DEEP

10. ΟΝΕΙΡΟ

You open your eyes to a white ceiling. You turn onto your side, pull the covers over your head like a petulant child. Your phone rings shrilly for the second time. You grab the phone off the side table, thumb it open. You rub at your eyes to make out the text message on the screen.

Haung, R: Stigma, 6 am sharp

Your eyes wander to the time at the top of the screen. 5:03.

You set the device on the table, lie back against the mattress with a sigh; one hand resting over your bare chest, the other at your side palm facing up. The blanket curves over the side of the bed, the pillows having been pushed onto the floor during the restless night. Your body feels heavy, anchored down onto the cool sheets. You squeeze your eyes shut, concentrates on your right hand, your fingers. You try to feel the muscle, try to move your fingers. You open your mouth and breath in deeply. You squeeze your eyes shut, and your fingers finally curl inwards.

You swallow, lets the blackness behind your eyelids settle. You think of last night. Donghyuk steps out of the darkness, eyes dark and narrowed and fine lashes casting long shadows down his face.

You're mine.

The words echo in your head, and you feel the hairs on your arms rise at the thought. It hasn't sunk in quite yet. Lee Donghyuk, son of the notorious Lee Ji-Yong. The Dragon, the Dragon's son. And you, the heir's associate.

It wasn't how you'd thought their conversation would go. You'd held a gun to the man, your boss who could have your throat slit for breathing incorrectly. But in that moment, guns and positions aside, it was just them. Just two people who knew each other once.

You think of Mark, the warnings. The advice. You don't trust him, but the warning, the way he had pursed his lips and looked into your eyes. You know a liar when you sees one. And Mark, he was telling the truth, speaking honestly. His warning of this Neukdae. Mark wasn't shitting around.

You need more information, needs to gather intel on the inner workings of NCT's heads. You can't exhaust Mark as a source of information. He's too close to the boss, it's risky. No, you need to do this yourself first, gather information and try to keep up with these psychopaths, try to stay alive. You can then act, direct a course of action to the beast and sever his head. You don't have much to go on, but this is a plan, a good direction.

Your phone rings again, and you sit up on your elbow.

Haung, R: Don't be late

---

You hate basements, floors below ground. It reminds you of your incarceration, the intimate attention you received. The air is musty, another stale prisoner in this elicit confine. You feel warm, feel the air close around your head and your throat prompting the beginnings of a headache. You can smell it too, hot sweat and the stench of something more pungent.

You find yourself now four floors below the casino. You stand in a large room, running almost a hundred feet on each side, ceilings rising high and cutting into to what looks like the floor above you. Men surround the perimeter of the space, thugs you don't recognize but who seem to know who you are, understand the scars and faded bruises peeking from your collar and across your cheek bones as earned marks, seals marking you as something not to be messed with; you're the boss' associate, the boss' personal woman.

The label earns you a silent pass through the crowd next to Renjun, a front row seat to the show.

A man stands or, rather, hangs in the center of the room, wrists bound above his head to a metal pole rising from the space behind him. He doesn't look any better than you yourself, bruises littering his face and arms. He heaves dryly, high scratchy wheezes emanating from his split lips.