*Charlie's P.O.V*

Leo and I have a plan. We'll be good. We'll go to school and come home and rest well. I'll learn with Mia. He'll prepare for our trip.

The plan goes well until I destroy it Friday afternoon. Immediately the school bell rings, I head to a station. Igor's birthday is at a hotel.

Upon reaching the hotel's lobby, I eject my innovation card, only to be told I have the wrong venue. I step out, frustrated.

"Sssss!!" Then I hear someone hiss after me. Turning quickly, my eyes lock with a bodyguard in formal all-black. He doesn't say anything to me; he takes my invitation card and tears it to pieces. I pretend not to be irritable because he looks like the bodyguards from the club. Perhaps he knows the right way. He motions to my plain clothes, and I shrug.

Shaking his head as if I'll regret not dressing 'sexy', the bodyguard leads me. I stay close despite his rushed gait. We end up in a small car that gets us to what looks like a hangar. Seeing two actual aeroplanes, I gasp.

The bodyguard opens my door for me. I run alongside him into one of the planes. A flight attendant tries to take my bag, but I decline. Fortunately, the bodyguard is in the cockpit at this moment. The plane is first class, so I try my best not to touch anything besides the seat I'm given.

An hour later, the plane takes off. I feel nauseous.

Where are they even taking me?

I refuse to eat, drink, or sleep. When we land, the bodyguard blindfolds and ties me up. The cool night air blows my hair as I am pushed around and into who knows what. Hearing a padlock and touching the metal ground, I reckon I'm in a container. Motion begins. In over an hour, it stops, and the breeze returns. There is more pushing and, soon, talking.

My ears catch on to a won't or two: something about prostitutes, packages, and a ground floor. Then someone says, "... Top floor. Are you sure you speak English?... No... No, the next house."

So as they -whoever they are - drag me into an elevator, I quell fear with this scanty knowledge of my location. A click sounds, and we start moving again. Slow music mingled with some weird - Screaming? Moaning? - sounds rise in the background.

I want my earmuffs. Now!

"No, I said next house! He is not part of the batch." The same speaker says.

"He what?" I hear a Russian accent this time.

"Oh!" The initial speaker grabs my shoulders. "He is for Igor!"

"Ooooh," the latter hoots.

Then, I feel several hands exchange me like I'm some present. The music is replaced by elevator noise. They are sending me down.

At this point, I have given up on figuring out my location. I shut everything out.

When they release me, I find myself all alone in a bedroom. I exhale. It takes my eyes some rubbing to adjust to new surroundings, after which I look out the window at a beach shore -

"I asked you to wear something sexy."

I jump. Igor's gaze is on me, listless.

Oh God! Oh God! Oh-

*

Author's note: trigger warning. You can skip to the following author's note still in this chapter if you don't want to read anything associated with s.a.

*

"Aren't you done crying?!"

"Hey, boy! Stop it!"

"Stop crying!" Igor yells - who knows how long - later.

I nod, but my tears keep falling. On and on, I cry quietly, wetting the sheets. My head is pounding. There's vomit all over.

Igor has just washed down; he glares at me from his post by the bathroom door.

"If you don't stop crying, I'll put you in a freezer."

That doesn't help. I look up at my chained hand, desperately wanting to bite my nails - perhaps even chew them off thoroughly. In fact, I'll chew myself until there's nothing left for anybody.

"Hey, be a man. Stop this," Igor says sternly. "And don't you dare start vomiting again." Then he moves to the bedpost to unpadlock the chain. Once my hand is free, I clutch it, whimpering.

"Get up."

I do, gradually. He supports me to the bathroom and then threatens to blow my head off if I do anything fishy. I have a bath. Come out. Let him chain my hand to the bed again. I'm done.

*
Author's note: I'm done, too. You can read from here on.

*

Igor tightens his bathrobe and sits. Switching on his laptop, he starts speaking Russian in an ecstatic tone. I am too tired even to bother hearing. I doze off until his weight sinks into the space beside me.

An older woman's voice echoes a bit. I shift to try pulling the sheets over my bare back.

"You're awake?" Igor turns. I freeze. He reverts to the laptop and says in Russian, "Mom, just scan them for me. I have to go now. Bye."

Then, he sets his laptop aside and chuckles. I turn to stare at him blankly.

"The things I want to do to you -" he grabs my neck. I can't even flinch. His laptop's notification rings, and he lets go. After scrolling for some time, he scratches his brow. I peek at the screen, only to see some scanned documents. He zooms in on one that looks like a manufacturing account.

I frown.

Wait, his market value figure is too small ... How did he get it... He's understating... Oh, should I tell him? No, that would help them. I'm not here to help them... But then, how will I find evidence against Leo's dad and all these monsters?

"It's... wrong."

"Huh?" Igor's unfazed eyes meet mine. I gulp, hoping my attempt at an American accent is believable.

"What are you talking about?" He turns back to his screen, looks at it closely, and then back at me as though permitting me to continue.

I cower while speaking, "The market value figure is wrong since you added closing work in progress and lessed the opening one, instead of the reverse ... which made your production cost false in the first place."

"So?"

"You're supposed to subtract closing work in progress. Just fix all the calculations from that part." I use my free hand to point the figures out. "If you correct it, you should get about $17 billion as your market value ... here. Then fix your profit and loss account ... ur, here-"

"Does it look like I don't know basic accounting, boy?" he says.

I shake my head fervently. He shuts the laptop and shifts off the bed, to my slight relief. I don't want him near me. I don't want to be here. I can't do this anymore -

"You are right."

"..."

"Did you hear?" he questions. Maintaining eye contact, I sigh.

He smirks. "You're right, but that doesn't mean you're special."

Ok. Can I leave now?

"Won't you respond?"

That's when a yawn kicks in. As hard as I try to stop it, my mouth opens, and the saddest sound I've ever heard erupts.

Igor licks his lip.

Get away from me.

Then he crouches to my level. "How about an outing? Or are you too tired? Would you rather prefer -" He slips a hand on my neck again.

"Outing."

He contemplates my response, unchains me, and then walks out. Seconds later, he reenters with some random-looking people. I quiver as they stare at me in awe. Igor mutters something, and they get a work. One lady does my facial makeup while a fat guy checks the suits in the cupboard. Another lady puts grey lenses in my eyes, and someone applies concealer to my marks.

When they are done, another man comes for my hair, but I flinch.

"Sir?" The guy tilts to Igor as if to report me.

Igor shrugs. "Just get him a wig."

When all is done, I check a mirror; there appears a man with grey eyes and short black hair in a white suit; still cute, but not as much as I actually am.

"What am I?"

"You're the hitman's last victim. You're becoming special," Igor says in Russian.

*

I'm the skull-the body parts. But I'm not Caucasian. I don't look like him, but Igor says it doesn't matter; the cartel doesn't even know how he looks; they just sent Leo's dad to kill without any intel besides names.

"They are so stupid; they keep making the same mistakes," Igor chuckles.

I don't care. He hands me over to the same guard from the beginning, and - at least, I can breathe. After driving me for over an hour, the bodyguard parks.

He exits the car, and I look around for a way out. We are on the side of a highway. A truck is blocking the way

"Hi!"

"AAH-" I jump. An intruder shuts the door, sliding into the backseat. "Ai! You want us to lose our roles?!"

I shake my head.

The intruder looks like a teen boy. He fans himself with his t-shirt, exposing his thin ribs. Black curls peek out of his brown wig.

I frown. "What roles?"

"Our roles!" He tucks his natural hair in. "I'm Mordecai, and you are -"

"You... are playing Mordecai?"

The boy nods. I don't like the thought of that. "But, what's your real name?"

"What do you mean by real name?" he asks, "are you new?"

"Yes."

He gasps. "Woah -"

The car starts moving, and like that, his expression turns stoic. He doesn't talk till the car stops again, and the bodyguard lets us out.

"Have you guys eaten?" the bodyguard asks.

"Yes, sir," 'Mordecai' replies. I nod, too.

We are led to a meeting room. Inside, Igor beckons us. As we sit on opposite sides of him, old business people start dropping in. I avoid their stares, looking down.

"You are my accountant, so act like it," Igor whispers.

I look up, and broad-chested guys with scary tattoos sit across us.

The one in formal attire amongst them -perhaps their leader - says, "I'm glad we are having this meeting."

"Me too." Igor leans forward with a grin. "Allow me to introduce my accountant -" He turns to me, "- And one of my letter boys."

'Mordecai' waves. I don't know what to do.

"Why these two?" The leader grimaces at me. His voice alone makes me want to hide under a table, so I look at 'Mordecai'; the boy is not scared like me. If anything, he's excited.

"Because you sent someone to kill them," Igor proclaims. "And even your informant."

The cartel leader huffs, "So you have offed Albert?"

"Who are you talking about, Jawl?" Igor smiles.

"Albert. One of our most experienced hitmen."

"Oh... You mean the one who failed to kill -" Igor points to us again and clasps his hand to say, "Well, we've frozen Albert, and as you can see, he didn't do a good job anyway-"

"We only sent him to kill the accountant." Jawl comments. It takes everything in me not to reminisce about Leo's dad cutting ...

"Even if you didn't send him to me, I have killed him," says fake Mordecai.

I seal my lips. Mate, what? No, you didn't.

Jawl, however, falls his act so fast that he shivers in embarrassment. "How?"

"He threatened to kill my baby. My sweet, sweet Junior. So, I ran him over."

Act cool, Charlie. Please -

"I split his head."

Act cool, Charlie -

"And -"

"Oh, you think you are so tough!" Jawl aims a gun on 'Mordecai' suddenly.

"Gentlemen!" Someone interrupts.

All eyes snap to me.

Oh, it's me? Don't freak out! What do I do?! Take a deep breath, Charlie... Now, go.

"Gentlemen." I use a more masculine voice. "The whole point of this meeting was to discuss our shared problems, fir instance, the decline in our profits, since inflation rates are dwindling our market value. There is no need for weapons."

"Exactly." Igor claps.

Jawl's rage shifts, but Igor pulls out his laptop as if there's no one targeting him now.

"Please, put the gun down, sir," I say.

"Fuck off," Jawl tucks the gun in his jeans. The men behind us exhale as he barks, "Where are your records, then?!"

Igor takes a pendrive from someone behind us. Another smallish woman also gives Jawl a briefcase. As they exchange, I reckon that Ogor did not change the figures. He offer the briefcase, which I accept as if I know what to do with it.

"We shall review yours and resume this meeting in the evening." Igor rises. Jawl glowers.

Igor tells him that the meeting should go on and he'll be back after his birthday party. Then he taps us to join him.

He slings his arms over us once we exit the meeting's premises. "My special boys!" he coos, "Now, let's go party a little."

Then he leaves us in a four-wheel after taking the briefcase and pointing to some shopping bags at the back.

I exhale as soon as the vehicle starts moving again.

"I know right. That was so scary, eh?" 43 laughs while grabbing the bags. Handing one to me, he smiles. "You'll have to clean your makeup before trying them."

I don't want to, but then 43 gets us towels. As he wipes his face, I copy him. I look up to see a handsome, curly-haired boy. 43 should not be his alias; it should be something better, like a Shakespearean name.

"Damn," he gapes at me.

"You're handsome too," I say.

"Yes, but you look -" he struggles to say, "Like... an angel? Where did they get you from? I came from Brazil. Wait- aren't you younger than me -"

"Enough fraternising," the bodyguard booms from the driver's seat. Forty-three nods in panic and opens the bags.

When we arrive at our new destination, I am dressed in a polo shirt and trousers, like 43 - same new wigs and make-up even. The sky is clearing. We wait at the gate for our given tags to be scanned, after which we enter a compound bustling with music, laughter, and kids romping around pool slides.

I gulp.

"Hey, chill." 43 grins. "This is the best part; the type of parties where you don't have to give anyone a blow or handjob. You can eat, dance, and renew your hope to see another day."

*

I feel lost. 43 plays with kids, eats, laughs, dances, and everything is joyous.

"I thought you said you've eaten." I frown at 43.

Instead of responding, he serves himself more mac and cheese. "Mm.. so good. WANT SOME?!"

"No need to yell," I say, although the background music is rising. "And no, but thank you."

He halts.

I trace his line of sight to the expensive cars parked in the distance. Affluent men hop out, and I feel 43 tense.

I touch his arm. He winces and starts eating again, but faster.

"Why? What is it?"

"You better eat too," he cuts me off. This boy is scaring me.

I look up again. Mr. Joe Yelstin's gaze catches mine.

Please don't recognise me. I gulp as the man mutters something ... and strides in our direction.

"Oh no."

"Why what-" 43 keeps his head down. "Who is it?"

"Mr. Yelstin."

Instantly, his head rises. He sighs in relief while I tense. "Urm, can we hide?"

"No! Guards are watching us," 43 shrieks, "do you want to die?"

"No."

"Or miss this opportunity?"

"What opportunity?" I question 43. Instead of answering, though, he runs to Mr. Yelstin. The grim man opens his arms, receiving him heartily.

"Oh! My boy!!! How are you?!"

"Very good, sir!"

"That's nice." Mr. Yeltsin releases his hold. My eyelids flutter in confusion while he chirps, "Looks like you're going to be a big man, huh?"

"Yes, sir, like you!" 43 beams.

What is happening here?!

"So, tell me, how was it?"

"Sir, it was so scary. "

The man's grin falters a little. "Oh? Why? What were you?"

"Mordecai," says 43.

Mr. Yeltsin gasps to that, only to turn to me and ask, "Why not you?"

"I was the accountant."

"Huh... Wait - they made you play a man?!"

Why? What is funny about that?

His laugh makes me want to slap him; I bite my nail in restraint. Fortunately, he sobers to chuckle, "Anyway, don't worry. You boys will be fine. You'll be getting names soon."

"Really, sir?!"

"Yes, shush!" Mr. Yeltsin holds up a finger. "Don't spread the word yet."

"Ok, ok -" 43 gestures to zip his lips.

I am so lost right now. If Mr. Joe notices that, he doesn't show it. He hugs 43 again and retreats towards the mansion the other men have entered.

I turn to 43 and grimace. "Why are you so happy to see him?"

"Bruh," he giggles. When it dawns on him that I am dead serious, his amusement festers. "Oh, you are really new, huh?"

Mhmm.

"Wow... Ok, then, umm. " Then he whispers, "Sir was very new too."

"Who?"

"Don't stand. Act like we are discussing the food."

Hence, I serve myself pancakes and 43 talks while eating a muffin. "So, the rumour is that Mr. Yeltsin got out in two days."

"Got out? Of wha-"

"Oh my, I forgot! Don't talk!" 43 bursts. "There could be a recorder in it." He motions to his button.

I frown. "How do you know?"

"You're new, so you'll see soon."

"Are you sure?" I rip one button off.

43 gasps. I look around. No one is minding us. I tear another button.

"Hey, stop it!" He slaps my hand. My jaw drops. He fumes, "Stop it, or else you'll get us killed."

Killed? Ok, let's stop.

He exhales, and I apologise.

"Jeez ... just be careful," he replies.

Thus begins my silence. I stay by his side and laugh at every joke he tells the kids around. I act too cool to talk.

When all the guests gather for a toast, I watch with a smile. Igor stands on the topmost balcony. Looking down at us, he raises his glass and makes a speech.

I'm not listening.

He stops, and everyone cheers: men, women, children, all in extravagant tones. Fireworks spark behind him.

Our eyes meet.

He stares, unfazed.

Yet, the instant he heads in, a guard grabs me. I don't protest.