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dawn-moths · 1 year

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“The Final Nail in the Coffin” (PART 2)

CHAPTER 7

Undertaker x Female Reader / Ron x Female Reader

word count: 13,000+

part 1 * part 2 * part 3 * part 4 * part 5 * part 6 * part 7

(Ron returns from hiding out in the Irish countryside and prepares to face the Black Reaper for the final time. You take matters into your own hands for once. With only a bullet to decide who loves you more, Ron and Undertaker settle things once and for all. In the end, a new deal is made. The only question you can ask yourself now is, was what you had to trade worth the final outcome?)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors DNI! a little bit of smut (overall this chapter is also pretty plot heavy), descriptions of violence, abusive/controlling behavior, daddy kink, jealousy, cheating, welcome to the big finale everyone.

*ao3 mirror*

***

Ireland’s rolling green hills had turned white with snow, dark cracks forming in the fields where some of it had melted to reveal the dark earth beneath.

Even in the winter, Ron’s home country was beautiful, the land looking like one endless expanse of black and white marble, the only indicator that it was finite being where the clear sky met the edge of the horizon.

He’d found his way back home on a local fishing boat, the kind Scotsman who’d agreed to take him the short distance to the Emerald Isle turning down Ron’s attempt to pay him for his trouble by having the young man help with some menial tasks while aboard instead.

A few hours later, when those mammoth cliffs cast shadows over the crashing waves and both men had to crane their necks to view the sky, Ron was stepping foot back in a place that he never thought he’d ever return to. As he waved goodbye to the generous fisherman and began on his way through the slush covered land in his scuffed up oxfords, a strange thought occurred to him…

Who was I before leaving this place?

What made me so desperate to go?

Ron had spent a long time wandering, only remembering he had to actually survive out here for a while once his stomach began to growl.

He fished out what little funds remained from the inside of his blazer pocket, (his suit looking less than professional at this point, but what did he care?) counted the coins and the crumpled bills, and then headed into the nearest pub.

For the duration of his first pint, Ron simply observed. He listened in on the grumbling conversations of the older, much more rugged patrons, choosing a target to rob by the time his second round was halfway down. But then, as he tipped the glass back and swallowed the final drops of his watered down beer, the outlook of Ron’s risky fortunes seemed to shift.

“… Need to hire some help ever since the last farmhand had to head back to Edinburgh. S’shame. H’was a good lad… Hard worker too,” One of the men muttered to the friend beside him, both of their steins only a few more gulps away from matching Ron’s.

“This time ‘o year, chances are few to none,” his companion remarked with a hint of a scoff. “Kids these days’re too delicate. They don’ want to work hard. I mean, why would they when they can get some comfy desk job for the same pay? Hell. Double what you can afford, I bet.”

Ron perked up, glancing over his shoulder to try and get a better look at the faces the conversation belonged to. They were older men, perhaps in their mid sixties, and despite the thinning hair and deep wrinkles etched into their rough, liver spotted skin, they were in decent shape, all things considered.

“I can barely afford my own wages,” groaned the man, who Ron was beginning to assume was the owner of the farm, the more he surveyed his attire— dirt smudged overalls and worn work boots, a tattered denim jacket fraying at the seams sagging over his slightly hunched back. “Just barely keepin’ the boat afloat after last year’s medical expenses. If I get pneumonia again I’ll probably be done for. My wife’d never forgive me for makin’ her a widow…”

The farmer’s friend clapped him on the shoulder, casting a look of sympathetic encouragement upon him. He was just about to open his mouth to speak, when a younger, much more chipper voice chimed in.

“Sorry to interrupt…” Ron began, putting on his most charming smile as he slid into the empty wooden stool across from the two older gentlemen. “But I couldn’t help but overhear you’re looking for a farmhand?”

The two men exchanged skeptical glances before looking back to Ron. Then the farmer admitted, “I am. But I won’t be able to pay very much.”

“You got lodgings at this farm of yours?” Ron asked next, one eyebrow quirking up as he shifted into a slightly more comfortable and relaxed position.

“Out in the barn,” the farmer half shrugged. “Though, this time ‘o year I’m afraid it’s not too cozy.”

“Is it livable?” Ron inquired, leaning in a little closer to them. “I mean, would I technically freeze to death if I slept out there or…?”

The farmer explained there were a couple of quilts and a small fire pit that could be lit, so yes, it was technically livable, even if it was by a low standard. Ron asked if there would be meals and the farmer gave him a similar answer. Yes, but don’t expect anything fancy.

“Well then,” Ron concluded, flashing one of those boyish, bright smiles he was so good at making look authentic. Though, the kind he liked to host around you actually were real. This time, it was merely a mask, a way to put his targets at ease to ensure he ended up with what he wanted. Just a simple skill of a once-retired-but-now-due-to-unfortunate-circumstances-presently-active con. “If that’s the case, consider me your new farmhand!”

The three of them sat huddled at that bar table for a little while longer, the buzzing warmth of the alcohol coursing through their systems beginning to dull a bit and then seeming to fizzle out entirely the moment they set foot back into the cold winter air, before Ron and the farmer— who’d introduced himself as Shamus— parted ways from the third member of the trio and headed towards the farm.

Ron was available to start work immediately, conveniently for the both of them.

So, as the first night back in his home country blanketed itself over the land, having everything in order to begin “work” early the next morning, Ron found himself wrapped up in the hand stitched quilts on the upper level of Shamus’s barn, the embers of the dying fire glowing from the iron coal stove a few feet away.

He lay there, curled into a ball, and wondered how long he’d have to play this part until he’d formed a good enough plan to return and face what he’d run from.

There was a brief moment where Ron figured he could just stay here, start a new life, and perhaps live long enough to die an old man like Shamus seemed so convinced was going to happen to him someday in the not so distant future.

He could lay down his gun, wipe the blood from the lenses of his glasses, and burn that stuffy suit he’d had to wear while working for Undertaker over the coals currently keeping him warm.

He could start a new life, if only he could let go of you.

And it was you— your sweet smile and angelic laughter and naive innocence to the true horrors that writhed below a shallow grave, clawing to get free and poison your fairy tale world— that pulled him back to reality.

Ron spent a majority of the night tossing and turning, cursing himself for casting his phone into the sea. Although it had been an extremely necessary precaution, he’d give almost anything right now to be able to hear your sweet little voice, even if it were through the trembling, anxious voicemails he’d never had the heart to delete.

He wanted to be able to reread your texts, at least, his heart fluttering every time you punctuated one of your messages with cute heart emojis or sparkles or stars.

He wanted to feel the warmth of your body on his again— under his again.

He wanted you to be his— only his— and for him to be yours.

He wanted Undertaker to pay for what he’d done, to suffer, to perish.

And he would make it so, whether with the echoing shot fired from a silver pistol or with his own two fists closed around the scar that the Black Reaper wore with pride like a piece of priceless jewelry around his pale neck.

Whatever the means, Ron was going to fight.

He wasn’t ever going to start a new life, not until you had the chance to start over with him.

Then, and only then, could you both wake up from this day-dream-turned-nightmare.

And after three weeks, six days, and nine hours since Ron had made up his mind curled up under those quilts— three weeks, six days, and nine hours shivering out in the cold and breaking his back with the workload of practically running Shamus’s entire farm on his own— he changed out of the oversized overalls and denim jacket that had been lent to him and back into the blazer and slacks that he’d arrived in.

He checked the ammo left in the gun he’d kept hidden under his pillow every night, never putting it past Undertaker to have him tracked down even out in the middle of nowhere, and reloaded the silver pistol.

Ron left in the night, disappearing like a ghost, the only trace left to prove he’d ever been there at all being a few strands of ginger hair still stuck to the lumpy pillow up on the second level of the barn, and by the following afternoon, he’d landed back in London.

***

The mattress dipped to cradle your spine, Undertaker’s looming shadow casting over from where you lay beneath him.

Things had been tense since Othello’s funeral.

Different.

Unfamiliar.

Not just in Undertaker, but also within you.

Undertaker had sensed this. He’d sniffed out your dissatisfaction with him like a prized hunting hound and sought to eradicate it, tear through the flesh and the bones, devour it down to its very soul.

And you, ever the obedient little prey, had bared your neck to him and smiled as he’d sunk his fangs into your trembling pulse.

The only difference between now and before was, when he told you he loved you afterwards, you didn’t believe him.

And when you told him you loved him back, it was a lie.

Still, you both had needs you couldn’t quite deny. Needs that, when tended to, at least helped you forget, even if only for as long as the act lasted.

“You’re still my princess, aren’t you?” Undertaker would ask in a whisper, his hands caressing the soft curves of your body, his lips leaving gentle kisses down the line of your throat. “You’re still my good girl?”

“Yes…” you’d gasp when his fingertips ghosted over your ribs, cold touch trailing down to your hips, your thighs. “Yes, Daddy…” You’d lace your manicured little fingers through his long, silvery hair and close your eyes as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your expensive lace panties, slowly pulling them down. “Always… Always…”

The winter’s chill seeped in through the latticed windows this time of year, giving the house even more of a draft than usual, the frigid air causing fresh waves of gooseflesh to raise all over your body, your sensitive nipples furling tight until Undertaker took them into his warm mouth— just about the only thing warm about him most days.

You’d keen, arching your back to push further into the heat of his mouth, the feel of his wet tongue leaving sloppy, languid kisses to your breast almost making you wish these physical acts still held any semblance of real romantic intimacy.

Even when he’d lower his head between your thighs, hitching your legs over his broad shoulders and spreading you wider for him, marveling in the taste of you like you were made of the sweetest nectar, sugar-ripe fruit so tender it was ready to burst, you still felt you were merely going through the motions.

Sure, the way you’d throw your head back and one of those delectable little moans would pitch high in your throat was real. The ecstasy your lover granted you again and again until you were sore and spent and defiled to his satisfaction, even that was real, in the moment.

But in the moments that came after, once you’d been cleaned up and cuddled into his side, the fantasy that you’d once lived had faded to a pulsing ache of uncertainty and regret.

How long had it been since you’d felt like things were perfect? Like things were too good to be true?

How long had it been since an “I love you” was said and received as sincerely as a vow?

How long were you going to pretend?

How long had you been pretending before you’d noticed?

When you realized it had probably been forever, as far as Undertaker was concerned, that was when that hairline fracture that had nearly healed in your heart split itself all the way back open, cracking down to its core, shattering, the pieces bleeding out all the love and adoration you had left until all that remained was an empty, withered husk in your chest.

But, if there was one thing Undertaker knew how to do— even better than buying back your affections with lavish gifts and extravagant vacations— it was how to revive what had once decayed, breathe it back to life with any means necessary.

With every drag of his hips that hit that sweet spot deep inside of you. With every sharp line that your nails carved into his back. With every single utterance of “Daddy” and “angel” or “princess”, you two were slowly but surely stitching yourselves back to each other like a patchwork of love and lies and longing for something you might never really make whole again because, you’d come to realize, it had been made of shattered fragments from the start.

Undertaker had scars on the outside, sure. But just because yours weren’t as deep or as visible as his didn’t mean you were without.

If he ever found you a corpse laid out on one of those cold, metal tables, a razor sharp scalpel in his hand to cut you open with, he’d peel back your layers and retract in horror, your insides embedded in a careful quilting of scar tissue, every insecurity and lie and bit of spiteful resentment criss-crossing your cadavernous state like the intricate embroidery of the imported curtains of the master bedroom, marbled into your marrow and impossible to be carved out.

But Undertaker would never allow your corpse to become cold, much less cut open.

He hadn’t worked this hard for this long to just give everything up now.

Othello or no Othello, the Black Reaper wasn’t going to quit.

It was something he and a certain loose end had in common.

***

Grell stood at the docks that night, hugging his red trench coat tighter around his body as an icy breeze blew by, and stared out at the blackened sea sloshing against the harbor in a tired, dazed state.

Whether Grell was pacing the streets or speeding down the empty back roads or hacking up some poor bastard in the basement of headquarters, there hadn’t been a day that had gone by since the incident without Othello popping into his mind.

The skittery little scientist had been more of an influence among the Aurora Society’s ranks than any of them had realized, and that wasn’t even coming from a standpoint of professional contribution.

Othello had been a friend to each and every one of them, in his own strange and twisted way.

He’d been a friend, and now he was just a corpse.

Not even.

There hadn’t even been enough left to consider him a corpse.

Now, he was just some charred fragments placed into a coffin and buried six feet deep out of respect.

And Grell knew Ron had done it— had something to do with it at the very least— but still…

Even after spinning the story every which way over these past few weeks, Grell still couldn’t find it in himself to truly hate Ron.

And that, perhaps, was the most disturbing part about what had happened.

Grell tipped his head back to the sky, the moon nearly full and looking big enough to swallow up the few flickering stars that poked through the fog. He sighed, hung his head, and then turned on his heel to stroll back down the docks and head home.

Not two strides later, he stopped dead in his tracks.

At the opposite end of the salt-rotted planks was none other than the traitor, the escapee, the murderer.

Ron gave a timid wave, a hesitant smile, and simply greeted his old colleague with a weary, “Hey…”

For a moment, Grell felt relieved, his next exhale catching halfway in his throat when he remembered what his former friend had done, and a deep, frightening scowl etched itself onto his face. He marched towards Ron, each step gaining more speed, more ferocity, and just when he was on him, he drew his ruby dagger and went to drive the blade down.

Ron caught his wrist, the two of them putting up a brief struggle, but Ron knew that there wasn’t any real fight behind Grell’s action. Tears began to mist in Grell’s green eyes, and slowly but surely, his attack began to lose its strength.

“Why…?” Grell hissed through tightly clenched teeth, blinking away his emotions the best he could, giving one last try and thrusting the knife down before going limp in Ron’s grasp. Ron simply shook his head, and then Grell was lowering the knife and sliding it back into its home on the back of his belt.

Neither of them said anything for what felt like an eternity, just stared each other down, one emerald gaze trying to apologize while the other was hoping to intimidate.

“Undertaker is gonna kill you, y’know,” Grell then stated with only a hint of malice, trying to hide a sniffle in his sleeve before adjusting his coat and smoothing down his windswept hair. “You’ll die before you see her again.” Ron’s stare didn’t relent, merely shifted from sympathy into steel, wishing that Grell would just make this easy for him. Not that he deserved it. “I figure that’s why you even bothered coming back,” Grell went on in the prolonged silence, looking Ron up and down with a distasteful scrunch of his nose. “Either that, or you really do have a death wish.”

“Maybe,” shrugged Ron, his voice sharp. Resentful. “But before he can kill me, he’ll have to find me.”

Grell scowled at Ron, incredulous, mouth hanging open with several sentences on the tip of his tongue— pleads to beg him to just forget this and disappear, warnings that he’d never be able to outrun the Black Reaper forever, words to challenge him to see what would happen if he dared try whatever it was he was planning— but he couldn’t seem to pick a place to start.

The redhead then straightened his posture, cleared his throat, and spoke with an air of superiority as he responded, “This was never going to be a hunt, Ron. It’s a delivery. You’re going to walk right into Undertaker’s trap and make it easy for him.”

Ron paced past Grell, stopped at the very edge of the docks, and said with his back facing the man who’d just tried to kill him a few minutes ago, “We’ll see about that…”

Grell let out an exasperated sigh, trying to act like he didn’t care one way or the other if Ron threw his life away like this, but deep down, a small piece of him was on his side.

They’d been friends at one point in the not so distant past too, after all. And, for Grell, losing one friend to a sudden, violent end was enough.

“So, I’m assuming you don’t want me to mention that I even thought I saw you around here then?” Grell asked, holding back not even an ounce of attitude.

Ron hesitated, taking in the salty scent of the sea, savoring the way the air felt a little thicker down by the docks. Then he turned, faced Grell, and replied with an almost chipper tone, “Actually, if he asks, tell him I’ll be waiting where our first deal was made.” He nodded to himself, as if only realizing that was a good idea the moment it left his mouth. “Yeah…” he pondered, turning back towards the rolling waves. “I think that’ll work just fine.”

Grell shifted his stance, one hand on his hip as he used the other to swish a curtain of his crimson hair over his shoulder from where the wind had blown it forward. He clicked his tongue and gave a curt response of, “Anything else, your majesty?”

Ron took in another deep breath of the ocean air, wishing he could’ve seen the water during the daylight one last time, preferably at sunset when the waves looked like liquid gold as they touched the peach tinted sky on the horizon and rocked against the cargo ships, his entire world a pale shade of serenity for just those few fleeting moments.

“No,” he told Grell. “That’ll be all.” And when Ron glanced over his shoulder to meet his friend’s gaze that time, he looked an awful lot like he was saying goodbye.

***

“And then what did he say?” Undertaker pressed, an uncharacteristic sense of urgency in his tone.

Panic.

Rage.

Vengeance.

“Nothing,” Grell replied from the other end of the call, sounding a little worried himself upon hearing the boss so uneasy. “He just said he’d be waiting where you two did your first deal. Said that was all.”

Undertaker absentmindedly chewed on his lip as he rolled that information over in his mind a few times. The place where him and Ron had made their first “deal” had been Undertaker’s section of the supply docks— the very place Grell had just run into him. What angle was he pulling?

Unless…

Normally, that wouldn’t have posed such an issue. But tonight, obviously unbeknownst to Ron, Undertaker wasn’t at the estate with you or sitting in his private office at headquarters, staring out at the city he was soon to control, soon to own. Or so he thought.

No, tonight, Undertaker and you were enjoying some winter holiday festivities in a quaint little tourist town a couple of hours away. He’d promised to take you shopping and treat you to whatever you wanted, allowing you to pick out an extra dessert at the renowned bakery located in the central square to bring home with you if you acted on your best behavior.

You two had been out all day, only planning on heading back home once the shops closed around nine. And, seeing as it was only currently six, you were pretty disappointed when Undertaker informed you after his tense phone call that you two would have to end your outing early.

“I’m going to be dropping you off at headquarters, sweetheart,” he explained, opening the car’s passenger side door for you, trying to keep a lightness to his tone even as you pouted and whined. “It’ll just be for a little while. Daddy just has some business to attend to and then he’ll take you home and let you pick out a movie for us to watch, alright?”

It wasn’t a question or a suggestion, no matter how hard he tried to trick you into thinking it was.

But that was alright. You wouldn’t mind seeing Grell, if he was there. Plus, you just might be able to guilt Undertaker into letting you have an extra treat during the movie.

And Undertaker didn’t think this would take long. He just planned on walking right up to Ron, shooting him in the head, dropping his body into the harbor, and then heading back to his baby.

About halfway to headquarters, the car ride especially silent, you muttered out a timid, “So… what’s going on? Is everything ok?”

You saw Undertaker’s jaw clench, heard the slight squeak of his black leather gloves gripping the steering wheel harder. “It’s nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about, princess,” he replied, the forced pleasantry in his tone a little strained, like a glass on the verge of shattering from a high-pitched vibration.

After another extended beat of quiet between you two, you asked, “Is this about Ron?”

The silence that haunted the car the rest of the way to headquarters was answer enough.

***

It only took about five minutes after being dropped off at headquarters for your anxiety to build.

It began like a slow drip of ice in your veins, the familiar inkling that something wasn’t right repeating in your mind with every increasingly frantic beat of your stuttering heart.

After ten minutes had gone by, you were starting to spiral into a bottomless pit of worry, all the what if’s clawing at your insides and beginning to draw blood.

Twenty minutes later, having found that pacing the upper halls where it was mostly quiet wasn’t doing much to help, you returned to the meeting room where Will was working on completing some paperwork— Undertaker had hand delivered you to his supervision before leaving in a hurry— the stoic man barely looking up as you reentered, fidgeting and clearly upset.

“When will Grell be back?” you asked, voice breaking a little as you felt the panic swell, breaths growing shallow and beginning to make you lightheaded.

William sighed, the scratching of his pen making your skin crawl as he signed over another dotted line and placed the sheet on top of the pile of completed assignments. Then he replied in that bored, somewhat irked drone of his, “I don’t know.”

You swallowed, shuffled on your feet, then opted to pull out one of the chairs at the far end of the long boardroom table and sit down. The ticking of the wall clock suddenly sounded too loud, a constant, even click without a beginning or an end. How long had it been now, you wondered, since Undertaker had dropped you here and sped off? How long would it be until he returned, possibly covered in blood— Ron’s blood, presumably— with his green eyes dark with the cruelty of a fresh kill?

“Do you— Can you tell me what’s going on?” you blurted out next, wringing your hands together under the table and bouncing your leg, staring urgently at Will, who now shifted his downcast gaze to meet yours, his action of signing the next line frozen as he answered, “No, I cannot.” He held your stare for only a moment more, then resumed his work.

“Well—” you persisted, Will letting out an agitated sigh and slumping slightly in his chair, very clearly frustrated with your constant interruptions. “Is Un— Is Daddy gonna be ok? He seemed really worried about whatever it was and I just—”

“Alright! I’m back—” Grell spoke as he entered the room, stopping short once he saw you, the look of exhaustion on his face quickly replaced with a comforting kind of fondness as he changed his tone and said, “Ah! There you are! Why don’t you and I leave Will alone and go take a walk down to the breakroom?” He winked at you, lowering his voice as if trying to keep a secret from his colleague who was only a few feet away, and bribed, “I’ll even split the red velvet cupcake I’ve been saving with you, if you want?”

Under any other circumstances, you would’ve giggled and gone without any hesitation, Grell playfully reminding you that it would be our little secret. But now, all of that adorable defiance was gone. All that was left in its wake was the pinched brow and slight frown that painted your worry.

“Before you go,” William addressed Grell, standing from his chair and carefully adjusting his pen so it lay perfectly parallel to the remaining papers, “I need a word.”

There was a pause then, and when you looked back to Will and saw him giving you that silently patronizing glare that said that this conversation wasn’t for your ears, your shoulders slumped.

“We’ll only be a minute, darling,” Grell assured you, placing a hand on your back and beginning to guide you out of the room with a sharp toothed grin. Right before he closed the doors, Grell said, “I’ll give you the bigger half if you’re patient, m’kay?” and then they were both gone from your view, the confidential discussion probably holding the answers to all your questions yet locked away behind the heavy, elegantly carved mahogany.

For a minute, you’d shifted back into compliance, leaning against the opposite wall and waiting for them to conclude like a good girl. But then, your curiosity always getting the better of you, you crept up to the doors and pressed your ear to the crack, hoping that maybe, if you stayed as still as you could and focused, you’d be able to make out some of what they were saying.

“… Said something… their deal,” you could just barely make out Grell speaking in a hushed tone, catching the confusion that was woven into his annoyance. “… Offered him backup… didn’t want it.”

There was a long pause, and you slowly put a little distance between yourself and the doorway. If they’d seen your shadow moving from under the door, you didn’t want to be caught with your ear pressed to it when they swung it open to double check they weren’t being overheard. After a little while with no sign of their suspicion, you continued to listen.

“… Settle it alone?” Will murmured, his low voice a little easier to make out.

“Something like…” Grell responded slightly louder. “But he should… Guy’s got a death wish.”

All you could think about was Ron, the memory of his carefree, boyish smile and soft, strawberry blonde hair flashing through your mind one second, then the image of his glasses smeared with blood, his charming emerald eyes drained of their sparkling light as his corpse lay crumpled at the bottom of a shallow grave the next.

You winced at the thought, praying to a god you probably didn’t even believe in for him to be spared, whether by retreat or nonlethal retribution.

“… Meeting him?” You cued back into Will’s voice, closing your eyes and holding your breath as you desperately tried to gain as much detail in their whispered words as you could.

“As far as I know… Told me a long time ago…” Grell replied, his attempt at secrecy loosening as his voice lost some of its hush. “First place they met were the docks.”

The docks.

Ever so carefully, you backed away from the door, tip-toeing down to the end of the hall before taking off running.

You had all the information you needed to know how to stop this.

And you would stop this, somehow, someway, so long as you weren’t already too late.

***

The clouds moved fast overhead, thick and dark and swallowing the glowing moon.

Ron had been waiting here— at the abandoned yard just off the edge of the supply docks— for what felt like an eternity, every single sound that wasn’t the sloshing of the waves or the whistling of the chilly breeze setting him on edge.

But he had to remain calm, reclaim his composure, and be ready when the time came.

Because Undertaker would show up eventually.

Ron knew he wouldn’t be able to resist, so long as Grell had passed on the message like he’d told him to.

So he waited.

He waited and he thought of you.

“Well, I’ll admit…” Ron whirled around as he heard the familiar rasp of Undertaker’s low, dangerous voice, drawing his gun immediately and taking a defensive stance. “When Grell first told me the news, I didn’t believe it.” Undertaker strolled closer with an eerie amount of nonchalance, though not with his guard completely down. “I thought, ‘well, I just have to see this for myself.’” He felt the weight of his gun in his coat pocket, casually slipped his hand over it and rested his gloved finger on the trigger.

A gust of strong, frigid wind howled through the docks, sending the silver ribbons of Undertaker’s hair flaring out wildly around him, the rumbling that drummed in the distance warning of the downpour that was on its way.

Undertaker’s smirk dropped, only a dark, vicious malice shining in his narrowed eyes. “But here you are… Ever the persistent little rat, aren’t you, Knox?”

Ron steadied his aim, swallowing hard and lining up the barrel with the Black Reaper’s forehead. “Better a rat than a snake,” he spit, applying a little more pressure to the trigger. He wished there was more daylight left to see how beautiful it would look once all that silver and black was stained with bright, deadly red. “Or a fucking psycho trying to play his hand at being God. Tell me, did you always plan on killing her or was that a more recent development?”

Undertaker’s smile returned as he pulled the pistol from his pocket, the weapon recently polished and craving fresh blood.

He let out a cold, cruel chuckle in response to Ron’s question.

“I bet you even know exactly how you’re gonna do it, too,” Ron went on, growing more enraged and impatient by the second, thunder growling louder as it echoed across the waves. “I know you’re not gonna cut ‘er up. No, that would be too gruesome… So which is it?” He took a lurching half step forward, the gun shaking in his hand. “Poison? Pills? Or maybe you’ll just wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze till she stops movin’, is that it?”

Still, Undertaker offered no clarity on the matter, merely continued to stare self-righteous and unblinking at his adversary across the graveyard of the docks.

“Yeah… Bet you wouldn’t mind leavin’ those kinds of marks on ‘er. Ones that’ll never let anyone forget who she belongs to! You sick—!”

“Are you done?” Undertaker called over, the baritone of his voice cutting through the shrill desperation of Ron’s.

Ron gripped the gun in both hands again, letting out a shuddering exhale as he prepared himself to do it— prepared himself to kill an unkillable man, to kill a god.

“Yeah,” he answered, barely loud enough for anyone besides himself to hear. “I’m done.”

Undertaker raised his arm, taking aim.

“Finally,” he scoffed, a sinister smirk carving itself across his scarred face. “Something we can agree on.”

***

Having faith in yourself had never been an easy thing for you.

It was always, “No, don’t do that, do this instead,” or “Aw, you look like you’re having a hard time. Here, why don’t you let me do it for you?” or “Are you really sure that’s what you want?” and any other number of condescending coos that carefully concealed the attempts to make you feel like you needed to rely on others, whether for decision making or taking care of yourself or any other matter of things you’d long lost track of keeping count of.

But as the Uber you’d hastily ordered on your phone sped down the twisting highways, each turn lending a narrower road than the last the closer you got to the coast, you clutched your determination with a death grip, knowing it wasn’t just your future at stake if you let it slip from your grasp.

Undertaker had demanded you delete all of your ride-sharing apps once he, along with any of his most trusted men, became your personal chauffeur, saying he didn’t trust complete strangers with his precious baby. But, lucky for you, you’d redownloaded them out of spite one day and your mom’s credit card was still connected to the account you’d long lost use for.

Until tonight.

Right now.

When it was just the stroke of luck you needed to escape.

“We’re getting close,” you informed the driver, constantly glancing from out your window to where the little pulsing blue dot that marked your current location inched closer to the sea.

It had just begun to rain, little drizzle drops misting the windshield, the stuttering rubber sound on one of the broken wipers only making you more anxious.

“There!” you pointed towards the shoulder of the road right up ahead, the driver upping the speed of his wipers as the rain began to hit the windshield a little harder. He gave you a skeptical glance from the rearview mirror, passing the spot you’d just directed him towards. You clicked your tongue and rolled your eyes, scoffing out an agitated, “Here, just stop here.”

“But…” the driver— some guy in his early thirties by the looks of him— began hesitantly, only starting to slow to a stop once he caught the scowl forming on your face from the back seat. “It’s the middle of the road. There’s nothing even out here. And it’s—”

You exited the car and slammed the door, taking off down the steep slope of the hill that ran down the other side of the highway barrier, hearing the tires squeal as they momentarily hydroplaned over the slick pavement.

You could see the docks from here, just past a makeshift lot littered with abandoned or broken supply crates— the big, steel kind that get packed onto freight ships— even through the darkness and the fog and the rain that was slowly but surely morphing into a downpour, the harsh winds whipping up your skirt in a jittery frenzy and raising painful goosebumps over the skin of your bare legs.

You could see the docks, but no Undertaker or Ron.

Panic struck you like an arrow, sudden and razor sharp, your breath quickening faster than you could keep up with.

Because maybe you’d been too late after all.

Maybe Ron was already dead.

Maybe you were next.

As tears welled in your eyes, mixing with the rain that soaked your hair and streaked down your face in fast drops, you felt your chest heaving. Felt the tightness that twisted in your heart like a knife being turned in an already open wound. You clutched your fists to your stomach and doubled over, opened your mouth, and let out a sound that you’d never heard yourself make before.

The echo of your scream may have been drowned out by the thrumming of the storm, but you’d heard it loud and clear— the sound of your heart breaking. The sound of not being enough. Never being enough, no matter how hard you tried.

But still, you hadn’t come this far not to see it with your own eyes.

So you took off running down the hill, nearly stumbling with every step over the soggy earth, your shoes and socks drenched and stained with dark mud, and you didn’t stop until the hill tapered off onto flat land again, the old, rusted shipment containers that probably held any number of nefarious and ghastly goods at one point or another haunting the graveyard of the docks like eerie, rectangular guardians.

So close, you thought as you slowly staggered to a stop, feet sinking further into the mud. So close, but always too far.

But that’s when you heard it.

A single gunshot, ringing out through the hissing of the rain.

You froze, a gasp caught halfway in your throat.

And then, as if possessed by the past self you’d nearly lost— given up willingly, all for the sake of this life— you took off sprinting.

You wouldn’t be too late this time.

You’d make it or die trying.

***

Blood seeped through Ron’s fingers as he clutched his shoulder, his breath fogging before him as he panted out short, stuttering exhales, the rain washing away the tiny clouds along with the red that it dragged further down his sleeve, dripping off the end of his shivering fingertips.

He’d tried to fire off a few shots after he threw himself behind the cover of one of the shipment containers but Undertaker had been too fast, too swift as he sought refuge behind an adjacent crate. His triumphant chuckle bounced off the confines of the metal husk, the faint echoes taunting Ron out of his hiding place and back into action.

“Undertaker!” he bellowed, sharp and growling like the warning bark of a dog on the end of its chain. He tried to take aim from around the corner of his cover but saw no clear pathway for a successful shot. “Fuck it!” Ron spitefully snarled to himself, counting his ammunition before sliding the clip back into the pistol.

He had two shots left.

The next words he spit under his breath were, “Better to die fighting than a fucking coward.”

And Undertaker could sense Ron drawing closer, could picture him moving ever so cautiously until he figured he’d have nothing left to lose and then waste his last two bullets firing in blind rage. So, as this dance with death they’d both been partners in for so long was nearing its end, the Black Reaper figured he’d give his underling some parting words.

“I just find it all amusing,” Undertaker began, “that you ever gained any sense that you could win. The very notion of you even standing a single chance to begin with makes me laugh.” The end of his taunt was peppered with a forced snicker, which gained the exact result Undertaker was hoping for.

It stirred Ron’s rage.

Much more, and he would become reckless. That was all Undertaker needed to make himself more deadly. And so he went on, “I know this makes no difference to someone like you, but I love her. I loved her long before you and I’ll love her long after. And she knows it.” Then, just to himself he muttered, “Despite it all, she knows it…”

“You’re going to get her killed!” When Ron’s voice called back, he was closer now, putting Undertaker on higher alert as he readied his gun. “And, whatever your fucked up definition of love is, it’s sick and twisted and she deserves something better! Something without all your conditions and punishments and lies!”

Ron was coming up on the corner of the crate then, keeping quiet to better focus and trying to steady his breathing and shaking hands, biting back a wince as his shoulder throbbed in pain. When he rounded to face the opening of the hollow metal tunnel, gun raised and ready to fire off his last two shots the moment his vision caught silver, he froze.

“Shit—” he swore through clenched teeth, quickly taking cover in the now empty space and trying to apply a little pressure on his weeping wound. It was hard not to visualize his own death when he pulled his hand away and saw it completely stained with red.

Undertaker had slinked away at the last second, so now Ron had no idea where he could be. Every crate would be like pulling the trigger in a game of Russian roulette, each time he turned to aim down another tunnel possibly being the last step he took before being forced to his knees by a bullet or blood loss.

Undertaker moved about the abandoned yard like a specter, gracefully waltzing from one cover to the next despite all the soggy earth beneath his feet, the rain only picking up its incessant drumming, tapping out an anxious beat that reverberated through the metal tunnels every time he slipped into another one of the crates.

A shiver wracked through him, bones and all, as the cold rain trickled down the back of his neck, his pale silver hair now turned a sleek shade of steel as it stuck to his forehead and the back of his long black coat, also soaked through.

This place was an obstacle course, even on the best of days. But now, with the relentless storm drenching everything in sight and dulling the most vital of senses, each step held potential danger, every decision, no matter how simple, became a grave one.

But even so, this did not deter Undertaker from exposing his location.

“Everything I do is because I love her!” he shouted, having a vague idea of Ron’s current whereabouts. “Can’t you see? It’s because I love her that I’m willing to go so far, to do every single thing I’ve done that you’ve deemed wrong or evil!”

Ron tried to pick out his voice through the rain, trying to focus on the rough edges that frayed from Undertaker’s silken baritone. Was there perhaps a tremble of trepidation woven within his words? Perhaps if this were anyone other than the Black Reaper. Ron knew it was most likely the cold that was causing his tone to shiver, but tried to convince himself otherwise for his own sake.

“We’ll be together forever, her and I,” Undertaker continued, speaking lower this time, not necessarily caring if Ron heard him but wanting to recite his fantasy out loud nonetheless. “I’ll fulfill Othello’s dying wish to see the reanimation technology brought to fruition and with that her and I will be preserved for the rest of time.”

He’d release it to the world too, eventually. At least, to anyone able and willing to pay the outrageous price for eternity.

“I burned it all down, remember!?” Ron called out. Undertaker stiffened from his hiding spot. How had Ron managed to close in so fast? As Ron crept closer to the next shipment crate, he spit under his breath, “Good luck swallowing all that ash for immortality.”

Ron turned and took aim down the tunnel, the one he was sure his enemy would be standing in the center of, but flinched when once again the area rendered itself empty. Then, from behind him, that low, sinister confidence spoke.

“Not everything,” Undertaker said, that cruel smirk curved up on one side of his face. Ron whirled to face him, his finger on the trigger.

And so two more gunshots mingled with the hiss of the pouring rain.

***

Even when your chest began to burn, lungs constricting as you sucked down gulp after gulp of the frigid air…

Even as your legs ached, running as fast and as hard as you could, the rain pelting your skin as wave after wave of the freezing drops hit your body like hundreds of tiny needles…

Even as the mud drenched and ruined your expensive, designer clothes— as mascara ran down your cheeks in splattered black streaks— as you kicked off your shoes entirely because, although they were one of your favorite pairs, they were only slowing you down and your feet went numb as the drowned ground soaked through your socks…

Even then, you wouldn’t slow down.

The gunshots rang out through the graveyard of the docks, splicing through the downpour and making you gasp, your next step staggering, before you took off in yet another painful sprint. But it wasn’t long before the hazy silhouette of two familiar figures came into sight through the darkness.

You stopped short, tried to call out in between your panting breaths, but no one heard you over the storm.

If they couldn’t hear you, they’d have to see you.

So you kept running.

Sure enough, it was Undertaker and Ron. You knew it all along— knew it months and months ago when you’d first started to mess around, long before the flirtatious texts and the secret sex and all the other interactions that had betrayed and challenged Undertaker— that things might end up this way. With Ron lying on the ground with a bullet through his shoulder and a gash across his temple, blood pouring from both wounds as Undertaker stood over him, aiming his gun down at the boy you might’ve been able to love in a different life.

They were still a ways away, but close enough to recognize your sopping wet shape the same as you did theirs if only they looked over. You tried shouting again, shrieking for them to stop, your throat going raw as new claws of desperation raked their hooked talons through your vocal chords.

But still no one heard you. And, if they did, they deemed you unimportant. An issue to be dealt with once the matter at hand was settled.

You were tired of being a side character in your own god forsaken life. So, as absolutely terrified as you were, you marched forward, each step nearly sending you slipping or sliding or sinking, yet each step was more sure and strong than the last.

You locked your gaze on Undertaker, praying to some invisible force to spare you just a few more seconds before the reaper claimed Ron’s life, and saw Undertaker’s mouth move. Only then did you freeze for a brief moment, trying to read his lips but to no avail.

The look on his face told he was saying something vital— something about the deep pinch of his sparse, silvery brow, his emerald eyes squinting and nose scrunched as a bitter snarl pulled up one corner of his mouth, teeth bared and glinting like he was ready to sink them into the nearest jugular and tear with all his might— something meant only for the ears of a dying man and his executioner.

When Undertaker put both hands around his gun, raising it to fire the final shot, you snapped out of it, kicked back into action and not stopping until the Black Reaper— the love of your life, the worst man you knew, the warden who’d clipped your wings only to keep you locked away in a pretty cage— finally noticed your presence and dared to look your way.

“Stop! Stop—! Wait!” You came stumbling forward, Undertaker’s formerly vicious and terrifying gaze melting to something cold and stoic before softening to an emotion caught between concern and rage upon landing his sight on your severely disheveled state.

You practically skid to a halt, standing before the barrel of Undertaker’s gun and holding out your hands as if that had the power to stop a bullet from exiting the chamber the moment his finger pulled the trigger. You didn’t even know if Ron was still alive or if you’d been too late, but still, you had to try.

“Please— Please! Please don’t! Please don’t kill him!” You begged, your eyes flicking back and forth between Undertaker and the gun, part of you wondering if this might be how you met your end after all. Because Undertaker wasn’t lowering his weapon. He was hearing you, yes. But was he really listening?

“Sweetheart, please,” Undertaker growled, low and menacing, his stare narrowing at you like he was trying to decipher whether you were an ally or an adversary. “Step out of the way.”

“You can’t!” you continued desperately, your heart hammering in your throat and making every syllable quiver with fear and adrenaline. “You can’t kill him! Please! I’m begging you!”

Undertaker clicked his tongue, stepped forward and swatted you out of the way as if you were nothing more than a pesky little fly, but you grabbed his arm with every ounce of strength you had left. It wasn’t much. Even on a day you hadn’t just sprinted through the freezing, pouring rain you could’ve never hoped to have faced him and won. But Undertaker must’ve felt your desperation, because again he hesitated.

He hesitated and heard you out.

Besides, it wasn’t like Ron was going anywhere.

“Remember—!” You began, already choking on your words, a powerful sob wracking through your chest, hollowing you out, perhaps never to be whole again. “Remember the first time we met! Do you remember who you were then? How you were?” You were searching his eyes for any hint of understanding, any shred of hope that he would heed your words, that he’d remember any sliver of himself that wasn’t this— that wasn’t vengeful and vicious and violent.

“You were so kind…” Your voice cracked, shoulders beginning to shudder as tears filled your eyes, unable to hold them back as the rain pulled them down your face. “You were so gentle… You— You were the first person in a long time to show me any kind of consideration!” Undertaker lowered the gun, though still kept his finger loosely on the trigger. “And I thought it was all too good to be true!” You sniffled, the end of your sentence garbled from all the tears and rain running into your mouth. “Sometimes I still think it is, but—” You took a chance, let go of his arm, and slowly reached for his pale face. As you touched his chilled skin, the downpour turning him clammy, you looked deep into his eyes— the same eyes you’d seen gaze upon you with all the love in the world one minute only to glower at a man he was soon to execute the next— and said, “I love you. God, I love you…”

You closed your eyes for a moment, wanting nothing more than to touch your forehead to his. To be in some place warm and familiar and safe in his arms. To go back to a time before all of this, before you’d known you loved a monster and would still choose to love a monster even after you learned its darkest, most ugly parts…

But all you had was now. And, now, you had to save not just Ron, but yourself and Undertaker as well.

Because you would lose more than just Ron if Undertaker pulled that trigger.

You’d lose everything— your mind, your home, the man you really did love, despite it all…

“But if you do this—” You began again as your eyes snapped open, and while they were still bloodshot with tears, your stare cut deeper than daggers, deadly. “If you do this I will never love you again. Do you hear me?” You curled your grip around his jaw a little tighter. Sort of like how he did to you when you were being an insolent little brat in bed, warning you that, if you didn’t listen to Daddy and behave, an ample punishment would be soon on its way.

Undertaker didn’t respond, but by the way his throat bobbed with a nervous swallow, you knew the message was sinking in, no matter how reluctantly.

“But if you let him live…” You softened, slowly removing your trembling little hands from his face to hug around his waist, pressing your cheek to his soaked coat, pretending you could hear a human heart beating underneath and not the eerie humming of a hollow corpse. “If you let him live, I’ll love you forever and ever… For the rest of my life and whatever comes after…” You looked up at him, the rain finally beginning to die down a bit as you blinked drops from your eyes, and held your breath as you hoped even a fraction of what you’d said was being taken seriously by him.

When Undertaker placed his non-lethal hand on the small of your back, pressing you a little closer to his chest, you gulped, the breath you’d been holding in forced to exhale shakily through your nose.

“You don’t have to be a bad man,” you told him, a small, soft smile quivering up on your lips, all the color drained from them on account of how cold you were. “I’ll forgive you for everything you’ve ever done, to me or anyone else… Every last thing…” You returned to his embrace, cold as it was, and tried to trick yourself into believing the words leaving your mouth. “I’ll forget all of it… Just spare him, please.”

And then, just as quickly as the storm had rolled in and wreaked its havoc, it was reduced to a misty drizzle, a ghostly fog forming in its wake across the land, floating over the surface of the waves in swirling tendrils rimmed with silver by the moon.

Headlights cut through the gloom, Grell’s cherry red Lamborghini speeding towards the three of you and stopping with a skid, him and Will jumping out and rushing towards all the commotion, both looking dire, though neither had their guns drawn.

Everything after that was mostly a blur.

Undertaker told you to go with Grell, and when you refused, he told you that if you went with Grell he’d spare Ron. You knew he was lying, so you stubbornly insisted on staying right where you were.

Undertaker then ordered his men to take you by force, and even as you kicked and screamed and fought with everything you had, you were no match.

You were afraid all of it had been for nothing.

But as you sat in the car, Grell in charge of keeping you from escaping and running right back towards the scene, you watched the rest unfold, the world beyond the car silent and uncertain.

Undertaker and Will talked back and forth in a rapidfire fashion, though you could only really see Undertaker’s face. He looked more than furious. He looked wrathful. But a gasp hitched in your chest when you saw William kneel down and help Ron up, who, though bloody and battered, seemed to still be breathing.

With Ron half slung over Will’s shoulder, the two of them began to stagger away, disappearing further into the mist. Meanwhile, Undertaker stood in the center of it all, as still as a statue, the gun clutched loosely in his hand as it hung by his side and he watched them go. He could still shoot. He could still win. But he must’ve believed you, for all he did was wait until they were completely out of sight. Then he came back to retrieve you from Grell’s car.

“Come, my love,” he beckoned, extending a hand to you, which you took more out of fearful necessity than trusting relief. “Let’s go home.”

***

By the time Ron came to, he was sitting with his hands bound in the backseat of a car in the middle of a runway, a small jet parked and ready for takeoff just across the way.

His head was pounding, his shoulder was bandaged, his heart was broken, but he was still alive.

He was still alive…

“So he was really serious…?” Ron asked, his voice gravelly and defeated, as he met Will’s steely gaze in the rearview mirror. “He’s really gonna let me go, after all that…?”

Will remained silent, just continued to stare, his expression unreadable.

Ron let his head loll back against the headrest, a sickened smirk lifting one side of his lips. “Or is he just flying me somewhere far away to do the deed…? Y’know, so I can’t haunt his territory…” He breathed out a weak chuckle. If he were talking about anyone else, he probably would’ve been joking. But with Undertaker… who knew what someone like that man really believed.

Will turned the key in the ignition, the car humming back to life. “This is a kindness, you know,” he finally spoke, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder into the backseat. Not that he had to. Ron had no strength or weapons to fight him with, let alone the intention. Still though… They had worked together all this time. By some people’s standards, that might’ve made them friends, to some degree. Though, in this line of work, Ron supposed, loyalty only lied with oneself.

Will let out a troubled sigh, quietly cleared his throat, and said, “Undertaker wasn’t sure how coherent you were during the initial discussion and asked me to repeat the stipulations of this deal to you before sending you on your way.” Only then did William turn halfway to gaze into the backseat, though the look he gave Ron wasn’t a comforting one. It was almost pleading, as if to say, don’t waste this chance you’ve been given.

Don’t waste this gift.

“Yeah, whatever, go ahead…” Ron droned, as if he were merely bored during a long drawn out meeting and not about to have his entire life unwillingly changed forever.

William faced forward again and began to recite the terms and conditions Ron, like most deals made with the Black Reaper, had no choice but to follow or face certain death. And so the rules of Ron’s newfound freedom were as such…

If he ever showed his face in England ever again—

If he ever tried to contact you in any way, shape, or form—

If Ron tried to exist anywhere near the sphere of you and Undertaker’s world—

Then Undertaker would— with God and the Devil and every other holy or haunting higher power in between as his witness— finish what he’d started that night between the abandoned shipment crates that lined the graveyard of the docks.

“I get it…” Ron scoffed. “So I’m banished…” He slumped forward and rolled his neck, a few popping sounds filling the bleak silence of the car along with his stifled groan. “Well…” he sighed, forcing one of those charming grins despite it all. “Where ya takin’ me, Captain? New York? L.A.?” His playful attitude took a hit as a new realization occurred to him. “Or is he droppin’ me in the middle of the sticks somewhere I don’t even speak the language?” He leaned back in his seat, scoffed a little as he mumbled, “Though, if it were somewhere in the tropics, I don’t think I’d mind…”

“First of all,” William corrected, placing one hand on the wheel while the other adjusted his glasses, “I’m not taking you anywhere. You’ll be going with some of the others. Up and comers who have something to prove about loyalty and responsibility…” He almost rolled his eyes just then, the closest thing to sarcasm he might’ve even shown in someone else’s presence. “But they will not harm you, rest assured. And second…” he paused, trying not to grin as he confirmed with a hint of satisfaction, “You’re being sent to New York.”

Ron perked up, unable not to feel a little relief that at least, as much as he hated every facet of his current situation, he’d have more than one kind of entertainment to distract him from the misery that was sure to settle over him like dust over a forgotten antique the longer he had to be away from you.

He asked, eyes wide and shining, “As in, New York, the city, New York?”

Will nodded, turned up his radio a few notches just to drown out the silence. “New York, as in, the city, New York,” he repeated.

Ron had to stifle a chuckle when he recognized the song quietly playing was, “Moving to New York” by the Wombats. How long had it been since he’d listened to music? I mean, really listened to music? Like nodding along to his favorite songs and letting himself get lost in the beat, clumsily singing to the melody of which all the words he did not know?

“So… what?” Ron quirked up an eyebrow, skeptical. “He’s flyin’ me to New York City free of charge and then…?” He let what remained of his vague question linger in the air, the final chorus playing out as Ron imagined all kinds of horrors and hardships— like being dropped off and left to figure the rest out on his own with no money or contacts or phone and a bloody suit and cracked glasses to wander the streets and commit who knew what kinds of crimes just to survive.

He’d done it before, he supposed, and back then he hadn’t even had a suit. So, perhaps, by those standards, things wouldn’t be too bad after all.

“And then,” Will explained, “it’s up to you. So long as you abide by the terms and conditions—”

“Then I’m really free…” Ron sighed out in reverence, unable to fully accept it as truth, though the way his hands shook and he couldn’t wipe the wide, borderline maniacal smile from his face spoke to just how much he wanted to believe it. His voice nearly cracked when he hung his head and repeated in a whisper, “I’m free…”

“Oh, and I suppose I should also mention,” added William, “that there is a rather modest apartment waiting for you.” Ron’s head shot up, meeting his colleague’s— former colleague’s— gaze with an unamused expression.

“Very funny,” Ron said, monotone.

But Will wasn’t joking.

Ron wondered what the catch was, then remembered that his freedom and the housing that came with it were all being paid for with the ultimate price— never being able to see or hear from you again.

So Ron got on that plane.

He sat with his hands bound for the entire eight hour flight and stared out the tiny oval window at the ocean below until land finally returned to view.

He let four unknown, bespectacled faces escort him into an unmarked car and drive him through all the glittering lights and blinking signs that decorated Times Square.

He gazed upon the streets he would learn to call home with a childlike wonder, taking in all the whimsey and mystery and debauchery the foreign city could offer at merely a glance.

And, the moment he was delivered downtown to his small, albeit nicer than he’d expected, apartment complex, the bindings on his wrists were cut, and his door clicked shut and locked behind him…

Ron began to scheme.

Because he still wanted to kill Undertaker. And he would. But he could only do that if he was alive. So, for now, Ron would respect this so-called deal that Undertaker had conjured up. He’d respect it just until he had a working plan in order and could retaliate accordingly.

Ron walked further into the apartment— his apartment— and stood in the middle of the living room. It was sparsely furnished, but at least there was a couch, so he plopped down on it and let out a sigh as he sunk into the cushion, flinching when he leaned too far onto his injured shoulder.

He remembered all the afternoons and evenings spent next to you on the couch in Undertaker’s mansion, how sometimes you’d let your thigh rest against his, allow your body heat to bleed through the fabric of his trousers while you read your book or scrolled on your phone or watched a movie. How, sometimes, when you got tired waiting for Undertaker to return if he was working later than expected, you’d rest your head on his shoulder, curl into him for warmth and comfort.

Ron closed his eyes, let his head lean back, his hand lightly brushing against the vacant spot next to him. The spot he imagined you’d one day be sitting by his side after he’d won this battle once and for all.

Ron smirked. It was but a tired twitch of an ill-intentioned smile, but it held all the disdain he needed at the moment.

In the empty, quiet apartment, thousands of miles away from the man he so wished could hear this decree, Ron muttered, “You should’ve killed me when you’d had the chance…”

He saw your smiling face flash through his mind, no longer even having a photo on his phone to remember it by.

But, amidst his sorrow, his mourning, Ron found it in himself to laugh.

He then understood why Undertaker always cackled after a kill. How the low, menacing chuckle soon grew into an uncontrollable chorus of insatiable laughter.

He didn’t know how long he went on like that— head thrown back and mouth stretched impossibly wide as a stitch formed in his side— but once his crazed hilarity died down to sporadic giggling, everything soon returned to silence.

“Yeah…” Ron said, going into the kitchen with the intention to retrieve a glass of water, but instead found an unopened bottle of Undertaker’s favorite, expensive whiskey, a black satin bow tied perfectly around the neck under the guise of being a gift, but what Ron really knew was a reminder, a warning, a threat.

He twisted the top and poured himself a generous glass, some of it sloshing out onto the counter before he threw the whole thing back and swallowed it all in one go. He slammed the glass— one of three that he’d found in the otherwise empty cabinets— on the countertop and let out a long, hissing sigh as the alcohol burned through his system.

He dug his fingers tighter around the crystal glass.

“You really, really should’ve killed me.”

***

You and Undertaker sat inside the black 1953 Rolls-Royce Dawn Drophead for a long time after he’d retrieved you from Grell’s car, the silence that hung between you two heavy enough to sink you to the bottom of the sea.

You were still trembling, still in shock from the whole ordeal, but half of your shaking was probably due to how cold you were, Undertaker’s thick black coat draped over your shoulders but doing nothing to quell your violent shivering.

“Look at you…” he finally cooed, seeming to snap out of his own shock, gently reaching over to brush some soggy strands of hair away from your forehead and trying not to feel too guilty when you first flinched away from him. “You’re a fright. You must be freezing…” He started the car, the heat kicking on at full force now that Undertaker had decided to grant you that small mercy.

As he began to pull away from the docks, he said in that same sweet, caring tone, as if he hadn’t just traumatized you beyond belief, “I’ll draw us a bath as soon as we get home. And you haven’t even eaten yet, you must be starving. Just say the word and I’ll make you whatever you want.”

You remained silent, your jaw locked as your teeth clattered, though even if it were easy for you to speak right now, you still don’t think you could’ve.

What more was there to say?

You’d signed your life away, agreed to become the perfect, pretty little prisoner that Undertaker had always wanted you to be so Ron could have his own life spared and gain his freedom.

What higher form of love was there than such a sacrifice?

As the fog that floated near the water gave way to a dark stretch of road, you wished that you could’ve looked into Ron’s green eyes one last time, felt his calloused thumb stroking gently along the top of your hand, heard his boyish laugh, seen that charming smile, been able to express to him even a fraction of what he’d meant to you.

But now he was gone from your world forever, so all you could do was hope he knew— across lands and oceans and time— that what you’d felt for him was the real thing. No matter how brief the love you’d shared was, no matter how reluctant, every last bit of it had all been real.

And so you’d send a silent prayer in your mind every night to him, a wish that maybe one day you’d see him again, whether from far off in the distance or passing on the street. A part of you even hoped you’d see him with his arm slung around another girl, that he’d be smiling and gazing at her the same way he used to smile and gaze at you. At least then you’d know he was happy, that he’d found a way to love someone he could actually have.

That’s what you hoped for him. You hoped he got to have what you never would get to. And that was a love as pure and as free as what you’d spend the rest of your days skillfully pretending you and Undertaker shared.

As you pulled up to the gates of the estate grounds— the iron wrought bars surrounding your beautiful cage— you said to Undertaker, no sweetness or innocence or any of those other disgustingly fabricated sugar-coated tones you’d adapted to take around him present in your voice, “If you don’t honor the promise you made to me and let Ron live, wherever you’re taking him…” Undertaker stopped the car halfway up the driveway, caught completely off guard by your own low, dangerous tone. “I can promise you that you will lose me.”

You looked over at him with a menacing gaze, one you’d learned to imitate directly from him, and felt a sick satisfaction when you caught just a flicker of fear behind his otherwise blank stare, concluding with, “So you better not think you can just kill him when I’m not looking. I will find out.”

You held each other’s stares for what felt like an eternity and an instant all at the same time. Then Undertaker looked back out the windshield, continued to creep up the horseshoe driveway to the front steps, and put the car in park.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” he smirked, turning the key in the ignition and killing the lights on the dash. “I can assure you, if Ron were to be killed, it would be by my hand and my hand alone.”

He stepped out of the car and came around to open your door for you, offering said hand to help you out which, for possibly the first time in your life, you didn’t take. You stood there and watched as he closed your door behind you, pulling his damp coat further around your shoulders as a new chill began to slither up your spine.

“Now, I do believe a bath and a hot meal is in order.” Undertaker extended his hand to you once more and, that time, you gave him the courtesy of taking it, allowing him to guide you back inside.

From then on, that night was never spoken of again. Slowly but surely, things returned to normal and you fell back into your role as Daddy’s perfect little princess. But, unlike how things were in the past, you were no longer a pawn. You’d become the queen opposite Undertaker’s king, always making the right moves and ready to put him in checkmate if he ever betrayed his word.

And, yes, sometimes the act ceased to be false and slipped back into something more natural. But every night, as your heart sang its silent prayer from the other side of the world, you reminded yourself of the life, and love, that you could’ve had.

I hope that you’re happy, you’d wish for Ron. I hope that you’re free.

And, sometimes, if you got lucky, you’d be able to meet with him in your dreams.

***

Snow blanketed the gardens beyond the mansion windows, all the wilted flowers and bare hedges made beautiful by the fresh layer of shimmering white as more fluffy tufts of gossamer flurries swirled around the winter wonderland.

It was almost Christmas. Just a few more days before Undertaker showered you with diamonds and Chanel and maybe, if you were really lucky, the kitten you’d seen in a petshop window in passing a few weeks ago that you’d practically begged him for.

It had been an entire year since the downpour by the docks changed all your lives forever. An entire year since Othello’s funeral. An entire year since the basement of headquarters had been burned to a demolished char, and since rebuilt, the tragedy paved over with shiny new linoleum.

The mansion was adorned with all kinds of special, sparkling decorations per your usual request since you’d started living with Undertaker a few years back, and tonight Grell and Will had been invited over for dinner.

Still though, the grand dining table was so much emptier without Ron and Othello. So much lonelier.

Even though you hadn’t known Othello that well, you could tell what he’d meant to Undertaker, could hear the sadness and the loss that laced its way into the toast he made that night about how, despite their differences, the scientist had been the closest friend he’d ever had. They’d known each other since their university days, after all. They’d shared the same impossible dream, nevermind the diverging intentions.

The hardest part for you though was, of course, Ron’s absence. But as you stared out the window at the snow falling like magic, enjoying the rare, merry and peaceful atmosphere that had filled the house over these past few weeks in preparation for the holidays, you couldn’t help but smile and hope that, wherever he was, it was snowing there too.

You hoped that he’d taken care of himself, that he’d found a path that brought him happiness. You hoped that he’d found love and been able to be loved in return. But even if he hadn’t, you still hadn’t given up on loving him from afar.

It was during occasions like this, where everyone— everyone who was left, anyway— came together that were the hardest for you. The urge to send him a text or leave a voicemail was always resurfacing, but there was no way for you to do something even as simple as that anymore. Undertaker had replaced your phone with the latest model soon after the whole ordeal, and while all of your other contacts had remained, it was like a gaping hole in the list of alphabetical names where Ron’s used to be with a cute little ice cream emoji next to it.

For a long time, you thought maybe Ron would try and contact you somewhere down the line, perhaps using the sneakier method of reaching out to you through social media or somewhere untraceable by Undertaker that wouldn’t show up on phone records, but so far you’d heard nothing. Though, the naively optimistic piece of you that was left, no matter how small, still held out hope.

For now, perhaps the silence was for the best. It didn’t help with how much you missed him, but it did make it easier for you to maintain your persona. So when Undertaker noticed you staring off into space, a melancholy look on your face as you lounged on the couch after dinner, taking some alone time while the other men talked, and he asked you, “What’s wrong, darling? Is everything alright?” it was easy for you to snap out of it and give an adorable smile, crafting the honey-glazed excuse of, “Sorry! I just felt like I forgot something but I think I remember it now,” as you reached up to him, motioning for him to either lift you into his arms or join you on the couch where you could better cuddle up to him.

He chose the second option, feeling a sense of relief when you migrated closer to him, snuggling into his chest and seeking comfort in his familiar scent, his expensive but subtle cologne lulling you. “What did you remember?” he asked you, gently combing his long fingers through your hair like he tended to do.

You smiled— a precious, vicious little grin— and climbed into his lap, intertwining your fingers behind his neck and humming out a lilting note before giving him a peck on the cheek. “I just remembered to tell you I love you, is all!” you lied.

Though, today, it wasn’t so much a lie as it was a cover up. Because, today, you did love him. You’d started loving him again a few months back. You’d made him work hard enough for it what with all his lavish gifts and luxury vacations and the fact that he’d become far more lenient when it came to punishing you for any bad behavior or rule breaking.

You were probably going to love him for many months to come, too— many years. That, you realized, was much more complicated to control than your cute little persona. Your head could be fickle as often as it wanted, but your heart…

Your heart could never lie.

And while your mask would crack one day and completely fall away, perhaps never to be worn again, that day wasn’t today. And whenever Undertaker spoke of this love lasting forever, in life and death and anything that came after, you wondered if that were true.

If there really was a way to make it last forever, would you even want it?

You were broken from your conflicting thoughts when Undertaker invited you to join him and the boys downstairs where you’d been denied so many times before. You knew all they did down there was play pool and drink and talk business more often than not— things that would bore you, no doubt— but you were just happy to be included rather than sent away, so you eagerly agreed as Undertaker stood and guided you by the hand to your least visited part of the house you’d come to call home.

And that night, as you watched all of them joke and laugh and drink like they were merely old friends and not killers or cons or conniving criminals, you thought that, at least for moments like these, the act you had to put up was worth it.

For this— to feel like you belonged somewhere, belonged to and with someone who loved you more than life itself— you could play your part. You could live this life and maybe even enjoy it without having to pretend. And, whatever was to follow, be it next week or next year or decades from now, even after death came to claim you, you could deal with that when it arrived.

Because you were happy.

However fleeting, right now, you were happy.

***

The snow in New York was less serene than how he remembered it in London, but no less picturesque. The way the colorful lights glowed through the frost and made the hustle and bustle of the city a little quieter, a little slower paced as the usually packed streets thinned out the more white that covered the ground…

Ron wished that you could have seen it.

As he gazed out his apartment window, delicate ice lining the edges of the pane like elegant froths of lace, he fantasized that one day you would.

He’d found a bartending job not long after his abrupt arrival last year. He’d been a fast learner, put his free time, of which then he’d had an abundance of, into honing his new craft. It had helped take his mind off of you when the regret started gnawing on his heart. That, and it ensured he’d get better tips at the end of the night to continue paying for the apartment he’d learned hadn’t come completely free past the first month.

But on nights like tonight, when he had off from the usual face-paced, high energy and social setting of his job, Ron liked to be alone. He liked to sit near the dim lamplight, a quiet playlist filling the space from the small speaker on the kitchen counter, and think about you. He liked to imagine what kind of dress you’d be wearing, thought of you giving a graceful twirl and letting out one of those adorable, angelic giggles as you did so. He also sometimes thought of undressing you, devouring the sight of your matching lingerie that, one day, would be for his eyes only.

He imagined just holding you, letting you fall asleep safe and sound in his arms, of himself dozing off as his head rested atop yours.

He imagined going through mundane, daily life with you— of cooking dinner together and folding laundry, making the bed and going for walks down your favorite market streets on sunny days, of people watching in Central Park while you pointed out all the dogs you thought were cute.

But, as he’d become accustomed to during his daydreams and fantasies, the good images and memories would soon become replaced by betrayal and bloodshed. Because, just like Undertaker, Ron intended to finish what he’d started.

There had scarcely been a day when Undertaker’s final words to him hadn’t rung out though his mind, the promise of a man who was so sure he’d been victorious only to have that promise rescinded into a threat.

“You have given me more than one cause to start a vendetta,” Undertaker had scorned. “So I’ll make sure to repay you for all the trouble in your afterlife tenfold.”

At the time, it had all sounded like a bunch of jumbled nonsense to Ron’s hazy brain, between the bleeding and the rain he wasn’t even sure he’d heard him right. But now Ron recognized those words for what they were, or rather, what he’d reforged them to be.

They were the driving force for his own revenge, the teeth gnashing at his heels and reminded him to run, run, run.

But not away from the danger. Oh no, not away.

Ron would throw himself to the wolves he’d once hunted with and reemerge as the hunter carrying their pelts. He would make them wonder if they’d ever had teeth at all the next time he flashed them a smile. And he’d make sure that you— lovely, lonely, lost little lamb that you were in their world— would never have to bow down to their tyranny again.

Because Ron had a vendetta of his own to settle. But for now, he allowed himself to watch the snow fall and imagine you already safe by his side.

***

(Wow. So that’s the end everybody. I don’t know what else to say besides I really hope you enjoyed it and are at least somewhat satisfied with the way things ended up.

Back when I was writing the first chapters over a year ago, I asked for some feedback on who people thought the reader should end up with— Undertaker or Ron?

I got sort of mixed reviews, but honestly back then even I wasn’t quite sure how this all would end. I guess you could call this ending “ambiguous”, but I’m satisfied with not strictly choosing one side or the other.

I do have one last prologue chapter that I’m going to be releasing sometime in the future of how Undertaker and Reader met, but after that, I’d say this series is probably done. Though maybe I’ll release short little tidbits of additional scenes/ideas if I get the inspiration.

Anyway, I just wanted to give one last big thank you for reading this series! It’s been quite the roller coaster for me in many ways, as well as oddly therapeutic in others. I already have my next Undertaker x Reader project in order too, so don’t worry, I’ll be writing for him again very soon.

Thank you so much again <3 See you next time!)

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dawn-moths · 2 years

Text

“The Final Nail in the Coffin” (PART I)

CHAPTER 6

Undertaker x Female Reader / Ron x Female Reader

word count: 22,000+

part 1 * part 2 * part 3 * part 4 * part 5 * part 6 * part 7

(A countryside vacation is the last bit of reprieve you get before the violence that’s surrounded you, from a safe distance up until now, begins to close in. Threats, jealousy, betrayal, and desperation turn from tiny flames into a blistering wildfire, consuming everything and everyone in its path, sooner or later. But when the inferno reaches you, will you have it in you to keep running, even as its flames lick at your heels and the heat becomes stifling? Or will you simply throw yourself into the blaze, realizing that no one can outrun death, even with a promise of eternity seeming more and more possible by the day?)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors DNI! (honestly there’s really no smut in this chapter but still including the prior warning just for the series as a whole) big plot time, reader’s drink is drugged, descriptions of violence, abusive/controlling/manipulative behavior, daddy kink, jealousy, cheating, descriptions of torture and violence, character death, welcome to the beginning of the big finale everyone.

*ao3 mirror*

***

The heat of the English summer was a honey sweet reprieve from the bitter winter that blanketed itself over the country during those long, cold, dark months. The skies were blue and cloudless out here in the countryside, though even when it did rain, it was cool and refreshing and you’d tried more than once to go running out into the sporadic downpours in your cute sundresses before Undertaker inevitably reminded you that you’d catch a cold if you did such a thing.

You’d pout, maybe even mutter an adorably pathetic, “Please, Daddy… Just for a little while?” before obeying his orders as one of his pale, scarred hands came down to rest gently on your fragile little shoulder and guide you further inside the quaint cottage, only then to distract and entertain you with other activities in which you’d have his full attention.

So you couldn’t really complain, could you?

Not when the mansion you’d come to call your home had brought you more paranoia than comfort ever since the incident, and you’d practically begged Undertaker to take you on some kind of getaway once the weather cleared up.

The countryside cottage was the perfect vacation. Sure, it wasn’t anywhere near as extravagant as a week in Paris in one of your favorite presidential suites, but in the grand scheme of things— and especially after you’d thought you were going to lose your love, lose your life— all that mattered was that it was just you and Undertaker.

No danger.

No fear.

Just the warm June breeze that combed through your hair during your afternoon picnics, your lover’s familiar touch lingering on your sunkissed skin as he stared into your eyes like you were the most beautiful and radiant thing in the entire world.

And you wished it could’ve been like this all the time, just you and him and the open, sprawling fields and sparkling lakes that painted the scenery around you. But for Undertaker, work never died. Only ever slept. And, these days, it didn’t take much to wake it.

The cottage was only a few hours from headquarters and, a few times, Undertaker had called upon one of his confidants— usually Grell, since he knew he was your favorite— to come and keep you company while he headed back to the city for half a day to attend to some more urgent matters. You didn’t mind though, because Undertaker always made the interruptions up to you with glittering gifts or more intimate favors that would have you unraveling underneath him within minutes.

You liked the countryside, you kept telling him, liked the quiet and the fresh air and the vast sky that seemed to surround you at every turn. You liked the calming walks through nature you two would take together arm in arm, you liked the dinners at the little dining room table, small enough that your ankles could intertwine underneath, and the evening boat rides on the lake where the sunset cast the clear water in a shimmering masterpiece of lavender and gold.

Undertaker would be lying if he said he didn’t like it too, liked seeing you adorned in pastel colors as you pranced around without a care in the world, liked seeing your eyes light up with glee as you pointed out a bird soaring far overhead and trying to guess what kind it was, liked when you smiled and laughed in that blissful way of yours, the sound like the jingle of delicate little bells.

One evening, during a particularly picturesque sunset, when the two of you were enjoying a home cooked dinner out on a picnic blanket overlooking the lake that was practically in the cottage’s backyard, Undertaker had been stealing giggle after innocently adorable giggle from you as he recounted a rare tale from his past, a mischievous story from his university days. While you kept on laughing, flopping onto your back as your enjoyment died down to a content sort of amusement, he just couldn’t help but stare at you, burning this image into his memory as if he thought it might be the very last time he would be graced with it.

It very well might’ve been, he was reminded as that night flashed through his mind once more. The night he almost lost you.

“How sad it would be…” he muttered, just barely loud enough for you to hear as he gently stroked his knuckles along the soft, smooth skin of your cheek, “Should your laughter vanish from this world…”

In response, you simply nuzzled into his touch, allowing his long, lithe fingers to weave into your hair, cradling your head before leaning down to lay across the picnic blanket beside you. He lulled you off to sleep with his gentle, loving ministrations, watching you through a calm, half-lidded gaze until your eyelids grew heavy and closed, long lashes fluttering a few times before giving up the fight to stay awake.

You knew you didn’t have to. He’d carry you back inside before returning to collect the things left from your picnic. After bringing everything inside, he’d tuck you in and curl back up beside you under the covers, keeping you close like he always did.

And you wished that your dreamworld could stay as calm as your waking one. It seemed like a waste, to be surrounded by such breathtaking serenity only to plunge back into the vicious, ugly nightmares the moment your head hit the plush pillows.

These nightmares weren’t like the other ones though.

They didn’t rouse you in the night, leaving you shivering and panting, clawing at Undertaker as he tried to convince you that you were ok, that you were safe, startling you back to reality when the terror that tortured you every night returned once more.

They were quiet. More docile. They’d make you toss and turn a few times, maybe utter a weak little whine as your brow gently furrowed, but not much more.

But, in that way, they were much worse, too.

In that way, they sunk their persistent fangs in deep and held you down, threatening to end you if you so much as moved, forcing you to submit night after night after night.

But when Undertaker asked how you’d slept, you’d force a smile and say through a yawn that you’d slept just fine.

Because you knew just as well as he did how that night had affected him.

You knew he still blamed himself.

And, honestly, deep down in a place you didn’t dare visit, maybe you still blamed him too.

***

“I was just thinking…” you began to ponder, one delicate, perfectly manicured little finger resting on your chin. “Wouldn’t it be nice to invite everyone up for a day together before summer ends?”

You were midway through your evening stroll, walking arm in arm with Undertaker and had simply been enjoying the comforting silence of the countryside and one another’s presence, until you’d decided to speak.

Undertaker’s slow, graceful stride came to a gradual halt near a break in the trees that gave view to the shimmering lake in the distance, sporadic pindot glows of fireflies hovering and reflecting over the surface of the still water. Your question remained unanswered.

“We could all go out for a picnic, maybe take the boat out, and then have a nice dinner together,” you continued, voice treading on a pleading whine, like you already knew your chances of getting your way this time were slim to none. “Don’t you think that’d be fun?”

Undertaker breathed out a long, even sigh through his nose and then looked down at you, pulling you a little closer to his side before responding with a tactfully apologetic, “You know I wish we could, but I’m afraid that the others are just too busy with work to spare a day.”

You were disappointed, of course, but knew better than to press. So you just hung your head as a sad smile trembled on your lips and said, “Oh, ok…”

“But you and I can still do those things,” he was quick to correct, rubbing a hand up and down your arm to try and reassure you. You gazed up at him with those pitiful puppy dog eyes that he was weak for. “Tomorrow,” he decided, beginning to stroll along the grassy path with you again. “We’ll pack all our favorites and take the boat to the tulip fields you like and spend the day there.”

“Will you bring that book we’ve been reading?” you then asked, seeming to brighten up a bit. You’d chosen one from the cottage’s little library at random one afternoon out of curiosity and, after just a few pages, been hooked. When Undertaker saw you with it, he’d made a remark that it used to be one of his favorites, back in his university days, and you’d then asked him if he’d read it to you. He’d unveiled a new chapter or two to you every day since then, and now you were nearing the thrilling finale.

“Yes, my love,” Undertaker grinned, smoothing out some stray strands of your hair the wind had pulled free. “We’ll finish it tomorrow, if you’d like?”

You nuzzled in closer to him as the cottage came back into sight, smiling genuinely now as you hummed with satisfaction and said, “I’d love that.”

So, while you wouldn’t have your dream outing with everyone— Undertaker and Grell and Ron and even Othello and Will— you’d still find a way to enjoy the remaining few weeks tucked away in your little slice of paradise here.

The spell cast over this place was a rather strong one, the way it made almost any and all problems disappear like loose petals on the breeze, but as you felt your phone buzz from inside your pocket, the illusion was temporarily shattered.

It was Ron.

It had to be.

He was the only one who’d been texting you regularly lately.

And you hadn’t seen him in weeks now. Months.

The only proof you even had that he still existed was the occasional “how ya doin pretty girl” or “missin you right now baby”, but those were just words on a screen, as far as you were concerned.

Even so, you’d still reply. You’d wait until you found a private— and rare— moment alone and respond with a quick but efficient, “i miss you too” before returning to Undertaker’s side and allowing him to carry you away to another leisurely adventure.

For Ron, it wasn’t enough either.

He wanted to hear your voice, to see your cute little face and touch your soft skin again.

He was tortured by your absence, and even more so by the fact that he knew you didn’t feel this kind of agony because you had someone ready to fulfill your every wish at your side every moment of every painstakingly long day.

But things were about to change. Ron could feel it, could practically smell it in the air, sort of like when a big storm is on its way.

The only thing he didn’t know yet was what, exactly, was crawling its way out of the dark to challenge him.

It could be any number of things, he knew.

He just hoped that, before the winds howled and the rain began to pour, he got to see you one final time.

***

Back in London, the summer weather was not so generous as it had proven to be in the countryside. It had been raining for a week, the air heavy with that gloomy, miserable weight that followed a storm, leaving everything damp and humid.

Grell, Ron, and Will had just finished up for the day and were heading out towards where their cars were parked in the reserved spaces, muttering bits of smalltalk concerning work just as an unfortunately familiar figure stepped into their line of sight.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Lau greeted with that dark grin of his, intentions unreadable as his hands remained clasped behind his back, hidden. “What a coincidence to see you all again.”

Ron and Grell stopped short and drew their weapons while William took an extra step forward to respond, currently defenseless but always ready to flick his own extendable weapon out from his sleeve and attack if things began to escalate.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Will warned, adjusting his glasses and furrowing his brows into a deeper scowl. “Enemies of the boss will be regarded as trespassers and disposed of accordingly.”

Lau chuckled to himself, taking a few lazy strides forward, still not showing his hands, and then began to look around, surveying this side of the building as he said, “You know, it really is a shame that your boss and I couldn’t enter into a deal after all that trouble, but I still wouldn’t consider him my enemy.” He flashed them a view of his eyes, the oil-slick kind of dark that reflected one’s terror right back at them if they met the gaze for too long. Lau’s eyes reminded Will of a shark’s, predatory and dangerous. “That would just be rude, don’t you think?”

Ron had never trusted this man, never liked him and wasn’t ever going to fall for any of his tricky words wrapped up in a pleasant tone. He was already on edge from several different sources up until this point, was just itching to pull the trigger, as if that would bring any relief to his frustration and anxiety, but he also knew that with Lau, things would never be that easy.

“Stay on your guard,” Ron whispered to Grell, who shot his colleague a side glance. “There’s probably others nearby.” Grell gave a short nod and inched up closer beside Will, Ron following suit.

“You should leave,” Will rephrased, his voice even tighter than usual, giving his wrist a slight flick to shift the collapsible polearm up his sleeve down into his palm. “I will not ask again.”

At this, Lau gave a dramatic sigh, hanging his head momentarily before peering back up at the group of men before him with a disappointment so innocent one might’ve actually believed it to be genuine, if not for who’d he’d proven himself to be in the past.

“So that’s how it is then…?” he asked, revealing one hand as he reached up to comb his fingers through his sleek, inky hair, the other still resting behind his back. “The three of you truly don’t realize your own value, do you?”

Grell and Ron exchanged looks and raised an eyebrow each. It was a quick and simple expression, but not one that Lau was keen to miss observing. “Skilled men are easy to come by, in this line of business,” Lau continued, casting his line one last time. “But loyal ones… Loyal ones are rare.”

“Give it a rest,” Ron finally cut in, no reservation in his annoyance with the time-wasting games Lau liked to play. “We could’ve shot you the moment you set foot in our territory. Will, here, already said he wasn’t gonna say it again…” He raised his gun and took aim at the Chinese man, his lip curling into a sneer. “The next thing you’ll hear outta us is the sound of our bullets firing into your body. Now get lost.”

Even with his life being threatened, Lau still found cause to smile. Because, similar to William, he also always had something up his sleeve, just not in the literal sense.

“I could make all of you richer than you could ever imagine,” promised Lau. “With me, you wouldn’t have to work nearly as hard as Undertaker forces you to. Because, unlike your boss, whether I’m on a job or not, the money is always there, always replenishing.” He shifted his stance, the arm behind his back relaxing a little. “That’s what marks a good trader,” he continued. “It’s like dominos. Once you line them up, it only takes one simple motion to make them fall.”

“You said before that you consider us loyal,” Will remarked. “Yet, if we betrayed Undertaker to join you, we’d cease to be as such.” He gave his wrist another, harder flick and his weapon extended to its full length, the sharp sheers at the end glinting under the streetlamp overhead. “For those who betray one master will surely do it to another, given the chance.”

No one moved.

No one spoke.

For a moment, it seemed as if no one so much as breathed.

But then Lau gave another one of those curt little chuckles of his and leeched some of the tension from the air before returning it ten fold with a low, cold reply of, “Shame…”

At first, Undertaker’s men were confused, expecting Lau to reveal a gun and start firing, but when the trader dropped both hands to fall to his sides and instead proved that he had been holding nothing at all, a new kind of tension and fear filled their lungs.

“Let’s just take ‘im out,” Ron urged quietly through clenched teeth, looking for either of his comrades to take the lead and give the go ahead, but as Will’s neck craned up towards the roof, Grell’s following, Ron finally caught on and took in the view himself.

Lining the rooftops were the silhouettes of at least thirty men, all of them aiming rifles down at the trio and awaiting the order to shoot them full of holes. Out from around the corner of the alley stepped at least ten more men, also wielding an assortment of firearms.

“I’ll only extend this offer one last time,” Lau added, smirking like the devil and now taking slow, even steps backward as he extended his arms, the final invitation to join him or die. “I promise you won’t see me again after this if you turn me down.”

“Shit, what do we do?” Grell hissed, scanning the surrounding area for any signs of escape. But Lau had them cornered. Caged. This was an ultimatum and no amount of clever comments or sly sleight of hand was going to get them out of it.

“Besides,” Lau went on, still making steady progress on putting a distance between him and the group of Undertaker’s men. “I think you’d find the weather much more pleasant in Shanghai than in this miserable little hole of a country.”

“That’s it!” Ron raised his gun and pulled the trigger, but Will intervened and pulled his wrist, causing the bullet to miss and for Ron to flash his colleague a feral and perplexed look. “What the fuck was that for?!” he’d tried to say, but was cut off by Will tackling both him and Grell to the concrete as a hundred bullets came raining down on them.

It was complete chaos as the trio scrambled towards any form of cover they could find, sparks flying as ammunition struck steel and concrete, glass shattering from the first floor windows of headquarters.

“Those bastards!” Ron growled, trying to find an opening to poke his head out and take a few shots, but the bullets just kept coming.

“Do we run?!” Grell questioned with panic. But then the constant stream of noise ceased just long enough for them to recognize the pause of a reload, allowing them the chance they needed to make their escape.

Which is what they probably would’ve done if they worked for anyone else. But these were the underlings of the Black Reaper. Their boss didn’t run from danger and neither did they, despite the odds.

Ron was the first to start dashing towards the men on the ground, taking three of them out before Grell and Will caught up, finishing the rest of them off. They’d have to call for backup if they wanted to get rid of their rooftop enemies, but with all the blood painting the bricks and the adrenaline coursing through their veins, the snipers were temporarily forgotten.

As soon as the next round of shots came whizzing towards them, Grell took aim with his dagger and launched the blade upward, nailing one of the gunmen in the eye before scurrying his way up the fire escape to retrieve his prized knife and do some more damage. Will and Ron could hear their red-headed comrade’s cruel cackle echoing across the rooftops, also hurrying up to assist.

William’s retractable weapon made for good long range combat, and Ron’s pistol filled in the gaps to keep watch of the other two’s backs. By the time nearly ten more of Lau’s men were dead, someone among the living called out a word in Chinese that could only mean retreat, the remaining survivors following the order and falling back until the roof only beheld the victors and the dead left behind.

The three of them just stood there for a while after that, still on guard as they scanned their surroundings for any more signs of danger, and only felt they could relax once several minutes had passed without incident.

“Shit…” Ron sighed, still catching his breath as he wiped a smudge of enemy blood from his glasses. “What is wrong with that guy?”

“If the boss had been here he would’ve never!” Grell exclaimed dramatically, swishing some carnage-damp strands of hair from his face and extracting his dagger from where it had embedded itself in the throat of one of the dead. “I swear, I’m getting really tired of that Lau fellow’s games!”

“I suppose we should report this to the boss,” William calmly suggested, though through his own bout of shallow panting. He pulled his cellphone out from his trouser pocket and began to scroll through his contacts until Undertaker’s number came into view.

“God…” Ron heaved, leaning against a pole and squeezing his eyes shut before blinking rapidly a few times.

He couldn’t believe how many chances he’d gotten to cheat death. With his track record, anyone else would be six feet under. But I suppose that’s part of my curse, he thought with scorn. So long as I’m in a contract with the devil, I won’t earn the peace of death until he decides he’s done with me.

He forced himself back upright and then concluded with a rather disgruntled, “Where is everybody else, huh? Didn’t they hear the gunshots?!”

But then, as if in reply to his question, a voice from below shouted, “Hey!”

All three heads popped over the side of the roof to see Othello staring up and looking annoyed, as if all the racket had distracted him from whatever weird little science experiment he’d been tinkering away with in the basement. “Are you guys ok?! What happened?!”

“Ambush!” Ron called down. “It was that Chinese trader again!”

Othello puffed out an incredulous sigh and muttered something passive-aggressive before calling back up to his comrades, “Stay there! I’m coming up!”

Once on the roof, the scientist surveyed the damage, his irritation turning to intrigue as he counted the number of bodies scattered about, not having missed the ones littering the ground below them as well.

“Jesus…” he exhaled, adjusting his glasses and raising his eyebrows. “You three certainly got lucky. Just how did you manage to take this many of them out?” Will explained that there had been double this amount, but they’d retreated, Grell and Ron adding a few additional comments here and there as the little scientist just nodded along, unable to take his eyes off the fresh corpses.

“Think they’ll come back?” Othello asked next, squatting down to examine one of the dead a little closer, studying the way his eyes were already devoid of light.

“If they do,” Ron huffed, reloading his pistol out of habit, the cold metallic click echoing over the rooftop, “then they can join their friends.”

“They won’t be back,” Will concluded. All three of his colleagues turned their heads in unison to look at him. “Lau is done with us,” he elaborated. “He said so himself. I don’t think he cares either way if we live or die anymore. He knows our boss is done with him too. As far as we’re concerned, that was just an unnecessarily aggressive farewell.”

“It would’ve killed him to send a letter like a normal person, wouldn’t it?” Grell muttered to himself.

Then, as Will, Grell, and Ron all seemed more than ready to head down from the roof and return to headquarters to discuss plans further, maybe wash the blood from their faces, Othello suddenly stopped them.

“Wait,” he said. “I can use these. Help me throw them down.”

“What? From the roof?!” Grell inquired with eyebrows raised. William rolled his eyes but didn’t hesitate to assist, Grell soon following his lead and helping carry each corpse to the ledge before pushing from off the side, a sickening crunch following a few seconds later when the bones broke on the concrete below. Ron, however, just stood and watched them with some form of morbid fascination before snapping out of his trance, one of Othello’s hands finding his shoulder.

“It’ll be any day now…” the scientist spoke, staring out at the other two doing his bidding, almost as if he wasn’t aware he’d just voiced his thoughts out loud.

Ron’s stare widened a fraction, a new kind of horror swimming through his green eyes. “What…?” he asked, feeling his stomach drop with an unknown dread, though, if he really thought hard enough about it, he’d be able to decode the vague declaration.

“Nothing, nothing…” Othello replied, patting Ron’s shoulder twice before starting towards another corpse. He grabbed the arms before looking back over at Ron expectantly. “Come on,” he beckoned. “I can’t lift it myself.”

Ron felt an icy shiver race down his spine, his skin rising with goosebumps as he swallowed his hesitations, pacing over stiffly to assist the scientist.

It’ll be any day now…

Ron just hoped that he still had time to get to you before then.

***

You and Undertaker had decided to head back to London a few weeks earlier than originally expected after the news of the ambush had been relayed to him. When you’d asked him why, whining and pouting about the fact that your private little vacation was being cut short, he hadn’t fed you a lie like you’d become accustomed to swallowing down so easily in the past.

This time, after everything that had happened with him almost dying and you almost getting kidnapped, he told you the truth.

Sure, it was still vague and didn’t consist of much information— not that you needed or even wanted to hear the gorey details— but you knew that a previous ex-potential ally had taken it upon himself to deploy a troop of his men to Undertaker’s headquarters where there had been a rather brutal fire-fight.

And while Undertaker’s company had somehow survived the ordeal more or less unscathed, many of their enemies had not.

“But don’t worry, my love,” he’d assured you, pale fingers stroking through your hair languidly, “Grell and Will and Othello are all fine…”

He sounded tired— looked exhausted— but that was a more welcome departure from the tightly-wound up ball of stress he’d been when he’d first received the news.

However, something about his affirmation caused you to freeze under his touch.

“What about Ron…?” you cautiously asked, stare slowly traveling from the TV across the room where you two had been watching some 60s spy flick up to meet his glowing emerald gaze, which was still stuck on the car chase scene playing quietly.

You saw his jaw tense, felt his fingers cease their gentle stroking in your hair, and tried to swallow down the fearful anticipation that had just spiked through you.

Undertaker shot a glare your way, only his eyes moving as his face and body remained still as a statue. In a dark, harsh tone that you weren’t very accustomed to hearing directed at you, he asked with suspicion, “Why?”

“W-well because…” you stammered, trying to shift from where you’d been laying against his side to put some distance between you two, but his stiff body locked you against him like a cage. You swallowed again, trying not to cry as you felt the uncomfortable sting of oncoming tears prickle in the back of your nose. “I-I just— you didn’t name him and I was just worried that—”

You gasped and instinctively pulled your arms into your chest, hands guarding your face as he quickly shifted to lean sideways against the couch, still staring you down like the worst was on its way.

“Why…” Undertaker pressed, raising one of his pale, white eyebrows, the gesture here and then gone under the light like a ghost, “would it matter if something happened to him or not?” He leaned in closer, making you flinch back, tears beginning to well on your lash line like glittering diamonds about to fall. “What is he to you?” he went on, chartreuse glare glowering monstrously and causing you to tremble under the intensity of it. “Why do you care so much?”

You stared at him wide-eyed and terrified from between your fingers, manicured hands going numb over your face like all the blood had just rushed out of them.

“I… I just—”

You gasped again, sharper this time, as he reached forward and grabbed your face in his hand, your cheeks squishing together between his long, spindly grasp, causing you to emit a small squeak of pain as your diamonds finally came raining down.

“Do you have any idea…” he threatened ominously, narrowing his glare and speaking in a low, murmuring voice, almost a whisper, “what would become of you if you ever—” He punctuated the word through gritted teeth, his grip on your jaw flexing for a moment and making another sob hitch in your chest. “—were unfaithful to me?” He paused, as if awaiting a response from you, but you could only whine and wince and breathe out shaky pleas of “I won’t— I would never— Please— Promise— Ow— I won’t—” until he gave you a quick shake and repeated with a raise of his voice, “Do you?!”

“Gnh— Please—!” you sputtered with another flinch, tears making the back of your throat mucusy with thick saliva. “Please, I won’t, I won’t, I wouldn’t— Please, you’re hurting me—!”

Your weak, shaking hands were wrapped around his wrist, trying and failing to pull free as you began to fear that perhaps this was the end. The end of what, you did not know— your relationship, your trust, your life— but it was bringing you back to your most traumatic night, causing your heart to hammer rapid-fire against your ribcage and a cold sweat to break out on your skin.

And it was only when you began to rake your nails against his scarred wrist that Undertaker snapped out of it, blinking a few times as his grip loosened, allowing you to slide free and recoil as you fell back against the opposite arm of the couch, coughing and sobbing and clutching your arms around yourself as you shook with the violent fears that wracked through your frail being.

Now it was his turn to bestow a wide-eyed gaze upon you, his own kind of terror racing through his veins. Then, ever so carefully, slowly, as if trying to soothe a wounded animal, he began to reach out for you, his cold hands trembling ever so slightly as well.

“D-darling, I—” He stopped short when you retracted further from him, shooting him a look that he’d rarely, if ever, seen painted across your face. Now your eyes were the ones full of hate, full of threats. Threats to leave him, he figured, and he swallowed thickly at the thought. He pulled his hand back, giving you some more space and allowing you to return on your own. Hoping you’d be willing to migrate back against his side if he hadn’t just ruined everything.

But you’d become much more defiant than you once were. Instead of drifting back under his arm after he’d hurt you, accepting another apology while fresh bruises bloomed over your skin, you bared your teeth, flashed a scowl, screaming through the tears as your bloodshot eyes opened wide and dangerous, “Ever since coming to live with you they’ve been my only friends! I’ve only had them when you’re not around! And you wanna know why—?!”

You were leaning in closer now, but not out of being drawn back into his comfort.

You were wild. Feral. Enraged. The pretty, doll-like disguise that you’d kept up this entire time shattering like porcelain thrown to the floor as everything you’d been holding back— all the past grudges, annoyances, and bitterness— came spilling out, flooding the room of the vacation cottage.

“It’s because all my other friends and family practically cut me off once they found out I was dating you— dating someone like you— and I didn’t care because I knew that they were just jealous, or thought that they knew what was better for me than I did! And I—” You grabbed up one of the pillows and chucked it his way, feeling a small amount of satisfaction as it struck him, even though he raised his arms up to block the object. “I loved you! I loved you so I didn’t care that I was losing them! And I thought you loved me too! But when you take away the only other relationships I have left, how is that supposed to make me feel?!”

You stood your ground, staring him down with a deep, foreign kind of fury. An emotion almost lost to you, almost beaten into submission and then locked away forever, left to wither and rot to nothing but dust inside of you until you were a perfect, stupid little girl who couldn’t even conjure the definition of resentment.

“I feel like I barely even see them anymore!” you continued then, some of your rage simmering, yet the heat of your anger ready to boil back over at a moment’s notice. “Grell and Ron especially! They were my friends! They took me places and had fun with me and actually listened when I talked to them— actually cared!”

You saw the hurt cross Undertaker’s eyes, the knife you’d already stuck in his chest twisting a bit at that accusation.

“So stop trying to make me feel bad for having more than one person I care about! ‘Cause I’m allowed to do that! Whether you like it or not, there’s not just me and you— there’s me and all the other people who’ve come into my new life since I left my old one, and if I’m not allowed to cherish each of them in their own way, then maybe I don’t want any of them at all!”

You searched Undertaker’s face for any signs of a dangerous reaction, a threatening response, but only found the tight-jawed, squinted eyed, worried scowl of regret pulling at his features from across the couch.

“My love, please, I am so, truly sorry, I—” he began, his voice low and even, stern yet somehow still sincere. He was fighting to control his temper, sure, but what he needed to convey more importantly to you now was that his previous actions weren’t as personal as they might’ve initially seemed.

Manipulate, a little voice in the back of your head rasped, he’s trying to manipulate you.

“Things are getting far more complicated than any of us had ever intended,” he admitted through a sigh, so good at playing the victim despite rarely ever being one. “I understand your frustrations, I do… But please just try to be patient and know that, once the worst of this blows over, you’ll see your friends more often. I swear to you…” He slowly reached forward again, testing the waters to see if you’d let him place a hand on your knee. You flinched, but didn’t move away as his cold touch found your warm skin. “Everything will be alright, in the end.”

You looked down at his big hand, where it enveloped your knee, his thumb lightly stroking against your leg.

You wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that everything really would be alright, though you wished the end would hurry up and come already. Not to mention that, if things hadn’t yet reached their worst, then what other atrocities could possibly be approaching on the horizon?

“I’m so sorry, my love,” he apologized again, a nervous smirk pulling at his lips. “Please, won’t you forgive me?”

You placed your hand over his, slowly taking it into your own grasp and turning it over, studying the lines and creases that ran along his palm. Maybe if you stared hard enough, you’d be able to sort out the lies from the truths, like fortune tellers did. Though you weren’t very well versed in divinity, the one thing you knew for certain was that the stars only seemed to want to test you lately, glittering from high up above as you suffered far down below.

And, as for Undertaker’s apology, words were just words. They couldn’t cover up or undo the marks that had been physically left. Couldn’t erase or cure the nightmares and memories left behind by all the trauma.

“Every night…” you muttered, so quiet that the movie still playing in the background nearly drowned out the sound of you. “Every night, I see it in my dreams… Sometimes it’s their faces, sometimes it’s you and the boys…” You shuffled a little closer to him, your legs tucked under you now, eyes still glued to Undertaker’s hand, your fingers lightly tracing along one of his scars. “And every time it always ends the same…” You felt yourself tearing up again, chewing on the inside of your cheek as if that would make it stop. “I’m always caught, always dragged away…” You sniffled, your touch traveling up to his wrist to trace along the shadow of a deeper injury. “I’m always locked away somewhere dark and deep and…” I know that I’ll never see the light of day again.

Undertaker had done enough terrible things to enough people, both innocent and well-deserving of his punishment, throughout his life to have the boulder of guilt weighing on his back crush anyone else under the force, tear their skin and grind their bones down to dust.

But he’d never been one to feel much remorse, simply decided to look at the weight that was left after every pull of the trigger or slash of a blade, considering it with a minor curiosity, then turned his back and left it there for someone else to carry.

When it came to you, however, he’d never abandoned that weight.

He’d set it down sometimes, given himself a rest late at night after he’d fucked you good and watched you fall asleep, or when you were gifting him one of your precious smiles before the backdrop of some luxurious foreign city, but he always picked it back up, sooner or later.

Every time he did, the combined pressure returned to him slowly, easing back into his blood and brain like a lazy drip of some risky drug. At first, he always thought he could take it, that he knew his limits and could handle the consequences. But by the time another piece, pebble, or rock got added onto that already massive boulder, Undertaker swore that he couldn’t carry any more. That this would have to be it or he’d give in to the urge to just fall and let it crush him. Crush you both.

Maybe it’s time to let it roll down the hill, he’d tell himself sometimes, when his thoughts began to swim and jumble in his head, let it drop from the cliff and sink into the sea. But no matter how close he got to the edge, to the end of carrying such a mammoth guilt, he set it back down again, the feeling of how heavy it was being forgotten for just long enough to reset the cycle.

“Trust me, darling…” he assured you after you were once again cradled in his arms, soft sobs hitching in your chest as you tried to blink the trauma from your vision. “You and I will always be alright… We’ll always be together, no matter what.”

“You keep saying that…” you whimpered, snuggling in closer to him and making part of yourself feel kind of sick for it. “But what does that even mean?”

When you looked up, you found him already staring down at you, a new seriousness to his careful eyes. It made a haunting kind of coolness wash over your body, the familiar prediction that something wasn’t right glimmering in his gaze. The long silence that followed wasn’t much assurance either. But when he explained that he had a plan in place to ensure that you’d always be protected, no matter what happened to him, the concept didn’t make you feel any better.

“Death shall never touch you…” he said, an almost dream-like quality to his gaze now, softer and more loving, but also slightly possessive as he gently wiped away your remaining tears with his thumb, “For I am the reaper, and I’ve taken it upon myself to collect the souls of anyone who means you harm.”

Before you could even so much as think about what had just been said, the sheer obscurity if not insanity of it all not given enough time to sink in, Undertaker announced that he’d make you both some tea to calm your nerves and help you sleep.

You sat on the couch, alone with only the quiet sound of the movie credits playing to accompany you, as so many thoughts and emotions surged through you yet not enough energy to just reach out and grab one.

But at least your dreams weren’t plagued by nightmares this time. Undertaker had taken it upon himself to dose your cup with a sleeping agent— a strong one— so that you’d both get what you desperately needed.

For you, it was the chance to rest and reset. For him, the opportunity to buy some time to deal with business without any risks or distractions.

Even as your limbs grew heavy along with your eyelids mere minutes after consuming your cup of tea, you didn’t suspect any foul play. You simply figured that the earlier outburst had taken more out of you than you’d expected, and after all that crying it wasn’t unusual for you to want to take a nap.

Once you were out, Undertaker carried you into the bedroom, changed you into some more comfortable clothes, and tucked you into bed.

The silence was here at last, and he sat on the back porch, enjoying the serenity that he knew would be short-lived in his chaotic world of carnage and corpses.

Face up to the sky, eyes closed, Undertaker refocused himself by counting his long, deep inhales and slow, steady exhales, starting in counts of eight, then four, then two, then back up the chain and repeated until his mind felt clear and at ease.

When he opened his eyes he saw the dark storm clouds concealed under the cover of the navy night, all the stars swallowed up by the distant fog.

Just like the rain building in those great big plumes of grey, Undertaker knew that something in his life was soon to fall. It would touch everything under it when it did, soaking down to the bone and leaving a violent chill in its wake.

But he had an umbrella— one only big enough for himself and his baby to seek refuge under until the hurricane passed.

The only thing he didn’t know yet was if he was already in the eye of the storm, or if it had long since passed and the second half was raging back at home.

Undertaker pulled out his phone and dialed Othello, waiting through three rings until he answered. Before the scientist could even say hello, the boss cut in with a single demand.

“Have it ready by the time we get back,” he stated, calm and matter of fact.

Othello sounded unsure, trying to explain that you couldn’t put a deadline on something like this, but Undertaker wasn’t hearing it.

“Have results ready within the next two weeks,” he compromised, if the order could be considered as such. “We’re coming back early. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

He ended the call, not caring to hear any more excuses from anyone that night.

Meanwhile, Othello surveyed the line of Lau’s men— all the dead ones they could fit in the lab, at least— with a weary kind of concentration.

He sighed to himself, adjusted his glasses, opened to a fresh page on his notepad, and got to work.

***

The countryside cottage and the demons that had been born and beheaded within it felt like the distant past after being back at the familiar onyx and marble mansion on the outskirts of London.

It had been nearly a month since you’d feared things between you and Undertaker would come crashing down to a violent end. A month since that ominous promise. A month since your first night without being hunted down by bad dreams.

You were relieved that, for the most part, the nightmares had stopped. They’d sporadically reappear once in a while, but never play all the way through like they once had. They were choppy. Broken pieces fragmented in quick flashes that you usually forgot by the time you were startled awake. You just hoped you could keep the shards from getting too close together, rearranging into a sharp mosaic that presented itself even more horrific than before the full picture had shattered.

But these days, you had bigger things to worry about than bad dreams and fading memories. Because, while you didn’t know the full extent of what was going on in the Aurora Society, you did have an inkling that it was somehow going to involve you, whether you wanted it to or not.

“I’ll just be in my office, darling,” Undertaker informed you after mentioning that he needed to make some important business phone calls. You two were supposed to go to the movies tonight so you hoped he wouldn’t be too long. You hated when your preferred row was filled up when you arrived late. “Why don’t you go treat yourself to another one of your desserts,” he added on with a smirk, hoping to pull the pout from your face. “I’ll only be a moment.”

You beamed and went skipping for the fridge, swinging open the wide, stainless steel doors and gazing upon the top shelf where your row of desserts awaited to be chosen from— everything from creme brulee to chocolate cheesecake, tiramisu and panna cotta. You had an assortment of gelato flavors available in the pullout freezer below as well. Choices, choices…

But then something occurred to you, causing you to stop short and reassess how you wanted to use this rare moment left to your own devices.

Something felt… off.

You peered over your shoulder, finding the open floor plan of the mansion’s entrance hall vacant, yet still got the sense that there were emerald eyes tracking your every movement.

Undertaker had wanted to distract you, hadn’t he?

He’d wanted to lure you towards your beloved sweets to keep you busy while he talked over the confidential details he didn’t want you to hear.

So, forsaking your tempting treats, you carefully tiptoed upstairs and slinked down the hall that led to Undertaker’s office, finding the door cracked the slightest sliver. You kept your back pressed to the wall, practically holding your breath as you listened in.

“And were you able to use any of them?” Undertaker asked. The voice on the other line played aloud, the phone on speaker.

With anyone else in the house, Undertaker would’ve never risked being overheard like that. But you weren’t a threat— not to him, at least— so he’d let his guard down.

“Oh, they worked alright!” the jittery, excited tone that you knew could only belong to the Aurora Society’s mad scientist chattered. Othello spoke fast, both terrified and elated to relay his most recent discoveries and experiments to the boss. “I think I’ve finally done it!” he declared, and then you heard the clattering of metal objects falling to a tiled floor, the scientist swearing under his breath and then letting out a stifled groan as he bent down to pick them up.

“So it was the blood after all?” Undertaker deduced.

“Once they were given the right type, they remained fully coherent,” Othello clarified. “Well, until I had to kill them again.” You tensed, hearing him admit to murder so casually shocking you, even after everything you’d been through, everything you knew. “But I kept two of them for further observation. I might have to remove their vocal chords though. Their screaming is starting to get on my nerves…”

“Do what you have to…” Undertaker sighed, sounding bored, not caring that he was referring to living, breathing humans. Well, the living part was still up for debate, but…

“You should really get down here and see it for yourself sometime soon though,” Othello invited, tone encouraging. “They really are something.”

Undertaker fell silent, then muttered to himself how you weren’t going to be happy your movie night was going to be so suddenly canceled, but business came first. He instructed Othello to have William sent over to the mansion, accepting the proposal, saying he’d be there soon, then hung up the phone. You were turning the corner at the other end of the hall and creeping back down to the kitchen by the time he stood from his chair and paced to the window, gazing out at the barren countryside, lost in thought.

You were shaking when you reached the bottom of the staircase, unsure of what to think or what to do after overhearing that. While you didn’t know exactly what they’d been talking about, you couldn’t squash the feeling that it all looped back to those haunting assurances you kept hearing lately, the ones about how Undertaker had a way to ensure your safety, your survival, no matter what.

In an act of quick thinking, you pulled open the freezer and grabbed one of your gelatos, unscrewing the tight lid after a little struggle and rushing over to the living room couch with your favorite spoon in hand. You scarfed down the first few bites, despite feeling sick to your stomach. When you heard Undertaker’s even footsteps lightly tapping nearer to you, you slowed down, closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath before opening them and forcing a sweet smile when he appeared in front of you.

“Ah, I had a feeling you’d choose that one,” Undertaker remarked, sinking down onto the couch next to you and pulling you into his side, running his long, pale fingers through your hair.

“H-how did you know?” you asked, cursing yourself for the way your voice shook.

“Because I know you, princess,” he said, giving you a half-lidded gaze and a calm smile before his pleasant expression dropped. “But perhaps you should stop.” He plucked the glass jar from your fingers, which had gone cold, and set the gelato aside, pulling you closer to lay across his chest as he rubbed a palm up and down your shoulders and arms. “You’re shivering.”

“Oh…” You let out a shy giggle. “I guess I didn’t notice…”

Undertaker pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around you, keeping you cuddled up to him until he felt you’d warmed up enough.

In your mind, you were lucky to have conjured such a smart plan in such a frantic moment.

At least you had a valid excuse for your fearful quivering.

“Now, I know you’re not going to like this, sweetheart,” he began. You already knew what he was going to say and had to remind yourself to at least put up a little bit of a fight, whine and pout and give a weak protest. “But I’m afraid we’re going to have to postpone the movie. There’s some urgent business back at headquarters I need to attend to immediately.”

Right on cue, your lips pulled down into a frown, eyebrows knit in a sad kind of worry as you squeaked out a timid, “Do you reeeaaaaally have to go…?”

At this, Undertaker smiled, replying with a disappointed but decided, “I’m afraid I do. But I promise I’ll make it up to you soon, sweetheart.”

You continued to sulk as he informed you Will was on his way, saying he’d be back before bedtime and maybe, if you weren’t too tired, the two of you could watch a movie in bed together.

Then it was your turn to give a little smile, though the softness was insincere, the gentle joy fabricated as you agreed to his compromise.

Undertaker kissed you on the forehead, reminded you to be a good girl, and plucked your dessert back up, holding it between the two of you. “I’ll let you have this back, but only if you promise to eat it slowly.”

You nodded, reaching for it. “I promise, Daddy.”

Once the jar was back in your hands, Undertaker wrapped you in another blanket, keeping an arm around you until William arrived.

And as you ate your ice cream and flicked through the channels with William’s stone cold silence seated at the opposite end of the couch, you realized you’d never been so grateful for canceled plans in your life.

***

The vibrant blues and greens of the summer had faded to the bright yellows, oranges, and reds of autumn, seasons seeming to pass by quicker and quicker every year.

And with those passing years, you were aging. So was Undertaker. So were everyone you knew, slowly but surely inching closer to death every day, every moment.

With your increasing years, however, especially the ones spent with Undertaker, you’d become quite the little actress, using your feminine charms and innocent facades to trick even the smartest and most dangerous of predators into thinking you were prey.

Because Undertaker hadn’t even the slightest inclination that, for weeks now, you’d been onto him. That you’d even taken it upon yourself to search for information all on your own, scouring the internet for any and every tidbit on people being revived from the dead, especially via blood transfusions, that you could find. Sure, there was the chance of him tracking your search history, but you highly doubted he’d find it necessary to go that far.

Because you hadn’t given him a reason to worry, to suspect, to distrust his perfect little princess.

All the while, you’d continued to prance around in your short, expensive little dresses, joyous laughter ringing out through the vast halls during the day and high-pitched, pleasured moans during the night.

You’d been a good girl and let him fuck you for as hard and as long as he wanted, luckily still being able to enjoy that act, though now with an underlying motive— keep him content and thinking he had the upper hand until you could crack the code and decide what to do.

There were also times, of course, where you forgot about this little game you’d started playing. Times when the two of you would be laying together late at night drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms or relaxing in the warm water of a shared bath, watching your favorite movies or eating at your favorite restaurants. Things that reminded you of the old times when everything felt so much simpler.

But today, sprawled out across the couch and laying in his lap, loosely braiding the ends of his long, silvery hair while he read a book, you were fully alert, fully aware of just how serene you seemed, keeping your eyes at half-mast, fluttering them shut occasionally to feign sleepiness.

When your gentle little fingers stopped playing with his hair and your hand came to rest across your belly, Undertaker glanced down at you from his reading, adjusting his glasses (which you only saw him wear when taking up a book with particularly small font) and asking as his gaze returned to the page, “Tired, sweetheart?”

You nodded, turning onto your side and snuggling up further into his lap, letting out a long exhale as you sighed through your nose.

Undertaker marked where he’d left off and closed his book, setting it aside to give you his full attention. All the while, to stay focused, you kept track of the seconds ticking by on the wall clock, using counts of eight to steady your heartbeat and breathing.

“Do you want me to bring you upstairs?” he asked next, smoothing his palms over your side to rest on your hip, fixing where your dress had been ruffled awkwardly upon your shifting.

Now you shook your head, pulling your hands into your chest and muttering out a cute little, “Wanna stay with you…”

Undertaker smiled, eyes softening a bit as he removed his glasses and set them atop his book on the side table. You had to play your cards right. Act just defiant enough to make him think sending you upstairs was his idea, yet not so much so that you were deemed a brat and dealt a light punishment for becoming difficult.

“Well it’s too late to take a nap, darling,” Undertaker reminded you through a breathy chuckle, voice low and even. “You know that. If you’re bored we can—”

“I’m hungry,” you cut in, nuzzling further against his knee. “What’s for dinner tonight?”

Undertaker hesitated a moment, though you weren’t sure if it was out of thinking or containing his irritation at being interrupted. Then he said, “What would you like for dinner?”

Now it was your turn to think, or at least pretend to. In truth, you’d already had an answer prepared.

“Can you make me something?”

Undertaker’s calm, easygoing grin returned. “Of course I can. But…” he ran his fingers through your hair, adjusting the stray strands to lay perfectly just like your dress, “is there anything specific you would like, or is it dealer’s choice?”

A soft, tired chuckle hummed in your throat. “You pick,” you said. “I want it to be a surprise…”

Undertaker could feel your body weighing heavier against him by the second, sleep sagging your limbs down as a cloudy haze fogged your mind. “You’ll wait upstairs while I’m cooking,” he informed you, lifting you off of him so he could stand, only to regather your little form in his arms and begin carrying you towards the staircase, “No falling asleep though. I mean it. Only resting.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Do you understand?”

You gave another adorable, sleepy little nod, humming out a lilting, “mm-hmm…”, all the while thinking to yourself how your plan was falling perfectly into place.

So, after Undertaker had brought you to the bedroom and tucked you under a few blankets, promising to have dinner ready for you soon, you counted to one hundred and then carefully emerged from the room, checking to make sure the coast was clear before sneaking back down the hallway towards his office.

This might be the only chance you got to search for clues, snooping through the papers and folders and meticulously organized documents for the answers you still weren’t sure you wanted to find or not.

Before the attempted kidnapping made upon you, you could’ve probably spent an hour or two hidden behind the big mahogany desk in Undertaker’s home office shifting through papers while one of your body guards scrolled idly through their phone or dozed off to a movie downstairs, none the wiser that the boss’s perfect, well-behaved little princess was up to no good right above their heads.

But these days, even when William (who had paid the least attention to you back in the day) was on babysitting duty, the eyes of your guard never left you. They had to know where you were at all times.

And, when Undertaker was home, the surveillance was even more severe. He insisted on keeping you close— nearly glued to his side— except in, say, a situation where he thought it better to be doing something in a different location than you were in, like cooking his baby girl one of her favorite homemade dishes for dinner.

You had to be quick, move swiftly, and stay mindful of the time.

If you could find what you were looking for in under an hour, you’d probably still be in the clear. Any more than that and you risked being discovered.

So you got right to work, carefully closing the heavy door with a soft click, turning the handle to pull back the locking mechanism and padding across the polished flooring of the room to the expensive imported rug, rows and rows of shelves— some with little glass doors shielding their contents from dust and the like— beckoning you to search them.

You didn’t bother with the books, knew most of them were just for show anyway, so you went right for the drawers and cabinets, giving each one a testing tug and finding yourself surprised to find a majority of them actually unlocked.

But what was inside provided less than a victory, much to your dismay and frustration.

The drawers had presented a plethora of manila envelopes and carefully coordinated binders, sure, but as you flipped them open to scan the contents, they usually turned out to be old Aurora Society orders or contracts— some in foreign languages— and, inside one folder that you wish you could unsee, a series of polaroid pictures with faded images of what you could only assume were the tortured remains of Undertaker’s enemies, blood and gore running down the men’s faces and bodies, pooling around them on the concrete floor and staining everything in sight.

You felt your heart drop at one photo in particular.

Grell, your favorite bodyguard, was beaming a great big, sharp-toothed grin in the foreground, seemingly taking a selfie with a fresh corpse that was cut up and slashed beyond recognition behind him. His handiwork, no doubt, by the prideful glint in his wild eyes.

You felt sick again, but in a way that bred fury, not fear.

But you weren’t angry with Grell.

You were angry with Undertaker.

Because it was him that had caused the people you’d come to know as friends to turn into such vicious monsters. It was his fault that they were forced to continue on with the carnage.

At least, that’s what you were convincing yourself of.

If you put the blame on everybody, then who would you possibly have to go back to once all was said and done?

No one, that cruel voice hissed in the back of your mind. You’ll have nothing.

Placing everything back just the way you’d found it, you continued the search, keeping an eye on the clock as you came up with more dead ends or confusing, coded messages.

By the time the hour was almost up, you were feeling defeated, growing increasingly irked at the lack of results such a risky plan was yielding. You could smell dinner now, the aroma of your favorite soup and warm bread wafting up from the downstairs kitchen. You shifted into double time, borderline rummaging through the drawers you hadn’t tried to open yet.

You were so frantic that you almost missed it when you pulled on a drawer lining the side of his desk that didn’t budge, trembling hand already halfway to sliding the one underneath it open. You doubled back, giving the unruly drawer a harder tug, thinking maybe it was just stuck, but upon your second, third, and even forth pull, you realized it was indeed locked.

You knew in that instant that, whatever was in there, it was exactly what you’d been looking for.

But you needed a way to open it, the silver keyhole taunting you as it gleamed under the last light of day that shone through the windows.

If I wanted to hide something from myself, where would I put it?

Only, it wasn’t specifically you that Undertaker was trying to keep out. It was just any prying eyes in general.

You looked around the office, scanning the painting on the wall, flicking again to the clock and gaining another wave of panic washing cold through your blood, the flower vase, the light fixtures, overhead chandelier— anything that could hide something small like a key in plain sight until…

You turned your gaze back towards the bookcase, leather-bound spines laughing at you as they stood identical along the wall.

Of course, you realized, shaking your head as you pushed up from where you’d been kneeling behind the desk. He’d never hide something in a one of a kind place. He’d put it somewhere that would seem like too much trouble for anyone other than him to search through.

As you stood before the shelves, you ghosted your fingers over the spines, as if you could guess which one was the fake by touch alone. For all you knew, he had several fakes hiding several keys that were also fake, just to further infuriate and throw off the conniving little thief.

You plucked books out from their snug lineup at random, one at a time, only tilting them halfway towards you to examine the stack of pages, again, as if that made a difference. As if all the old spy movies Undertaker liked to watch had actually inspired his habits.

But then, your touch fell upon one that felt just the slightest bit lighter than the rest. You pulled it free from the shelf, flipped it open and—

Bingo.

There, placed in the carved out center of the defiled book, was a silver skeleton key.

A silver key for a silver lock.

If this wasn’t it, then you’d have no choice but to give up.

Rushing back to the locked drawer, you slotted the key in and turned it, letting out an incredulous scoff of victory when you heard the click and pulled the drawer open.

Inside sat a black binder, the insignia of the Aurora Society stamped on the cover in a metallic emerald and gold, the color shifting depending on how the light hit it. You started to reach for it, carefully, slowly, as if moving too fast would cause the documents to detonate. But then you froze, hearing a distant melody drifting down the hall, muffled and low but getting clearer and louder by the second, sound carrying from downstairs.

You slammed the drawer shut, relocked it, threw the key back in the prop book and shoved it back onto the shelf, sprinting as fast as you could back to the bedroom, breath hitching in horror as Undertaker’s melancholy melody sounded as if it was right behind you.

You dove onto the bed, flipped the covers back over your body, and prayed that your pulse would slow before he opened those doors. You faked sleep, jolting a little when he finally did re-enter the room, and looked over at him with the calmest expression you could muster.

“Dinner’s ready, my love,” he informed you, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t fall asleep…” He smoothed down your hair, studying you inquisitively. “Did you?”

You let out a quiet whine as you reached up to stretch. “Maybe only a little bit…” you lied, knowing your disheveled appearance was evidence enough that you certainly hadn’t abided by his rules like you’d promised. You pouted, looking away and twirling your finger in your hair, fidgeting as you added on with a pathetic little, “But then I had nightmares again…”

Undertaker cooed at you, lifting your chin in his fingers and coaxing you to meet his eyes. “Well, I’m sure a nice, hot meal will scare those nightmares away,” he said, guiding you off the bed by the hand and down to the dining room. “And if that doesn’t work, well…” An evil glimmer shone in his gaze, malicious intent masked behind sweet words. “I suppose I’ll have to dispose of them myself.”

You smiled at him, the expression feeling tight on your face. Forced. But it didn’t matter. Because, despite the fact that your sleuthing escapade had been cut short, you knew exactly where to pick up the next time you got the chance. No more wasting time wondering where to even start. It would all begin with that black binder. And maybe, if you were lucky, it would end with it too.

But you really should’ve known better.

You should’ve known that Undertaker would think to change the location of the key daily, having several fake books used for hiding things just like you’d briefly speculated placed around the shelves.

Should’ve known that he’d always be one— five— ten— twenty steps ahead of you, whether he realized it or not.

And you really, really should’ve known…

Even if you did gain the upper hand, you still wouldn’t be able to compete.

Because he was a trained hunter, experienced killer. A natural born predator.

And you were just a naive, weak little girl living in the lion’s den, trying to roar but barely even managing a growl.

***

The key was gone. Moved, no surprise. You weren’t about to look through all those books again, give yourself a headache and a heart attack from the anxiety it would start pumping through your veins.

So you’d have to make a new plan. You had no idea what that plan was yet, but given time, you’d figure something out.

Or, at least, that’s what you desperately hoped.

But, for now, for your own sake and sanity, you allowed yourself to drop the schemes and the suspense and just simply be… yourself.

Not quite your old self— the one who was so good at playing dumb she started to actually believe she was only worth her body, only wanted or loved for how good of a lay she was— but the version of you that had the luxury of not having any worries, knowing that someone was always at her every beck and call.

“Darling…” Undertaker asked as you two enjoyed a leisurely stroll through the rose gardens, the flowers soon to wilt in the oncoming winter chill. “Would you like to play a game?”

“What kind of game?” you asked, all innocent curiosity and playful inquiry.

Undertaker hummed out an amused note, glad you were taking the bait. “A game where I ask you a hypothetical question and you give an answer.”

You looked up at him, one brow lifted. “That doesn’t sound like much of a game to me,” you remarked, lips pulling down into a soft pout. “But,” you perked up again, smile returning, intrigued, “I suppose we could play a few rounds!”

“Alright then,” Undertaker began, looking far too proud and satisfied at a situation that had yet to unfold. “First question…”

He began with topics benign enough. Things like, “If you could be any animal, what would you be and why?” and “If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would you choose?”

You answered to the best of your ability, finding some harder to respond to than others on account of being overwhelmed for choice— a side effect of Undertaker’s spoiling of you— and then he dropped the question that he’d been holding back until he had you exactly where he wanted you.

“If you could live forever…” he asked, chartreuse stare studying you intently, looking for any signs of fear or worry to cross your features, “would you want to?”

When he’d rehearsed this particular conversation in his head, he’d expected you to say something like, “Not unless you could live forever with me,” or “That’s impossible, silly! No one can live forever!” but instead he’d been met with a response much less lighthearted.

“No,” you stated plainly, voice dropping an octave and looking up at him with hesitation and a flicker of distrust. “No, I mean— I mean, would you? That sounds kind of awful, I mean…” You swallowed hard, trying to form a valid excuse that didn’t lead him to suspect you were even minutely aware of his intentions and activities behind the scenes. “To live forever… That’s…”

Undertaker tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his own expression melting from thrown off back into stoic confidence. “It’s just a hypothetical, darling,” he assured you, tone light and fluttering, trying to put you at ease. “No need to get so worked up.”

You two continued on walking then, a tense weight settling in the air and making it hard for you to breathe. Your arm was interlocked with his, feeling both repelled and drawn into Undertaker’s familiar touch.

He terrified you, yet comforted you.

He made you want to run away, only to seek the safety of his arms.

The most dangerous part of it all was that he knew this. Knew that, no matter how much you feared him, distrusted him, tried to distance yourself from him, you’d always end up right back where you started.

With him.

The night he’d been betrayed and nearly bled out on the floor before you replayed in his mind, how distraught you’d been when you thought you were going to lose him. Back then, you’d sworn you were in this “till death do you part”, fantasizing about an afterlife where you two could always be together, no matter what.

But so much had changed, more for the worse than for the better, and you weren’t sure how strong a vow you were really willing to commit to after your entire life had been turned upside down and then flipped over your head again.

Undertaker had a remedy for that little hesitation, though.

He doubted you’d have the will to say no if he got down on one knee and proposed, offering up a ring bigger and brighter and more dazzling than anything you’d ever seen in your entire life. He could see you now, walking down the aisle in the most beautiful, one of a kind wedding dress crafted by any designer you could think to choose, a long lace train trailing behind you. You’d both say “I do” and seal your fate with a kiss (and later a signature), forever shackling you to the title of the Black Reaper’s wife, in name and bond and blood.

It was a card Undertaker was willing to play, if that’s what it was going to take, but for now he had to convince you of the initial promise he’d made all the way back when you’d first agreed to be his and only his. That you were safe, cared for, and that all you had to do was ask and you would receive.

“But if you could remain preserved as you are now…” Undertaker cautiously pressed, thinking aging beyond human limits was the reason why you’d been so quick to stifle the idea, “and you could be just as beautiful and healthy as you are now…?”

“I still wouldn’t want to,” you shook your head, reconfirming your answer. There was a beat of silence, then you opened your mouth, as if to speak, only to close it again. But then, deciding to speak your mind anyway, you said, “I think there’s probably a good reason immortality isn’t possible. I mean, think of how lonely that would be. Watching everyone you love die, one by one…”

Undertaker clenched his jaw.

If it were just you and him, who else would there be for you to love? If you two walked side by side for all eternity, what did it matter who else you lost?

“And just the state of the world…” you continued, looking sadder and sadder by the second. “I mean, not to be a pessimist but… I don’t see it getting any better. I only see it getting worse. And not to mention—”

“Alright, darling, that’s enough,” Undertaker cut you off, sighing out an irritated breath. Almost like he didn’t appreciate you actually showing some intellect on the subject. But when he felt you tense, staring up at him with wide eyes and your throat bobbing with a nervous gulp, his expression softened once more. He took your chin between his fingers gently, gazing into your apprehensive stare and stating in a calmer tone, “I told you there’s no reason to get upset. Plus, as long as I’m around…” He was leaning in, his lips only inches from yours as he whispered, “you’ll never have to worry about a thing.”

As he kissed you, your trepidations began to melt. For a few fleeting moments, you entirely forgot about what had just gotten you so anxious. You felt like you used to when you were with him— Safe. Secure. Loved.

Undertaker’s mind, however, was in a different place.

Because if he wanted to, he could just kill you. He could do it right now. It would be easy.

He could kill you and then kill himself once the reanimation technology was fully developed— a goal that was getting closer and closer to success every single day, every single hour that Othello toiled away in his lab— and then have his jittery little scientist revive you both to remain preserved in your most perfect states.

He’d make it painless for you. It would just be like going to sleep, only the next time you woke, you’d be different. But not in the ways that mattered to him. And you’d be none the wiser, for a little while, if he wanted to keep it a secret. Because how is one to know they’re immortal until they actually die once?

Sure, he might have a good chunk of years before you started to get suspicious, and the blood consumption would have to be disguised in some way— something as simple and routine as vitamins, he supposed— but by then, he probably would’ve found a way to change your mind.

Because, as you should’ve realized by now, Undertaker didn’t just make sure his princess had whatever she wanted. He made sure he did too. He always had, by any means he’d been able to think up, gotten his way.

And if he had to hurt a few people along the way, then so be it.

Because, as long as he had you in the end, nothing and no one else really mattered.

***

“‘Right, see ya, mate,” Ron said with a tired drone as he was passing Grell on his way out of headquarters, giving a lazy wave.

“Right behind ya,” Grell replied, standing from his desk and flicking off the lamp, catching up with his colleague as they exited the building, the first to arrive and the last to leave. “Can you believe how busy things have been lately?” he huffed, giving a dramatic swish of his shiny red hair over one shoulder. “I mean, this much work can’t be good for you. Plus I’m missing out on valuable beauty rest. Doesn’t the boss know we’re only human?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think he cares to think of us as anything other than his little pawns…” Ron grumbled, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. “Not to mention he’s gotten into the habit of staying cooped up in that mansion of his and working from home rather than showing his face here like the rest of us.” Ron clenched his fist around his keys, feeling the metal digging into his palm, rage beginning to simmer. “I mean, just when did he decide he was so high and mighty all of a sudden, huh? Thought he had this whole thing about being one of us?”

Grell understood where Ron was coming from, truly, he did. But still, that didn’t leave him any less conflicted in this situation. Most of them understood the unspoken rule of don’t ask questions, don’t complain that came with their job, though of course some of them had shared grievances amongst themselves about the workload or certain risky decisions made before.

Grell chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to think of a neutral response to fill the space before he reached his car, the headlights on the cherry red Lambo blinking on from his reserved parking spot.

“He’s planning something behind our backs, isn’t he?” Ron went on, his voice raising a little higher, making Grell nervous. In this line of work, you never knew who was listening in and, whether an ally or adversary, this kind of talk could be dangerous if overheard. “He’s probably got some take the money and run master plan that’s gonna leave us all cheated the moment he—”

“Oh, please, Ron,” Grell cut in then, a sharp edge to his voice, irritation piercing through. “That’s not what this is all about and we both know it.”

Ron stopped short, blinking at his co-worker incredulously, the practiced denial dying on his tongue as he opened his mouth to speak. Ron’s defensive expression fell then, an honest sorrow shading his features in its place. “Well when’s the last time you saw her?” he asked then, pained gaze trained on Grell, whose own eyes held a little more sympathy now.

The redhead sighed, shifting his stance and adjusting his glasses as he shrugged and replied, “‘S been a while…” Ron felt a little of the weight lift from him then, but not nearly enough to erase his agitations. “But, mate…” Grell continued, the sympathy in his stare quickly turning to pity. “You know why it’ll never work, right? Whatever little thing you and her had going on…”

He waited for Ron’s answer but was only met with silence, Ron’s fists clenching harder, the key cutting deeper into his palm.

“I mean, if I were you,” Grell went on, “I’d feel pretty lucky to still be alive. And if you think the boss doesn’t know that something’s up—” He sighed, crossed his arms and glanced around, hoping that they were truly alone out here. Then he muttered, like it was obvious, with a roll of his emerald eyes, “And if you think even if he did find out that he’d blame her over you…”

Ron knew.

He knew all of this— all of the risk and the danger and the god-damn consequences that came with his actions, whether he’d instigated or not.

Yet, he’d still do it all again. He’d do it as many times as it took if it meant getting to steal just one more minute with you. One more moment.

“Just…” Grell huffed, “Just keep your head down and stay in your lane and maybe— maybe, some way or another— he’ll let you see her again.” He passed by Ron, placing a hand on his shoulder, half in solidarity, half in compassion. “That’s all you can really hope for at this point, right?”

Ron wouldn’t meet his eyes, just kept his own gaze stuck to the concrete beneath his shoes. Eventually, he just gave a simple nod and muttered, “Yeah…” before Grell bid him a goodnight, told him to get home safe, and then got into his car, exiting the parking lot and speeding off to wherever it was he went after work.

And Ron stood in that parking lot.

He stood there for a long time. Thinking. Planning. Plotting.

Because his patience was wearing thin. He needed to see you. And his notion that he could just take you and run was seeming more and more feasible the more desperate he got.

He would never know if he never tried, he figured. And, plus, if anything, all he had to lose was his own life. Undertaker would never harm you— the captive, the hostage of the situation— surely.

Ron opened his phone, scrolled to where your number was, the contact photo one of you and him from a few summers ago. You were smiling big, bright, laughing like you were the happiest girl in the entire world. He was smiling too, a real smile, but it was nowhere near as innocent and carefree as yours.

Those days felt like a lifetime ago— the impromptu ice cream trips after a day spent admiring some art in one of your favorite museums or shopping at your favorite designer stores. You two would just drive around in his car, make circles around the city as you talked about anything you could think of. He’d tease you about something, the topic harmless, really, and you’d pout and whine and playfully punch his arm. And he’d laugh. And then you’d laugh. And all felt right in his world. All felt good.

He clicked on your number, hit call, and held his breath as he listened to the droning ring.

You weren’t going to pick up. Especially not if your Daddy was present. This was so stupid. He really knew how to kick himself when he was down, didn’t he?

He exhaled, body deflating as he removed the phone from his ear and was just about to hit the end call button, when suddenly—

“Hello?” your little voice greeted halfway through the final ring before voicemail. “Hello? Ron?”

He nearly dropped his phone on the pavement as he quickly fumbled to hold it back up to his ear. “Hey, baby,” he began, a smile spreading across his face at the sound of your voice alone. “Hey, I was just calling to…”

Just calling to what? To convince you to leave town with him right now?

Ron shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to get his thoughts in order. When you asked if he was still there after a long bout of silence, Ron stuttered out a tentative, “Y-yeah, I’m still here. Sorry… Just have a lot on my mind lately ‘cause of work.” He let out a nervous chuckle, feeling stupid. He’d been given this rare chance and he was completely blowing it. He cleared his throat, steeling his resolve then, and asking, “Is Un— Is the boss home with you tonight, princess?”

Your voice trembled a little, fragile when it answered, “No… I— I thought he was at headquarters with you?”

Ron felt a cloak of unease fall upon his shoulders then, paranoia tightening in his chest and throat. “Oh, it’s ok, baby, I’m sure he’s fine,” Ron quickly responded, telling how you were already assuming the worst. Though, he couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of hope swell in his chest at the possibility that something bad had happened to the boss on his way over to headquarters. “Is Will over there with you?”

You told him he was, and Ron missed how you used to complain about how boring his particular colleague was, saying how you wished that it were Ron in charge of keeping you company while Undertaker was out because “Will never lets me have any fun!”

“How long ago did Undertaker leave?” Ron then thought to ask, quickening his pace as he approached his car further down the lot. “Like an hour or…?”

“At least two hours ago. I—” He heard your breath catch in your chest, eyes welling with tears right about now, no doubt. “Do you really think he’s ok? I mean, you really haven’t seen him? He should be there already. He—”

“It’s alright. It’s alright…” Ron assured you, tone low and soothing, a coo lilting though the words like a gentle breeze. “Headquarters is a big place. I was only in the main office area today so I probably just didn’t see him because he went straight to his private office.” Or died halfway to his destination in a horrible car crash, Ron fantasized. Maybe was assassinated by a sniper right in the driver’s seat for good measure.

“Ron…?” you then asked, a quivering reluctance laced into his name.

“What is it, baby?”

“Just…” You swallowed hard, trying to sound firm, get your point across. “Just be careful out there, ok…”

And there it was again. That horrible, ominous feeling increasing ten fold, a vortex threatening to swallow Ron whole from the inside out. He gulped, stopped a few feet from his car, and then replied, “I will… If you get scared, just go sit with Will. It’ll all be ok.” He glanced back up at the building— the prison— he was trapped in day in and day out. “Everything’ll be ok.”

He said goodbye to you, thumb hovering over the end call button for a little too long, but eventually he did press it and the screen went black, your number and picture fading away as the trepidation in his chest grew and grew and grew and—

The firm, cold metal of the barrel of a gun was pressed to the base of Ron’s skull, startling him, yet he didn’t move. Didn’t dare. Didn’t have to turn to see who was sticking him up.

In the reflection of his car’s blackout windows, the ghostly figure of Undertaker stood, long, silvery locks cascading down the black trench coat he was wearing, the scar that slashed his face seeming a little more prominent under the moonlight.

“I hope you know I don’t pay you for this kind of overtime,” the boss growled through a sinister smirk. Ron remained frozen, heart pounding in his chest but not with fear. No, not with fear.

With a white hot, blinding, blood-boiling fury.

“How long were you listening?” the ginger asked, raising his hands in compliant surrender, his phone still clutched in his grip.

“Long enough,” Undertaker informed him, pressing the muzzle a little harder into Ron’s skull, cocking his head to one side slightly as he studied his underling’s expression in the car window. “Though, I didn’t have to listen in tonight to know exactly how many times you’ve called or even texted her, for that matter. Don’t you know I pay for her phone?” His smile dropped then, pure hatred crossing his pale face as he practically spit the words, “I have all the fucking records. Every. Last. One.”

Ron gulped, trying to keep his voice from shaking as the adrenaline coursed through his veins, tried to keep himself from drawing his own gun— the one holstered under his blazer— and having a shootout right here in the parking lot. “So what now…?” he inquired, gritting his teeth as he slowly— agonizingly so— turned to face Undertaker, the pistol less than an inch from his glasses. “You gonna fire me?”

Undertaker considered him, let the unspoken yet ever present threat sink in a little further, then he lowered his gun, nodding at Ron’s car.

“Get in,” he ordered, smirk returning with a different, much more dangerous connotation this time. His stare narrowed, chartreuse slits glowing from behind his curtain of silver bangs. “We’re going for a drive.”

***

Ron could’ve laughed out loud when Undertaker told him to turn at the docks.

Because isn’t this where everything always came back to? These damn docks?

The Corvette was parked on the side of the road, the short stretch of highway right near the steep hill that dropped off to where the shipment containers sat. They’d walked the rest of the way, Undertaker’s shiny black shoes smudged with dirt as they trudged all the way down to the water’s edge, salt-rotted planks creaking beneath their paces. For once, Ron hoped the wood would break, send him sinking down into the black water. At least then he might have a chance at a getaway.

“Do you remember our deal?” Undertaker asked, taking his gun back out but not aiming it just yet. Ron stood on the very end of the dock, back facing the boss as he stared out at the moon reflecting on the sea— so much black and silver wherever he went— as the memory of the last day of his life replayed in his mind.

“Of course I do,” he said, voice almost a whisper. He glanced over his shoulder, a pathetic kind of pleading intertwined into all that venomous loathing. Ron didn’t worry about withholding his true feelings towards his boss now. He was probably going to die soon, be tossed into the harbor before the hour was up, and never see you again. “You’ve never let me forget.”

“Then you know that you do what I tell you, when I tell you, and without question…” Undertaker considered his own reflection on the shining surface of the silver gun before flicking his gaze back to Ron. “Right?”

Ron turned to face Undertaker fully, defeated in stance and speech as he held out his arms and said, “Just tell me what you want.”

Undertaker took a few steady paces forward, not seeming the least bit worried that he wasn’t the only one here with a weapon but— Who was Ron kidding?

If he hadn’t had the courage to draw his gun before, what made him think he could do it now?

“I’ve killed men for much less before,” Undertaker began. Ron’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Sometimes, just because they looked at her wrong. In a way I didn’t like…” Undertaker passed his pistol from one hand to the other, as if testing its weight, calmed by its metallic glint under the dying lights lining the dock. He aimed it then, movements swift and smooth. If he pulled the trigger, he was confident the bullet would find a home right between Ron’s eyes.

“But you have a rather annoying habit, you know that?” he continued. Ron could see the way the light left his eyes as the Black Reaper possessed him. It was familiar, that remorseless stare. He’d seen the same one the first night they’d met. The night Ron had signed over his life to the devil, trading the tag of street rat for slave. “It’s always baby this, princess that, sweetheart, honey, darling, doll…” Undertaker’s scowl deepened on every title of affection, his silver brows just barely catching the light that outlined their existence. “Speaking those names like they’re yours. Like you gave them to her…”

Ron almost reached for his gun. Almost.

“But I gave her those names,” Undertaker went on, his finger right over the trigger. “Because she’s mine. You fucking hear me? Mine.”

Ron flexed his fingers. He might not’ve had it in him to reach for his gun, but if this was it, he at least had enough bravery to give some last words. “Yeah…? And did you make that decision for her, too? Or did you actually let her decide.”

Undertaker’s menacing, borderline feral expression— all bared teeth and scrunched nose, snarling and scowling and absolutely consumed by the urge, the instinct, to protect what was his, what he owned— fell from his face then. He lowered the gun, let out a sigh, and then gave a simple, two word order.

“Kill her.”

“What?” Ron nearly stumbled backwards a step, pure disgust in his tone. “Are you fucking crazy?!”

“Yes…” Undertaker nodded, eyes tracking every one of Ron’s movements like a hawk stalking prey. “Yes, I think that’ll do nicely. You’ll kill her. Then we can be done with all of this.”

Ron couldn’t form a sentence— couldn’t form a single coherent thought— at such a brazen and baffling request.

He simpered out a dark little chuckle, cruel smirk pulling up one corner of his lips. “You are crazy, y’know that?” he retorted, straightening his posture a bit, though his bones remained rigid and tense. “And you’re sick. Fucking sick in the head.”

“Are you saying no, then?” Undertaker droned, as if only mildly inconvenienced by his underling’s insubordination.

“Why the fuck would I kill her?!” Ron bellowed, arms outstretched and brows lifted high over wide eyes. He looked more like the crazy one, if it were based on body language alone. “Why the fuck would you want her dead?”

Undertaker rolled his neck, working out a tightly twisted knot that had formed due to this whole ordeal, and then said, “So it is a no then. I figured…” And, even though Undertaker had merely been testing him, seeing who he was more loyal to, despite already knowing the answer, the betrayal still stung a little. Because, despite the power and influence Undertaker held over his people, this just proved that he couldn’t control them, control their free will. Not when they truly, wholeheartedly disagreed with him.

“How inconvenient…” the boss muttered under his breath, sighing again before looking back over to Ron and speaking loud enough for him to hear, “I’m not a very big fan of second chances. Though, for whatever reason, I’d say you’ve earned enough lives to rival even the mangiest of alley cats…” The jab made Ron’s jaw clench, hard enough for it to ache. “But, just for now, since killing you would only become more work during an already busy time, I’m going to leave you with one final warning.”

Ron almost reached for his gun. Almost.

“Cross the line one more time— do anything to vex me— and I’ll make good on our deal.” Undertaker turned his back, slipping his pistol into the pocket of his trench coat. He began to walk, only to pause and glance over his shoulder, adding on, “And, since I know you’re wondering, yes. Contacting her does, indeed, vex me.”

Ron should’ve reached for his gun. Why couldn’t he reach for his gun?

Undertaker kept walking, leaving himself open to a bullet that would never come. So the Black Reaper gave a lazy wave and an even more uninterested, “Have a good night…” before heading back up the hill towards Ron’s car. The keys were still in the ignition, Undertaker had made sure Ron left them.

“Y’know—!” Ron called out, taunting as his words echoed over the water. Undertaker stopped, but didn’t turn. “For someone who acts like he owns the fucking world and everything in it, you sure do seem afraid of losing to someone like me. Someone who, in your own words, is no better than even the mangiest of alley cats…”

Undertaker should’ve just kept walking. Not fallen for it. But tonight, his ego was a little more in control of him than he was of it.

Ron huffed out a cold, cruel note, amused that he was getting under his enemy’s pale, scarred skin after all that big, scary talk earlier. “If I didn’t know any better,” Ron continued, baiting him, “I’d say you see me as a threat.”

And Undertaker had a million things to say to that. A million ways to shut Ron down and put him in his place. But he simply smiled, humming out a pleased note. “I’d start walking, if I were you,” the boss reminded his underling. “It’s going to be a long way back to headquarters on foot.”

And that was all it took to shut Ron up. Easy, Undertaker thought with sinister satisfaction as he slid into the driver’s seat of the silver Corvette, turning the key and watching as the dashboard came alive with colorful light.

Almost an hour later, Ron was still standing alone on those docks, violence vibrating throughout his entire body like a volcano about to erupt.

But, as he began the long trek back to headquarters, the travel gave him some time to reflect, gifted him an odd sense of clarity.

Because Undertaker could’ve killed him so easily back there, shot him point blank and simply walked away. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t…

By the time Ron reached the city again, it was nearly two AM. By the time he was approaching headquarters, it was three. But his car was parked right back in his reserved spot, the keys left in the ignition, and no sign of Undertaker.

He was already safe and snug back at home with you, no doubt, acting as if it were just another day, acting as if he wasn’t a sadistic, evil man who’d insisted someone kill his pretty, precious, perfect little princess just to prove a point.

But Ron had proved something too.

And now he knew, maybe not for certain, but close enough to it to plan his next course of action accordingly, that he was worth more to Undertaker alive than dead. He didn’t know why— didn’t care to know, if he was being honest— but all that mattered was that Undertaker had just bought— gifted— Ron more time.

And time was all he needed.

Time, and a little bit of luck.

Ron turned the key and pulled it from the ignition, staring up at the glass and stone building through his windshield for a few very heavy minutes before he’d made up his mind.

He exited the car, pocketed his keys, and then headed back inside.

Hell, who had time to wait for luck when they could just create it all on their own?

***

When Undertaker returned home, you were dozing off on one side of the couch, Will perched on the other and silently reading his book as he tended to do, another old spy movie playing on the TV with the volume turned almost all the way down.

William saw the look on his boss’s face— half pride, half fury— a dangerous mix for someone like Undertaker, and asked what happened.

But Undertaker ignored the question, taking a careful seat beside his sleeping beauty on the sofa, gently stroking your hair, moving some loose strands away from where they’d fallen across your face, his smirk softening into a calm smile.

“That’ll be all for tonight, William,” Undertaker dismissed politely, thanking his colleague for being able to come on such short notice. Then he scooped you up in his arms, your head nuzzling into his chest as you let out a tiny whine and stirred, but just barely. As he began to carry you up to bed, passing Will in the main entrance, he stopped the raven haired man— the one he always had the hardest time reading— and gave him one last bit of parting words.

“Oh, and, Will…?” William turned at the front doors, facing his boss with that stoic expression that never seemed to falter. Undertaker carefully adjusted his grip on you, speaking low so as not to wake you. He told his colleague, “Do be on the lookout for pests around headquarters. I’m pretty sure I encountered a rat earlier.”

William didn’t so much as flinch at that statement, merely furrowed his already pinched brows a fraction and gave a stiff nod. “Of course, sir,” he replied before promptly turning and leaving the mansion, Undertaker not bothering to watch as he pulled out of the driveway and his headlights disappeared down the twisting roads.

Besides, he had all he needed to worry about right here in his arms.

Just like sleeping, the thought returned to him. He stroked a thumb lovingly over your cheek, admiring you in this vulnerable, defenseless state.

You’d look so pretty once you were dead.

***

The hallways of headquarters held an empty, eerie echo as Ron’s determined footsteps tapped down the corridor, heading for the basement level. Othello’s lab.

The rage thrummed through his blood, nearly blinded him as the fluorescent lights painted the concrete tunnels in brightness, the sound buzzing in his head along with the pounding of his heart.

He didn’t have a plan going into this. Not really. He just knew one thing for certain.

He had to destroy the reanimation technology. Erase its entire existence. Eradicate all the research and progress and test subjects— the entire lab itself.

But how?

What could possibly bring enough destruction to ensure that there were no traces left?

Ideally, he’d like to blow it up, plant a bomb and watch the entire headquarters go up in a vibrant plume of smoke and fire from a safe distance, the scene just a tiny orange spec reflecting on the lenses of his glasses.

But Ron didn’t have a bomb.

All he had was his gun, which wouldn’t do much unless he planned on putting a bullet in the head of every single member of the Aurora Society— a highly unlikely solution. Plus, that would take too long and get rather messy.

He searched his pockets quickly, absentmindedly, as he continued his steadfast stride down the halls, Othello’s lab in sight at the end of the next turn.

His fingers fell upon something small and metal in one of his blazer’s inner most pockets then and Ron paused, his steps stuttering for a beat over the cold concrete.

He fished the object out, held it between his fingers and up to the light like it was something delicate and precious.

But it was anything but that— It was sturdy and made to ignite.

The silver zippo lighter wasn’t something he used very often, really just kept it on hand from way back when for moments when friends or colleagues needed someone to light their smoke.

But now it was a weapon. It was his savior.

It was your savior, too, he reckoned.

Ron flipped open the top, watched the yellow flame flicker to life, swaying before him, so tiny and harmless now, but, given the right tinder, it would have the chance to become a monster that even Undertaker couldn’t contain.

Ron peeked into the tiny window on the metal door that led into Othello’s laboratory, the fluorescent light casting the place in an aquatic, greenish-blue glow. The mad scientist appeared to have already gone home for the night, leaving the building completely vacant. Ron supposed it was just as well. Besides, he didn’t necessarily want to kill his closest colleagues if he could help it.

Though, if any of them got in his way, he couldn’t exactly say he’d spare them either.

Ron slipped into the lab, looking around and stopping short when he saw the wall of fish tanks. Or, at least, that’s what they would’ve been considered if they’d held fish instead of decapitated heads or severed hearts and lungs, a few pairs of mismatched eyes floating behind the glass of one of them.

Ron nearly gagged. Even after everything he’d seen— everything he’d done— this still somehow crossed a line.

Looks like Undertaker wasn’t the only sick one.

The Black Reaper’s jittery little scientist was too.

Ron forced himself to keep moving, going further into the lab until he found the room with the autopsy table, the counters littered with incoherent scribbles that he could only deduce as Othello’s notes.

Ron ran his fingers over some of them, trying to make out any of the words, searching for mentions of your name, specifically, but came up empty handed.

He didn’t have time for this. The building might’ve been empty, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t being watched. Undertaker probably had a million cameras positioned throughout this place, probably had twenty-four hour surveillance on them too, ready to send someone over the moment something looked— or even felt— off.

Ron started by gathering all of the papers, notepads, textbooks— anything he could get his hands on that looked like it might hold even a shred of research pertaining to the immortality invention— and made a trail from one end of the lab to the other.

All the way from the door to the cursed machine itself.

He flipped open the lighter, considering the flame like it was an old friend, and then held the fire to the end of the page nearest to the door, watching as it traveled through the paper path like water flowing in a stream, engulfing one paragraph of research after the next.

He stood by the door, mesmerized, a light smoke beginning to fill the air and eventually forcing him to press his sleeve to his nose. He just had to stay long enough to make sure it reached the machine, that the wires sparked and caught fire too. He glanced at the contents of the glass cabinets on the wall opposite the tanks, rushing over to grab a bottle labeled in Othello’s messy— though this time legible enough— scrawl, “FORMALDEHYDE”.

As the fire grew, he figured he should grab a couple more. This was just one room of many in this basement. Who knew what else the others held. Ron may have had terrible vision, but he wasn’t so short-sighted as to assume that all the valuable goods were stored in one place.

Plus, if Undertaker had anything to do with the organization of this place— and Ron knew he most certainly did— he would’ve instructed Othello to spread the evidence and information like a blanket, equally distributing it from room to room just in case.

With the body of the machine leaking a steady stream of black smoke, Ron figured he better move on, get to the other rooms— other cells— he realized when he opened the doors further down the hall that revealed tiny, concrete boxes, some lined with shelves and storage cabinets while others hosted more human subjects.

He poured the chemicals he’d collected in similar fashion to how he’d left the papers, in a trail going from one end of the rooms to the other, lighting the toxic fluid once he was by the door, though the formaldehyde caught far faster than the notes.

He created chaos in each cubicle, more and more smoke filling the narrow halls to the brim with every room he demolished, half-dead, or— maybe, from a different perspective— half-alive test subjects charring and withering down to ash amidst the flames.

Some of them screamed, others— the ones who were too far gone, not yet revived enough— just stared at Ron with wide, empty eyes when he entered their rooms. He tried not to look at them, tried not to listen when the more successful trials begged with tears in their eyes, hands clasped as if in prayer for him to spare them, as if being chained to a cement wall in a cold, dirty cell still stained with the blood of old torture victims was any kind of life worth holding on to, but there was one that nearly stopped Ron dead in his tracks.

One that almost made him regret what he’d done— what he still had to do.

Because this subject— this girl— looked just like you. She had the same bright, innocent eyes, the same color hair, same build and almost the same complexion if not for the touch of greyness death had dusted over her.

But she didn’t beg. She didn’t cry. And thank god, too, because Ron didn’t think he’d have it in him to leave her to burn to nothing in this place if she had.

She simply sat there, leaning against the corner of the cell, looking up at him when his shadow appeared in the doorway.

“I’m sorry…” was all Ron muttered before placing the flame down to the glistening chemical trail, hesitating a mere moment before setting it ablaze, forcing himself to turn and leave just before the fire licked its way up to meet her feet.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t make a sound.

Yet still, Ron could imagine what it would sound like.

It was your scream that filled his head, turning his blood to ice at the shrillness of the sound.

But there was only one room left now, and then it would all be over.

Though, what was inside wasn’t another collection of files bearing test logs or old documentation of failed experiments. It wasn’t cold, should’ve-stayed-dead bodies in various stages of decay or recovery.

It was a refrigerated cell, this one bigger than the others, longer, with frost climbing the walls and the ceiling and the floor. Ron’s breath fogged before him and the hair on the back of his neck stood. The place was packed with bags, bottles, vials, and jars of blood.

He moved down the aisle slowly, brows knitted with horror and intrigue, noting how he passed what he was beginning to realize were carefully categorized sections of the thick, dark red liquid.

A negative. A positive. B negative. B positive. AB negative. AB positive. O negative. O positive.

There was one category that was more abundant than all the rest, Ron noticed as he passed back through the way he’d come, and he knew, with a chilling awareness, that it must be your blood type.

It had to be.

So, as he left his last trail of formaldehyde, tossing the lighter down and leaving it to burn with the rest of this place, Ron finally felt the weight that had settled over him since the docks lift.

Because now you were safe.

Now you would survive.

And, when your death did arrive someday, you wouldn’t be revived.

Unless— Ron remembered with a nauseous horror— Othello recreated his experiments.

So much for sparing his comrades.

Ron would have to find Othello somehow, he was pretty sure he at least knew the vague neighborhood where he lived, but the scientist was the last piece of this fucked up puzzle that needed to be lost, torn up and thrown away so the picture could never come into full creation.

It wasn’t going to be fun and it wasn’t going to be easy, but Ron knew what he had to do.

He sprinted back down the hall, heading through the maze of the basement and trying to find the only staircase that led back to the main office floor, the smoke so thick now it was clouding the hall from floor to ceiling.

He was coughing, hacking into his blazer sleeve until he pulled the lapel over his nose and mouth.

And then, rounding the next corner that he hoped would lead to the staircase, he collided with something, both him and the silhouette swimming through the smoke, heading further into the chaos rather than away from it, staggering back and nearly falling to the floor.

***

Othello liked to stay late at headquarters.

He liked how quiet the building became once it was completely vacant, how the busy hive of Undertaker’s men turned into a hollow husk by the time the midnight hour arrived.

Most of the others complained about overtime— hell, Will acted like a single minute in this place past his normal working hours was equal to torture— but Othello worked best at night, once the obligations of the day simmered down to still waters, the ripples of his overlapping thoughts finally becoming clear on the surface.

When he felt like he’d hit a wall, like he’d reached a dead end with a particular theory or had to figure out a way to rework a piece of his research, Othello would head back upstairs and pace the empty halls.

During the day, his laboratory was sacred, an ambient sanctuary where he knew he wouldn’t be interrupted. He was like a little mole digging underground, trying to burrow further and further from all the noise and movement of the main floors.

But now, at night, the nocturnal animal in him came alive. It braved the offices and the meeting rooms of the building, taking time to stare out of the tall windows at the moon or the city that sat beneath its pale glow.

Sometimes he imagined that he ran this place. That he owned it and had built it from the ground up, raised it to become what it was now— a hypothetical concept turned into a high-functioning corporation.

In a way, he had.

Because, if Undertaker was the face of the Aurora Society, Othello was the brain.

But he didn’t resent the boss for his current position, for the fact that he existed in the trenches, oftentimes a shadow shifting among the men, slippered feet silent as they padded behind the determined click of all those sets of expensive shoes.

He liked the privacy, the mystery that his involvement brought to this operation.

Most of his colleagues, even the ones that were closer to him, didn’t really know what he did all day.

They didn’t need to.

Othello wasn’t flashy like that.

He liked recognition and respect, sure, but for him, he didn’t need it on a widespread scale to feel appreciated.

He only needed it from one person— his closest and oldest friend— the boss.

Tonight, Othello had been sitting in Undertaker’s big, cushy office chair in the main boardroom, reclining back and lacing his fingers together over his lap as he gazed out at the view, reminiscing on their university days, remembering how, in some way or another, he’d always been vying for the Black Reaper’s attention and approval.

Yet, somehow, he’d always felt like they were equals, like Undertaker was only his boss by superficial title, not in actual hierarchy.

At least, that’s how it had been when the Aurora Society had first begun.

Now, things were different, and in more ways than just Othello’s relationship to his old schoolmate.

Things were changing— evolving— and bringing the world closer to a new era.

It was exciting. It was terrifying. It made Othello’s twisted heart flare with a morbid curiosity as to what this next phase would bring.

He was just about to start sinking into the pride of his current accomplishments with their revolutionary technology when he started to smell the smoke, his nose twitching once, twice at the familiar and unpleasant scent.

He ventured out from the boardroom, scuffing his slippered feet down the long stretch of hallway until he reached the inner balcony of the second floor, the open ceiling giving full view of the rows of desks below where the others sat and worked during the day.

How many times had Undertaker stood in this exact spot and gazed down at his employees, captivated by the way they all worked under his orders, like he had created them to do so, controlled their wills with a simple utterance of orders or gesture of his hand, a puppeteer playing with marionettes. A king admiring his subjects. A god smiling upon his creation.

Othello descended down the stairs to the lower level, following the burning scent as it grew stronger and more pungent. He could taste the acrid flavor of chemicals at the back of his throat, and as soon as he placed the substance as formaldehyde he raced to the basement doors.

When he flung them open to reveal the staircase, a flood of thick grey clouds swirled around him, the wave of fresh air sucking more heat up towards the doors.

Othello pressed the sleeve of his lab coat to his nose, batting his other hand through the air in front of him as if that would clear the immense fog that filled the halls, becoming thicker and thicker with every step closer to his lab.

His research.

His creation.

Othello was choking, eyes watering as he struggled to breathe, lungs seizing as more smoke filled them, yet still he pressed on. He needed to make it to the lab, to recover as much of his work as possible, but then he collided with something as he took the next turn, staggering back and stumbling over his own feet, falling to the floor.

“The fuck—” Ron’s voice registered, followed by a violent fit of coughing. “What the fuck are you still doing here?!” The ginger went to offer his friend a hand, but then stopped halfway as he remembered what he’d just resolved to do. The betrayal he’d vowed to commit.

“The lab—!” Othello sputtered, pushing up to his feet and trying to shove past Ron, who grabbed him by the shoulders to keep him from going any further. “The research— What happened—? It’s all—!” He was overtaken with another bout of choking, the smoke even thicker than before.

“You can’t—!” Ron tried to say, pushing Othello back as he walked forward, grip digging into the scientist’s shoulders. “It’s too late!”

Othello stilled, body tense and stare wide from behind his circular glasses, eyes already bloodshot from the late nights but even more so now with the smoke.

“Let go of me!” he suddenly thrashed, already knowing the truth but needing to see it with his own eyes to believe it. To accept that everything was ruined.

There was a short struggle and Ron lost hold of his target, Othello taking off running down the maze of narrow hallways that wasn’t a maze to him— he could’ve found his lab blindfolded— which caused Ron to give chase, knowing he’d never find his way back through all the smoke.

Othello swung open the door of his lab, a gust of scorching flames reaching for him along with even more smoke, tears streaking down his cheeks as he further suffocated, eyes stinging and chest aching. He stood there, frozen, watching as months— years— of hard work and dedication burned away to nothing.

Ron didn’t hesitate that time. He pulled his gun, pressed the muzzle to the side of Othello’s head, and uttered the same words he’d said to the girl before sending her to her final death.

“I’m sorry.”

He pulled the trigger, watched Othello’s body fall, watched as the blood pooled around him and the flames danced on the shining surface of all that thick, dark red, and then Ron did what he’d been trying to do prior.

He ran.

He reached the staircase, relief flooding his chest to replace the suffocating smoke the further he got to the exit of headquarters, and then he got back in his silver Corvette, speeding away from the scene and driving away from the district, away from the city, past the outskirts and farmlands, all the way out of the country, crossing the border from Britain into Scotland.

It took him all of what remained of the night and most of what faded into morning, but Ron was sure he’d at least bought himself a little more time, just enough to recoup and form a new plan, the last stages of his capture of you where he could take you far away from all the horror, find a little nook somewhere safe and out of Undertaker’s reach.

If such a place even existed.

***

Undertaker was woken the following morning by the relentless ringing of his office phone.

The shrill, repetitive sound echoed through the vast halls of the mansion, stirring you in the early hours of the morning. Undertaker felt as you shifted beside him, cuddling closer against him and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, tired little fingers twining through his silvery locks as if begging him to stay, stay in bed.

He kissed your forehead, rasped out a sleepy, “Be right back, sweetheart…” before forcing himself from bed, wrapping himself in his robe and treading barefoot down to his home office with his arms crossed and irritation pulling at his features, thinking to himself that, “Someone better be fucking dead to be calling at this hour.”

It wasn’t until the irony of his bitter sarcasm was confirmed that his expression melted into worry, then fury.

Because Othello was dead, the bottom half of headquarters demolished by the fire, and, most importantly, the reanimation technology— every last body, bit of research, and vial of blood— was destroyed.

Undertaker remained silent for a long stretch then, time feeling like it was unfurling around him in all directions, his world moving too fast and too slow all at the same time.

“Sir…?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked apprehensively. “The others are asking for orders… What should we—”

“You’re to proceed as previously directed,” the boss cut in, only a slight tremble to his tone.

“But, sir…” his employee muttered. “There’s nothing left. All of it was—”

“I don’t care,” Undertaker interrupted again, more bite to his voice now. “The Aurora Society isn’t a fucking place— it’s a people. Gather at the docks, if you must. The alleys. Fuck, go to a pub if that’s all you have!” He was gripping the phone so hard the joints in his fingers were starting to ache, alabaster skin going ghost white from the pressure. “We go on with the fucking plan. No set backs. No cancellations. Do you understand?”

Now it was the other line’s turn to meet the news with silence.

Undertaker heard him clear his throat, trying to sound sure of himself when he replied, “Understood, sir. I’ll relay the message.”

After that, Undertaker hung up, his hand flopping to his side and still clutching the phone.

He counted one breath, then two, and then…

And then he went on a fucking rampage.

He chucked the phone so hard at the bookshelves that it nearly cracked in two, a chunk of polished wood flying out from where the object had struck the furniture. He placed his hands flat on his mahogany desk, chest heaving harder and harder with every enraged inhale, the fury flooding him. He swiped all the contents of his desk to the floor, the objects clattering— some shattering— across the marble.

Undertaker wanted to scream.

He wanted to maim.

He wanted to kill.

He should’ve fucking shot Ron when he’d had the chance.

Why hadn’t he?

Why the fuck hadn’t he?

Undertaker couldn’t remember. Couldn’t fucking think.

But he knew it was Ron. Knew that he’d been the one to start the fire, to demolish the basement and most of the entire building along with it, knew he’d been the one to put in a bullet in Othello’s skull before the flames swallowed the scientist and rendered his body a corpse charred beyond recognition.

He knew, and he would find him.

He would take his revenge, carry it out ten fold.

He’d hunt Ronald Knox to the ends of he fucking earth, snuff him out and tear him apart where he stood the moment he came into sight, the moment he was within Undertaker’s unrelenting grasp.

And Undertaker didn’t care if you knew, didn’t care if you witnessed the murder with your own eyes.

Because this was about more than jealousy and secrets and lies and all the other bullshit that had been stirred up these past months— this past year.

Because Othello was Undertaker’s. He belonged to Undertaker, similar to how you did too.

And Undertaker had made quite the fucking point on the docks— at least, he’d thought he had— when he’d reminded Ron what happened to those who tried to steal his property, tried to claim it for their own or destroy it.

It didn’t matter the means. Undertaker would bury his enemies six feet deep. He’d dig their graves and fill them back up and it would be like the deceased had never existed to begin with, no headstone to mark where the coffin bearing the body lay.

But he had a different fate in store for Ron.

There would be no coffin or ceremonial funeral.

There would only be a bullet and the calmness that came after the pull of the trigger, enemy eradicated.

Undertaker would watch the boy die in the same way that he’d been born— alone, forgotten, and cast to the streets.

He didn’t realize how wildly he was smiling, how his bared teeth gleamed like a feral wolf’s in the early morning light, until he looked over to the doorway of his office upon hearing you gasp.

The wicked expression flickered as he searched your face, saw the terror grow in your eyes as your gaze scanned the disshelved chaos of the room before landing back on him, then died when tears filled your eyes and spilled over, petrified sobs hitching in your chest as your shaking little hands pulled up to cover your mouth.

Undertaker straightened his posture, how quickly he could morph from crazed to calm only deepening your fear, and then slowly advanced towards you, carefully stepping over and around the mess his tantrum had left across the floor.

He took you in his arms, embracing you even as you refused to return the gesture, feeling as your entire body shook and your tears dripped down his chest once your face was pressed against it. He said, voice soothing and soft, “Don’t be afraid, darling… It’s all going to be ok…”

You only cried harder, though even you weren’t exactly sure why. As Undertaker lovingly stroked your hair, gently wiping your tears even though they kept flowing endlessly, you stared into his eyes, the emerald vibrance of them entrancing you, lulling you like a spell. “He’s not going to hurt you…” he then added, and you jolted at those words, blinking rapidly a few times.

“Wh…Who…?” you stuttered, voice thick and garbled with dread.

But Undertaker wouldn’t tell you. He just pulled you back in close to him and hushed you, cooing and running a big hand up and down your back as he repeated, “It’s all going to be ok… Everything is going to be ok…”

You knew for a fact he was lying, yet still, you chose to believe him.

You chose to stay naive, ignorant, for that was the only armor you’d ever had from the horror you’d willingly gotten involved in the day you’d agreed to be his.

***

Several weeks had passed— almost two months worth— since the fire and Othello’s death.

You’d known about the scientist’s passing when Undertaker informed you, regrettably, that you were to attend the funeral with him.

“I normally wouldn’t have it this way, princess…” he’d sighed, caressing your shoulder as he studied you in your all black ensemble, a brand new dress, coat, and shoes to wear for the occasion. “But seeing as all of my closest comrades will be in attendance as well, I think it’s the safest place for you to be.”

You hadn’t protested or even asked questions.

Because, like with most things, you knew. Only, this time, you weren’t trying to convince yourself otherwise.

Because, ever since the night of your last phone call with Ron— the same night as the fire— you hadn’t heard from your former bodyguard. You’d tried to reach out, ask if he was ok, where he was, or what had happened, but Ron had discarded his phone into the ocean halfway to Scotland, knowing that there was a good chance it could be used to track him.

You knew that he’d had something to do with the death of Othello— Undertaker’s closest and oldest friend— but didn’t understand just how intimately yet.

And you felt like it was your fault.

It was all your fault.

Because maybe, if you hadn’t gotten as close to him as you did, if you’d just stayed loyal, faithful, stayed the good little girl you’d promised to be in exchange for this life, then maybe Ron wouldn’t have gotten all those ideas in his head. Maybe he wouldn’t have drowned in the jealousy, taken drastic, desperate measures, and maybe he’d still be alive.

You were willing to bet that Undertaker had killed him, not bothering with a funeral as he simply went on pretending that Ron had simply disappeared, betrayed him and left without a trace. At least until he found him and made him pay.

But you didn’t ask. Couldn’t bring yourself to hear the grim truth uttered from Undertaker’s lips. The same lips that had kissed you so many times, told you he loved you, promised you forever and ever and even more than eternity.

But it turned out that you didn’t have to, because after Othello’s funeral had concluded, the crowd of Aurora Society members dispersing along with the morning fog until all who were left was you standing beside Undertaker before the grave, he admitted, unprompted and honest, “Ron was the one who did it. He killed him. He set fire to my headquarters and betrayed us all. And now he’s god knows where, hiding out like a coward…”

All you could do was stare up at him, mouth agape with so many unspoken words, pleas, and questions dying on your tongue.

“But I’m going to find him,” Undertaker vowed, solemn and stern, jaw flexing upon his brief pause. “I’m going to find him and put an end to all of this.”

You didn’t even notice the tears welling in your eyes until they started to fall, a door that, once opened, was very hard to close again.

“But if you ask me…” His gaze flicked to you, eyes cold and cruel. “He’s deserved to die for a long time now. The things he’s done. The lines he’s crossed…” He looked away, sneering and shaking his head with disgust. “And he thought I wouldn’t find out…”

A long, heavy silence fell over the cemetery then, your sniffles and sobs becoming louder.

“But…” you finally gained enough courage to ask. “Why…? Why would he do that? He…” Undertaker’s gaze fell back to meet yours, this time a little less sharp. You swallowed, wincing at the thick saliva sticking to the back of your throat, voice raw as you said, “You’re sure it was him…” It wasn’t a question that time. It was a statement. It was the long-time-coming acceptance that proved you believed Undertaker about what kind of man your bodyguard, friend, part time lover, whoever he’d truly been to you, was.

That he was just as evil as the rest of them.

Once more, Undertaker turned his view to Othello’s grave, his colleague laid to rest and reduced to a chunk of stone bearing his name and two dates. Birth and death. The only two certainties in any human life.

“It was him.”

And then, as if all of your tears had merely been a warning of the pressure put on the walls of the dam, the reservoir finally broke, your face a mess and all your limbs quaking as you sucked down frantic, hyperventilating breaths, curling in on yourself, just barely keeping yourself standing.

Your sobs and gasps were merely background noise to Undertaker as memories of him and his friend replayed in his mind, cinematic reels zipping by too fast to see, yet just enough to catch a glimpse— of the university, sneaking out late to the restricted areas of campus, exchanging impossible ideas, deciding that the impossible might just be possible with enough ambition, dropping out of school, starting the Aurora Society with just the two of them, back before any headquarters or fancy cars or unmarked cash started rolling in.

Everything had seemed so simple back then, so calculated, merely an equation that would be solved with time.

But the numbers were gone now, the slate blank.

Without Othello, how would Undertaker even know where to start again?

Finally, your pathetic, broken sounds ate through the memories, snapping his attention back to you as you fell to your knees, dirt smudging the hem of your new dress, your coat, your shoes.

Undertaker knelt beside you, gently wrapping his arms around you, holding you close.

“We’re all bad men, my love,” he muttered into your hair, his words barely registering to you amidst your breakdown. “I just thought we were all on the same side…”

You could’ve stayed in that graveyard, let the ground swallow you up and drag you under.

But Undertaker picked you up, carried you back to his car, drove you home, cleaned you up and tucked you into bed, all the while your crying persisted, only dying down into a state of shock before the emotional exhaustion finally gave you the respite you so desperately needed.

You hoped that when you woke up you’d feel better, but you didn’t.

We’re all bad men…

Maybe you were bad too, having stayed in the shadow of all this darkness for so long.

I just thought we were all on the same side…

When all was said and done, whose side would you be on?

Undertaker’s or your own?

***

(This is it, everyone.

The beginning of the end.

Originally, I’d intended chapter six to be the final one, but since the finale was turning out to be quite long and plot heavy, I’ve decided to split it into two parts.

Next chapter will be the final one, and then I have a sort of prologue chapter that I actually started writing probably around the time chapter two was coming out that I’ll be posting as well.

Anyway though, I hope you enjoyed this chapter/the series so far. I’ll try not to make you wait so long for the ending.

See you then~)

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