily uneasy. The lopsided smirk on his face was almost mocking as if he enjoyed causing chaos and destruction.

Brad didn't even turn his head to look at him. "I think you're drunk," he said.

Grabbing his revolver, Vash stood up and stretched his body. "Is that a yes?" There was a cold detachment to his tone when he spoke as if he were discussing something trivial when his words were always intentionally chosen.

"No." A word with two letters was more than enough for now.

"Good," Vash said as he walked towards the corridor leading to the basement. "You won't miss her then." He was heading out when he heard Bradd called out to him, his voice cutting through the dead air with a sharpness that made him pause.

"She's just like you," Bradd said, and the words hit Vash like a punch to the gut. His eyes widened in shock as he struggled to comprehend the meaning behind them. What? No one could be like him, he thought. No one could have endured the same level of agony he had. Nonsenses!

As the shock began to give way to anger, he turned his head sharply, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity. He quickened his steps, the sound echoing through the room as he stormed out the door. His movements were tense and purposeful as if trying to escape the weight of those words and the memories they stirred within him.

His face was set in a scowl, his jaw tight with anger and resentment. The muscles in his arms and shoulders were taut with hatred; his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

The words echoed through his mind, taunting him until he found himself in front of your room's door.

Don't think.

Just do it.

Click.

He turned the key, and as he stepped into the room, his gaze fell upon you, who was pacing across the room. You, a fragile thing, were like him? Stupidest joke Bradd could come up with.

He let out a sigh.

No hello.

No how are you.

No sorry for traumatizing you.

He raised his gun and pointed it at you in one swift motion.

You froze.

Fear immediately evident on your face.

Blood rushed down to his dick.

FUCK!

He was obsessed.

He was addicted.

It wouldn't matter how far he crossed if it meant he could indulge in your fear.

His mind had already been made up, the decision fortifying like granite in his brain.

He just wanted to touch you, feel your warmth for the last time.

He just wanted to hurt you, let you have the sweetest pleasure that was pain.

He was lying.

He just loved to see you cry.

It made him feel alive.

At that moment, your wandering eyes met his with a force that nearly caused him to buckle at the knees. The corners of your eyes rounded ever so slightly, conveying a deep animosity that seemed to mirror his hatred toward you.

And then your eyes landed on his finger holding the trigger, and he knew he needed to pull it before making a grave mistake.

Too late.

His eyes lingered on the way tears suited your features. It was as if you were born to cry for him as if it were your natural state. But then he remembered he hadn't seen any other emotions on your face since you had arrived, and the thought struck him.

For a brief moment, he hesitated, his resolve wobbling. But then he remembered why he was there —the seething hatred, the unbearable pain, the overwhelming rage. As he recalled the depth of his emotions, the emotions evaporated.

His cock was no longer in charge.

"There," he yelled and pointed with his gun. "Raise your hands and stand before that wall." His voice was low and menacing.

With trembling hands in the air, you stumbled backward, your legs giving up beneath you. Now you probably had realized what would happen to those deemed useless by him, that there was no escape from his grudge, no way out of this hell.

You surrendered to his will, and to his surprise, you didn't beg for your life, plead for mercy, or try to reason with him. Instead, you simply wept, your heart shattering within your chest as you faced the barrel of his gun.

You were such an obedient thing, weren't you?

He couldn't help but feel a sense of grudging respect for how docile you were acting today. A tamable brat. Such a shame your potential was going to be wasted. Because he couldn't keep up with this. There was something about you stirring him, annoying him. Something he wanted to get rid of and yet have it on his tongue.

He moved closer, too close to your body, closer than times before. For the last time, he said to himself.

"Cross your arms above your head," he ordered, his hot breath breezing your face as the cold barrel of the gun pressed against your chest, his sick grin spreading across his face. His other hand grabbed your wrists, causing him to lean more toward you. The smell of alcohol mingled with the acrid stench of gunpowder and cigarette smoke. But unlike you, your scent refused to be dominated by him.

Flowers.

Geraniums.

Red as your eyes.

Brave as your eyes.

Beautiful as your eyes.

Old, dusted, long-forgotten childhood memories.

Home.

A meaningless word that was scratching the surface, trying to be written again, to be spoken again, to be remembered again.

Home.

You.

Home.

You.

Home.

You.

Home.

You.

Home.

You.

A jolt of shock coursed through his body, leaving him reeling and disoriented. The images and sensations were so vivid, so intense that he felt as though he had been transported back in time to a place he thought he had left behind forever. His mind raced as he struggled to make sense of the fragments of his past, piecing together a narrative that had long been buried and forgotten.

Why the fuck were you reminding him of something he couldn't have anymore?

You witch!

He came here with a simple plan: shoot your arms and legs, watch you suffer, and maybe empty a bullet in your brain if he felt merciful.

But he was drunk. So drunk.

And fate was a whore. An experienced one.

And you were here. Seconds away from feeling his stiff cock.

BLOODY HELL!

He realized he was lost in the labyrinth of unregulated thoughts, a disordered symphony that threatened to drive him crazy. This was a new territory for him. Undiscovered. How could he run out of this relentless trap? Should he surrender to the glistening tears gathering in the corner of your eyes? Or maybe he should just focus on the tightening grip of his hand around your wrists?

Was he hurting you?

No. This couldn't be it because the touch of your soft breasts against his chest ignited a primal hunger within him, and the rhythm of your breaths, followed by the arch of your back, forced him to draw himself closer to your warmth.

Did you want this?

What?

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Why was he thinking like this?

The contrast between his intentions and actions was crystal clear, but despite it all, he couldn't ignore the long-forgotten yearning that scratched the old wound hidden in his broken heart.

He tried to deceive himself by blaming alcohol for compelling these things to him, but alcohol had no voice, no authority. It remained as a silent partner in crime, unable to even free itself from its glassy prison.

Goddammit!

These were your desires Vash Saverem.

No!

He separated his lower body from you, not wanting you to sense the growing hardness as he tried to make sense of the situation. The futility of recent events had washed over him, dulling his brain cells and settling him into a kind of daze he hadn't been able to claw his way out of. He was tired of this. This, removing you process was taking longer than he had anticipated, and he was here because he needed to teach Gasback a lesson, but how could sending back your dead body doubled filled with Lead pills hurt him? The shitbag of a father hadn't given a damn about you, and he needed a solution for this goddamn problem, and he wanted to scream and find a way to breathe because he hadn't breathed in months, and he missed Nicholas too much, and had no idea how to continue without him and …

Come to me, Vash. Aren't you tired, Spikey? Isn’t it enough? I promise you'll be happier if you off a bullet in your palate. I miss you, too.

His shoulders tensed up in rhythm with his thoughts. He looked at you. Maybe you had the answers, but you were like a house of mirrors in a carnival — he couldn’t trust what he saw before him was real and who might be staring back at him from behind those mirrors. You were trouble. Not a good one, and he couldn't read your mind. Your gates kept him outside, making him stare down at your gorgeously pointed nose and beautiful lips, neck, and...

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He was overcome with a sense of self-loathing at his behavior. He deserved to be punched in the head for the way he had been acting. He wanted to take a step back, but his gaze inadvertently drifted down to your chest, and he caught sight of a scar peeking out from your clothing. The blemish was jagged and barely visible in the dim light, but it stood out to him like a beacon. For a moment, he was transfixed, wondering what had caused such a mark and what other secrets you might be hiding.

He frowned, and his eyes lingered on the scar, his mind racing with possibilities. He knew that scars often held tales of pain and suffering that were etched into a person's flesh. He wondered what story this scar had to tell.

If he was going to end you today, what difference would it make if he turned you inside out and dragged out whatever you had to hide?

As Vash raised the gun, the nozzle moved aside your collar, and there it was: multiple blotches gathered around. You started to wiggle yourself free from his grasp, but he tightened his grip on your wrists, pressing himself even closer to you. You winced, surely not wanting him to discover the new acres he had just landed on.

Say no to him and watch him name every inch of you as his property.

With his forehead on yours, his ominous breath on your face, his tight grip on your wrists, and his gun on your scars, he asked a question. “How do you have those scars?” His husky voice slid in between your silky tresses.

Your stonelike eyes animated with a flash of anger. You probably could understand this was not a question born of genuine concern for your well-being. There was no hint of it in his voice.

Vash also understood that because he'd already pretty much gathered what happened to you. Those were scars left from cigarette burns. So his question was guided purely by his desire to get you to say it with your own mouth. A way of forcibly getting you to open up to him, to give him something. Anything. To keep you alive. He wanted, no; he needed you to provide it for him.

But you didn’t. You kept quiet.

Again, he asked, “How do you have those scars?”

“None of your business,” you responded this time, your voice every bit as defiant and remote.

Vash felt his irritation rose tenfold. Turned out it was a very bad idea to question a kidnapped girl he had under this much-unresolved tension. His hands clenched around your wrists even tighter, and your slender hands began shaking while the suffocated veins on your hands bulged.

“Who did this to you?” he rephrased the question.

“Go to hell,” you spat, and he pressed himself more into you. You couldn’t hold back a cry this time as your eyesight darkened with the cloud of his strength.

“Who hurt you?” he asked, his lips smiling, his voice – anything but. Why were you this fiery? Why did touching you both hurt and soothe him?

“I hate you, Vash!” You spoke his name, his eyes still deeply searching yours, and the blood that had halted its flow through his veins began gushing like a waterfall. Something profound got punctured within him and started leaking from the tip of his cock when you pronounced his name with such tenderness, intimacy, and exclusivity.

He almost smiled. “You said my name again.”

“You ordered me to, you monster!” You pressed your lips together, breathing and not breathing.

"And you obeyed," he said and tilted his head. His lips twitched. His eyes fell, and his lips drew in a tight breath. He dropped a gloved finger down the apple of your cheek.

"Your father did this to you, didn't he?" he whispered, too close to your eyes. You inched backward, but you were already pinned to the wall. Your throat bubbled as you gave up and accepted your fate.

He brushed his nose to the crown of your head and let you tremble silently, somehow knowing that you would rather die than speak a word.

Because he knew this shame.

As a child, he'd spent many hours hiding in dark corners, praying that his older brother wouldn't find him, hoping that he would be in a good mood and that things would be okay for once. But most of the time, Kni would scream and lash out, cutting him with a knife and seeming to enjoy watching him bleed.

For so long, he'd felt isolated and alone with the scars of his past until he learned he didn't get those scars because he was weak once. He had them because he simply was stronger than the one who tried to hurt him. He was stronger than Kni, and those scars on display were a testament to it.

Unbreakable.

He couldn't break you because you were already broken, just like him. Shattered. You already had those delicate, beautiful cracks on your heart that let the sun shine through them. Sharp edges that probably had cut you more than others.

How the fuck Bradd knew you this well?

With a deep sigh, he released your arms and lowered his gun. He stepped back and slowly returned the revolver to its holster. Your hands dropped to your sides, and with it did your guard. Your eyes suddenly had become bare, vulnerable, almost childlike. Innocent.

Seeing your defensiveness dissipate before his eyes, Vash adjusted your collar, helping you hide behind a thin piece of cloth if this would make you raise your head proudly again.

This wasn't a retreat.

No.

Just a temporary ceasefire.

Today was a hard day, right?

He turned his back to you, seeming to be lost in his thoughts, his mind preoccupied with everything that had happened. He took a few steps towards the door.

"Why don't you just kill me?" you called out, your tone tinged with sadness.

"I will," he said, turning his head to glance over his shoulder at you. "But for now, keeping you alive will piss off your dad more." He gave you a knowing wink before exiting the room, but not without one last warning: "Don't cause any trouble." With that, he locked the door behind him.

Leaning his back against the wall, Vash let out a deep sigh as if he had been holding his breath for far too long. His gaze drifted toward the basement ceiling, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed within him. It was as if a part of him that had been missing had finally been found, or a piece of him that he had carried for so long had been gone.

It was still too soon, but one day he would learn that when two broken people brought their pieces together, chances were they would never become whole without each other.

But he didn't know it.

He had felt cowardice, weakness, and strength. He'd known terror and indifference, self-hate and general disgust. He'd seen things that couldn't be unseen. And yet he'd known nothing like this beautiful, terrible, pleasant, paralyzing feeling that had filled his heart—since when he had a heart again? He felt crippled. Desperate and out of control. And it kept getting worse. Every second he felt sick. Empty and somehow aching. This new emotion was a heartless bastard. He was driving himself insane.

He expected to be disappointed for not killing you, but instead, he felt a strange sense of unease settling in his chest. Then his eyes fell on the bulge tightening his pants and shook his head. "Fucking whiskey," he cursed, blaming the booze.

Vash cracked his neck, releasing a shuddering breath. The irony. He was standing in the basement of his house, his dick still painfully pressed against his zipper.

Just as he decided to say fuck it—cheating on Nick by jacking off imagining her would be the least of his sins since he had gone—his phone vibrated in his pocket. He curled his hand into a tight fist, his muscles straining as he fought the overwhelming urge to grab his shaft.

He didn't think he had had blue balls like this since high school when Meryl Strife jacked him off in the locker room. It was the first time a girl touched his dick, and he didn’t even get to finish because the teacher, Roberto fucking De Niro, walked in before he could shoot his load off on her pretty face.

He answered the phone and brought it to his ear without even looking.

“Yeah?” he snapped, his frustration boiling to dangerous levels.

“Did I interrupt your fuck session?” Bradd crooned through the phone, his voice laced with mocking amusement.

He cracked his neck again, growling when his muscles didn't relieve him.

“Nope,” he replied, popping the P dramatically. He wanted to pop him in the face for it. “Bradd,” he said, his tone serious. He refused to touch his dick while on the phone with him. As much as he needed to lessen the pressure, Bradd’s voice would make him feel sick.

"You haven't forgotten tonight's meeting, right?" he said, and Vash smacked his palm to his forehead.

"I'm coming." Vash let out a sigh.

"Are you fucking her while talking to me?" Bradd said, and his laughter was the last thing he heard before hanging up the phone.

He adjusted his pants and continued his way upstairs.

Taglist: @julk4e - @lune010 - @beanibon - @emptybrain01 - @changingchances

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