Dark awoke with a sharp groan, rubbing his head as he sat up. Sheets rustled over his body—oddly smooth—and as he shifted, the bed creaked loudly under him.

    His eyes widened, and he gazed down at himself, finding his chest bare—stained white sheets draped over him and the disgusting bed. His heart began to speed up as he began to glance around at his surroundings.

    This was not home.

    He thickly swallowed, running a hand over his chest, then peeking under the covers. He gave a sigh of relief; his pants were still on.

    Carefully, he swung his legs over the bed, cringing at the despaired creak from its rusty frame. Dark stood, bare feet grounding against the musty carpet. Everything about this place was disgusting.

    The room was very small—perhaps seven feet in length and width. The bed took up most of the grimy space, and Dark circled around it, blinking as he took account of another small room. There was no door—merely an opening—and stark, white light bled from its even-smaller interior.

    Dark peered through, nose curling at the rank smell. On the left stood a grimy sink, its drain rusted and practically crawling with bugs. The only accessory was a glass cup and a single, yellowed toothbrush.

    Dark glanced up and jumped, finding his reflection in the mirror. He ran a hand through his hair, stepping onto the slimy tiled floor to get a better look at himself.

    Dried blood caked at the corner of his lip, and he tilted his head, finding bruises along his neck—as if he were choked. Dark ran his fingers along the bruises and swallowed, desperately racking through his memory in hopes of finding an answer as to why he was here.

    His brows furrowed, and he shut his eyes tight.

    There was Wilford... standing just feet away...

    Two men, merely black figures, approaching him swiftly...

    The rest was a blur. When his hand grazed over his mouth, he caught the faint whiff of chloroform. His stomach sank with utter dread.

    I've been kidnapped, he thought. He gazed around the small bathroom, barely taking in the sight of the toilet and the rancid bathtub, and fled back into the bedroom, his heart pounding. The only light came from that bathroom, and it was sickening—stark white, bleeding with nausea.

    Dark gazed around, his body shuddering with disgust at his current conditions. The carpet practically squelched with a damp wetness under his feet, smelling of mildew.

    Dark's eyes landed on a door—opposite the bathroom and near the bed. He swallowed, then glanced around again—as if searching for some semblance of reassurance.

    God, he couldn't fight... not really anyway. He thickly swallowed, running a hand through his hair, before glancing back at the door, the handle jeering up at him.

    Oh, how he wished Jack were with him right now... He needed his bodyguard more now than ever.

    With a careful breath, Dark tried at the door, yanking at the handle rather roughly. The door gave a violent rattle upon the disturbance, creaking with age. Dark's heart rocketed in his throat.

    Maybe I can kick it down, he thought.

    He swallowed, about to go through with his plan, when the door swung open with ease.

    Wilford stood at the doorway.

    Dark suppressed a shout and stumbled back, staring at Will with wild eyes. He only received a snarky smile, and the door closed to a defiant shut.

    "You look awful," said Will in that signature slur of his. Dark's heart pounded, and when Wilford stepped forward, he took a step back. "Not so rich anymore, now are ya, sweetheart?"

    Dark's breaths went shallow, but his pride wouldn't let him succumb to a face of fear. He growled.

    "Why am I here," he demanded, eyes glittering. Wilford only chuckled, pulling up a metal chair from the recesses of the room and leaning his forearms against it, staring Dark in the eye with a haze-like stupor.

    "I gave you a fair warning, Dark," said Wilford, worrying at the edges of his pink stache. He gave a dramatic shrug, hand grazing beside his belt.

He pulled out a golden gun from his holster, pointing it at Dark in one clean, smooth motion. Dark's eyes widened, and his body went tight.

"You see—my boys and I..." drawled Wilford, eyes half-lidded. "We don't like greedy buggers on our streets."

His thumb pulled back the hammer of the gun, and a series of clicks echoed throughout the room. Dark thickly swallowed, taking another step back.

"I asked you nicely, Dark," sighed Wilford, standing up straight and circling around the chair, walking up to him. Dark gave a violent shudder, and his eyes widened when the cool metal of the gun pressed into his bare chest. "A deal for a deal..."

Wilford advanced on Dark until he was pressed against the grimy wall, gun digging into his skin.

"But no," pouted Wilford. "No, no, no... You wanted the lot all for yourself."

He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes, breath fanning over Dark's face. Dark swallowed, trying to lean away, his breaths curt and shallow.

"It's men like you... that make me want to eat the rich," said Wilford. His finger slipped into the trigger guard, and Dark swallowed, staring Will in the eye. "It's disgusting, to say the least."

"You're a criminal, Warfstache," said Dark, inwardly cringing at the shake in his voice. "I'm not about to have lawyers and—"

"It'd be best," breathed Wilford, brushing the gun up Dark's chest and under his jaw, "to think about what you're about to say next."

Dark swallowed, and his eyes glittered. Wilford wouldn't hesitate to kill him, he realized. It's what he was known for. Sweeping the streets of people who opposed him bullet by bullet.

Dark gathered his wits.

So be it. Once people learned of his absence—learned of his death—there'd be FBI breathing down Wilford's neck. Someone of his status being murdered would surely bring Wilford to his end.

"I would never," hissed Dark, "be affiliated with someone like you."

Wilford's eyes glimmered, and he dug the gun into Dark's throat, reveling in his choked sounds.

"Doing business with you," Dark managed out, "would ruin my reputation."

Wilford sourly nodded, humming. A silence fell over them, and with a quick motion, Wilford grabbed a fistful of Dark's hair and tugged down, ramming the gun into his temple. Dark couldn't help but give a cry of surprise, wincing and stumbling as Wilford knocked him down into the grimy floor.

Wilford pinned Dark stomach-first into the floor, the pressure of the gun breaking skin. Blood began to well from Dark's temple at the force, and he winced, chest heaving and heart pounding furiously.

"You talk big, Dark," hissed Wilford, his nerves giving a delighted hum as blood began to drip slowly from his temple. Dark struggled and winced, eyes screwed shut at the force and weight of Wilford on top of him. "Look at where you are before talking back to me."

Dark bared his teeth, crying out when Wilford struck him across the head with the gun.
Wilford licked his lips, eyes shining, and he ran a finger up Dark's face rather forcefully, gathering the blood in the pad of his finger. He made sure Dark was looking, opening his mouth wide and smearing Dark's blood onto his tongue. Dark gave a disgusted shudder, his head pounding from the abuse.

Wilford stood suddenly, and Dark gasped for breath, the pressure on his body gone.

"Up," ordered Wilford. When Dark wouldn't budge, Wilford kicked him in the stomach.
Dark groaned, clutching himself, and Wilford pointed the gun down at him.

"I said, up."

Dark grimaced, and he obeyed, stumbling onto his feet and resting against the wall. His head pounded, and he stomach ached. Another glob of blood ran down the side of his face, plastering his hair to his skin.

"Good," said Wilford, smiling with a manic glint in his eyes. "Such a good boy."

He gave a loud laugh, and he stowed his gun away.

"I have so much planned for you, Dark," chuckled Wilford, and he began to walk away, opening the door. He glanced over his shoulder, a delighted shiver running down his spine to meet the hate burning brightly in Dark's eyes.

"We're going to have so much fun."

And with that, the door shut with a violent click.

This was actually another alternative to Flashwave, omg—I had Dark as a rich business man who owned property in the middle of a mob war, and he wouldn't give his place up to Wilford. BruhHHHH

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day ;)

Love, SH. A. xoxo