Between shallow pants, Emilio sucked in a breath before knocking on the double doors of the Council building. While the muffled sound resonated through, he unfolded his cloak and swung it around his shoulders. The damp material clung onto his black shirt, as he bent over and propped himself up with both palms on his knees, chest heaving.

He waited, yet there was no response.

'That's strange. Still an hour left until the maids finish their shift. Did he let them go home early?'

Straightening himself, Emilio stuck the spare key from his cloak pocket into the lock. It opened with a slow and grating creak, which stretched out into the silence of the dark foyer.

"Hello?" The echo of his footsteps were louder than usual. "My Lo– Gael?"

He made a run for the grand stairs, bounding up each polished step, and dashed through the hallway. He stopped upon reaching the door gilded with the nameplate 'Gael Underwood - Office'. Emilio spared a dismayed sigh at the title, for his best friend spent so many coffee-driven, sleepless nights here that it may as well be his bedroom. The real one, laden with a king-sized bed, bookshelves and fancy decor, would have collected dust if it weren't for his vigilant maids and butlers.

Emilio rapped on the wood three times. "Hey, are you–"

He was interrupted by a muffled flurry of drawers closing, papers rustling and indiscriminate muttering. Soon, the door flew open. Emilio was met with a pair of bright blue eyes, crinkled at the corners, and a brighter smile.

"Emily! I was just thinking about you. Oh, I've missed you so much~!"

Emilio deadpanned. "We literally saw each other this morning."

"Too long for my poor, clingy heart." Gael wiped an imaginary tear and laughed, leaning his lanky body against the door-frame. "What gives me the pleasure of your company?"

"I...I'm not fully sure what's happened, so it could be nothing, but...I have a strong feeling that Falcon Girl is in trouble. I saw her with two suspicious men in the other side of town. Could you bring some help just in case?"

Instantly, Gael pushed himself off the frame by his shoulder and grimaced. "It's definitely not nothing, considering you're implying that you want me to bring Council guards, of your own volition." He walked over to the desk phone and held the receiver to his ear, using a finger to dial in the number for the Council Guard HQ. "Where are they, Em?"

"Inside the abandoned warehouse, near Ruth's old shop."

"Oh geez, really?" He visibly shuddered. "That place gives me the– Hello, is this Gary? Yes...ah, okay. Yeah, I need some backup with me for..."

Adorning his professional tone, Gael continued to explain the necessary details to Gary Stilton - the leader of the Council guards. Or, to Emilio, the second-most despicable man in the entire town, closely behind the mayor. Emilio glanced over at his best friend and noticed how the boy's entire stance changed - his back unnaturally straight, his shoulders tense and his gaze drilling into the wall opposite him. Considering how many similarities Gary shared with his father - from the bigoted values to the putrid arrogance - it made sense that Gael deplored conversing with the man just as much as Emilio did, if not more.

"...Okay. Thank you, Gary. I'll see you there." As soon as Gael hung up, his muscles visibly relaxed. He pivoted on his heel and strolled to the hat rack beside his desk, unhooking a...raincoat? No, two of them?

"Gael, what are you–"

Emilio reflexively caught the flying object. It took him a moment to realise that it was a black raincoat.

"Let's go, Emily dear. Hopefully that's your size." Gael zipped up his waterproof coat and flung over the hood. He pulled on the strings hanging from either side of the hood, making it tighten around his face such that a narrow circle formed just around his brows and bottom lip. He grinned, making the material crinkle.

'He looks like a kid.' Emilio held back a snort, throwing on his own raincoat and following Gael out the door.

----

Blinking rapidly, your pupils adjusted to the damp room that oozed a strong musty smell. Dust particles hovered under the stray incandescent beams from the ceiling light in front of you, that flickered off more than on. You finally looked down.

"What the hell?"

Brown ropes tied your ankles together and you felt the same applied for your wrists, which were tied behind you, as you sat on the cold concrete and leaned against a wall.

No matter how much you wriggled, the knots wouldn't loosen. You tried scraping the rope for your wrists up and down the rough wall behind you, but it was to no avail. In the meantime, you scanned your body for any suspicious marks or bruises. To your utter relief, you couldn't find any, save for some light scratches on your stockings.

Releasing a galled sigh, you decided to work on your strengths and calmly analysed the place you were in.

'The door's on the opposite wall, a bit to the right, and it looks about...20 metres away, from what the light gives off. Is there anything sharp nearby?' You slowly twisted your head to either direction. '...No. Darn, if only this was like one of those kidnapping scenes in action movies, where an object like a glass shard would be within an arm's length, and the hero could conveniently cut off their ropes and escape.'

Except...where would you escape to?

This building was a labyrinth. With mind-boggling left and right turns through interconnected passageways, the mouth of a new path appeared every few metres for each corridor you had walked through. The chance of accidentally being spotted by one of Wellington's workers was dangerously high. You couldn't just rely on your gut instinct and expect to remain undetected with every move you made.

As much as you utterly hated it, you decided to stay in the room for now.

The hammering pain under your scalp and the lingering sense of disorientation told you that you must have been knocked out and brought here. For what, reacting to the discovery of your parents also being in danger? For 'acting out'?

'If someone were to jump from the height of his ego to the level of his humanity, they would break every bone in their body. Maybe even die. Ah, speaking of the devil.'

Emerging from the doorway was the demon in black himself. While he sauntered towards you, his form morphed from a dense silhouette to a grey image of his front outlined by a border of light, like an eclipse. You were buried in his shadow as he towered over your sitting form.

"Y/N. Good to see you're finally awake."

Grunting, you tried to hoist yourself to your feet, whilst using the wall for support. But you kept slipping, so you dropped to the ground with a final thud. You craned your neck up to the monster, disliking the power dynamics that the difference in stance implicated.

"What's the point of all this, Wellington? What do you want?"

"The money - the full 800k - right away."

You let out a hollow laugh. "Easy. If you let me write the article on this town, I'll get enough money to pay the whole amount up front." And, in doing so, I'll fix the main source of Cy's bankruptcy - the reason why I accepted this mission in the first place. "You needn't have come here in the first place. I would have eventually paid the sum on my brother's behalf."

"Hmph! Couldn't trust you, considering how tardy your sibling is, so I had to find you and instill an...incentive within you. But I digress. So I assume you've completed the article and are now ready to leave?"

"No, I need more time."

Wellington's eye twitched. "More time? We don't have more time, god damn it! I need it now."

"Why?"

"That's none of your concern." His snarl softened as an idea popped in his head. "Actually...give me your bank details, and we'll take whatever money is in there right now. Only then will I be more lenient and give you more time."

You vehemently shook your head.

No way you would hand that to him! It was your and Cyril's only source of savings. It was the only way you two were able to pay your bills on time, especially the rent. So without it, neither you nor Cyril would have a home to return to. The hellish search for a cheap place that need only pass as an apartment would start all over again. All the while, you'd be back on the streets...

...Again...

"Then hurry the fuck up and write something!" he boomed, droplets of spit sprayed all over your face.

"Bu...But I haven't finished my research! I still need to–"

"Who the fuck cares anyway?! No reporter came back from this town alive, yeah? So you can easily make some shit up, publish it then give us the money. Writing ain't that hard - just mash words together and you're done."

You gritted your teeth. "I can't do that. I only have this one chance to find out what's really going on in this town - the truth - and I'm not going to waste it."

"Ha! Look at you, acting all self-righteous. All high and mighty. " He cackled, the raucous note waning until he pursed his lips in thought. "Although...there is the issue of your stuff getting caught. If that happens, then you'll probably be killed, eh?"

'At least this guy's still got a brain. We're on the same page in that aspect.'

"Anyhow!" he bellowed. "I simply wanted to make my point loud and clear."

"Just give Asher and me more time," you stated earnestly. "We'll find a way to bypass the memory-wiping system and we'll get the article done. Please."

After a minute of tense eye contact, Wellington sighed. "Two days. That's all you have."

'Only? Well...it's better than nothing.'

You nodded ruefully. "Alright, so can you take these ropes off me and let Asher go?"

"Not until I make a few...preparations."

He turned on his heel and headed towards the doorway, where you noticed Bob now stood. How long was he there for? With his hands clasped together and back hunched, he moved out of frame just as Wellington stepped out and shut the door behind him.

You shuddered a breath, exhaling the agitation that had bourgeoned within your system. The thought of what could happen if your life savings were depleted made you relive the emotional trauma of getting kicked out by your parents. Of traipsing the dirty streets of East Villton with Cyril, the fear of rotting away like the trash that swamped the gutters clinging to your backs like a shadow. However, you two were lucky in that it only lasted for five days, where you were saved by a kind man...or was the person a woman? A child? An elderly person?

Who was it that saved you again?

The ache in your skull increased tenfold; a sudden whiplash of pain as you let out a strained cry. It was like your mind refused to let the rest of your memory resurface, as it did for a significant portion of your childhood. Your therapist, who had supported you after your parents' separation, chalked it up to the trauma from the divorce. But if that were so, then why were the memories before you were eight practically non-existent? Why were there so many gaps during the times when you and your family were happy and peaceful?

'Wait, were those times really like that?'

Exhaustion caught up to you and grazed your eyelids, piquing them to close until they could no longer resist the temptation. Your head lolled back as your consciousness dove into an empty darkness.

----

Letting go of the door handle behind him, Wellington looked up and down at his subordinate with a snarl. "What're you doing here?"

"I came to check on Y/N, Boss. See how she's doing."

"Pfft, 'See how she's doing' - says the guy who knocked her with a glass bottle. Well if you're so concerned about Little Miss Beret over there, why don't you coddle her with food and give her a nice bath, maybe getting in yourself while you're at it?"

Disgusted at his vulgar speech, Bob looked at his shoes to hide his scowl. "No thanks."

"Then get a move on." Wellington shoved him by the shoulder and walked ahead, motioning for the thug to follow, which he reluctantly did.

Neither of the men uttered another word as they carried on with their walk, the crooked leader several metres in front of the follower. They passed many doors and took numerous turns until they arrived at Wellington's private room. Bob locked the door behind him, while Wellington paced deeper into his quarters.

"Boss?" Bob stated softly, breaking the silence. "Did you mean what you said back there?"

"Huh?"

"...Is it true that you'll give them two more days?"

"What'd you take me for?" Wellington snorted, mouth curved in a proud smirk. "...'Course not."

The chubby man halted in his tracks. "H-huh?"

The echo of footsteps came to an abrupt stop when the bespectacled menace turned around to face his henchman. "You heard me. I've had enough of those incompetent fools, so there's gonna be a change of plans. I'm going to do something that I should've done at the start, instead of doing all...this."

Bob didn't like the sound of that. "Which is...?"

"Kill them both and sell their organs."

Beady eyes widened to saucers as Bob gasped.

'He can't be serious,' he thought.

The sharp inhale scraped his trachea. His pudgy hands trembled at his sides and his mind struggled to process the words that came out of his Boss's mouth; so nonchalantly phrased as if it were second nature to him. Bob was well-versed with his cruelty, yet he had never witnessed it reach this extent before.

Paying no mind to Bob's reaction, Wellington mumbled to himself, "I'll find a black market that's sure to be somewhere in this town and sell 'em there. Maybe even to the Council themselves, considering how much they hate reporters!" Rambunctious laughter bounced off the grungy walls. He struggled to articulate his words through demented chuckles. "That...that'll surely p-pay off more...more than the 800k that the Big Boss needs, and I...I can keep the rest to m-myself! Gee, I...I better tell h-him about the new plan."

Whilst Wellington indulged himself in his hysteria and dug out his mobile, the last of his giggles eventually fizzling out, Bob slowly shook his head.

No.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He couldn't put up with this anymore.

"B-boss...?" he stuttered.

Wellington was humming a jolly tune, as he bashed in the numbers on his mobile and held it up to his ear.

Bob raised his voice. "Boss!"

That was the loudest he'd ever been when it came to communicating with the tyrant.

"Hm?" Said man turned around and raised an eyebrow.

His demeaning gaze alone clutched at Bob's throat, yet remembering the voice of the young girl sparked a flame within him. A flame he never knew he was capable of conjuring.

"I'm not doing this anymore. I..." He gulped. "...I quit."

Wellington spared a few seconds to analyse his face. Once seeing that he was completely serious, he hung up the call.

"You what?"

"You heard me." The fire kept thriving, from the hate and suffering he had internalised, and Bob could no longer contain his tongue. "I fucking quit! I no longer want to be in this revolting business. I no longer want to work for a cruel and arrogant bastard like you."

Regret instantly befell him as the lion inside cowered at the scowl of the despotic hyena.

The much taller man sauntered towards his stout minion and he tilted his head, bearing a wry smile.

"Bob Larson," he tsked. "Poor, poor Bob. Sweet Bob. Who said your wants ever mattered?"

He stopped two feet in front of him, jutting his chin out and only rolling his eyeballs down to look at him.

Bob clenched his eyes shut, awaiting the punishment that would befall him.

Yet, it did not come.

"However, indeed, you have been a loyal slave. And you have successfully weeded out that Asher guy so that I can get to the girl. Hm...alright. You can quit."

Bob slowly opened his eyes. "Wait...you mean that?"

"Of course. You fulfilled your purpose with me and now you are no longer needed. You were dispensable anyway, Fatso."

The pejorative no longer grazed Bob, due to the sheer thought that peace was finally within his reach. After all this time. After all the torture he had to endure.

Tears welled in the corner of his eyes, but he roughly rubbed them away as he reminded himself of the most important part. "Now then, when will I get my payment?"

"Oh?"

"You promised me that at the end of my working time you would give me a lump sum of everything I have earned over my years of service."

"Ah, yes I have." Wellington tapped his chin. "I will stay true to my word..."

'Finally!' Bob rejoiced. 'I can afford to pay for my father's-'

"...considering you haven't earned a single penny from me."

'...What?'

"Oh, come on, don't give me that face! Since when have you done anything of value, Fatso? True value?"

'This can't be happening.' Trembles submerged Bob's form.

"You could easily be removed from the picture and the job would be done by my numerous other goons, who were actually competent."

'This...this can't be real.'

"But, Boss." He sniffed. "I kept an eye on them all this time! I manipulated the boy to trust me completely. I gave you an opportunity to get the girl. All this time...all this time, I did whatever you asked for! I was always there whenever your goons were drinking their heads off. I was there for you!"

"All well and good. I'll be seeing you off then."

"NO!" Bob collapsed onto his knees and gripped the man's ankles. "Please, Wellington sir! Boss!"

"Oh, I much rather you call me a cruel and arrogant bastard," he sneered, stepping away while the extra weight on his foot cumbersomely slid against the floor.

"I'm sorry! I'm really sorry!" Waterfalls gushed down his sultry cheeks. "But please, if not for me, think of my father."

"...Your father, huh?"

Bob frantically nodded. His father and his boss had a better relationship than he ever did with the man who raised him. They had the same dark humour, same calculative eyes, same hedonistic values and the same foul way with words. A stranger would easily point to Wellington being his son rather than a mopey mess like Bob himself.

"That old geezer who thinned out so much that he could barely speak?" Wellington sighed and his smile widened. "He was a good man."

'He...was? Wait.'

"I'm glad I put him out of his misery."

Silence.

Bob blinked. Once, then twice.

All the sounds in the room and beyond melted into a cauldron of white noise, lazily tapping against his eardrums. The borders of his vision blurred. The continual whirring in his mind faltered to a placid hush.

What did his Boss do?

Why were his hands sweaty?

Why was he on the ground?

He blinked again. And again. And again. He fervently drummed his eyelids together until he could no longer stop the boiling fluid from spilling in coarse rivers.

As soon as Wellington felt the grip loosen on his ankles, he immediately shook the heavy load off and opened his phone again. Repeating the pattern of dials, he lifted it up to his ear and used his free arm to block the other ear, muting out the tormented wails and breathless gasps.

"Sorry about hanging up before– Huh? Who's crying, ya say? Oh, don't worry about