Askai sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees drawn uselessly toward his chest. The rope around his wrists burned where it bit into skin already torn raw but his eyes never left Megalo who stood a few feet away, phone pressed to his ear, pacing like a dog too excited to sit still.
His handler didn't utter a word after he heard Kyrion's name. He simply shared a number with Megalo after wasting some very precious moments that almost made Askai's heart stop.
Any moment someone would pick up the call and..
This was it.
This was the line he had crossed without ever meaning to.
That fantasy still hadn't fully died. It hovered there—fragile and foolish - like a mirage in the desert.
If I tell him now. Askai wondered. If Vance only heard my truth before Ramsay arrived, before I returned to the folds of the West....
Maybe Vance wouldn't feel betrayed or hurt.
Maybe he would pause, hesitate just long enough to listen what he really couldn't say all long.
Askai could then bury this borrowed identity with no regrets. After he had said everything he needed to, he planned on stalling Megalo until Ramsay arrived. Somehow he wasn't worried about the latter at all.
Askai swallowed, throat dry as ash, and lifted his head when Megalo stopped pacing.
"…yeah," Megalo said into the phone, voice shifting—suddenly deferential, fumbling over itself. " We caught someone. Boy from the West. Running with the gangs. From-from the-" he stammered as a cold voice interrupted him harshly from the other end.
Askai's breath caught so sharply it hurt.
West.
The word landed like a blade sliding between ribs, slow and ruthless.
What was this idiot going on about?
"No—" Askai snapped. "Tell him—it's me. Tell him my name!"
Megalo shot him a look. His eyes were bright, distracted - sneaking around as if he had truly lost it.
"Shut up." He spat at him.
The phone crackled.
A voice came through—cold, clipped, distant but quite clear.
Vance.
Askai knew it instantly, the way you recognize thunder before the sound fully reaches you. Megalo straightened, shoulders locking into place. "Sir, the boy's… saying his name is Askai. Says you'd want to talk to him once you hear—"
Hope flared.
Hot. Blinding. Stupid.
It burned through him before he could stop it, before he could remember all the reasons it shouldn't exist.
Askai dragged himself forward on his elbows, rope scraping softly against the floor.
"Vance," he tried. His throat burned like he'd swallowed fire. "Please," he whispered. "Just listen. I—"
The voice on the other end didn't slow.
Didn't soften.
It moved on without him, over him, through him, like he had never spoken at all.
Other voices overlapped it—shouted updates, fragments of conversation Askai couldn't piece together.
Megalo nervously laughed into the phone, the sound brittle and forced. "Sir, orders?"
But the next moment, he suddenly flinched so hard that the phone slipped through his grasp and landed almost in front of Askai.
Askai's heart slammed so violently he thought it might tear free of his chest.
There was a pause. A sharp one. Kind of silence that was almost deafening.
Then Vance spoke again.
"Do what you do with people from the West." The words were flat. Final. Spoken with such naked hatred that they scorched straight through Askai's soul. "Take off the head, Send the corpse for payment."
Someone screamed in the background.
A sound sharp enough to cut through everything else.
"No—!" a woman's voice cried. Desperate and broken.
Ruby.
This—this was real.
"No—no, no, Vance, you have to listen to me!"
Askai lunged for the phone.
The mallet came down in a blur of iron and motion.
Askai jerked back at the last heartbeat, rope burning into his wrists as the blow missed his hands by inches. The phone shattered instead—plastic and metal exploding across the floor, the last echo of Vance's voice dying in a violent crack.
All traces of sanity left Askai's mind as he looked at the broken pieces scattered before him -ones that were supposed to be his redemption. His last chance at honesty before a man - who probably never cared about him.
All the plans suddenly disappeared and he only saw red.
Megalo threw his head back and cackled, the sound wild, unhinged.
"Too late, bastard!"
He swung again.
Askai caught the mallet between his bound hands, iron vibrating against bone, pain screaming up his arms.
"That crazy bastard—!"
Askai drove forward with his shoulder alone and Megalo slammed into the wall headfirst.
There was a sickening crack—dull but loud.
"He should have listened!" Askai shouted, voice tearing apart. "He should have at least listened to me!"
Megalo slid halfway down the wall, blinking through thin rivulets of blood pouring from his scalp, eyes unfocused.
"Call him," Askai screamed, dragging himself closer. "Call him again! Tell him to say that to my face!"
"That coward!" Askai spat.
Megalo laughed wetly, coughing.
"I d-don't… I don't have—"
Askai seized the mallet and swung but his tied legs betrayed him.
The iron slipped mid-arc and came down wrong. The crunch was sharper this time.
Megalo screamed.
The mallet crushed his hand instead of his face, bones folding with a sound that turned Askai's stomach even through the rage.
"You don't get to talk!" Askai roared. "Not after what you said!"
He surged forward again, breath ragged, vision swimming, blood dripping into his eyes.
"You ruined it!" he screamed. "You fucking ruined the only chance I had!"
Megalo curled inward, clutching his ruined hand, sobbing now, blood and spit mixing on the floor.
"That cursed mouth of yours!" Askai roared, dragging himself forward, rage tearing free of him at last. "Who told you to say West? WHO DID?!"
He lunged, feral, vision tunneling. "I'll batter it to pieces," he screamed. "I'll rip it out of you!"
He didn't sound like himself anymore. He was hurt.
That was the worst part.
The idea of forgiveness had always been a lie. He knew that. He had known it even while clinging to it. But knowing didn't soften the blow. The words Vance had spoken still rang in his skull—flat, cold, final.
It felt like betrayal. It felt like hell.
Not because Vance had condemned him.
But because he hadn't even listened.
It cut deeper than the ropes. Deeper than the blows.
He wanted to kill him.
Not Megalo.
Him.
But Megalo was here. He had ruined it. So he would pay first.
He slammed his forehead into Megalo's face.
Once.
Again.
The crunch was louder everytime, satisfying but meaningless. It didn't dull the pain inside him. It didn't even touch it.
Tears streamed down his face, hot and uncontrollable. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried—was it for Marlie or for Jordan when he almost died?
A sound tore out of him then—a scream so raw he didn't recognize it as his own.
Grief. Rage. Loss. All tangled together.
The world spun.
Several small wounds opened on his scalp and the one in the back of his head now bled profusely, blood suddenly pouring down his shirt, warm and slick. His strength bled out with it. The room tilted. The walls swayed.
Footsteps.
Rushing. Heavy.
For a moment, hope flared again—stupid, reflexive.
Ramsay.
The thought bloomed weakly.
Maybe he was here. Maybe he had found him. Maybe Askai was finally going home.
West was hard. West was cruel. But West had given him a place. A name. A reason to breathe.
Someone there accepted him for what he was.
But luck had always abandoned him eventually. Death had finally found the right door.
The door burst open.
Hands grabbed him and as his consciousness slowly faded, the last thing he saw was the iron mallet coming down to finally relieve the fates of their very taxing job of spinning tragedies for him.
As his breath left him, the room dimmed, edges blurred.
The last thing Askai remembered wasn't the pain.
It was Vance's face.
Unturned.
Unlistening.
Gone.