Smack. Smack.
Sharp pain flared across the woman's face as she sat bound to a rickety wooden chair in a freezing grey room. The single overhead bulb flickered with dying light, casting shadows over her tangled light brown hair and bloodied features. Her wrists and ankles throbbed beneath rough ropes.
"Why are you doing this?" she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Before her stood Damien, whose angular features seemed to have been cut from stone. His long black hair was messily swept back, he wore a pristine black jacket and tailored trousers, while his pale eyes held a dead stare devoid of empathy.
Against the wall of rusted lockers leaned Summer, a young girl with blonde hair pulled behind her ears, her eyes shimmering with sorrow and regret.
"You know why," Damien said coolly, grabbing the woman's hair. She shrieked as pain shot through her. "We have your daughter. Give us the money, and you both go free."
It was all a lie.
Damien hadn't captured the woman's daughter, and he didn't need to. He understood that love makes people foolish, causing them to close their eyes to harsh truths. All he needed was a believable threat.
The woman was Mrs. Shirley, the mayor's wife. A woman who had never known hunger, never feared for her safety, cushioned by wealth and privilege that had left her emotionally vulnerable.
Her husband had stolen from the organization for years, skimming money he thought they'd never notice. Now they had, so sending this particular message of retribution had become Damien's and Summer's job.
"Not Laela! Not my daughter! What have you monsters done to her!" Mrs. Shirley cried, kicking and twisting against the ropes that burned her skin.
Damien's grip tightened, leaning close enough for her to catch his expensive cologne.
"We've done nothing to your daughter," he said in an almost gentle tone. "In fact, you've done something. By not calling your husband, you're the one killing her."
His empty smile played across his face.
"Every minute we waste here is another minute your daughter goes without food. Without water."
He glanced at his polished watch, the glass catching lamplight.
"We've been here two days. I wonder how much longer Laela can last."
His gaze shifted to Summer, her actual age obscured by the organization's strict secrecy, but she couldn't have been older than seventeen. Damien looked slightly older, maybe in his early twenties, but his suit remained spotless, uncreased, untouched by the violence he so casually delivered. His voice, just as crisp, never once faltered with remorse.
"What do you think, Summer?" he asked casually. "Is Mrs. Shirley killing her daughter?"
Mrs. Shirley focused on the girl.
Summer didn't meet her gaze, but her head tilted in a slight nod that Mrs. Shirley clung to like the gospel. The young girl seemed the lesser evil—sad-eyed and reluctant, not relishing any of this.
When Summer agreed with that fragile nod, Mrs. Shirley believed every word Damien spoke. He'd known she would—he'd worked with Summer for two years, witnessing that haunted look in her eyes. She hated this work, but it was her role.
She never lied to victims, and her presence instilled trust.
"Fine, you monsters! I'll talk to him. Call my husband!" Mrs. Shirley wailed.
She hadn't wanted to worry Harold. He was the mayor, handling essential matters, and he reminded her countless times not to disturb him during work hours. But this was different—Laela's life was on the line. He'd abandon everything once he knew.
Right?
Damien's eyes widened in mock surprise, genuine emotion briefly creeping onto his face.
"Great! You're doing great, Mrs. Shirley. We're so proud of you!" he said with bright, mocking enthusiasm, releasing her hair.
He turned to Summer. "Aren't we proud of her, Summer?"
The girl didn't move, arms crossed, face distant. Her eyes sank deeper into regret, but under Damien's unyielding stare, she finally whispered,
"Yes."
The stale, lifeless word was all Mrs. Shirley needed.
"My daughter... after this, will my daughter and I be released unharmed?"
"Of course you will!" Damien replied with a grin. "What do you take me for—the devil? All we want is your money!"
Mrs. Shirley straightened, wiping her bloody face and dabbing at her stained dress. "Alright... call my husband."
"Alrighty!" Damien sang cheerily, producing a cellphone from his jacket.
Tense silence fell.
Mrs. Shirley stared ahead, muscles frozen, not with fear for herself, but for Laela. She turned to Summer one last time.
"Everything will be okay... right?"
Mrs. Shirley searched her eyes for hope but found only a cold, detached void.
"Quiet, quiet," Damien grinned from across the room. "It's ringing!"
One ring. Two. Three.
With each tone, Mrs. Shirley's heart thundered. Her husband worked long hours and barely came home anymore. She didn't even know if he still loved her, but for Laela... he'd answer.
"Please," she whispered, eyes closing tight. "Just this once."
On the fourth ring, a click.
"Honey, what have I told you about bothering me at work? I can't take time away to fulfill all of your needs!"
Mrs. Shirley flinched. Damien raised his hand, signaling silence, muttering,
"Whoa! What a charmer we have here."
The mayor's tone shifted.
"Wha—who is this? What have you done with my wife?"
She longed to speak, to scream, but the man's hand kept her in check, and she wouldn't disobey, not when they held her precious daughter.
"Calm down, big guy," Damien said, walking casually as if engaged in a regular call.
He gave Mrs Shirley a thumbs-up.
Tears clung to her lashes as she gasped, "Honey! Just do what the man says. They have our daugh—"
Bang.
A flash of light, a burst of sound, and blood.
Damien swiftly drew a gun and fired mid-sentence. Mrs. Shirley's head snapped back, her body jerked violently, and she crumpled to the floor. Red spread quickly across the concrete, mixing with the rust stains as her white dress soaked up the crimson.
Harold's voice cracked with fury and panic.
"Did you just... did you just shoot my wife?! You have my daughter! What is going on?! I swear I'm going to find you!"
Damien pressed the phone to his lips, voice soft and taunting.
"Oops. My finger slipped. I guess that happens when people meddle in other people's business." He paused, letting horror swell in Harold's chest. "Pay the Organization back, Harold, or your daughter's next."
He ended the call.
Silence fell again, only the crackling lamplight and distant water dripping. Damien stared at the body without regret or sorrow, having done this too many times.
'What a day to be alive,' he thought with a smirk.
Then he turned toward Summer and froze.
Summer stood before him, no longer leaning or passive. Her eyes, once full of sorrow, now burned with resolve. In her hands... a gun, aimed steadily at him, finger poised on the trigger.
"Oooh," Damien drawled, masking the spike of fear. "What do we have here?"
He dropped his weapon and slowly raised his empty hands. His heart pounded louder than the gunshot, not from guilt, but from the thrill of risk. Damien had always thrived on survival and control, and now he had none.
Her hands trembled slightly, unaccustomed to this, as Damien had never let her kill—he liked it too much.
"You have to die!" she shouted, voice cracking. "A devil like you can't live in this world!"
The name didn't hurt him; it was exactly who he was. Hell, he liked it, but he didn't like dying.
So, with a chuckle and a shrug, he gave her one final desperate smile.
"Have I ever told you... that you're my sister?"
Damien had no family, not by blood. He'd been raised by the organization, by blades and orders, not names and warmth—the same as her. Yet he knew what she craved: connection, any connection. If there was a way to stall her, to plant doubt... it was this.
For a moment, her arms trembled harder, then a smirk tugged at her lip.
"Did you think that would work?"
Bang.
Sudden burst of pain, a flash, then nothing. Damien collapsed to the floor, arms slack, and eyes wide open.
Dead.