Metà (COMPLETED)

1.One More Thing

A Month after the war in Armenia

The echo of two pairs of large boots beat a rhythm against the walls of the dimly lit hall. Thick air hung heavily around them and the figure held tightly in their grasp groaned quietly as he was dragged along. There were screams bouncing off the hard, rocky walls and they were coming from another part of the hallway on the right.

Massive doors were opened from the inside and the air was no longer thick. The sound of the A.C running filled the victims ears and he slowly opened his eyes. The doors he'd just been dragged through were shut by two skinny and heavily armed men. The wooden floor was cool and certain spots were rotting, leaving an unpleasant scent lingering in the air, windows were nowhere to be seen and a chandelier shone from above.

Drip. Drop.

He squinted in the direction of the noise and noticed the puddle forming beside the central air box attached to the black wall; a centipede crawled off the box and scampered over to him. It's red head led the way for it's long, beige and black striped body.

"No," the Victim said, but the annunciation of his protest was abruptly halted by the gag buried in his mouth. The arthropod wriggled onto his visibly muddy Salvatore Ferragamo's and he made an effort to stand to avoid the centipedes curious advances, but was slung forward by the men whose grasp he was in. The victim looked up at them, but they didn't pay him any mind, their eyes transfixed on a figure behind him.

The centipede spread its legs out and felt around the victims shoe. He wasn't giving it any attention, having let his own curiosity consume him and struggling to turn over to look at whoever they were staring at.

"You could definitely pass as one of them," a low voice bellowed out. Once the victim had the mystery man in his view, he frowned. The mystery man, clearly the leader in the room, looked down on him with chestnut brown eyes.

The victim examined the mans some-what tall figure. His stature put him at 5'11 and etched into his toffee skin were dark tattoos. He wasn't as buff as the men holding the victim, his body closer to lanky. The man took a few steps down the short stairs and stopped walking once he was close enough to the victim.

"I already know who you are... but you don't know who I am. Allow me to introduce myself. Sono Gabriel," he said before dropping to the victims eye level (T: I'm). He waited a moment before speaking. "I was rooting for you. I really thought you were going to make it--to beat us to it. Tsk, Tsk." Gabriel kissed his teeth and shook his head.

"Things went a bit awry with your plans. You know where you fucked up," he asked, examining the centipede. He picked it up with his fingers and dangled it, "You trusted the wrong people. And you rushed. I mean, what the hell can you really cook up in four years? Hmm, Cane? You didn't have the patience and finesse needed to achieve what you failed. Luckily for you though, you have a chance of redemption." Gabriel set the wriggling Centipede down and let it scurry off. He stood and motioned for the men to raise Cane to his feet.

"Urmph," Cane groaned, the right side of his abdomen stinging severely as he stood. His head bobbed and the room spun from the sudden action. Gabriel lifted Cane's tattered suit to reveal a large bandage, soaked in blood, wrapped around his abdomen.

"You were practically dead when we found you," spoke Gabriel. He grabbed two small glasses and filled them with scotch. "We're the reason you're alive and therefore you owe us." One of the skinny men from the door grabbed a creaky wooden chair and set it in front of the one Gabriel just sat in; Gabriel motioned for Cane to be relieved of the gag in his mouth.

Cane coughed harshly, dry heaved, and chucked up a chunk of vomit, eliciting a crinkled nose from Gabriel at the action. Once he had a hold of his breath, Cane stood quietly, mostly trying to recall something--anything--about what had happened. He remembered the wedding, he remembered choking Rosalie, and then-