Michael stood completely shirtless, his bruised chest pressed against the slick, grimy brick wall of an abandoned building in the Mera District.
The tip of Danto's tachi drilled an icy threat against his sternum, a millimeter shy of his heart.
"Let me go. What could you possibly want with me?" Michael begged, his head bowed low.
"Tell me where Mugi and the hostages are," Danto said in a low, forced voice, trying to channel the steely calm of the interrogators he watched on screens.
"I already told you---I don't know." Michael groaned, raising his head just enough to reveal a face tattered and bruised from the Orb of Freedom.
Danto scoffed, driving the blade a fraction deeper into Michael's chest.
Well, at least I don't have to fight this one…
Hopefully.
"Ow. Ow. Owww!" Michael cried, his body spasming against the wall. "Stop it, okay! I'll tell you everything you need to know." He shouted. "They're probably in one of the abandoned buildings."
"Yes, I figured that much. Which one?" Danto's expression was flat and unwavering.
"That's the thing… I don't know which specific building." Michael shivered, the coldness of the blade now secondary to the terror of its pressure.
Every second I spend here, those people could be dead or dying.
Danto momentarily closed his eyes, glancing around the desolate streetscape.
He faced back, his glare tight.
"You said that you didn't know where they were before, too. But I distinctly recall you and your friend just about to go there before I arrived or did I not hear?" Danto challenged, a thin line of sarcasm in his tone.
Michael's eyes darkened, but he remained silent.
Fuck this brat!
He growled internally.
No. Relax, Michael. Learn from that bastard's shortcoming. I'll attack and flee when he least expects it.
Or wait.
A chilling thought surfaced.
Mugi should have definitely eaten those people by now… So why don't I just give the boy what he wants?
It's a win-win.
A grin, thin and sharp like a sheepish ghoul's, slowly stretched Michael's lips. He gave a short, unnerving chuckle.
"What's so funny?" Danto asked, slowly, dangerously pushing the blade just a hair deeper.
"I'm sorry, Officer. I have remembered exactly where he was." Michael's voice was now oddly, falsely cheerful.
Why the sudden change in attitude?
Danto raised an eyebrow, easing the blade's pressure and backing slightly away.
"I thought you just said you didn't know?" He asked.
"I forgot, sorry. After almost dying and getting blown up, one tends to forget things." Michael glared.
Danto simply remained quiet and nodded once.
I wonder why he's so cooperative now. He knows he isn't going to leave this alive, no matter what.
So why…
A prick of cold wariness ran down Danto's spine.
"Alright then. Let's go, and make it quick." He stood up, forcing Michael to rise with him.
Danto turned Michael around, aligning his back to face him, and smoothly placed the sword tip back at his heart, driving it in just enough for the hilt to extend through the front.
Just in case…
"Before you try anything, just know that I can end you by simply passing my charyū through this blade." Danto violently grabbed Michael's shoulder and shoved him forward.
"Yes, I know." Michael simply agreed.
They began walking, following Michael's nose at a hurried pace. The whole situation resembled a grim walk with a dog---Danto the owner, Michael the reluctant, twitching pet.
Danto glanced at his leather wristwatch. Should have about a half hour left…
Crap. Let's just get this over with.
His eyes were heavy with worry and mounting uneasiness.
***
Meanwhile, somewhere else in the ghost district, still under the veil of the dead night sky, the air had a familiar, unsettling taste: rust, stale beer, and the burnt sweetness of spoiled food. It was a heavy, wet cocktail that caught in a rough man's throat.
His shoulders scraped the slick brick wall, touching the endless grime as a cold wind blew through the skeletal street. The fabric of his rugged wool cap stank of smoke he barely registered anymore.
The man, Mugi, was the sum of his worst decisions, carved deep into the dark lines around his baggy, bloodshot eyes.
He pressed the flip-phone, held together by black tape, tight to his ear.
"Yeah. Yeah. I got it," His voice was a rough gravel, abrasive enough to scrape eardrums.
On the other end was a woman, her voice a sharp, tinny screech that was slowly, intentionally building up steam within Mugi. Bit by bit, she chipped away at his composure, the pressure reaching its highest point until he violently blew the lid off.
"I know, goddamnit!" Mugi spat back, his free hand chopping furiously at the rancid air.
Her voice rose again, becoming sharper, more shrill than ever. She blasted him with a litany of his failures and the worthlessness of his life, a piercing sound that even the low-quality call couldn't muffle.
Having had enough, Mugi grunted, his shoulders slumping, his spine folding inward in a gesture of absolute defeat.
"Okay. Okay. My bad… My bad," he softly conceded.
Then came the silence.
A sarcastic scoff followed. It was clean, sharp, and hitting him with the sickening force of a punch he couldn't dare return.
She always found the exact frequency of his shame.
He thought, a bitter, self-loathing grin twisting his lips.
He let out a slow, gusting sigh and looked up. The sky was a dead, empty canvas where the stars were supposed to be. Mugi felt it perfectly mirrored the vast void he felt within.
The cold night air was a soft chill, a useless whisper that moved the stray, dangling strands of hair from beneath his cap.
It was all as if he was trying to find solace, but he just couldn't find what was never there in the first place.
No... it's all for her. Everything's all been for her...
The thought was a flimsy, paper-thin shield against the deeper, crushing truth. Nothing more than a promise made to a ghost.
...That's if the Cabonari doesn't come for me first.
The cold realization hit him like a jolt of ice water. His breath snagged, then rushed out, a soft, defeated puff into the rancid air.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, okay?" He drew his fingertips up, resting them beneath his bloodshot eyes.
"But... How is she holding up? It's the least I could know." His voice cracked, weak and desperate.
The final word was a raw, exposed sound that belonged to a different, broken person.
He slowly scratched the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on the empty sky.
"Just tell her that I---"
The call disconnected with a hollow, unceremonious click. A final, absolute period to the sentence he'd never finish.
---The End of Chapter 7---