Devil's Advocate (Ron x Y/N)

1: An Eye For A Tooth

You lay there, gazing at the endless, moonless abyss above you. The snow bit at the thin lacerations striping your limbs, mixing with the crimson that seeped from them. The grit scattered around the tarmac was dissolving into your wounds, causing them to throb with an unbearable stinging sensation, but the only thing you could do was force your eyes open. The spell of sleep was tempting; to be rid of this hurt and distress just for a little while, but you feared that if you succumb to this extreme surge of drowsiness, you may never open your eyes again.

At least you could recall what just occurred. At least you won't forget the valuable lesson you just learnt: in the end, the only person that you have is yourself. It wasn't a habit of yours to brawl in the streets at night, but it wasn't uncommon, either. You were part of a small organisation esteemed for their well-executed gigs, with your specific role being similar to that of a spy. Tonight, you were watching outside the pub Dreams. You were observing who enters and leaves, what occurs inside, what people leave behind. It was up for your clients to decide what to do with this information, but more often than not, other members of your group would be hired to interfere.

But this time, you were left behind. It was no secret that criminal activity transpired in this pub on a regular basis, but the extent of such was unknown. Thus, another associate in your organisation, an adept pickpocket, was sent alongside you to retrieve identities and samples of narcotics. Things were going well up to this point, silhouettes of various people were scattered around, each performing separate activities. Sex workers, beady-eyed businessmen...and dealers. These were what you were looking for, and a transaction seemed to be taking place. The table was jerked ever so slightly, allowing a few beads of  sarsaparilla to roll off. As soon as your associate got their hands on a smooth orb that rolled beside a thick black boot, a matching thick black glove coiled around their wrist. The room was lit too dimly to identify exactly who anyone was, but only the top Fruits Maker would wear attire like that. Great. To avoid conflict, you swiftly attempted to exit the room, nimbly dodging through crowds of people, when you looked back. Your accomplice was only trained in the arts of deception and was struggling to break free of Fruits Maker's strong grasp, their hair tangling and feet skidding pathetically. They flashed you a look of sheer vulnerability, almost indistinguishable tears forming within their eyes. You thought you were a team, in this together. After all, you all depended on one another to survive.
So you rushed back, and using the chunky rubber heel of your footwear, you kicked the back of Fruits Maker's knees. His grip was still firm, so you aimed an unfatal blow to the back of his head. His mask became dislodged, causing him to reflexively reach for it in an attempt to secure it back into place. This allowed your teammate to give you one last glance, this time with an unreadable expression of near neutrality, before running for the exit.

Before you knew it, Fruits Maker had an arm around your neck. It was a surprise how little you could do in this situation, except for drag your nails down his firm bicep, while watching through a cloud of tears as your associate slips out of view. Someone, perhaps his client who was buying the sarsaparilla, was now clumsily dragging a blade down your flailing body. You were starting to hear static and your eyes began to see swirls. You didn't have much time, and you were panicking. Blindly utilizing your remaining movement, you bucked your bleeding legs as far and hard as they could go. This seemed to do the trick. Fruits Maker buckled and threw you to the floor. You stumbled around, swerving the man with the blade as you aimed one last compromised kick to his stomach. This sent him down, and you staggered back out of the bizarre entrance of Dreams.

It apparently snowed heavily while you were inside, making it harder for you to run to safety. The cold was nipping at your scarred ankles, but you couldn't stop as you heard the muffled crunch of footwork behind you. It was a while before you found an open high street, where there was a parking area with a sparse number of cars. If you hid behind one, you could catch your breath and attempt to treat your wounds. As soon as you reached a shiny black car, you crouched. However, this was too much for your injured knees, and you fell to the ground. The rainbow swirls in your eyes were faintly returning. The sound of footsteps were inaudible due to the recurring static, which caused you to give up. You spread out your limbs into the soft white surrounding you; so soft yet so painful. At least your mental clarity returned. Life was fickle these days, so it was important that the necessities, such as food and shelter, remained constant. That's why you joined your organization in the first place. Although you'd probably be booted from it altogether now that your task failed. You couldn't blame your associate for leaving you behind, they weren't used to being confronted in such a manner. But the least they could have done was not disappear. However, it was no use thinking about that now. The tarmac was uncomfortable, the grit was burning, the snow was agonizingly cold. Your mouth gaped, ready to let out a cry of pain, but your throat was still throbbing from the clutch of Fruits Maker.

But now your eyesight was darkening. It was strange, because now you were more conscious, and you were sure someone opened the door to the expensive-looking car beside you. Your eyes focused, and in front of you was a young man, his unkempt hair hanging slightly forward. He had an unusually giant smile, and eyes the same scarlet as the blood dripping from your slashed limbs.
Those eyes were looking directly into your mouth.
You could just about understand why he was doing this - your canines and lateral incisors happen to be slightly larger and sharper than most others, but they most certainly weren't something to stare at. However, this man looked ready to pull them out of your jaw.
"Hey! She's awake! Can we keep her, Gui?" He rejoiced, now flashing his monumental grin towards a well-dressed gentleman with golden eyes.
"Bring her in." Gui's voice was less raspy and a lower pitch, and you now recognized he was in Dreams before, one of the businessmen at a reserved table in a booth hidden right in the corner.
The other man with the huge grin hoisted you up and slid you into the back of the sleek car. He took Gui's jacket and flung it over you.
"Ron! You better not get that dirty!"
Ron snickered sheepishly. Perhaps it would have been more of a nervous laugh, had he relaxed his mouth before doing so. The car was startlingly comforting compared to the harsh conditions outside, which, for some reason, brought you to tears. It must be late. You have no idea where you're going or if you will survive. Your wounds, which were no longer bleeding so badly, still ached. But the benign warmth of the inside of the car and the low mumbling of voices lulled you to sleep.