"Your favorite color."
"Hmm." Davon let out as he leaned in towards her. He inspected Scarlet's cold eyes with full concentration, and after a few seconds, he finally responded when he moved away from her.
"Auburn."
...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"You cannot break the broken."
♢♦♢
Day Thirteen
Everything was pitch-black. Scarlet's vision consisted of nothing but darkness, and although that was how she preferred things to be, her eyes hadn't adjusted to her surroundings. She couldn't make out silhouettes of objects in the room she was possibly in, it was all just consistently black.
A warm glow of light pierced her vision like a knife, when she slowly cracked her eyelids open. It was almost blinding, and she had to squint her eyes as she waited for her eyes to adjust. As she did so, she then registered a throbbing headache that gripped her forehead. Her mind was entirely blank, and she couldn't remember how or why she was in such a condition.
Soon enough, her poor eyes had adapted. She blinked a few times when the view of a room came in. The curtains were drawn away, which explained the large amounts of sunlight that pooled in.
Scarlet's gaze darted around as she eyed her surroundings, to then realize where she was. And when her line of sight landed on a familiar painting, her perception was confirmed.
She was in Davon's room.
Scarlet's senses returned to her one by one. She could feel her body again. She could feel her muscles when she shifted, and the blood running through her veins. A soft snore resonated from right beside her, compelling her to shoot her stare in that direction.
A chair rested right beside an edge of the bed, and it wasn't at all empty. The figure of a dark haired man sat on it, and his upper body was bent over so his forehead could rest against the surface of the bed. One of his hands loosely held onto Scarlet's hand, while the other lied limply beside his head.
And everything came rushing back to Scarlet.
"This 'Scarlet' killer you hear about? Yeah, that person works for him too. I'm sure of it."
"Think about how much you don't like me. Now, don't try to object to that, because I know you hate me."
"And that my dear, is the story of a twisted man driven by revenge."
"The eleventh Head, Mark Patterson, was a single father. He had a daughter named Roselle, who was then reported missing after Mark had been killed."
"I know me and dad were reaching too hard. Sorry about that."
Scarlet felt suffocated once more. Bit by bit, her memory came to her aid, and she wished it hadn't. Her stare was fixated on the sleeping figure of Davon while her head ran a thousand miles an hour. With the idea of not disturbing him, she planned on quietly slipping away and going to her room. She had moved the hand that he held onto, and that jolted him awake.
