𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋//𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘𝐗𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

Anna (go to him) - The Beatles

Lightning crashed against the building, rattling the structure. The perfect cue for the ominous man to start his monologue. Men filled the room, outnumbering our crusade.

Brenda was casual about their grisly, menacing features, plopping herself down on the leather couch, sitting adjacent in the room. Then she turned her attention to the presumed Jorge, waiting for him to speak.

"You ever get the feeling the whole world's against you?" The man asked after a short exhale. A burst of laughter escaped me, Newt gave me a look that made me shut up.

"Sorry." I coughed, placing a hand over my mouth to hide my smile. "Go on, my bad." Jorge flicked my interruption aside, striding over to a desk.

"Three questions," He rifled through bottles that gave the sharp smell of alcohol as he spoke with a husky, warm, Latin accent. "Where did you come from? Where are you going? How can I profit?" Raindrops tapped against the green window panes. A quiet blanketed us in our nervousness. "Don't all answer at once." Jorge lofted sarcastically.

During the empty silence where everyone was too uncertain to answer, I took the opportunity to drink the older man in.

He had graying black hair, curling on the top of his head. He had a straight mustache hanging over his lip, circling down to his chin to form a beard. His sharp jaw suited the facial hair well.

Jorge was middle aged, maybe Brenda's dad if I had to guess. He was certainly old enough to be. They were both some sort of Latino as well, relation between the two wouldn't be crazy for me to infer.

"We came from the mountains." Thomas stepped forward hesitantly, a natural leader, the golden boy. "We're looking for the right arm."

Hyena like snickers came from the men surrounding us, mocking us with their laughter. We were their free entertainment. They could do whatever they pleased to us. My mouth went dry.

"You're looking for ghosts you mean." Jorge slid the liquor that sloshed around his glass down his throat like water. He held his fiery eye contact with us as he drank, gulping for dramatic effect.

"Too bad we didn't bring a ouija board." I murmured to Newt. He shushed me quickly, snapping my neck back towards Jorge.

Jorge let out a refreshed sigh, a plant being watered, his roots ready to sink into one of us. The question was, who?

"Question number two." He came closer, too close for Minho's liking. I could already see the boy struggling not to speak. He hated when people got in his face, Minho hated it even more when they acted arrogant, people like that were much too like himself. "Where did you come from?"

"That's our business." Minho's tone could saw an arm off from how sharp it was. Jorge looked like he had given him a bad taste, leaving it ruminating in his mouth.

The man let out a dissatisfied hum before giving a sudden twitch of the head.

Barkley and the other rag tag hooligans launched themselves onto us. Thomas and Minho were ripped to center while the rest of us had the pleasure of each being restrained by hulking men.

A man squeezed my elbows to keep me docile, holding my arms around my back. He chuckled when I spasmed forward with pain. Victor whimpered beside me, his raw burn being pressed into by his guard.

"Hey!" Chuck projected, a voice crack adding to the attention he called for. "Stop it, you're hurting them!"

The men burst out laughing, finding sadistic enjoyment in our pain. Brenda left the couch, nimbly grabbing a handheld machine that emitted a whistle like ringing. The sound's frequency pierced our ears.