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Realistic or Modern LOVE, LOSS, REVENGE

The hitman slash nurse goes back and forth, tidying up with the same thoroughness he does with everything. Except he hums. It's a self satisfied little sound, one Cade thinks he makes when he's happy.
Or maybe it's another intimidation play. The Dog has no way of knowing.
This guy waits until the very last minute to untie Cade and after the intense scrutiny he can't help but feel a little... forgotten about.
Some part of Cade wants to think this weirdo likes him like this, bound and waiting even though that goes against his whole code of fight or die.

All at once it goes from too little attention to too much.
The guy gets off on this, on making people uncomfortable. There's no doubt about it, with the guy being this close and there's nothing Cade can do about it. He stares and smiles and Cade never knows what it means or what he wants, but he wants to.

Adorable antics.
He's not fucking adorable, and neither are the things he can do.

But this enigma blinks and suddenly the Dog has more important things to worry about.
He's never seen eyes like these. If the hitman ever gets discovered, he'll have to wear contacts. They're the first things you see and the last thing you remember.

Finally, fucking finally he cuts through the rope. Like an animal freed from a trap, Cade does strike. But there's no teeth this time.
Cade means to grab at a wrist in a way that would be intimidating, but he can't quite get his fingers to cooperate. There's itchy red marks imprinted into his skin.

He can't sit up either, pulling tight on something that has no give. The best he can do is brace himself on an elbow.
Damn, it feels nice on his shoulders though. He didn't notice with the literal hole in his gut, but they weren't happy pinned back.
The gauze is itchy, but he's clean and taken care of and damn if he doesn't feel better as a whole.
He was going to be in a, lose a finger an hour until our demands are met, kinda situation. Instead he found himself in a, what the fuck, situation.
Cade can't find it in himself to complain, but man, what a weird power move.

"Meet me back here in two weeks?"
He doesn't sound breathless or desperate and if he does it's from almost dying.
The blood works to his fingers enough to squeeze and follow the outline of a tendon on NV's wrist. He's human, barely.
"Same room. Same time."
 
Wolf doesn't disappoint - the moment he's freed, the gangster makes a grab for Neil, but it doesn't have the crushing power that he's usually capable of. Oh, the wonders of blood loss. Still, he holds onto the cop's wrist and MacDarragh flicks his eyes up from where they're currently touching to meet Wolf's. The way he's turned to face him, the tattoo on his neck looks distorted. MacDarragh's free hand reaches for the arm the Black Dog is currently propped up on, tracing the marks on his wrist slowly, gently, before trailing along the pronounced veins snaking along his forearm.

"It's a date," there's a glimmer in Neil's eyes when he smiles.

His body is abuzz with energy when he stands up from the bed, tossing his police jacket into the duffel bag and then slinging it over one shoulder. He's just received an invitation - a very tantalizing one at that - but it's two weeks away. He realizes that's necessary - he himself told Wolf to rest mere seconds ago - but his nervous system is screaming at him that he wants that sort of gratification right this instant, and fast.

Throwing the second hotel key card at Wolf's chest, the hitman starts walking towards the door, rolling his shoulders several times to release the building tension.

Just this once, he'll wait.

---

MacDarragh breathes in the silence of his car for several minutes too long, leaning into the headrest of his seat to look up at the cruiser's ceiling or rather through it, as if he's stargazing.

Grinning from ear to ear, he's happy. For the first time in a while, he has something to latch onto that reminds him of why he stayed on in this line of work to begin with. And that's a Black Dog with a bad temper and rough hands. It's a break from the monotony of his High-Rise position, and the fact that Wolf is, technically, the enemy fills him with some added adrenaline. Like having an affair with someone your uptight parents disapprove of.

Sure, there's a chance when Neil comes back two weeks from now the gangster will have decided not to come, or maybe he will have set up some silly elaborate ambush with his "scary" boss or whatever. But MacDarragh doubts that highly - he's a good judge of character, after all. He and the nameless Dog, the stranger he just rescued and sutured up, feel like they have some kind of unspoken understanding. They feel on the same wavelength, or as close to on the same wavelength as the hitman has ever gotten on with... anyone, ever.

He's used to people not really getting him, and while Wolf maybe doesn't get him all the way, there is a kinship there through shared violent tendencies, and if anything, that's poetic. Plus, bullying him tonight was surprisingly fun. For such a strong man, the gangster gives very entertaining reactions when teased.

Neil sighs to himself and it's a contented sound.

He should get going, he's spent enough time loitering around in the small underground parking lot. The car's engine comes alive and the cop is back on the move, still humming to himself. Ending the day on a productive note is a big win.

He emerges on the street, just about to take a turn when something gives him pause - a car (a too-nice car for these parts) pulls up along the curb a little ways away from the hotel. Normally, Neil would have ignored it, if it wasn't for the figure that steps out of the Mercedes. Even from a distance, the guy is tall, intimidating - his expression reminds the hitman of the fucker he was sent to kill yesterday, with the difference that this one's suit is nicer. Much much nicer, matching the gravitas of his posture, unlike the second-rate gangster.

No, that can't be. Wolf couldn't have-

When the man heads towards the hotel at a clipped pace, the detective in MacDarragh tells him his hunch is fucking right. He squeezes down onto the wheel.

"Јебига," MacDarragh spits the word out in a returning bout of anger, laughing sardonically. Before he can do something stupid that'll actually get him in trouble with his employers, he decides to simply drive away.
 
---

Kaden isn't known for his rage or his impatience. After all, a butcher has to be precise with his cutting or he spoils the meat.

The capo walks into the hotel and one would never guess he was a butcher about to ruin a fine cut of meat.
His jaw is tensed, his thumb and forefinger rubbing against one another while his fist remains closed. These are his outward signs.

He approaches the desk, noting the little black dots on the floor. They're focused on one spot more than the rest.
With a shoe, the capo wipes a smear through the caking fluid.

"Yeah, how may I help you?" The older gentleman behind the counter asks.

Finch asks about the room his brother and some friends are in, or something along those lines. He's not sure what he says, only it's smooth and devoid of any emotion. And yet without his conscious presence, it still manages to make sense.

"Oh your number three huh? Don't you people have any shame? There are children here."

A third? They only have one Nakurra with Cade?

The Butcher grabs this man's head and slams it into the counter.
Old as he is, that's all that's needed. Finch circles the counter, vaulting over the half door he can't be bothered to open properly. He shoves the body aside, checking the hotel listings made in the last hour.

Thankfully his impromptu beating hasn't extended his search.
There's only been one check in in the last hour.
An alias of John Boyd.

Finch pulls out his pistol and makes his way upstairs. Whole hallways blink past him. He has no memory of walking here, similar to the drive here that passed him on autopilot.

When the key reader doesn't operate fast enough Kaden takes a step back from the hotel room door.
He loosens the collar of his dress shirt before launching a foot into the doorknob.
Sprinters of wood fly as the door slams wildly open, busting into the drywall. Whoever paid for the room can be billed for the damages.

The scene of the ambush was speckled in glass and droplets of blood.
He had no way of knowing how much of it was Cade's versus his assailants.

Finch was curled up in a love seat talking to an ex-con while his second was brutalized and stolen. If Cade is dead, then that's what Kaden deserves. If this is another trap then he deserves that too.
But he needs to see him. He needs to find him.

Ash sent him photos.

Cade curled up in a trunk and drooling into the carpet fibers. Supposedly unconscious, but potentially dead from their beating. A man like Cade will die before he's caught, and that's how he appeared to be.
Pale and still, regardless of the fact it was a photo. His second in command wounded for Kaden's stupidity.

A photo won't be the last way he sees his friend.

He clears the bathroom with a gun, but finds no one.

"Kaden?" Cade seems genuinely surprised to see him. Not happy, not relieved.
Surprised.

No one springs up from behind the bed to attack. The closet is empty.
There is no one else here.

"No wait- fuck!" The man unleashes a torrent of complaints as Finch approaches to give his second in command a rundown.
He's bruised in multiple places, potentially concussed but the main point of interest is the injury that's been professionally cared to on his abdomen. Cade hisses at the prodding, knocking Finch's hand aside.

"You could just fucking ask!" He growls, and huffs like a discontented mutt.

Cade's field dressing begins and ends with stuffing a wound with anything he can find, even if that substance is toilet paper.
He didn't do this.
The Nakurra definitely didn't do this.

That doesn't negate the fact his second was ambushed and taken.
Finch sets his jaw.
He grabs a handful of the rope that, judging by Cade's frayed and raw wrists, had bound him.
It's climber's rope. Cheap, and while strong it doesn't hold on to human skin well unless it's tied beyond a safe limit.
It's been cut smoothly through with a knife.

"... How'd it go?" Cade asks, and he smiles.

Finch doesn't smile back.

He hurt Damien. In a way.
Kaden will never be able to hurt him physically, but he will always hurt him in the only way that matters. It's unavoidable.

Cade's a proud man. It hurts him to sit up, and arguably worries his wound, but he does so anyway.
The Dog clutches at his midsection, holding in his panting.
"Where's the tracker?"

"Your teeth."
That's as precise as he's willing to be. Which one it is Cade will have to pull individually to discover, or recall which teeth have had fillings.
Kaden picks up the bottle, pills rattling.
On the ground the plush carpet has kept his prints.
And another set.
The capo lines his foot with the other, and then studies the steps behind it and the distance between them.
It's too faint and the gait too inconsistent to be sure of height, but it was most likely a man.
Or a tall woman.

Cade's eyes follow his feet before finding Finch's eyes.
"He didn't give me a name."

Ah, so a man.

"What did you give him?"

"Whaddya..." The man starts, and an instinctual grimace forms on his face. It's similar to the look the the hotel clerk downstairs gave Kaden.
"Oh. Nothing. I didn't tell him anything. You just missed him."

"Was he Nakurra?"

"What, no. He- no he wasn't."

Kaden narrows his eyes and Cade looks away.
He doesn't smile, he doesn't grin, he doesn't wink. The Dog was captured and injured only to escape certain peril and he doesn't have an exaggerated story to regale Kaden with.
He's silent, even modest.

"How fortunate to come across the last good Samaritan in all of New York," Kaden says with so little life a passerby wouldn't know it was sarcasm.
Like a child, Cade's infuriating reply is to shrug.

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah, no problem," Cade says strained through his teeth when he uses the bed post to climb to his feet.
The Dog looks back at the bed, and grunts to clear his throat when Finch watches him.

"You'll be taken home to recover."

For once, his second doesn't argue. He nods, leaning into the bed.
"Yeah, what are you going to do?"

He's going to do what he should have in the first place.

"I'm going to kill Nakamura. By myself."
 
---

"Wait-" Damien's plead is cut short, turning into an involuntary yelp as he's shoved through the doorway into a near stumble. Guess he deserves that. When they wouldn't listen to him, the ex-cop gave the Black Dogs a good amount of grief as he was being dragged away, pulling and striking out to get away. However, there was only so much he could do outmanned without pulling a gun on the gangsters, which felt unnecessary, as much as this was reminiscent of a kidnapping. One ordered by Kaden.

The door slams shut just as Damien is turning around to make for another break, hand grabbing the doorknob. There is a click on the other side and the cold metal rattles uselessly in his grip no matter how many times he tries.

He's been locked in.

Panic runs over his body like waves of pinpricks digging directly into his nerves. Flashes of a glimpse he'd caught of Kaden's phone assault his senses. For a second time since the two met, the consigliere received news in a way he really shouldn't have - via fucking photos. Not of Delilah this time, and thankfully not of a corpse. Supposedly not of a corpse. Hopefully... Seeing Cade bound and folded in on himself to fit into a car trunk was terrifying. To call Damien ashamed at that moment doesn't even begin to scratch the surface.

This shouldn't have happened.

Didn't the two gangs make peace? No, of course not. It was stupid to think for even a second that the matter had been resolved, and Damien was blind not to notice earlier. Things always find a way to get worse - that's the one constant truth of life.

The guilt at his naivety mixed with anger is a strange concoction, bitter on the tongue - Ash had been the one to text Finch. The young man with the red panda mask and a sickly uncle had orchestrated all of this. The Nakurra had duped them. Damien isn't egotistical enough to believe he's solely responsible for Kaden's decision to agree to the meeting, to walk into a trap, but it feels like he contributed. At the very least he was a distraction for the consigliere - while his second in command was being beaten to unconsciousness and taken away, the two had been... talking.

For a second they'd forgotten they were not normal people, not in a normal situation...

The one emotion that trumps all others, overwhelming both guilt and indignation, is fear. An almost debilitating one. It wasn't Delilah's vacant eyes staring up from the phone screen, but the capo's demeanor had had a similar switch back when he thought the woman was dead. Detached. This was the beginning of another emotional breakdown. Kaden had headed for his car and Damien couldn't allow that to happen - no, he would drive, he would come along. He would fix this, somehow. Before the ex-cop could get even halfway into discussing some kind of plan of action to take together, the capo cut him off.

He ordered Damien to be taken back.

"Shit."

The ex-convict quickly turns on his heel, walking further into the apartment towards the living room. It takes him a bit to orient himself with the TV remote, but eventually, the screen comes on - smoothly, not with a flicker like the old TVs he's used to or the cheap ones back in prison common rooms. Damien hurriedly changes the channels, finally finding the evening news. Gnawing on his lip as he is, he's starting to draw blood.

The copper doesn't really register in his mouth. No matter how long he watches, flipping through the stations once or twice, there is no breaking news on any car accidents. The thought gives him little comfort - maybe Kaden did crash and it's just not being reported on. Perhaps he collided with a vehicle with a psycho brandishing a switchblade and there was no one to stand between them. Maybe the collision was instantly fatal and he's been mangled beyond recognition, a lump of flesh to be extricated by paramedics once they arrive on the scene. Or maybe the collision was nearly fatal and he's been trapped in by the bent metal of his own car chassis, bleeding out, barely enough space for him even to breathe.

Damien is the one having issues finding his breath.

And things always find a way to get worse.

In the midst of reporting on recent rising levels of crime in the city, a segment comes on about the murder of Chief Thomas J. Moore and the ongoing manhunt for the one responsible. The TV shows an image of Tom, smiling and dignified in his old age, and next to it one of a young man with dark skin and eager eyes - the name Daniel Conley is a burning beacon underneath the photograph.

With a twitch, Damien turns off the TV. He doesn't turn it on again.

---

This is the second sleepless night in a roll for the ex-cop. He can't even make himself lie down in bed, instead sitting motionless on the couch in front of the TV, curled up into his knees. It's a bad choice - whenever he lifts his head to peek at the time, the shape of his reflection in the dark screen right ahead stares back at him.

The first rays of sunlight stream in through the apartment windows. Kaden hasn't come to get him. The possibility that Kaden will never be coming to get him is mortifying. No, he's fine. He's a good driver. Damien keeps holding onto hope, as much as it has betrayed him in the past - there is nothing else he can do, really.

The hours keep ticking by.

Damien is so focused inwardly, on repeating a mantra in his head, that he doesn't instantly react to the front door opening. Once the sound registers, his ears perk up. Jumping out from his place on the couch, he rushes for the exit, only to witness it being shut in his face and locked once more.

His confused eyes eventually land on something left on the floor - a tray. A meal.

The ex-cop's shoulders sag in relief - Kaden is alive. If he wasn't, the Black Dogs would have no incentive to do this.

---

Kaden doesn't come to get him the following morning. Or the one after that.

"Let me out."

The demand is useless, of course. Damien tried it multiple times, even starting it off as a request originally. He's just wasting his breath. The gangsters won't allow him to leave, though they will entertain his other requests. That must be the capo's doing too, just like the three meals a day and the fucking snacks. It makes him feel like he's back in prison, a much more luxurious one. One of those humane Norwegian prisons that appear more like a hotel on the surface.

At least he's been given confirmation that Finch is okay, as is Cade, thankfully, if a little worse for wear.

He sighs in exasperation, "Can you at least tell your boss I want to talk?"

He tried that one before too, to no avail. Even if they did relay the message.

What the fuck is this, Oldboy? Is he going to be rotting in here for another 15 years, plotting revenge, hallucinating, and carving out lines in his hand for each year that passes? The thought is not nearly as entertaining as the movie.

Damien glares at the door, which closes back up as soon as he's been graciously given his lunch.

The apartment entrance doesn't open unless he's a reasonable distance away from it, at least 6 feet or so, which means that the Black Dogs have to have a way of keeping track of his position inside. The paranoid part of his brain muses if there are any surveillance cameras set up in this apartment, the one the consigliere was preparing for him to stay in regardless.

Whether there are any digital eyes on him or not, Damien glares up at one of the ceiling corners above the door. He fucking hopes Finch can see him right now.

---

The ex-convict managed to land himself in solitary confinement several times while in prison, earlier on in his sentence, when he didn't know how to behave and didn't yet have arrangements for protection. Or for cigarettes. Either he got himself in a scuffle with someone or someone got in a scuffle with him. Whether it was to keep the peace or to keep the ex-cop "safe", the end result was one and the same - he got put away in a single, private little cell, barred from any meaningful human contact.

In those moments, he was Darrel Standing, sans the straight-jacket. He was Jack London's Star Rover, and so he roved, just like he does now in the dark - in his mind, he is a stripper overhearing a way too intimate conversation between two men. He is a gangster with a grating sense of humor getting jumped by several armed assailants. He is a young police officer being shot dead in an alleyway by a childhood role model. Every time, he watches himself die.

Fuck, this place is suffocating, or maybe the suffocating part is being stuck alone with himself. Damien needs to run. Like the night Kaden tried to have him tailed, his legs are burning with barely contained energy, urging him to run as fast as he can, as far away as he can, but the issue is he can't.

This is another crack in his being, this solitary confinement imposed by Finch - it hurts in way too tender of a place. At the same time, it seems wrong of Damien to be this affected - the apartment is comfortable, and he's being looked after. He didn't get taken by the Nakurra, someone else had to suffer through that, yet here he is acting all overdramatic. Much like his in-comparison overprivileged childhood, the self-pity he's experiencing over the present circumstances is disgusting, not that rationalizing in that direction helps him stop feeling like shit.

It's fine, he'll pick himself back up soon enough, like always. He's going to find that bearable state of shattering, as much as at this point pieces are beginning to fall off.

---

Like he predicted, Damien succeeds in picking himself back up around the morning of the fourth day. Settling into a routine is what helps the most (another thing he picked up in prison) - he actually sleeps and eats, even if only as much as is necessary to remain functional. Barred from jogging as he is, the ex-convict pours his energy out by exercising in other ways, with no equipment necessary - stretching, calisthenics, fucking shadowboxing, which looks as ridiculous as it sounds, but it gets the sweat going. Still, he'd prefer to get some cardio training in and not only strength. Well, if he can't run, then he'll smoke.

For a nicotine addict, Damien hasn't been feeding his vice as much lately. That gets easily rectified over the week he's left locked in the apartment.

---

There is a cigarette hanging from Damien's mouth - if a cigarette shaves off 11 minutes of a person's life, the ex-cop just took off 6 minutes of his in a single drag. The smoke fills his lungs and he holds it there until it starts feeling like he's suffocating. How many minutes has he lost in total, over the last 17 years? He exhales, expression indifferent.

The air in the apartment should feel stuffier, but he's opened several windows to let the cold weather in and create a draft, while bundling up on the couch, staring at the laptop in his lap through his reading glasses. That's a recent acquisition, granted after he finally decided to take up his captors on the offer of "anything but leaving". It's a newer model than what he's accustomed to, but that's fine. He should have requested one sooner. Better late than never. This way he can start doing research on Simons and her law firm. You know, his actual investigation he should be pursuing. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

For the time being, Damien has ceased snarling at the Black Dogs, or even greeting them at the door. That kind of behavior doesn't seem to work. Instead, he'll wait for the inevitable moment Kaden loses interest in him one of these days and lets him walk free.

The ex-cop doesn't even react to the door opening to deposit his meal.
 
----

He doesn't come on this floor very often; there's little reason to. Everyday he has watched the elevator light flick over this level's number as he passes.

Every other hallway is a fit of well maintained chaos and movement. The Black Dogs are at war, and it's turned the building into a live wire.
This one is still. It's almost lonely, in that sense.

A guard is posted at the door and he glances at Finch twice to make sure it's really him. The capo doesn't acknowledge him beyond a nod.
On impulse, Kaden goes for the door knob, only to reroute and knock.
The guard raises a brow, but hastily looks away when noticed.

Dropping the pretense, Finch pulls the deadlock free and opens the door to welcome himself inside.
The overwhelming stink hits him first, and he was prepared for this. Damien was allowed anything he needed, and that included gratifying his unhealthy vices and gratify them he has.
The new apartment isn't as big as Finch's, but it's well furnished and modern. No art, but there is the odd painting devoid of any true character. The place is charming, in an inoffensive way that takes no stance and has no substance.
Insincere, like a set piece in a commercial.

To Kaden's understanding, Cade eats everything he's given but makes a mess.
Damien's the opposite.
He's left the tray ignored at the door, food untouched.

Damien is in the living room, using a laptop. It's somehow too sudden seeing him, too soon, even though this is a long time coming.
He's dressed in whatever's been made available to him. Despite knowing his exact size Finch hasn't specified what he would like the man to wear considering now is not the time for such frivolity.
Still, Finch can understand the humiliation of the situation. Being given too-large t-shirts and baggy sweatpants all in black and grey is yet another symptom of his current condition.

Defining that condition is much more elusive in understanding.

"...I'm sorry I haven't come to see you until now."
 
The knock at the door is the first irregular noise Damien has heard in a while, a break in the monotony of his established routine. It makes him perk up, even if with some delay, and by the time he has become fully cognizant of it the entrance has already swung open, but not to drop off something for the ex-convict like usual. A familiar set of footsteps approaches, moving from the foyer into the living room at what feels like an excruciatingly slow pace. Or maybe that's just how it seems to Damien, waiting with bated breath. The sound of a familiar voice makes him swirl around, eyes wide.

It's Kaden.

Damien feels his expression break, shifting through several emotions, yet unable to settle on one - surprise, concern, relief. The ex-cop nearly jumps up from his place, nearly rushes towards Kaden to... To what end exactly? Damien tenses up.

He has to consciously stop himself from moving, putting his feet up on the couch and sitting on them. The rapid flash of emotions on his face is likewise gone, back to the indifferent state that's gotten him through the week of confinement.

The first thing the consigliere does is apologize for not coming to see him, but that's 4 days too late, back when his captive was still requesting to talk to him. What a ridiculous thing to be sorry for anyway, given the circumstances. The last time the two spoke - genuinely spoke - Finch had expressed remorse over how he'd treated Damien. And now they're here...

What he should be apologizing for is locking him up here. But that would be 7 days too late.

With one final inhale, Damien removes the cigarette from his mouth, putting it out on the plate-turned-ashtray he has on the coffee table. It's not the first smoke to meet its end there, far from it - with some of the butts sticking upright, the thing looks like a really messed up hedgehog on its deathbed.

The ex-cop finds it in himself to look away from the capo, back down at the laptop as if he were reading something. He can't really focus on the words, yet looking anywhere but at Kaden is preferable at the moment.

Damien's voice is measured when he speaks, "Why are you here?"
 
The array of emotions that flood Damien's face evaporate as soon as they appeared.
He's not happy to see Kaden either, and why should he be?

Finch holds a hand over his mouth and nose, inhaling in what little reprieve that gives him from the stench. He retracts his previous statement; Damien is not tidy. In fact Kaden knows this. The man just has so little to make his environment dirty, besides smokes.

"To explain," he offers, letting his hand fall.
"It wasn't safe, Damien. And you wouldn't have listened to me if I told you to stay here willingly."

The capo recalls the man wasn't going to. He was going to physically prevent Finch from leaving Nirvana, and insist he himself drive.
Taking the ex-con to a club for a supposedly peaceful meeting is one thing, but he couldn't...

The Butcher inhales tightly. Maybe he came here too soon. Things he's not ready to deal with are resurfacing at an alarming rate. There is a contrast between him alone, and him with Damien and it's never been as obvious as now.
This man does do something to him, and Finch repays it by locking him in.

"But it's almost over. You'll be able to come out soon."
 
"Soon?" Damien manages to stop the scoff in his throat from coming through at the last moment. He swallows, trying to keep level-headed. There's no point getting mad.

Still, the way Kaden says that ticks him off, like he's going to be allowed to walk out of this room in maybe another few days or a week and things will go back to normal - as normal as the two men's lives can be called - until the next time the capo deems the situation too unsafe and Damien too weak and locks him away again. For his own fucking sake. Like a pet or some fragile object.

Yes, the ex-cop most likely wouldn't have stayed here willingly. Why would he, while Kaden puts himself in danger? Well, because they aren't partners, because Finch doesn't trust him, at least not to have his back. He's never viewed him as up to the challenge.

Regardless, there's no point pondering that now. This was yet another choice that was taken away from the ex-convict, despite all the times they've had the same exhausting conversation.

"Explain, then," Damien sets the laptop down on the table, ready to listen. He still doesn't look at Kaden, "What happened? Are things really almost over?"

"I imagine all of the arrangements with Asahi fell through as soon as he... stabbed you in the back."
 
"It did. It had to."

Finch grinds his hand into a fist to stop the sudden shaking running through it.
It was hopeless the moment Asahi's weapon refused to fire. It was hopeless the moment Kenji's chest was blown through.
It was hopeless the moment Kaden put on the wolf mask and walked through the door.

It was hopeless the moment Delilah abandoned him.

"There's still Nakurra cells split up, but...Ash won't hurt you or Cade."

Finch scoops his hair back, hooking his hand at the nap of his neck.
Vertebra crack at the pressure.

--- (like two days earlier idk) ---

"Yubitsume was a Yakuza ritual to show penance and regret for failure or betrayal."

Kenji's wall is adorned in samurai blades. Their covers are ornate, red green yellow. Some have gold threaded into the sleeves.
They're perfectly balanced, perfectly maintained and yet they've never been used.

"Do you know the ritual?" Kaden asks, taking a traditional weapon down from it's resting place.

Ash is on his knees, his head craned up by the savage hand in his hair.
He swallows, trembling under a sheen of sweat.
"N-no."

Finch pulls the blade free. It shrieks.
Light reflects off it's edge. His reflection points back at him, bloody.

The Butcher sets down the sleeve of the katana, instead using both hands to wrap firmly around the sword.
"It's an ode to your history," he mentions and his dead eyes roll to where Ash is kneeling.

"When wielding a Japanese sword, the hilt must be gripped predominately with the three lower fingers while the index and thumb remain looser. Without these fingers, a capable and talented warrior can no longer fight."
The Butcher bastardizes the proper hold on the sword by letting his left drop.
He wields it in one hand, poising the tip under Ash's throat.
Finch removed the bandages. He wanted to see what he did.
A terrible swollen grater of flesh runs across Nakamura's cheek. If given time, perhaps it would heal into intimidating scar tissue. But now he is difficult to look at.

"Yubitsume or otoshimae is self mutilation." Finch blinks slowly, coldly on the dawning horror of Ash's face.
"On the first offense, the transgressor cuts off the little finger of his left hand. For each offense, another finger."

At Butcher's nod, his men wrestle Nakamura's hand to the floor. Ash tries to ball his fingers up, before a foot forces them out.

"You shot at me. That's one finger. You tried to have my best kidnapped. That's another. If you had any honor or respect for me you'd cut them off yourself, but as you are the mud that sticks to the bottom of my shoe I'm willing to help."

Nakamura looks up at him, eyes wet and stupid mouth slightly agape. He looks like a child, and it's infuriating.
Butcher inhales before squatting in place, smooth like a stalking predator. His lips find Ash's ear where he whispers, "God damn you for making me do this."

The capo stands back up, studying the fingers critically.
The blade hovers over one finger that does it's best to shift away, but under the circumstances can do nothing.
Finch blunts the weapon by jabbing it into the floor through Ash's pinky. The Nakamura screams, a horrible screech of a wail and when the blade is lifted away the finger is attached by a few tiny ribbons of skin.

"Hm." Kaden tilts his head in thought.
He puts the katana at an angle for the next finger, and using his heel jabs against the flat edge of the blade.
In a brutal and sudden crack, it drivers through the ring finger of the man's hand. Surveying his work, Kaden kicks the severed appendages aside to be sure they're truly detached.

The boot's lifted and Ash brings his mutilated limb to his chest. If anything, the Butcher is impressed he didn't beg.
That's something, at the very least.

"Are you going to kill me?" The Nakamura shakes, the words weak and strained from screaming and tears.
It's a reasonable question, and yet it only adds to Kaden's ire. Ash did his best and for that, he has Finch's respect but he was beyond foolish to pull a move like he did when he didn't know Cade nor the capabilities of his own men.

And yet, without Cade's mysterious benefactor it would have been a success despite the mistakes.
What would Asahi have extorted out of him? Weapons, money, loyalty? What would Kaden have been willing to give for Cade?

"No. Before the Nakurra is spent, another rat will climb onto the dwindling pile. You and your better half can tell family in Japan it's better to let sleeping dogs lie."

Finch gives the sword a definitive swing. Droplets of blood slap the floor.
He brings it to his curled arm, placing the blade between his forearm and bicep in a hug.
With a slow pull, he cleans the blade on the sleeve of his jacket.

"Better half? But I - she -"

A woman's shriek is an unnatural, horrible thing. It splits the air like a blade, but echos and digs into the psyche. You can torment a man for hours and hear a similar high pitched animal lowing (Ash included of course).
But a woman makes a special, horrible sound.
A woman will last longer and greater pain, and she will let you know the moment it starts you're commiting a crime against nature.

Ash's girlfriend - he didn't bother asking for a name- is full of tears as she's herded in.
A Dog shoves her forward with the ball of knotty hair in his grip. She's naked, save for the towel.
Her bare feet make soft little pats on the floor.

It's worth noting she is brunette, white.

"Tell me you know with Irezume is, Asahi."

The life seems to leave Nakamura's eyes. He shakes his head.
The Butcher clenches his teeth, lifts the sword to point at the woman.
"She knows what it is! She's known for the last nine hours and she's still not even close to being finished."

Finch grips the knot of the towel and rips it from her, despite her pleas and terrible howls.

Where there was pale, unblemished skin now lays an overwhelming canvas of ink. Where the tattoos break into designs, the bare slivers of pale skin is pink and inflamed.
Beads of blood cascade over her breasts and the little pouch of her stomach.
The tattoos cover her torso, tapering off where they haven't been finished at her shoulders and down one hip.
The black lines stop uniformly at the beginning of her neck, where they will similarly stop at her wrists and ankles when she's finished.

Ash won't look at her. He's no longer being pinned down, but he makes no effort to go to her.
He sniffles miserably, and that's all she gets.

Before the pigs of his men can leer, Finch tosses the towel back to the woman.
Like Ash before his father's death, she's too tame and housebroken to look at Finch with anything but unbridled fear. She doesn't know hate, just a desperation to be returned to the softness of her life before she knew Ash.

Finch sheaths the blade before tossing it to the floor. It clanks and rolls once before coming to an abrupt stop.

---
Kaden's glazed over eyes come back into focus when he realizes he's been staring in place for quite some time.

"If... " He grunts softly, rubs his chin with the edge of his thumb.
"If I let you out will you come back, Damien?"
 
Finch's explanation is woefully short, and no matter how long Damien waits, the capo doesn't speak again.

Why is he being so quiet? What is he waiting for? The silence that settles over the apartment is chilling, or maybe that's just the cold air coming in from the open windows. The ex-cop shivers, crossing his arms defensively and leaning as far back into the couch as he can before the tension proves too much to handle and he reluctantly glances at Kaden out of the corner of his eye. The gangster's form is a motionless shadow looming in his periphery.

Damien's eyebrows furrow, and he turns to look at the man fully, "Kaden?"

The retort becomes filled with worry about halfway through - no, Finch isn't waiting for anything. He's not even here.

The blank look in his eyes tells the ex-convict the man is roving somewhere, in another place, another time, much like he does on occasion. Does he look as sad too? Damien can't help thinking that the memories aren't pleasant ones. Without fully realizing what he's doing, he unfurls from his spot on the couch, striding in Kaden's direction, calling out to him again to no avail. He can't hear him. The ex-cop's hand reaches out, eyes wide. Yet, before the touch can connect, the consigliere's vision clears, returning to the present, and Damien pulls his arm away so fast, like he's been burnt.

That's exactly what the question the Black Dog presents him with feels like - a hot iron digging into his ribs.

If I let you out will you come back?

"... I don't know..."

No. The answer should definitively be 'no', after what Finch did. Damien warned him that if he breached his privacy one more time he would leave, yet now he finds himself feeling unsure and that makes him furious. He doesn't want to leave, but his hand is being forced - he has to leave. The reality is that if he goes back on his word, if he stays, nothing will change. They will simply keep having the same pointless conversation over and over again, running in circles. It's not that Kaden is incapable of change, it's that Damien remaining will just reaffirm his worldview. The realization is too painful to put into words. Damien takes several steps away, arms behind his back.

He should lie and say he'll remain regardless to mollify Finch, but he doesn't want to lie to him. The consigliere is too smart for that anyway.

"... No, I won't," Damien states after a bout of silence, looking down at the floor, ignoring the ache in his chest. His voice is low and raspy from disuse and cigarettes, and something else too, "It would be best for both of us if I left."
 
Finch sees Damien's left the couch to approach him, but he doesn't register it. It's all seen in the same distant way everything else is.
Not until he reaches to touch him.

Finch feels something in his chest sink at the answer to a question he shouldn't have asked.
He should have told the man how busy he's been, how intense the week has been. It's been war, practically literally and Cade hasn't been available and Markus and Jackie are gone.

It's just Kaden.

Damien takes wide steps away from him and Kaden feels like he's made of glass.

He inhales sharply intending to speak, but he has nothing.
A very ugly part of him that's been fed over the last few days wants to turn away from Damien without another word.
Let him stay and marinate for another week and see how cooperative he is then...

But Damien would hate him before he broke. And he wouldn't be Damien once broken.

"I..." The words stop in his throat. "I understand. I'm... regretful it didn't work out. With me, Moore... Even Genevieve. I hope you find peace."

If anyone does, perhaps Damien has the best chance.

Standing there now, he must wrap his head around the fact he's never going to see this man again.
Or at least not for some time. Maybe not even for another fifteen years. He came the closest he's ever felt to anything and that will be coming to a close.
It's just as well isn't it?

This feeling is a bad and debilitating one.

He bled and fought and he gets nothing for it but more loss, and yet he knew this would be the result.
He knew Damien wouldn't tolerate this, and perhaps that's part of the reason Kaden put this off for a week. At the same time, he had to seal Damien away.
His life was threatening to crumble away and he had to force it back together through any means necessary.
Even if they caused further damage over time.

"Take whatever you want to keep and follow me to the door. Hurry, before I can change my mind."
 
Finch... tells him he understands.

It's a surprise and not an entirely pleasant one. Freedom is what Damien has craved for a week, yet the relief of being let go willingly is cut through by the pain of that hot iron digging further between his ribs, into his chest - the last thing Kaden shows him (maybe the last thing he'll ever show him) is the part of himself that the ex-cop can't help being drawn to. This glimmer of humanity, of change. If the capo had become irrational at losing his possession, had turned belligerent and threatened to keep him locked up or implant a tracker somewhere on his body, the ex-convict would have had an easier time letting go.

This shouldn't be this painful. Damien's jaw clenches.

It takes him a second to become unstuck from where he stands frozen, but before Kaden can change his mind - before either of them can, really - he is maneuvering swiftly through the apartment. This shouldn't take him too long. There isn't much he wants to keep, apart from this person he can't hold onto.

Doing a quick change into his old clothes that have been washed and pressed in the bedroom, the ex-cop grabs for his regular effects - the carton of cigarettes, the chrome lighter, the burner as well as his regular phone, and the leather case for his glasses. He ponders whether to take the laptop, yet ultimately decides against that. He won't be losing much by leaving it behind, the research is already mostly in his head and, beyond that, it can all be redone.

No, what he takes is the gun engraved with a fox, tucking it safely away into his waist holster.

"Thank you," Damien mumbles, standing beside Finch at the door. He bows his head, deeply, "And I'm sorry. For all of the trouble I've caused you, and for what happened with Cade. Just... for everything."

This could have been prevented if Damien never reached out to the Black Dog to begin with. Neither of them would have had to suffer knowing each other. Somehow, foolishly, he can't find it in himself to regret that part. He keeps tensing the muscles in his trembling jaw.

The leather case opens in his hands, and the ex-convict lets the tracker he'd kept inside tumble out into his palm, extending it forward to return to Kaden.

"I hope you find Delilah," he says after clearing his throat. As much as it hurts he looks up at Finch, less searching the man's face and more so memorizing it with all its details. He lingers on his eyes, "And I hope you find a way to be happy."

---

Outside it's cold. It's cold and, for all of the city lights, it's dark. Fast-paced footsteps resound on the pavement, broken through by shuddering breaths every now and again, like the individual they belong to is panting after running for a mile. Yet, the fact of the matter is, Damien has not.

He is running away in a sense, however, not daring to even look back. A sniffle breaks the established rhythm of shoes on concrete and heavy breathing, and the ex-cop feels like a pathetic little child. His hand shoots up to his mouth, digging into his cheeks. He's fine, he needs to keep it together.

His other reaches into his pocket. The phone he's kept turned off since the gala comes alive with a hard press on its power button. The first thing the ex-cop sees flash across its screen are scores of missed calls and texts from the same number.

Finding himself steady enough to let go of his face, Damien exhales. He dials the caller back, listening to the line ring in his ear. Hopefully, Natalia doesn't hate him too much to answer.
 
---

The park is low-lit and silent just like the first time the ex-cop was here, with the difference of a couple more piles of unmelted snow. Their white color is marred by filth and ash, cigarettes littering the ground. None of those are Damien's. Sure, there is a cancer stick held loosely between his fingers, but he hasn't smoked it - hasn't put it anywhere near his lips after he lit it. Regardless, the fumes reach him and they feel as revolting as usual, even more so - second-hand smoke is actually a bigger health risk than just inhaling it "properly".

Seated on a bench, the man's eyes are transfixed on the embers of the cigarette as it slowly smolders down to a stump in the winds of the evening, warm on his fingertips. He counts down the minutes, eyes dry from not having closed his eyelids for some time. The smoke stings.

The sound of a car rapidly pulling into the parking lot causes the man to blink several times and raise his head.

A dark green, almost black Kia speeds into view. Damien crushes the remains of the cigarette, leftover tobacco dispersing in the air as he slowly rises up from his space to walk forward. The car door has already opened and slammed shut, its owner approaching the ex-convict to meet him halfway at a rapid pace.

"Nat-"

His greeting is cut off by open palms connecting with his chest, shoving him back hard enough to make him stumble several paces. Sergeant Montesano doesn't cease her advance, closing the distance between the two only to shove him back again. She drove her family car here dressed in her work uniform, police belt fully equipped. Her face is red with exertion, eyes blazing - it's not like Damien is her life's main priority (far from it), but he is important enough to make the woman furious beyond belief. He doubts she's been in this kind of state many times in the past.

"You fucking asshole!" the shouting coming his way is wholly deserved and expected, yet it still takes him slightly aback. Hearing Natalia curse is about as shocking as hearing her voice crack. The woman swore off swearing as soon as the twins entered that age when kids tend to repeat everything they hear, like parrots. She's so accustomed to being careful around them that it extends to her interaction with nearly everyone. Damien is maybe the only person able to unbalance her like this, and he feels awful for it. It's one of the many ways he's wronged his friend.

"Where the fuck have you been!?" the sentence is punctuated by another shove, Damien stepping back only to have Natalia stepping forward, almost like a dance, "I've been looking everywhere!"

Of course she has. She's one of the only people that would... well, the only person that would now, actually. And as unreliable as he has become, the ex-cop wasn't home and he wouldn't answer his phone. Even if he had, she wouldn't have been able to reach him.

His obtuse silence only seems to enrage Natalia further. She frowns, eyes filling with betrayal, before going to shove him again. This time Damien stands his ground, and as soon as her arms connect with his torso, he throws his own around the sergeant, pulling her close.

"Wha-" Montesano sounds shocked, immediately going on the defensive by trying to get this insane guy off of her, trashing in his hold.

It takes her a moment to realize he's not restraining her. No, the fucker is hugging her. Somehow, he's found the audacity.

"I'm sorry," it's the only thing Damien can manage in a whispered response. The woman tenses.

Natalia doesn't return the embrace, but she doesn't break it either, arms going limp by her sides. The two stay like this for what feels like an eternity, Damien leaning on his friend when he knows he has done nothing to earn the comfort that she offers, holding onto her for dear life because if he doesn't he feels like he's going to collapse. The long-suffered sergeant takes it all like a champ, not protesting even once.

"I've had enough, Damien," she exhales a sharp, strained sigh after several minutes. The handcuffs at her belt jingle when she buries her face into his shoulder, "If you don't tell me exactly what is going on, I swear, I will arrest you."

"I'm sorry," he repeats uselessly. The ex-cop should have told her everything from the very beginning, this person that cares despite everything that he is. Despite everything that he's put her through. He was trying to protect his friend from the full brunt of what he got involved in, keeping her at arm's length whether she wanted to or not, while still relying on her help. She's dipped her foot into a world of crime without even being aware of it. It's not fair, the way he's treated her. The man sees that now. They should have been partners.

Damien tightens the hug, "I promise I'll tell you everything."

---

The diner is just as Damien remembers it - still frozen in time, still sticky in all the same places. No cops talking loudly, however. The only police officer in the establishment is deadly silent, currently cradling her head in her hands after being bombarded with too much information, a lot of which she probably wishes she hadn't heard. Two pieces of pie remain untouched before her and her friend - she'd insisted on buying food for both, despite the ex-cop telling her coffee was more than enough. The drinks are going cold at this point too. In the man's hands is the chrome lighter, fingers absentmindedly tracing the coat of arms and motto of the NYPD engraved on its surface - Fidelis ad Mortem. Faithful unto Death.

"You have to be joking," the sergeant mumbles, still looking down at her feet.

"I wish I was."

It's difficult to determine which part Nat finds most disturbing - is it the fact that her friend got himself tangled up with criminals? Is it the reveal of his intentions to kill Genevieve and Tom, even if both ended in failure for one reason or another? Is it the fact he shot two people he didn't even plan to shoot?

Montesano looks up at the ex-cop, mouth slightly agape. She huffs, searching for the right words, "MacDarragh killed Moore?"

Ah, it seems like she's settled on being disturbed by that for the time being. Damien nods wordlessly, and the policewoman glances down again.

"Holy shit. I mean, I... He reported the shooting. He was there, I saw him when I was on the scene. He even greeted me," at that Damien ceases his fidgeting, staring hard at the sergeant. There is a cold fear spreading through his body, "It took me a bit to remember who he was, but... didn't you use to know him?"

"I did," Damien's words are instant, clipped, "He definitely recognized me if he did you... You might want to consider having Kim and the kids skip town for a while, as difficult as that might be on him."

Montesano nearly gets whiplash with how fast she swirls to look at Damien, eyes wide from the implication he just made. Almost like she doesn't want to let it sink in yet, the woman abruptly changes the topic, "And how does Fleischer fit into all of this?"

Fuck. Damien's grip on the lighter tightens. His eyes move away, searching for anything else they can hold onto - he'd promised to tell her everything, yet here he is lying again. The one thing he can't force himself to reveal is Kaden's identity. His gaze lands on the coffee creamers and that doesn't help ground him at all.

"Don't call him that," the guilt he feels towards Natalia is added to by the guilt he feels for ever coming up with that alias, even if that was before he knew the true story behind Finch's nickname. The Butcher. Fleischer had almost been in mockery and now that makes his skin crawl. He's an insensitive idiot, "You won't be seeing him again, Nat. We're not working together anymore."

That seems to put an end to that line of questioning for the time being, Nat frowning, yet ultimately relenting - this suits her fine. She doesn't have to talk about separating from her family which she doesn't intend to do no matter the warning, and Damien doesn't have to talk about the P.I. whose name she couldn't connect to any working investigator no matter how long or where she searched. The woman leans back into the booth seat, fist on the table where she taps it several times. The sergeant falls into a thoughtful silence, then meets the ex-cop's gaze and speaks.

"Okay, so this chapter's closed," her voice is brave in spite of the slight tremble, taking things in stride. What else can she do, really? For such a diminutive person, Natalia is one of the strongest individuals Damien knows. Probably the strongest, "Where to from here?"

"Jasmine Simons," the ex-convict is more than grateful to get back on topic, "I believe she was Moore's lawyer. Chances are she or someone working under her is also his solicitor and... given his recent passing, Tom's family is undoubtedly going through his will. He said proof of his High-Rise dealings is somewhere secure that no one knew about. Chances are it could be a bank vault or a second property. I doubt it's his home. It's possible that a clue to the location is somewhere in his legal documents and inheritance."

"I see," Natalia nods at the end of the explanation, having listened intently, "You know, Eli works for the Simons Group nowadays."

Damien quirks an eyebrow, "I am well aware, I was just about to say that... How do you know, though?" He's reminded of the fact Eleonora had come to visit the Montesanos for Thanksgiving, bearing gifts. They didn't use to be friends before he went to prison, as far as he knows, "Do the two of you keep in touch or something?"

"She's a good friend, Damien," Natalia starts, taking on a tight-lipped smile. There is a flash of trepidation before she continues, but her face looks lighter for speaking her mind, "She kept asking how you were doing while you were in prison, and she's been blowing up my phone ever since the shootout at the gala. She told me she saw you there."

Damien scoffs, flabbergasted - the second part of her sentence doesn't register. This is a cruel joke to pull, as much of an ass as he's been to the policewoman, "Don't bullshit me. She never came to visit, not even once."

Nat drops her smile, rolling her eyes at his tone and replying to it with sarcasm, "Oh, believe me, I know." There's been more than one Blumenthal giving her grief over the last 15 years, "Stubbornness runs in your dumbass family."
 
---

He doesn't actually live here.

Cade has a different apartment far away from the nut cases of daily life he usually frequents.
It's got everything he likes, and yeah maybe it looks like a trashy bachelor pad but he likes that.
He's running out of years to justify living like that, but he still feels too old to be the kind of guy who has filtered water in his fridge.

His place with the Black Dogs only has the bare essentials.
Bare essentials meaning the most annoying pair of underwear he left here because they're nylon and the good and faithful Xbox which he feels a little funny about having.

And a plant he's managed to kill again.
He gives the withered thing water, but it really seems like he's torturing it. A better person would just put it out of its misery, but Cade wants to be the kind of person who has a plant.
Mature, in control people have plants that are alive in their homes. Self help books on their coffee tables too, but baby steps (and if you asked Cade he'd tell you he doesn't believe anyone actually reads and he can put a book out just as easily as anyone else).

The Dog leaves the stifling quiet of his not-apartment because, yes, he's not Kaden's pet and he can in fact leave his room.

And apparently Damien can too.

Cade will admit it; he thought the whole thing was kinda funny.
The dopey dude actually was falling for the man made of ice. To a certain amount, Cade gets that. There's a refreshing honestly to Kade you're not going to get anywhere else, which is partly the reason Cade hated Damien so much.
That sappy, goody-goody act... Man, he's got zero patience for that shit. It sets him on edge like nothing else.

But Finch is nuts.

And Damien honestly was as stupid as he looked for looking at that and deciding he wanted a slice.
He's lucky he got away, and Cade and everyone else is better off for it.
Kaden's regrowing his nerve. Cade's heard how he fucked up Ash and his girlfriend. It sucks he missed it, but still.

That's the guy he knows and loves. That's the fucking Butcher.
Bad ass and cold blooded.

The storage room is filled with what looks like pallets of quick dry cement.
A tear in one shows packages shiny with how many layers of plastic wrap they're done up in.

"You tested this to make sure it's adequate?" Kaden asks, lifting a package.
Tweets nods and gestures to the line of poor bastards on their knees with their hands interlocked behind their head.

Cade's been out of the game. He tried to run with the pack a few days ago and got chewed out for it.
Other people are fighting and dying, but Cade gets stabbed once and suddenly he's damaged goods.
Realistically, people just don't want Cade rocking the boat when they're already in a fucking hurricane. Cade's not stupid; Kaden's been weird since Delilah left. He'll get over Damien leaving, but if Cade breaks a nail he'll apparently lose his mind.

It's fucking embarrassing for both of them.

Kaden marches down the line, watching like a snake for the tell tale squirms of fear and submission.
All of them are scared shitless, none of them can look at him. Cade politely watches from the sidelines.
It's as good as he can manage for now. One toe in the water.

Tweets is good with a clip board, and coffee which makes him good for keeping track of the spoils of war.
He's not terrible at the occasional violent side of the job, but it's like if you had to choose between hammering a nail in with a sledge hammer or a kitchen spoon. Which one's going to do the best job?
The one brave choice he's made is not wearing the turtle neck he's known for. The plain ass black, grey, or, if he's feeling particularly adventurous, dark green turtle neck.
The V cut shows the scars in Tweets neck. They look like gills.
He slips out the door, not far. Just so he doesn't have to watch.

"You no longer work for the clan, you work for me." Finch stops at the knees of a pale looking ginger.
Most of their runners are kids with no future who want nice cars. As long as they don't use their stash, the relationship works out pretty well. Like one of those little birds cleaning out the mouth of a crocodile.
Most people think it's dangerous as shit, but as long as you're not stupid it's surprisingly easy and lucrative work.

"You will keep your posts and your clienteles. The only difference is the supply comes from me." Finch's voice is crisp and cold. Somehow he's able to throw his voice without actually yelling.
"Understand?"

There's a quiet murmuring of agreement that bubbles from the line.
A shaky hand raises.

"Yes?" Finch allows.

"Uhh... What if- uh, we wanna quit? I mean- shit's kinda got real." She chuckles nervously, glancing at her comrades for understanding before abruptly stopping when none of them share so much as a smile.

That's not completely unreasonable. The crocodiles haven't eaten any birds, but they sure fucked up the lion pride at the watering hole.
Cade would wanna fly away to greener pastures too.

Kaden's shoes clip along the floor as he leisurely approaches the outspoken kid.
He doesn't so much as pause before whipping the gun down her face. That's apparently not enough, so Finch gives her two more.

Cade crosses his arms.

Finch has always been a, 'hands rated E for everyone type'.
He's gotta make an example out of someone, but it sucks that it's a cute red head who asked a stupid question. It's like kicking a puppy.
There's no glory in it.

Cade has to think NV would be the same way. Except, maybe he would find it less stimulating than anything else. He saved Cade for a reason, but damn if he can figure it out for himself.

The Dog feels at the tender hole in his gut and presses on it just enough to feel.
No one knows he was rescued like a princess but Kaden. Thankfully he's been too busy to interrogate Cade for the specifics, but the Dog knows his boss is pissed about the lack of honesty either way.

Whatever. Let him be pissed.

The pain blooms into a gentle ache in his side and Cade can't help but think of hands putting him together as easily as they take him apart.

A week from now.

That's when they're supposed to meet again.

In a hotel room with a single bed. The same place Cade was humiliated in for a second time by the same fucker.

It's no wonder he can't keep a plant alive.
 
---
Cade doesn't know what he's doing here.

Sitting in a parked car is sending electric jolts down his spine straight from his live wire brain down to his toes.
He bites at his dry lip, scraping some dead skin away. It makes him antsy, sitting here.

Even though it's a great neighborhood.
Maybe that's part of it. He wasn't raised here, not really.
It's not a prompous gated community, but it's not low living either. Far from it.
Every house has Christmas lights up. It's not even five and they're on, glimmering and rocketing up the electric bill and drowning everything in a wash of green and red.

The bus arrives and Cade only recognizes Oliver from the stupid sack monkey hat he's wearing.
Why do goofy kids do that? Do they want to be alienated from the rest of the human race? You're not special, you're just stupider than everyone else because you think you're special. Maybe that is being special, what does Cade know.

A text interrupts his thoughts and the deja Vu of it all sends jitters down Cade's back.

Where are you?

Perfect grammar. It's Kaden.

out

Cade sends back. He's coming back. It'll take some time, but with Damien gone he'll come back.
And if Cade can't do shit but organize agendas with Tweets than he doesn't wanna be there. He's restless waiting, being useless.

Cade types out, 'I'm being careful', before backspacing. He deadens the screen and pockets the phone.

Cade prepares to put the keys back in the ignition when Oliver's buddies follow up behind him.
It's good he has that, it's a miracle he has that.

This isn't a movie, the traumatic life threatening event that happened a week ago is just another one added to the shit pile of Cade's life. He hasn't been changed by it.
At least, not in the self reforming way.

He just wanted to see the kid.

There's no way Oliver would've know he was dead if that's how the night ended.
This is exactly what the kid would be doing, either way.
Going home to hang with his buddies. Being a kid.

But this way Cade gets to see it. Just one moment, that's all he needs. Then he never has to see the kid again.
He can be dead to him.

The bigger boy shoves Oliver into the snow bank.
The little one jumps on him to shove handfuls of powder into his face.

The Dog shoves his car door open.
He's across the street in seconds. Moments from grabbing a snot nosed little shit he has to remind himself these are children.

"Hey!" He barks and the brats freeze. They scatter, stumbling away from Oliver who's basically buried in an avalanche.

"Is that your dad?" The tubby one demands, and hides behind his smaller accomplice.

Cade buries a hand into the snow, finds a backpack and drags the shivering little fuck-up to his feet. He's pink faced, eyelashes weighted down with snow.

"No one likes you and you're a burden and a disappointment to your friends and family," Cade spits to children who aren't half his age. Physically, anyway. Mentally, an argument could be made.

"Scram, before I fuck your mothers and become everyone's stupid dad."

The brats scatter. They're old enough to know the Boogeyman isn't real, but young enough to not be completely 100% sure he isn't real.

Cade huffs. Oliver looks up at him with big, dewy eyes that would fit on a baby rabbit. In a way that must be to get sympathy because no one's that sad, Oliver scoops some half melted snow off his rosey red cheek with the back of his hand.

"What're you doing here?" The kid asks, turning away to kick through the powder.
Looking for something he lost, probably.

That's a good question. Cade wished he had a good answer.
"Do those boys give you a lotta trouble?" He asks instead. The last one has hurried into his rich home, tail between his legs.
Cade glares at the fat house instead.

Oliver shrugs. "I dunno. A little. Sometimes."

Yes, a lot, all the time. Cade was a kid once too. It was a long ass time ago, but he was.
The Dog sighs to himself, arms crossed.
Showing up once doesn't make him a hero, and he's not trying to be. He's got no stake in this kid, and Oliver knows it.

"Lemme walk you home." That's the least he can do.

Oliver hangs his head, looking tiny and pathetic.
"Can't."

Cade frowns. Matilda doesn't hate him enough to keep him from her precious house where the rugs can't be walked on and the designer seats can't be sat on.
"Can't? Whaddya mean, 'can't'?"

Oliver points to the snow. "I dropped the house keys."

Cade turns to the mountain of powder, mussed and mixed into lumpy chaos.
Right. Okay, that's typical.

Cade bites off another piece of dead skin.
"You hungry?"
 
---

The metal pen does a fingerpass in Neil's grip as he twirls it around absentmindedly. It's the only bit of stimulation the hitman is allowed at the moment, seated in an annoyingly expensive chair - one of those fancy-looking ones that dig into your back. The type that people put in their offices for visitors to sit down in to make them purposefully uncomfortable in a bid to immediately assert dominance over a social situation. MacDarragh can relate to the desire.

Well, less so when he's the one on the receiving end of this... "subtle intimidation play".

The pen spins around his thumb matching the annoyed roll of his eyes - he doesn't want to be here. He should be out instead, looking for a frightened little ex-cop that's managed to hide himself away somewhere. Again. Moore protected the kid the first time, but now the old idiot is out of the picture and the thought of letting Blumenthal slip through his fingers one more time makes Neil grind his teeth. This shouldn't be this difficult, yet for the entire week that the captain has had the Montesano residence under surveillance, Damien has not shown up. He hasn't been to the sad coffin of an apartment he apparently calls home either, and there's nothing there to serve as a real lead anyway.

This investigation has been fun for what it is, but MacDarragh is starting to run out of patience. That was his downfall, really - wanting to move things along he tried to arrange for Natalia to be threatened with suspension over her missing parolee. You know, light a fire under her ass to hopefully smoke Damien out, only for her boss to rat him out to his bosses. Shouldn't have relied on crooked cops. He won't be making that mistake again.

The pen offers a good counterweight to his vexing thoughts. Wonder how long he can keep doing tricks instead of paying attention to the "stern talking-to" he's in the process of receiving... The pen has no right being this well-balanced considering the shitty hotel visitor's desk Wolf ripped it off of.

Yeah, that's a pleasant memory to hold onto-

"Are you listening?" a refined voice puts an end to his musings before they can even begin, calling out to him with the type of intonation that doesn't need to be raised in order to sound strict. It's one of the most grating sounds the hitman has ever had the displeasure of hearing. The figure it belongs to shifts as she leans her elbows onto the wooden surface of the desk - solid ebony, "No, of course you aren't... I'll ask only once more - have you forgotten your place?"

Neil stops playing with the pen to grip it in his hand, fist clenching around the metal warm with his body heat.

The casual smile he directs at the woman doesn't match his words, "I haven't, but I think you might be."

She's not even on the opposite side of the desk, leering at Neil - Vivien is seated in the same art-piece parading as a chair beside him, feeling the same sharp corners digging into her back. Yet she still finds it in herself to crane her neck to look down on the man.

There's a barely noticeable twitch in her eye before her expression settles into its usual impassive state, "You'll be wise to remember who employs you."

MacDarragh can't help but laugh. She isn't the one employing him, at least not the only one - because this a sophisticated, new age criminal empire, with a board of directors and everything. A bunch of sheep sat in a meeting room bleating at each other all day on how to run a thing none of them has been on the ground floor of. It's all statistics and business. And this woman thinks herself a wolf amongst this flock, even though she still offers the main chair in her own office to someone else. To the actual wolf.

Out of the corner of his eye, Neil eyes the figure at the head of the desk - the man has been awfully quiet since the two started bickering (well, Viv did), turning away and languidly leaning back into the soft leather to gaze out at the view the high rise building offers of the snow-covered New York. People look like ants from up here.

"And to remember who allows you your frivolities," the woman just isn't letting up, brown eyes relentlessly piercing into MacDarragh, "But you've been acting out of turn even more than usual recently. First, you miss your mark."

At that, the hitman genuinely glares at her, scowling.

"Then you request a clean up for a pair of Nakurra no one told you to get rid of. Now, I call your work, and I'm told Captain MacDarragh is not in. I call again the next day and it's the same... Are you ever in your office? Because if not, I see no point keeping you in that position."

Fucking Lonie. They just had to say he wasn't in instead of saying he was busy, didn't they... People have their uses, yet Neil's opinion is once more reaffirmed - one can only truly rely on themselves.

"You think yourself indispensable," Vivien lifts up her chin, somehow looking even more snobbish than usual. It's a talent, honestly, "You are not. You are not the only pawn we have on the force."

Quiet settles over the large office, green eyes locked in a stare-off against a set of dark brown.

Neil is the first one to speak, yet not in capitulation. He just can't stand much more of Viv's bullshit, "Are you done?"

Apparently, she isn't, "Behave yourself. We're going to have need of MacDarragh a week from now."

A week? Not happening. Neil already has plans, important ones that don't fit with what the High-Rise has in mind. It's not like he doesn't know - there have been talks about their next move for some time now, spearheaded by Viviene herself. She's been making a lot of important decisions lately trying to prove herself capable of leadership, and her mentor has been saying nothing about her attempts. Hell, he actively encourages his protege.

"No. A week and a half," MacDarragh leans back, fidgeting with the pen again, "Otherwise you can use one of the many pawns you have on the force. I would love to see how that works out for you."

Vivien inhales in indignation, straightening out her posture to tower over him, "If you really think I won't-"

"A week and a half," a gentle, strained voice cuts through their conversation, and both heads instantly turn to face the man at the head of the desk, still turned around in his chair. A flash of surprise goes through Viv's system before she nods, not giving any opposition. Like a dog told to sit by its master. Neil shows her what feels like one of his most shit-eating grins. That gets spoiled immediately by the words the voice utters next, "And you will behave. Three strikes... Consider this a slap on the wrist."

Now it's MacDarragh's turn to feel like a chastised animal. When he nods in the same fashion the woman had, his stomach churns.

Tail between his legs, Neil rises up to take his leave with another respectful bow in the man's direction. Vivien's hand is to her mouth, trying to hide a smile, though it's obvious she isn't trying very hard. MacDarragh imagines the metal pen's tip digging into her neck. Almost sensing his intentions, the two large cane corso at her feet shift to look at him and one of the canines growls. He smirks down at it. A dog's undying loyalty is admirable, if pathetic.

"Jедног од ових дана, кучко," the hitman says his farewells, heading for the door.

Left to his own devices in the long hallways of the building, Neil's thoughts turn to what he had been so rudely interrupted from pondering earlier - his date with Wolf, the one he'd been invited to. And all it had taken was a drink, a beating, and closing up a stab wound. MacDarragh would love to say it usually takes more to bag someone, but this is actually a lot of effort on his end. He doesn't go around nursing random people, but potentially he should do it more often - it'd been surprisingly fun. No, Wolf had made it fun. Who knows, maybe he'll have to stitch him back together again.

Same room, same time. Only one week left.

It's a pleasant thing to look forward to, regardless of what their meeting devolves into.

Then he remembers the gangster's boss walking into the hotel and the pleasant smile dawning on him twists into something definitively not that.

Neil huffs, rubbing at his hair. This might be the last chance he has to meet Wolf on equal footing and it has to be soured by that fact... The matter will get settled one way or another a week from now.

In the meantime, he's going to go have a chat with Lonie about what they tell people calling his office.
 
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---

Finch is a wet puddle on the hard floor, gasping away. He's a goldfish that's left it's tank and he can't breathe here.

A woman is kissing him, letting a stream of cold water leak into his mouth.

He's desperate to ask where she's been, but he chokes instead. The water keeps coming. He feels heavy.

"Get up, we have work to do."

He does.

He follows her to the door and leaves Damien behind.

The door opens to a grandiose dining hall. One wall is dotted with pane glass window, floor to ceiling.

From far off he recognizes the king squid sitting on the ridiculously too tiny chair. It's massive tentacle grabs at a tiny cigarette. Once lit it disappears under the mound of writhing flesh. A small plume of smoke filters out.

A little red animal missing half it's face is clutched in one of its tentacles. Rather than bite to be free, it lavishes the goo-y limb with kisses and licks. It chokes on the surplus of sticky fluid, foaming at the mouth. Drowning.

It licks again anyway.

"Delilah -" Finch warns, reaching out for the woman in front of him who is Delilah.

"I need help."

"That's what I'm here for," she says, blanketing him in a world of comfort.

The Boss Dog leans into her enormous sniper rifle, testing her finger on the trigger.

He sits beside her on the dirty carpet floor, crosslegged.

"Was I enough?" He asks, now that they're together again. Kaden finds her shoulder, and dark bristling fur rolls over his skin at the touch.

Delilah pants into the scope, fogging up the glass.

When she's had her blood she wraps her still wet teeth around his neck.

Kaden goes limp.

The big black dog takes him somewhere dark and quiet where life is small and she is all there is.

Kaden won't choke on her fur grooming her. She'll groom him. Like a cat she'll vomit a hairball from the intensity of her affection.

It will add to the lining of the nest.

"You were too much."

----

Finch has rarely, if ever woken up in a cold sweat screaming.

He's quiet in his waking life, he's quiet in his dormant one.

He peels his crusty eyes open, tediously. His mouth tastes bad and things that didn't hurt yesterday make themselves known now.

They're usually never that awful. He doesn't have nightmares, he has dreams of what he wants.

What he wishes would happen. And then they never ever happen.

If he's lucky he remembers them. Remembers them so the achy feeling of loss in his chest has an origin point.
If not he spends the day as if he's misplaced something, caught in the echo of the love that remains.

Sometimes it can take him as long as ten minutes to realize something wasn't real.

Delilah didn't come back.

Everything looks good on the surface, but it's rotten on the inside.
He beheaded the Nakurra snake, to the detriment to himself and his gang.
Damien is gone and Cade won't speak to him.

Finch takes the duvet and pulls it over his head.

The darkness swaddles him like a big black animal.

He clenches the sheets in his hand, blanching his knuckles white.

He hates her.

----

With trembling fingers Kaden feels for the lump in the fat of his thigh.
Now he doesn't feel it, but he had before. He's positive he had.
The capo presses the knife to his leg, creating a dip. He's always loved his legs, and that registers into some distant sadness and regret when the tip breaches the pretty canvas of pale creamy skin.
Grimacing with teeth buried deep into his sleeve, he carves a red shaking slice into himself. It's odd how many times he's done something similar to other people. It's deceiving the smoothness a sharp knife can make through flesh.
This doesn't feel smooth. It's teeth in his body, tearing through him.
It's white hot teeth.

The blade clatters to the bathroom tile.

Finch buries his face into his sleeve to shake, to catch his breath.
It's relieving to hurt somewhere else. It's grounding to have some purpose to follow.
It's pain, but it's so much better than the alternative.

A finger parts the cut, dipping into the crevice.
Finch's scream is muffled in his elbow. It turns into a miserable hiccup as the torture lessens.

There's nothing there. Not that he can feel.

Maybe there never was.

Outside Pawl mewls, scratching at the door.
Her little paw finds it's way between door and floor, and it's all she can do to get to him.
 
---

Damien's eyes are already open before he wakes up. The only thing to differentiate him from a corpse is the occasional slow blinking, facing up at the ceiling - the sight of the drywall is new and at the same time painfully familiar. The man hasn't had a morning in a place to call his own in 15 years, but this might be the worst out of all of them. The ex-convict's skull is pounding with a dull headache, trails of something long-dry on his face. If he licks his lips, he knows he'll taste salt.

Damien's head falls to the side, staring out at the room - his old life stares back at him from the cardboard boxes it's been forgotten in. His old-old life.

How did he end up here?

--- (some days ago, middle of the night) ---

"You can't be serious." "You can't be serious!"

"Oh, I'm extremely serious," Natalia speaks through clenched teeth at the two siblings exclaiming in unison, the same shocked expression in both sets of grey eyes, "You're staying here, Damien."

Here being the man's childhood home, the one Eleonora has apparently been occupying for the last few years. Did their parents give it to her after their divorce or did they make her buy it from them? This ridiculously expensive brownstone townhouse meant to make the family appear upper-middle class - a home to brag about rather than live in.

It's not safe for Damien to return to his apartment if MacDarragh recognized him, and as much as he's always welcome at the Montesanos... Natalia wants to be alone with her family, especially after what he told her. The ex-cop realizes all this, yet glancing at his sister out of the corner of his eye, he goes to uselessly argue with Natalia once more. The woman simply puts up a finger in the air, signaling for him to shut the fuck up. Her words and gesture broker no argument.

"I am this close," her smile in the ex-cop's direction is strained, extending her thumb next to her pointer finger to show just how little patience she has left - the two nearly touch. She's not to be tested, not right now. The handcuffs at the sergeant's belt glisten in the artificial light as she walks towards the front door, ignoring the sibling's shared discomfort, "We'll keep in touch, so listen to your phones. Good night, to both of you."

And just like that, Natalia leaves.

In the woman's absence, the room is... awkward, devoid of any meaningful sound. Damien frowns and glances at his sister - she's in her pajamas. Nat woke her up in the wee hours of the morning to explain some very unpleasant things, which she took suspiciously well. Nevertheless, her expression looks tired, framed by the tangled mess of curls that is her hair, like when she was little - does she straighten it out every morning?

Feeling Damien's stare on her skin, Eli tenses, rubbing at her shoulder. Briefly meeting his eyes the woman grimaces, before relenting with a sigh, "... You can stay in your old room."

The ex-convict's jaw nearly drops to the floor. He expected to be thrown out some minutes from now, once his sister was sure Montesano had truly left, but instead she... allows him to stay. Suppose even if the woman hates her brother, she respects the sergeant. When did that happen? When did the two become friends? At a loss for words, Damien can do nothing but nod dumbly at her generosity, as forced as it might be.

The way is familiar, even after all this time - up the stairs and to the left. There are things along the way he doesn't remember, however - new bookshelves, plants on corner tables. All sprinkled over with holiday decorations Eli has apparently found the time to put up. It's... cozy. While the architecture is the same, the home is distinctly different - the house Damien wanted nothing more than to run away from has become Eleonora's home. There are photos hanging from the walls, candid moments of life in the city - did she take these?

The third to last step to the second-floor landing creaks under his weight and Damien nearly jumps out of his skin. He feels like a ghost gliding through this place. Or maybe a poltergeist, disturbing something he shouldn't be allowed to touch by the laws of nature. The door handle feels bone-cold in his hand. Are the hinges rusted over from disuse? Will it creak open with a wail, sending a puff of decade-old dust into the air? No. It's unnerving, the ease with which the man gains entrance to his old room.

Much like the rest of the building, it's both changed and unchanged. This place that used to be a stop on the bragging tour his parents would give to house guests for their son's awards display has now been turned into a storage. Fitting. The bedroom is crowded with cardboard boxes, blocking his way forward.

Maybe it's a morbid curiosity that makes him reach into one of them, to take a peek inside. Like rifling through the belongings of someone long dead. In many ways, that's exactly what he is. It's just his luck to stumble upon his mother's photo albums of all things... It's easy to tell who took the photographs - in them his family is posed in a specific way, arranged to look their best while smiling, but not with their eyes. Mannequins. The ex-cop doesn't know why he keeps rifling through these books. Maybe he's just on autopilot, finding something to busy his hands with. A photo tumbles out of one of the albums and his hand reaches out to pick it up. Strange. His mother wouldn't leave anything loose like this.

That's cause it's not one of her photos. It's Damien and Michael. Neither of them is posed. Neither of them is even looking at the camera, unaware of its presence. Eli must have taken it, the sneaky shit. The shot is amateurish, capturing the two boys in profile at a lower angle walking side by side. They are carrying backpacks, coming home from school as they walk next to a street mural - the two can't be much older than 16. Mike is in the process of saying something undoubtedly stupid and unfunny, and his best friend is dumbly laughing at his side, eyes half-closed mid-laugh.

The image blurs in his vision.

Of all things, this is the tipping point, huh? A fucking photo.

Damien doubles over on the floor, biting down on his hand as hard as he can. No, he can't break. He won't let himself.

There's wetness running down his cheeks as his body betrays him, even after he draws blood. The copper mixes in his mouth with salt and it feels like he's going to throw up. His teeth give way with a gasp, yet what gets torn from his throat is not bile. It's a shriek, a pathetic sound he feels more so than hears. It's the last inhale he takes. He can't breathe, can't move, ripping at the seams. He tries to imagine a hand on his shoulder holding him together, yet the sensation is hollow, making things even more painful.

Mike is gone, Nat has her family to take care of. And Damien will never see Kaden again.

He's alone. The shell of a man is just a sad lump keeled over, shivering on the floor.

---

The headache is not abating, sending pulsing waves of pain through Damien's skull while he lies in bed. His nose is stuffy and the corners of his eyes tingle, even when he thinks they are surely fully spent.

He has to pick himself back up again, he has to. There's no other choice. But it gets so fucking exhausting having to do it over and over again, all on his own. He feels like dying. He should be dead-

There's a knock, "Are you done wallowing in self-pity yet?"
 
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---

A hospital is a very special kind of unpleasant, annoyingly bright and sterile, though the underlying stink of various bodily fluids somehow always manages to sneak through the disinfectant doing its best to mask it. Nowhere is that more true than in a ward like neurosurgery, even if it is miles better than the ICU where the boy was kept previously. Conley is the sole patient in the room, laid out in bed with medical tubings and wires hanging off of him. The monitor electrodes are hooked up to subtly changes every second or so, giving live readings of his vitals. He's teetering somewhere between a serious and fair condition, leaning more towards the latter. That'd be good if only he'd open his eyes. Well, at least he's not pushing up daisies anymore.

"He's in a medically induced coma," Neil supplies in a quiet voice, leaning towards the person at his side, "Don't know how long the doctors will have him under. Could be days, could be weeks."

"Either way, the worst of it is behind us. There's a good chance he'll wake up... The question is in what state."

There is a sob next to him, muffled by a palm just a bit too late.

Neil takes in a long breath in what could be perceived as anxiety, "The injury wasn't fatal, but it hit some important structures. He might be vegetative for life."

MacDarragh saw the CT scan - the bullet made a nice pathway through the side of the frontal bone, digging into the brain matter of the young's left hemisphere, but it never existed. No, it nestled itself halfway there, appearing like a radiant white sun on the tomography. Not all headshots are made equal. Their outcome depends on the caliber, velocity, distance, angle, etc. You gotta be precise with it, deliberate, especially if you're using a handgun. What was done to Conley is more or less a hack job. One that left him alive, mostly.

"Even if he isn't, there's probably going to be lasting neurological complications," another quiet sob punctuates the pause between his sentences, "Of course, he'll be put through physiotherapy. Fingers crossed that helps."

There is a tiny chance Dan could make a full recovery, of course, it's not entirely unheard of. Yet, Neil isn't here to comfort anyone with ridiculously optimistic predictions. At this point, Lonie is weeping openly beside him. MacDarragh's eyebrows furrow.

"Sorry, I'm being too graphic, aren't I?" he extends an arm to wrap around their shoulders, almost paternally, "I just... I thought you should know everything. You and Dan got hired on around the same time, didn't you?"

Lonie can't answer at the moment, trembling with emotion, and they don't need to. The captain knows this to be fact. Neil squeezes them closer into the half-hug, "Everything will be fine, I promise... I'll let you have a moment alone. Take your time. I'll wait for you outside."

---

"Feeling better?"

Lonie blows their nose into yet another tissue. They've stopped crying, but that mixed with the cold weather has their sinuses acting up. The lidded cup of hot chocolate (warm chocolate at this point, really) clutched in their hands should help, "Yes, thank you."

Neil gives them a smile, eyes focusing back on the road while he drives the two back from the impromptu hospital visit he coerced his assistant into coming along for. They were maybe the last person in the precinct not to have visited Conley since the accident.

"Sorry about making you go through that," Neil starts, smiling slightly, "But I like to think Dan would appreciate you coming to see him."

Lonie stares at the man for several long moments, completely silent, before nodding. MacDarragh taps his finger on the wheel of the cruiser.

A good 5 minutes or so pass with no conversation before the captain allows himself to speak again, "While we're here, actually, I wanted to talk to you about something else. I hear some people have been calling in trying to reach me. I'd appreciate it if from now on you told them I was unavailable instead of outright not there. You know I'm out doing patrols, I don't like being stuck behind a desk, and this type of thing could get me reprimanded. You get what I'm saying?"

Lonie doesn't design that with an answer either. Another tap. The man glances at them out of the corner of his eyes. When they do finally reply, their voice is small, timid, "Captain... Neil, there's been... a lot happening. Constantly. Things down at the station are... just... chaos."

"... And I've been trying to keep everything organized and coordinate movements, but with you not being there someone has to take over your administrative duties as well, and, frankly, that's not part of my job description!"

Somewhere in all that Lonie had found it in themselves to raise their tone, which they realize only in hindsight. Turning to apologize to their boss, he is fast to stop them. "No, I understand," Neil responds in a sing-song voice, waving his hand dismissively, "Sorry for making you do so much. That was wrong of me."

Lonie bites down on their lip, still slightly flustered over their reaction, though they take Neil's acceptance readily. It is true that they've been shouldering too much recently, and if their boss gets it, then good.

"Hey," MacDarragh addresses them again, grinning to himself, "Did you know that about 30 people drown in the Hudson every year?"

"... No, I didn't," the police assistant quirks an eyebrow at such a random and morbid thing to bring up out of nowhere.

"Mhm, and about the same number in pools. Anyway, you weren't with us yet, but some years back a guy jumped off the Staten ferry. He washed up after two months in Brooklyn."

"A lot of it is secretly homicides, mind you," Neil keeps on explaining, ignoring whatever discomfort might be dawning on his passenger, "With what's happening in the city right now... we're bound to start finding bodies in the water."
 
----

Cade stares hard at the steamy mirror and the shadow that's built along his chin.
More than once, the Dog picks up his razor just to set it down again.

"I don't need to shave for this," he tells himself, and glares to put his twin in submission.
Obviously, the reflection glares back in open defiance.

"I'm not shaving. I showered, I don't need to shave."

The gangster leaves the bathroom, only to return. The buzzing of the mechanical razor sounding out.

---

Fortunately, the old fucker from two weeks ago wasn't at the counter this time.

Cade would have taken one look at him and turned right around.
Maybe that's what he should have done. A normal person wouldn't have gotten as far as the parking lot.

The Dog rubs his face, running up over his head to scrub at the quills of hair he hasn't shaved.
If he wants to grow it out again, he's going to have to pass through the awkward lesbian Butch haircut phase.

The Dog pulls down his backpack where it's been hanging off one shoulder, unzipping it to dig inside.
Soft rope brushes against his fingers, alongside the heavy handle of some serious weaponry.
Cade takes it halfway out, pressing down the button at the side. The metal prongs light up blue, zapping away and making the taser buzz in his hand.

The Dog let's it drop to the bottom of his bag, resting his head back against the cold elevator wall. There's other stuff in there too, stuff Cade threw in there and then did his best to forget about.
Rope and nasty shit is weird, but it's his kind of weird and it's not completely outside the boundaries of whatever...this is.
The other stuff Cade is refusing to acknowledge is in the bag? That's harder to explain.
"What the fuck are you doing..?"

He has no idea. He could spend a week in a shrink's office and still not grasp the depth of what's wrong with him.
This has got to be a symptom of an overall problem. He's not giving this fucking weirdo the honor of saying he's the one that's made Cade insane.
He was fucked in the head way before NV.
NV is just some weird catalyst that's bringing the worst out of him. Dynamite meet match, kind of thing.

Cade bangs his head back, just enough to feel it and let some frustration out.

Damn, does he ever hope this really is a psychological defect thing and not a weird sex thing.
He can handle being broken in an edgy, take some pills kind of way.
The other... Well. How the hell do you fix something like that?

Cade grounds himself with a professional sounding yoga exhale as the elevator stops at his floor.
Either he kicks NV's ass and that's all he needs, or NV kills him and suddenly none of it is Cade's problem anymore.

Basically, he can't lose. Sorta.

The Dog punches a fist into the elevator door before he leaves, dinting the metal.
It pours a thrill into him, swirling with the jitters to make a potent mix.
It pushes him down the hallway, to the door.

On the floor you can still see the smudgy spots where Cade leaked biohazard everywhere.
Fuck.

They actually replaced the door Kaden knocked down already. It's a subtle brighter shade than every other door.
Are they going to say 'hi' before they just go into it?
Should he knock or try and have some element of surprise?

Cade grits his teeth and slides his key in.
He's not fucking knocking.
 
---

The door is a little off color.

That's the first sign that it's a different door altogether. The slightly chipped wooden frame set into the wall is the second - that part's harder to replace. The old door was kicked in, from the outside.

Neil grins and it's a sardonic expression.

He unlocks this off color door, stepping inside the empty hotel room. The hitman arrived here early. As a matter of fact, he is fresh off of work - the police kind. Ever since his nice little chat with his employers, MacDarragh has been... "behaving". Meaning the last days have been spent pulling late hours, pouring over useless documents, and sitting stuck behind a desk organizing someone else's machinations. All the while his phone remains quiet.

To put it simply, it's been a drag.

This meeting was that thing at the end of the week a working man like MacDarragh can look forward to. Now a slightly off color door threatens to spoil the fun. Neil puts on his usual smile. He won't let it ruin the mood - he's above that type of shit.

Turning on the lights, the hitman gets to the actual reason he arrived early - preparing the room. A duffel bag, similar to the one he had before, clatters when he puts it down on the floor. His belt - gun and all - gets put away inside, and in return he takes out a change of clothes as well as two tactical folding knives - they go underneath the mattress on either side. Several other things get deposited in the fridge, while the pliers and rope he leaves untouched for the moment, sliding the bag under the bed with his foot once he's done.

Neil checks the time - he's right on schedule. Wolf shouldn't be arriving for a hot second, the policeman can afford to take a proper shower.

---

MacDarragh rubs at his wet hair with one of the hotel towels. Donning a civilian outfit, he's refreshed himself. He even had the time to walk around the room fixing up crooked wall art and smoothing down the bedspread. That last part was ultimately pointless, given how he's sitting on it currently, but he had to find a way to keep himself busy.

It was a mistake to get here early. Neil's been waiting for what seems like hours - it's maybe 20 minutes tops, but it feels longer and that's what matters. He's just been waiting - for someone with so little patience he puts himself in such positions way too often - perched on the edge of the bed and seething in a growing frustration.

He eyes the slightly off color door.

Neil rolls his shoulders. He doesn't fuck with getting frustrated, it's not his style. Life is about selfish enjoyment and experiencing as many of its bountiful pleasures as you can, to hell with what anyone else thinks. The last week has been a test of this lifestyle, what with Viv breathing down his neck and the High-Rise trying to leash him down.

Now on top of that he's getting riled up by some Mutt and the big scary boss he had to call to save him like some damsel in distress.

MacDarragh's shoulder blades crack with the movement. Wonder if the Butcher will be chaperoning their date too...

At last, the entrance clicks open, and a figure steps inside. Solitary, for now. Neil's stare is on Wolf in an instant and the corners of his lips turn up at the same time he grinds his teeth. The hitman rises from his spot, putting his hands in his pockets - he doesn't have any weapons on his person, except for the metal pen his fingers feel for. There's an energy buzzing in his limbs, but MacDarragh stands in place.

"You look good," he throws out the compliment. The gangster isn't limping or clutching at his stomach. Seems like he's healed up properly for what they're about to do. The frustration keeps nagging at Neil, his grin becoming more and more unkind, "Where's your boss?"
 
Butterflies made of coal sizzle in Cade's stomach at the sight of the green eyed menace.

"Thanks, you too." He answers on impulse.
NV does look good, he does.

His smile is wrong. Cade knows all about them and he's learning how this guy uses them. This one's wrong.
How early did he arrive? How long as he been waiting?
"...I dunno," he says with a shrug. Cade lets the bag droop off his shoulder to the floor.
He won't feel good about using the stuff in there unless he puts the bastard on the floor using his hands.

"Working, I'd guess. It's all he does, guy's kinda a control freak."

All at once Cade realizes the psycho princess is mad at him again.
This time Cade isn't tied up. He can grab this man as much as he likes, if he dares to. He's standing there like Cade isn't a threat at all.
He looks smaller out of his uniform, less refined.

Cade draws a tongue over his back molars, looking at NV's hands which are tucked into his pockets. One has a scar made by his teeth.
"What, am I late?"
 
"No, you're right on time," Neil manages to get some cheeriness into his tone.

He inhales, holding his breath, humming thoughtfully while listening to the exceedingly casual and unsatisfying answer he receives. Wolf is playing dumb, there's no other explanation and the disrespect is particularly infuriating coming from this guy, who he believed he had some kind of unspoken understanding with. A familiar itch settles on the hitman's hand - the kind he gets when someone tries to look down on him. That's not a thing he tolerates, not from anyone.

MacDarragh squeezes and releases the pen in his pocket several times, like the world's worst stress toy, before deciding to leave it there for now. Taking his hands out, he moves to stalk toward the Black Dog, one long, languid stride at a time. As soon as he's within reach, his arms extend for Wolf's collar, pulling him in.

"The Butcher is the one that's late," MacDarragh muses, fists bunching up the man's clothes in their grip, "How long before he comes busting down the door this time?"

With one rapid movement, the hitman goes to try and push Wolf backward into said door, to remind him of it. See if he keeps talking so casually still. Yet, the gangster doesn't give. The neurons send a surge of adrenalin through MacDarragh's system - as pissed off as he is, his body recognizes this as good. This is the type of shit he wants and expects of the man. A fight.

What is unexpected, however, is when Wolf doesn't immediately go on the offensive. No, instead a hand slowly reaches up for Neil's face, palm open. His eyebrow twitches up. The gesture vaguely reminds him of the way Wolf had clasped his wrist when he'd asked him out to this meeting.

MacDarragh flinches. It sounds absurd, but he actually flinches at the distracting thought clashing with his irritation. Fuck. That's a mistake.
 
The nerves settle when the hitman reveals his hands, weapon free.
A different kind settles deep in Cade's stomach when those same hands grip along his collarbone. It surges when the guy pushes at Cade, and it's not nearly enough to unbalance him.
Maybe if he tried, maybe if Cade wasn't as worked up as he is. He remains a firm standing force.

The Dog grips the hands at his collar and - yes, they're tiny enough for Cade to nearly meet his fingers. Going for his face, slow like Cade's reaching for a baby animal changes the look in the hitman's eyes. It's subtle, but something shifts before he's jerking away.

Cade finds the dainty wrist he abandoned.
He slams the man into the door, pinning his hands above his head. Squeezing, Cade can feel the delicate bones of NV's bones grinding together.

"That's what's bothering you?" And NV doesn't honestly think this is a trap either. He wouldn't have come otherwise, no matter how crazy he is.

"Jeez, you're crazy. You have people you answer to, same as me. Even you gotta put up with shit you don't want to."

Sometimes that means being leashed.
Cade seriously doubts NV has a tracker somewhere in his jaw though.

Cade promised he was going to hurt this guy and he's going to deliver. The Dog goes to town.
The strike of his fist across NV's face is a special kind of satisfying. Up until now, they've never gotten that personal.

"I guess I disappointed you again, huh? But I never called him!" he spits, and that's as specific as he'd like to be about it.
In fact, he'd rather not think about it at all.

The gangster grabs the hair he'd meant to get ahold of before and, damn, it's as soft as it looks. It's like burying his hand into thick silk.
Slamming NV's head into the wall bounces him back into Cade's arms where he throws him to the ground.
And shoves a kick into his ribs. Not hard enough to break them, but he'll feel it tomorrow.

"He's a fucking asshole," Cade says, almost casually as he crawls onto the hitman's back before he can get away.
He loops his arm around the man's neck, careful to put his chin into the crook of his elbow. The guy's shoulders and back are a writhing mass of lithe muscle against Cade's chest as he squeezes.
He doesn't wanna knock him out, not yet, but NV is the kind of slippery eel you have to get ahold of before he gets a hold of you.
It feels... Well, it feels good to hold him. Two weeks ago, he couldn't do anything but take it. Now he can touch, bruise, squeeze. The hitman feels small like this, struggling underneath him.
Yeah, this is satisfying something in him. Once the fucker's in his place, it'll be business as usual in the dumbassery of Cade's brain.

"He plays hot and cold with me. Everytime I think we might be getting somewhere he flat lines on me."

Cade pulls back and forces NV's into an arc, just so he can feel the man's spine brush into his chest again.
"I'm not going to take those stupid mind games from you too. You got a problem with me, you tell me or we fucking fight it out until you're happy. Either way suits me fine."
 
Neil makes one mistake and Wolf takes full advantage of it. The gangster is relentless, working fast pummeling him before the still-dazed hitman finds himself landing on the carpeted floor arms-first. The Black Dog is on him in seconds and MacDarragh grunts, unable to scramble away.

So he is a man of his word after all. Last time they were here Wolf promised he'd hurt his then-savior. A lot. Is this a lot, though?

Wolf puts him in a rear chokehold but he's not actually choking him out yet. Neil's carotid arteries are still pumping blood to his brain unimpeded, chin nestled into the crook of the gangster's elbow. He didn't position it there himself - the Dog made sure he was holding him this way off the bat. The man moves with force, yet there is a subtle restraint to his actions. Enough for him to fucking talk while throwing MacDarragh around. This is the type of shit Neil would pull on someone, not the other way around.

Thoughts keep clashing in his mind and he detests the confusion - the way the gangster brawls is exhilarating and a part of him isn't bothered as much as it should be by being held like this, yet a louder, much more urgent part screams at the hitman to act. Lash out, dominate.

It's not fight-or-flight, it's something else. The outline of the metal pen shows through his pocket when Wolf arcs him back. Neil's arms are free. He can reach for it and this deeply ingrained instinct tells him he should - just take the damn thing and ram it so far into the gangster's ear that he'll die from his vagus nerve causing cardiac arrest before anything else.

You tell me or we fucking fight it out until you're happy.

MacDarragh goes stiff.

Suddenly, he bursts out laughing. It's a genuine sound that lingers in his voice long after he gets himself back under control, becoming a chuckle. Neil hasn't been mollified, not fully, but... really? This guy is just too much of a fucking riot. His head feels clearer. Turning slightly to peek at Wolf, MacDarragh grins.

"Either way suits you fine? How very kind of you," the hitman's arm does reach up and back for the Black Dog, but it's sans pen, with an open palm. It finds the side of the man's scalp and brushes along the bristles of his hair in a soft touch - they've gotten longer. The sensation is particularly pleasant. Neil's voice drops, "I'm happy if you didn't call him."

Wolf had sounded earnest when he claimed that. The question of how his busybody of a boss found the hotel still remains and Neil has some inklings, but he doesn't speak them for now.

"This is supposed to be just between you and me, Wolf," the gangster still has him in a chokehold kneeling on the floor, yet rather than struggle away from it MacDarragh leans fully into the headlock, back flush with the Dog's body. His arm retreats, "Fuck both our asshole bosses. But you were wrong about one thing - I don't put up with anyone's shit."

Neil tucks his chin further down, only to ram his head back into the gangster's face. That's payback for the punch. The hitman doesn't stop his inertia, pushing his entire weight onto the man until he is lying down on top of Wolf with him on the floor.

MacDarragh's arm sneaks between his throat and the Black Dog's forearm while he rams the elbow of his other one in the guy's abdomen several times, enough to feel the headlock loosen. The instant he is allowed any wriggling space, Neil moves to turn around while still being held by Wolf. If the two are going to wrestle, they're going to wrestle. Using his shoulders to break the hold is more feasible than the other way around, yet when he gets out MacDarragh simply dives back in.

Straddling Wolf, one of his legs hooks with the gangster's while both his arms hold onto either side of the forearm that'd been choking him, bending it ever so slightly. It's an Americana armlock. The Black Dog has muscle advantage over him, but the hitman knows how to tangle himself up with a person to make throwing him off as painful and difficult as possible. Almost like a constrictor snake.

Off to the side, Neil's eyes land on the backpack Wolf had let fall earlier, "What did you bring? For this talk-fight we're having."
 
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