▪in which nothing is as it seems▪
《 they say the loveliest angels make
the cruelest demons
and my darling
you were so kind and beautiful
before the dragged you to
Hell.
your fall was no accident.
you were chosen for the
...
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chapter vi. the most logical course of action
Lips curled up ever so slightly, and in this moment, had anyone bore witness, they would have known with absolute certainty that no smile had ever shown such a dark satisfaction. A slight pressure on a dial, effectively ending the call, and the phone was relegated in the depths of his pocket. Gunmetal orbs narrowed down, their hue shifting slowly to the shade of clouds before an impending storm.
There he was, with heavy manacles chaining his bandaged wrist, cold, harsh metal digging in the flesh — oh how he wished for the pale skin the be torn apart, he could do it, he could feel the dark, twisted maws of his own ability sinking in his arms. He was at the Port Mafia's mercy, powerless, almost begging to be killed—
Men like me do this to their useless subordinates.
For a tormenting second — it could not be, now could it? no, it hadn't been a second since his taunting words, surely an eternity had passed—
He was back then. On his knees, the dark fabric of his coat sprawled open around his form, barely enough to ensure his protection, and yet ever so loyal, consuming time and space itself to save its master.
Body shaking under yet another uncontrollable coughing fit scraping his sore throat, with an all too familiar metallic taste on his bitten tongue, crimson droplets dripping down his chapped lips before the cold, murderous eye of his persecutor. Around them, thick opaque lenses before their eyes, henchmen clad in their dark suits, unmoving, unblinking, hands behind their backs.
Gunshots echoed in his frenzied mind.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Do not think that, just because he remains on the ground like the puny hellhound he is, he doesn't notice. No one had ever made a move as the trigger was pulled, as the trio of fatal bullets was fired by an unforgiving hand.
As he said: "The next time you mess up I'll punch you twice and shoot you five times."
Nails dug into his palm, hard, so hard, hard enough to break the skin, enough for small droplets to ooze from the crescent-shaped wounds. And there he was, unmoving before his tormentor, so desperately weak.
If only he was strong enough. If only none of it mattered. Then maybe, just maybe, he would have been able to feel the so very fragile bones break under his knuckles, to feel the warmth of the blood staining his alabaster skin.
Yet he was weak and shall remain so until he recognised his worth. Without sparing a glance to the man who was once his mentor — and he realises that he still was, still would be until he acknowledged his power — he left.
