Nikolas opens the door, black hair messed. He looks to the right and as he does, Eris squeezes by. He spins fast, reaching for her, and she ducks again, further into the room.

"Call Kirk with a correction," she says.

"Bitch. Bitch with fucking nerves of steel," he spits.

Eris backs away from him as the door shuts behind him. "Call Kirk, Niky. Now."

"Get the fuck out of my apartment, Eris. I'm not calling anyone."

"You want it to be over? You want this to be the end? You don't call Kirk, it's the end."

He smiles, and Eris realizes how sharp his teeth are for perhaps the first time. "But if I do call Kirk, then we're still together? Is that your stance?"

"Yes, Niky. Just call Kirk."

"I'm not calling Kirk. I'm not calling Kirk; we're not breaking up. But you are getting the fuck out of this apartment. Give me a week. Give me a week until I can see you without beating the shit out of you."

Eris takes a breath, taking one more step towards the window, away from him and the door. If she's going to bleed, she might as well get it all done now.

"I've changed the programing on the locks, Nikolas," she says, proud that her voice doesn't waver. "You're not coming by the penthouse again. You're fired from Nyx. You're going to call Kirk because if you don't, I'm sending the cops every piece of evidence I have on you. I have pictures of you handing buyers cocaine. I have pictures of you snorting it. I have—" She takes a step back as he takes one forward. "I have video footage of you beating countless people nearly to death—"

The smile cuts her off. "People that you sent me to beat nearly to death? People you asked me to get rid of? You fucking bitch."

"I have an entire file of shit that'll put you in jail and keep me out. If you don't call Kirk, I'm going to send it."

"You're not sending anything. And you're not leaving until you tell me where that file is."

Eris shakes her head. "Call Kirk. I'll give you the file when you hang up."

His smile is stone. It doesn't morph, move, change. "Tell me where the file is, Eris. I swear to god, I'll break every fucking bone in that pretty face. You won't wear that red dress for months."

Eris isn't scared of broken bones or bruises. He can punch and kick and damage. As long as he doesn't break the skin. She prays he won't break the skin.

"Call Kirk," she says, lifting her chin.

He steps forward. Eris could duck, run, but this is so inevitable. Two birds with one stone. One beating, and she gets rid of Nikolas and gets Adam his job back. It's inevitable.

"I've been good to you, Eris," he whispers.

Kind, kind Nikolas. Kind Nikolas that spent years choking her nearly to unconsciousness because he knows she doesn't like blood. Kind, kind Nikolas that is great to be around until he doesn't feel like he holds all the power.

"Call Kirk," she whispers back. She knows it's going to happen. Inevitable, she tells herself.

"Tell me where the file is."

Eris shakes her head, her back to the window frame. Inevitable.

"Five and a half litres," he says. He steps in front of her, raises his hand to brace himself on the wall above her head.

Eris isn't scared of pain. Broken bones and bruises.

"Five and a half litres," he mumbles to her, the number brushing her face. "That's how much you've got in you. But you can lose two and a half before you die, and I won't kill you, Eris. Never. But I'm going to have two and half litres of your blood on the ground before I call Kirk. Don't make me do that to you. I really don't want to."

Eris meets his gaze. She won't imagine it. She'll close her eyes. She'll think of something else. "The file goes to the cops," she says, "unless you call Kirk."

He hits her over the eye, across the nose. It's sharp, shocking. It's pins and needles and metal. He hooks his finger under her jaw, lifts her chin to look at him.

"Yeah?" he says. He hits her again, in the same spot. She can feel the skin stretching, the skin breaking, the skin losing its composure. She can feel the heat of that liquid under her. She can feel it on the verge of squeezing through those cuts.

Eris' lips tremble slightly, but she keeps her chin lifted. "Yeah."

Again. Again and again and again. It's coming. It's running over her face, dripping onto the floor. It's making that thick, dripping noise that water doesn't make. It's metallic in the air. It's spilling over her lips.

Eris keeps her mouth pressed together as hard as she can. Nikolas keeps her chin lifted, then pauses on his punches long enough to pry her mouth open with his fingers. It drips into her mouth, onto her tongue. Eris heaves, but nothing comes out. Nikolas lifts her chin higher, so it slides down her throat.

It's splattered against the wall, all of it. Her blood, her brother's blood. Spraying out against the wall. Eris doesn't understand how he could have so much blood in him. It pulses from his neck, and she can see the end of his carotid as it leaks out his lifeline.

Eris presses her hands to it, tries to make it stop. Her hands are slick with red, they drip and slide as her tears fall into his neck.

Eris grits her teeth. She will not cry. She will not.

Punch after punch after punch and there's so much blood. It's against the wall, dripping down the window. Sliding down her throat, soaking the Streetheart shirt. The red spreads down the cotton, coversthe guitarists' face.

"Where is it?" Nikolas asks. It's Greek, the shape of his words, because the words will cut deeper if they're the ones Eris thinks in. Her eyes are closed so tightly she can't see him. Her brother is bleeding. It's so much blood. It's sprayed against the T.V that he stole because Eris wanted a T.V. It's smattered against the books he bought her on mythology. It's soaking the page about the goddess of chaos. It's covering that picture of the apple.

Tears come out, and they mix with that hot, hot blood.

"Tell me where it is," Nikolas says in Greek. He takes her bloody face in both of his bloody hands, tenderly, like a lover. He lowers his voice to a whisper, "Tell me where it is and it stops. I'll wipe it all off. We'll put you in the shower and make sure it's all off, Eris. I'll make sure you don't see it. Just tell me where it is."

Eris' brother doesn't say anything, but when he tries to, little bubbles come out of his neck. Stop talking, she tells him. She needs to call the ambulance, but she can't take her hands off his neck. There are men behind her, leaving their house with their knife. Call an ambulance, she begs them. They don't call. She can't reach the phone without taking her hands off his neck.

"Come on, Eris," Nikolas pleads. "Give up."

Eris vomits onto the floor, the olives from her martini not entirely digested. She stumbles forward, and Nikolas throws her towards the wall. She falls, and the end of the table slices across her arm. She throws up again. It's in her hands, but she can't stop it from bleeding.

Nikolas kneels over her. He kicks her in the stomach, then gets to his knees and slams her head into the leg of the table. He takes her by the throat. "Give up. Give up, Eris. Please."

Eris rolls over, through the blood. The Streetheart shirt is ruined. Adam is going to marry Sarah. Sarah will never play the piano again. Peter will never find someone who puts him first. Adam isn't ever going to spend the night with his hands in Eris' hair ever again. Eris cannot reach the phone without killing her brother.

Eris coughs and lifts her chin. She meets Nikolas' gaze. Her voice is scarred, breaking. "Call Kirk," she whispers.

Nikolas grits his teeth. He takes both hands and curls them around her neck. Squeezes. But this doesn't scare her. She doesn't struggle, doesn't move. It always stops as soon as the world gets a little fuzzy.

"Give up, you bitch. Tell me where that fucking file is, you cheating motherfucker. Tell me where it is."

"Call...Kirk," Eris sputters. Her brother is dead already anyway. Slit right across the throat. She'll keep her hands on his neck until her parents come home. She'll keep her hands there for hours. She won't let go until someone pulls her bloody, exhausted, tear-soaked body down the hallway.

"Fucking slut," Nikolas growls. He knocks her head against the wall. Once, twice. It's so loud, this beating. That's the thing. It's so, so loud in this apartment. With its neighbours. In this dangerous part of the city, where the cops are on the constant prowl.

Two knocks sound on the door. "City police," they call from the door. "Open up."

Nikolas shakes his head. Shakes his head so vigorously he sees stars. He leaves Eris on the ground, takes his phone, and dials Kirk's number. He won't go to jail. He might go to jail for domestic abuse, but he won't go to jail for selling drugs. Two years, in and out, for domestic abuse. Decades for drugs. This city has its priorities under control.

Eris rests her head against the wall. It's over. It's over. She repeats that to herself a thousand times. It's over.

"City police. Open the door."

Nikolas is telling Kirk to print a correction. She can hear his words through the haze. She closes her eyes.

"City police. Last chance."

Nikolas throws the phone on the counter. He wipes his bloody knuckles. He opens the door.

"We've had calls from a neighbour," they tell him. There is blood on Nikolas' shirt, down his arms. "We'd like to come in."

Eris keeps her eyes closed. Nikolas doesn't speak as he lets them in. There's blood all over the wall, all over the carpet. There's blood on the guitarist, there's blood on the page with the goddess of chaos. There's blood in Eris' mouth, in her sinuses, down her throat.

They arrest Nikolas, and they lean down to Eris. They check her pulse, load her onto a stretcher. She curls her bloody hand around one of their wrists. She's allergic to warfarin, she tells him. She knows they wouldn't dream of giving her a blood thinner right now, but her mother said that if she's not going to wear a medical bracelet because it 'ruins her outfits' then she's going to have to make sure she tells the medics if she can. Warfarin, she tells them. I can't have warfarin.

We won't give you warfarin, they tell her. They promise.

Warfarin, she told the medics as they covered her brother's dead body with a white sheet. He's allergic to warfarin, too. You can't give him warfarin.

They never did.