𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍.

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄.

⌖ DOUBLE OR NOTHING | O43. ‹ ⚜ ›
❝ i'ma make sure a bullet crack every one of them niggas! ❞

— JANUARY TWENTY SIXTH
7:OO A.M. ᐟ

"Hey, Domo." Emery said, nudging Iris's shoulder with the back of his hand, his voice disturbingly casual.

She lay on the cold, unforgiving floor, barely moving, her body a brutal canvas of his violence. Blood smeared her skin like war paint, dried in some places, fresh in others. Her face was barely recognizable—one eye shut, the other half-lidded & distant. Dark, angry bruises painted her cheeks, her jaw, her temples, deepening into sickening shades of purple & blue. Her lips were split in more than one place, cracked & dry, but slick with blood.

Her curly hair, once soft, was now stiff & matted with blood, tangled into knots from where his fingers had yanked & dragged her. Her arms, limp at her sides, were littered with deep purple welts, handprints where he had gripped her too tight, pressed into her skin like reminders of his control. Her clothes were stained & clinging to her body where sweat & blood mixed.

Her chest rose & fell in shallow, uneven breaths, each one shaky, as if her body was struggling to even hold onto consciousness. The floor beneath her was slick, a mix of crimson & sweat pooling around her like a grotesque halo. & yet, despite the wreckage of her body, there was something defiant in her barely open eye— even as her body failed her.

"You hungry?" Emery asked, his tone almost mocking as he tossed an uncooked pack of ramen noodles beside her. The brittle square hit the floor with a dull crack, breaking apart on impact, tiny fragments scattering across the blood stained ground.

Iris stared at it, watching as her blood slowly seeped into the dry noodles, darkening them, softening the pieces closest to the floor. The sight was nauseating. She knew better than to take anything from him—there was never any real kindness in his gestures, only cruelty disguised as mockery. Even if she wanted to eat, she doubted she could. Her jaw throbbed, likely fractured, too weak to chew anything.

"Yeen' hungry?" Emery pressed, bending down to pick up a larger piece. He held it near her lips, tilting his head as he waited. She turned away, refusing it.

Without hesitation, he hurled it at her face. The impact barely registered—her body was too beaten, too numb to fully react, aside from the slight flinch at the initial sting.

"Die of starvation, I don't give a fuck." His voice was detached, like her suffering meant nothing to him. It didn't. If it did, they definitely wouldn't be here.

But food wasn't what she needed. She needed water—something, anything to keep her body from fully shutting down. Her throat was raw, her lips cracked, her entire body screaming for hydration. She barely found the strength to whisper, "I'm thirsty."