27 - Expeditious (Part 2)

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Warning: Violence

"...Y/N..."

Distant and echoic, a voice resonated from the far depths of the black chasm enclosing your form.

"...Y/N, you're safe now. They're not here anymore. It's just me..."

It grew louder. The voice was soft and gentle as it spoke slowly. Its words wrapped around your heart like a thick woollen blanket on a midwinter's night, holding you in a secure caress. Assuring you that, indeed, you were safe after...after...

...After what?

"...As long as I'm around, no one will dare hurt you again..."

From its relatively high pitch, it belonged to a little boy. And yet, it bore an uncanny maturity that no ordinary child could possess. Who was he? Certainly not Cyril, whose voice you would recognise from a mile away. No matter how hard you tried, you could not pin a face to it.

"...I'm here for you. No matter where or when, I'll be by your side. Always..."

You knew this person and you knew this voice. Surely. Nothing else would explain the intense warmth of familiarity that emblazoned in the deepest crevices of your soul. This boy was special to you, just as you were special to him.

So why couldn't you remember?

"Y/N!"

Another voice; one you could put a name to. The black started dissolving around the edges of your vision and formed a grey outline around the tubby man, who seemed to be hunched over by your side. You started regaining sensation in your limbs and the overall sense of your corporeal body existing once again. All across your back, and the back of your head, arms, knees and thighs, was a cold and flat surface. Were you lying on the floor?

The dark fog dissipated. Light burst through your pupils, which constricted as you raised an arm over your eyes. You rolled over to the side away from Bob, the movement eliciting sharp tingles within your muscles.

"Oh, thank goodness you're alive!" He blew out a sigh of relief.

"Can't afford to die just yet," you weakly chuckled.

Using both elbows, you lifted yourself to a sitting position and looked over at him. He was kneeling beside where your body was, face flushed and the space between his brows finally relaxing. Was he that worried for you? One corner of your lips curled up in a lop-sided grin, which he shakily returned.

"Can you stand up?"

"Yeah."

You saw Bob offering his hand and went to politely decline it when you noticed what he was holding. Your beret. The slit on top was so wide now that it reached the thin fibrous hem on either side of the opening. One firm tug and it would rip apart into two halves.

Wincing, you gingerly took it and put it in your pocket. "Thank you."

He nodded. "We're in the last part of the hallway, I think. It's surprisingly bright in here, but at least we're not back there again."

You got to your feet and brushed off the dirt on your dress and coat. Then it hit you. "Did you carry me here?"

"As much as I could. Why? Do you need me to carry you again?"

"No, no! I'm good, thank you."

With that, the two of you resumed your walk, albeit at a much slower pace. Your arms hardly had enough energy to swing by your sides and your legs were as heavy as lead. The back of your throat tasted bitter. At least that noxious smell was gone, you mused while looking over your shoulder at the soul-consuming black. Instantly, you spun back around.

Elegant sconces were placed intermittently along the top edge of both walls, each one with its lightbulb held up by entwining golden frames. They emitted strong white light that revealed dusty cobwebs hanging desperately to the ceiling, small pebbles scattered across the cement ground, and the fact that there were no longer any doors directly around you. Yet, even with this increased visibility, you could not see the end of this long, narrow path.

You glimpsed at the man next to you. Back slightly hunched, he was wringing his hands and had his mouth drawn in a thin line. His black hoodie was tattered and littered with holes and tears near the hem, but its condition was much better than the discoloured decade-old sneakers barely encasing his feet. His gaze was glued to the view in front of him, nervous yet unwavering.

You decided to break the silence. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"I've been thinking..." You pursed your lips. "...What exactly made you leave Wellington and swap sides? Why do you want to help us all of a sudden?"

He blinked, caught off-guard. "Does it make a difference?"

"Yes."

"I could be lying to you."

"Like how you could be lying to me now, taking me elsewhere instead of the–"

"–It's not a lie! ...Ah, fine." He let out a soft, indignant sigh. "Boss – Wellington, sorry – he...he promised me money. Money to save my father's life."

"Money?"

"Well...you see, Y/N, I had just gotten sacked from my job when I got a call from the hospital, saying my dad was there. My neighbours saw him collapse and called an ambulance. For many months before this, he had lost all appetite and had been losing a lot of weight, but no matter how much I urged him - begged him - to go to the doctor, he stubbornly refused. Then...only then to," he stuttered through his words, lips quivering, "to get diagnosed with pancreatic cancer."

He grit his teeth hard, fighting back tears. "The doctors said all these...all these complicated words. Nothing got through my head except for the fact that he needed treatment. Treatment we could never afford. And the greedy white-coats sure as hell weren't gonna do it for free. So...it was to my fortune and misfortune that a friend of a friend introduced me to a guy named Wellington, who was said to be good with money." He let out a noise between a laugh and a scoff, and shook his head.

"Oh," you murmured, a twinge of sympathy slipping into your voice.

"I worked under him for two months. Two months of being screamed at, used as a literal punching bag and a scapegoat, and being reduced to something less than a mosquito. Two fucking months of my life gone. Wasted. In the first week, I realised my mistake and tried running away, to return to finding a normal job which - while infuriating and would involve just failed applications one after the other - would've been so much better than what I was being made to do. But I had already become a part of them."

"He dragged me back, as he did every other time I tried escaping. He dragged me back to feeding off the money and terror of other people. People just like me. People who could have easily been me, had I not talked with that friend." Bob wiped his eyes. "'I'm desperate', 'I need the money', 'I'm only doing this for Dad', 'It'll all be over after I get the money.' - that's what I constantly told myself. But they were just pathetic excuses to make me feel less shitty. I kept playing the victim card on myself because–"

He abruptly halted in place and stopped talking. Bob's hands trembled by his sides and he bit on his lip, but that only exacerbated the quivers. Gulping, he continued.

"...Because...because my...FUCK!" He slapped both hands on his face and took a deep breath, followed by a slow and shaky exhale. "...We're getting out of here. You, Asher and me. I dunno where I will go, but as long as I'm out of this hell-hole that's enough for me."

Hesitating, you replied, "What about your father?"

Bob went still, silent, pondering your response. He finally allowed his arms to hang by his sides again, while he looked over to you.

"I'll see how everything pans out. Try new things and maybe even live my life the way I want it to. But if nothing works..." His lips curled into a wry half-smile."...I will go and stay with him."

Why did your heart sink after that statement?

"Bob..." The words themselves were afraid of leaving your tongue. "Your father...is he d–"

He suddenly surged ahead. Despite the protest in your legs, you did a little sprint to catch up to him. You were about to pose the question again when you looked at his face and got your answer.

Gulping, your fingers brushed over the cuffs of your sleeves as you fiddled with a loose cotton fibre, diving deep in your thoughts. Your mouth opened and closed several times before you set the resolve in your response.

"Um." You sucked in a breath. "I'm sorry to hear about that, really. I can't imagine how you...how you must be feeling." A pause. You thought over your next words over and over again but soon grew sick of hesitating. You had to make the offer, at least. "Do you...want to join us?"

Bob furrowed his brows and blinked. Once he understood what you were implying, his eyes widened.

"I couldn't possibly...I– well, Asher–"

"Turnip will just have to deal with it. As long as I'm here, he wouldn't hurt you. I promise."

Bob stared at you, searching your face for any signs that you were joking. Yet, to his utter surprise, found none. Slowly, he managed to gather the strength to crack a grin as he scratched the back of his head.

"I mean, if...if you don't mind..."

"Of course not!" You beamed.

"Haven't done much writing myself though." His shoulders drooped. "Ahh, I might just be useless to you both."

"No, no! I bet you gathered a lot of intel about the town that neither Asher nor I got our hands on yet. An extra hand to help us out with research is always welcome. Also, you'll have a lot of insight about the loan shark world and what Cyril got himself into, which I'd really like to know about."

"Hah, I hope so...Thank you, Y/N– Oh, we're here."

You two stopped in front of a door; the end of the hallway. The immaculate navy-blue oak wood was bordered with exotic hand-carved curls. It was made up of four panels and its surface was smooth, save for the minor dents around the rusted hinges and brass doorknob. Across the top edge was a sentence written in golden calligraphy, the font itself bordering on legibility.

'May the Enigma of the 28th remain Our Truth'

...What was that supposed to mean?

"So this door leads into the foyer, right?" you murmured, pushing the matter to the back of your head for now.

"Yep, It'll go into the main foyer, then there'll be the exit into the alley we walked through before to get here. None of Wellington's men will be guarding it at around this time, so we're safe to wait for Asher in here."

You released a long breath. "Wanna do the honours?"

Bob nodded enthusiastically, gripping the handle tightly. He turned to you with a smile, so wide that it reached his eyes and made the corners crinkle. Even though he was looking at you, what he whispered next was more to himself. For it felt too private. Like you were intruding upon a personal cheer for one's own victory, that you had no part in.

"Here's to a new start in life."

He took a deep breath in...

...and out...


The handle clicked and Bob began opening the do–


BANG!


A single, deafening crack. An explosion of sound akin to fireworks, disseminating into softer echoes.

You froze.

Ringing. Ringing. The monotonous vibration swallowed all other meaningless clamour. Heightened in pitch until it tore your ears from the inside out.

Then came a dull thump, and a sharp gasp.

"BOB!" you screamed.

Dropping to your knees, your arms hovered above a fallen Bob, whose shoulders hunched together and face contorted in blinding pain. His arms tightly wound around his thigh, where blood had already started to trickle onto the ground. He let out a low groan as his breath thinned and quickened.

Your head snapped to the source of the gunshot.

Wellington stood at the door, dumbfounded. He looked down at his gun, a ribbon of smoke twirling skyward from the barrel, and back at the two of you. His brief moment of confliction disappeared, replaced by annoyance.

"Shit, thought it was the boy," he grumbled. "Wasted a bullet for nothing."

Your jaw tightened.

'How could you?!' was what you wanted to yell. Alongside profanities and other insults.

But you knew that would only be a waste of time.

As soon as the impenetrable fog of shock started to dissolve, a switch turned on in your head and you were committed to reducing Bob's bleeding. With all the strength you could muster, you ripped away a long strip circumferentially from the hem of your dress. You firmly wrapped it around the wound site on his thigh and tied the tightest knot you could. However, the woollen cloth was already loosening. It wasn't enough.

While you were thinking of what to do next, Wellington watched with intrigue.

"What's it to you whether he dies or not?" He blew the rest of the smoke off the barrel. "Besides, shouldn't you be worried about your own life now?"

He pointed his gun at you.

His forefinger curved around the trigger. A cruel smile spread across his face and just when he was about to pull the trigger–

"ARGH!"

The gun dropped, emanating a raucous clatter that accompanied Wellington's screech.

Embedded into the flesh of his quivering forearm was a blade. The blade of a familiar pocket knife.

Rapid footsteps echoed louder and louder until Asher came fully into view. Something seemed off about his appearance, but that was the least of your worries.

You shot to your feet and lurched towards the blade, pulling it out. Blood spewed in red trajectories. Wellington howled louder and, before he could land an attack, you kicked him hard in the groin and kneed right into his abdomen. The force of it all pushed him off balance and he collapsed onto his back. Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut from the pain.

Right as you pivoted back to Bob, Asher arrived at the scene.

"That's my knife you got there–"

"–which you shouldn't have in the first place," you interrupted, panting. "Wait, I need it for a moment."

You plopped down beside Bob and used the knife to carefully cut around the thick stockings on your left leg, in the mid-thigh section specifically. With one hand, you pinched the fabric away from your skin and with the hand wielding the blade, you pierced the nylon fibres and cut it around your leg. Once you were done, you pulled off the respective boot and the now usable cloth, using it as a new bandage around Bob's wound. It held together better due to the stocking's tight material.

Meanwhile, Asher had to improvise. He began by crouching down and landing the same punches Wellington planted on him when he was tied up, except ten times greater in strength. Deep-purple bruises and disfigurement littered the once pale stone-cold face, now heavily swollen, while Wellington's shattered glasses flew out of sight. Once satisfied, Asher stood up and kicked him onto his side, then onto his stomach. He pressed a foot on the middle of his spine and laid all his weight on it, until he heard a pleasing crack and an anguished wail.

"Bob, please!"

Upon hearing your voice, Asher whipped his head around behind him, unconsciously taking his foot off of Wellington. Bob was using the wall to shakily stand up. At the same time, you held onto his shoulders to steady him and kept telling him not to exert himself. Asher's lips curled downward.

"Y/N, I...I'm so sorry for this," Bob murmured, heaving a breath after every few words, "but...we're so close and–and I don't want to...to slow us down."

Unbeknownst to Asher, Wellington had subtly manoeuvred his body such that, while Asher delivered attack after attack, he was closer to where the gun was left. The cretin pitied the boy's tunnel vision during his flight of rage. So in the short time Asher was distracted, Wellington – with however much energy he had left – reached for his weapon.

But the action didn't go unwitnessed.

"WATCH OUT!"

Time slowed when it happened. Wellington grabbed the gun's handle. Bob shook you off him and leaped forward. Asher, bewildered, was shoved aside just as Wellington took aim.


BANG!


The second crack of a bullet.

The second bout of ringing.

Except this time, the bullet had burst through Bob's abdomen. Blood spurted from both ends, spraying onto the walls and floor. Crimson trickled out of his mouth as he collapsed onto his knees, before his head smashed against the floor. Bob couldn't utter anything more than a choked gasp before his final breath.

After three more staggered breaths, Wellington dropped the guilty arm. The gun was still firmly in his grasp as he scoffed a weak laugh. He quickly stopped, for even the slightest movement in his ribcage caused a searing pain to ripple through his crippled body.

You could only stare at the fallen body. At the viscous pool of blood amassing underneath his torso.

The flesh of your limbs morphed into stone; rigid and heavy. Numb.

Yet not nearly as numb as the static droning in your head.

You didn't realise you were still holding tightly onto the pocket knife. So when you felt something tug out of your palm, it took you by surprise. Reflexively, you turned to the source.

You should not have done that.

You should not have done that.

Asher did it so easily. So terribly, utterly easily. As if the hand gripping the blade wasn't obstructed by a sense of morality, nor a second thought, when it plunged into the back of Wellington's ne–

You looked away a second too late; the image had already brandished itself into your cranium. Your eyes stung and your gorge rose. Vertigo devoured your senses, blurring your sight and draining your knees of their balance. Your breathing became shallow as your trembling arms folded across your chest in a cold embrace.

Something was being dragged away. In the corner of your eye, you could see a fuzzy figure of Asher sauntering through the hallway back the way you came from. Wordlessly, he hauled the two dead bodies behind him, one in each hand, both leaving broken red trails. The dreadful skidding of skin on concrete, and the slow rhythm of footsteps, grew quieter until it was only your breath and your rapid heartbeat thumping against your eardrums.

How much time had elapsed - seconds, minutes, or hours - you didn't know. But you wished you savoured the silence it brought forth more when it was shattered by...a series of knocks?

Willing your legs to move, you shuffled towards the door and peeked into the foyer. Someone was rapping on the door through which you entered these premises in the first place.

"Y/N?" called a muffled yet familiar voice.

'Is that...?' You couldn't believe it. Were you hearing things?

You stumbled your way across the foyer and pulled the door open.

They really were here.

"Y/N!" Gael cried in relief, gripping your arms and swaying you slightly. For a second, it seemed like he was leaning in for a hug, but he refrained himself from doing so.

"Are you alright? Did those men hurt you?" Emilio asked in an unexpectedly concerned voice. He glanced at your now-exposed leg, his brows creasing at the cuts peppered across your skin. "What...what happened?"

Languidly, you switched your gaze between the two men. Both adorned black raincoats, crinkled and glistening with a thick coat of raindrops. Gael's hood was tightened around his face until he used a forefinger to pull down and fiddle with the bottom edge, loosening it such that his neck

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