34: Grim Hope

Your eyelids fling open, you gasp, then you immediately hack up the saliva you accidentally inhaled.

"Hn!" Any attempt at speech is halted by the cloth in your mouth, a strip of duct tape keeping it firmly inside. Blinking, you stare sideways at the backside of a car seat as your surroundings return to you.

The crackled music of a local radio station fills your ears, the humming of your captor underneath it. The car creaks with every turn and growls with an unmuffled engine, a loud and cranky beast that holds you in its belly. It hurries through downtrodden streets, maneuvering around the city's shanty district.

You lift your temple off the backseat you've been laid on, squinting at the driver. Kenny, of course. He situates a cigarette in his mouth as his eyes flick from sidewalks to street signs. Beyond him, the sky is still bright. You must not have been out long.

Shifting your body spurs the clinking of metal links, alerting you that your wrists are shackled in cheap handcuffs behind your back. You tug, and a steel bracelet digs into your skin.

With a racing heart, you swallow and check your predicament again. Handcuffed in the back of a criminal's car is a scenario seen only in action movies and thrillers, and somehow the protagonists escape without a scratch.

Or, they're brutally murdered. There's really no in between.

Hoping to avoid the latter, you command yourself to think. The rear of the car has doors with grimy windows—maybe they're unlocked. If you can avoid drawing his attention, there's a chance you can throw yourself out of the moving vehicle.

Not a flawless plan, but it's better than staying put.

Keeping an eye on the driver, you shift closer to the door beside your head. Beside the crank for the window, a rather prominent lever sticks out as the door handle. Grateful for the excessive designs of classic cars, you push your skull into the greasy lever and try to wrench it open.

"You're not sneaky," Kenny murmurs, flicking ash off his cigarette.

Tensing, you shrivel on the seat with eyes pinned on him. He has the rearview mirror improperly pointed at the backseat to monitor his prisoner.

"I mean, keep trying if you want. The door's locked, though."

Enraged, you kick a foot into his seat out of defiance.

"Brat," he sighs, scratching his forehead. "Just wait a sec. You can let out more anger once we're inside."

He pulls into the dreadfully familiar lot preceding the pawn shop, though he circles behind the building and stops in a thin alley, his car set beside dumpsters and worn fences. Stepping out, he manually unlocks the rear door and secures a hand around your ankle.

Grunting, you throw your free foot into his wrist, maintaining as much fight as you can, but he's made of stone and just takes both calves in his hands.

"C'mon. Stand up." You're pulled out of the car by the fabric of your shirt, forced to your feet and caged in the embrace of an enormous monster. "Walk with me. We're heading in."

You toss and writhe uselessly, using your heels to dig into the ground or stab his shins or crush his feet. Nothing works, and you're brought into the rear entrance of the pawn shop like a tornado shoved indoors.

"Caven!" Kenny calls to the backroom he enters. "Any customers?"

"None." You spot Kenny's...other person poke out from the main area of the shop. "Oh, good. You got her."

"Keep an eye out front." Kenny shuts the door and hoists up the bounty that's trying to throw herself out of his grasp. "I'll get her situated. Pick up something for her to eat before you go home today."

"Sure." Caven's too casual for someone witnessing a literal kidnapping; this must be quite an everyday activity for her. She leaves, evaporating the backroom of the yellow light the main room gave.

Your environment is stuffy and dim, lit by cheap, buzzing light fixtures and somehow more cramped than the commercial floor of the shop. Heavy duty shelves line the walls, filled with backup inventory, toolkits, and weapons. The floor is barren and cold, just as bland as the grey, bricked walls around it.

"Cozy quarters, I know," Kenny deadpans. He brings you to the door of a room carved into the floorplan, guiding you into your pseudo-cell.

A small, metal bedframe holds a mattress that's rotted beyond comfort. One pillow is left atop it. Sunlight seeps in through a hopper window, landing on a decrepit cabinet stuffed with magazines and scraps. Underneath the window, a single chair stands unusually centered, like its positioning was measured to the centimeter.

When you're forced into the chair—despite your resistance—Kenny frees one cuff just to thread it through one of the chair's vertical slats. You tug, and not only does the slat hold you down, but furthermore the chair itself is motionless. It takes only a moment to realize why: the chair's legs have been bolted to the floor, screwed down with crude craftsmanship. It's strong enough, however, and it keeps both the chair and your body from moving far.

"There we are," he hums while peeling the tape from your cheeks. "Scream, and I'll break your jaw. Use your head and practice some patience before freaking out."

You spit out the ragged handkerchief used as a gag and cringe against the backrest, glowering at the villain. "Get the fuck away from me."

He does, shouldering the door closed and slumping against it with a plucked cigarette in hand. Glossing eyes over his prisoner, he sighs out some smoke. "Look, I did up a room for you and everything. It's not so bad."

You glue your knees together to hide how much they're trembling. "Wh-why?" you stammer out. "Why did you bring me back here?"

"I'm sure you're smart enough to figure it out on your own." He thumbs his cigarette, his mood rather placated. "We'll keep you fed and sheltered for now. Behave, and I won't have to hurt you. I really have no interest in that."

"I'm not a fucking pet," you gnarl. "Let me out."

"No. I'll give it a day or two, then maybe I'll let you out of the cuffs. Then the room. Then you could wander the pawn shop, if it suits you—"

"Fuck no. I fucking hate this shop."

"Alright." He rises, resting a hand on the door handle. "Then you can learn to enjoy the chair you're chained to. I'll be back for you in a bit."

"Wait—Kenny—"

The door slams behind him, followed by the click of a deadbolt sliding into place. Chained up and locked away.

Fucked, to be frank.

"Don't leave me like this!" you cry, but you're not given a response.

There's faint footsteps and words exchanged far beyond your cell, your two guards resuming their corrupt sense of normalcy. Alone, you elect against bitching endlessly and decide to continue thinking.

You're not dead nor beaten into near-death, so you still have a chance. You're still the witty protagonist that's going to escape this thriller movie come to life. Scanning the room, you find little of help or even interest. You grasp the chair slats and pull but they don't budge. The chair is wood, but it's thick wood that's been sealed, polished, and reinforced like it must withstand a hurricane. It's probably the only piece of furniture in this place that's actually in decent condition.

Nonetheless, you strain the chain of your cuffs against the slat and saw, back and forth, praying the metal links will at least begin a dent in the stiff timber. While your hands work, your head drops and your eyes close to think without stimulation.

It was supposed to be a simple internship—the biggest source of stress being a missed alarm clock or an overdue paper. Not kidnapping. Not fearing for your life and battling against the most dangerous man you've ever met.

And had you stayed with Dr. Smith, your world would've been nothing more than deadlines and assignments. None of this would've happened if you remained under Erwin and ignored the chance to become the literature department head's apprentice.

There's no way the past version of yourself could've anticipated this, and you silently forgive her for her naivety. Levi's eyes were the only warning of what to come; they were a window to the years of torture and anger behind them. They burned into you, and yet you still approached him fearlessly.

The title of his intern came with an invisible burden. He claimed you, demanded you by his side, branded you his lapdog, then panicked when someone threatened that relationship. Because he is so vehemently possessive, a being even worse than him has exploited that and now holds you under his thumb.

An hour passes. Your hands work on autopilot, your mind elsewhere. The color of the sky changes beyond the window, the sun crawling to its bed just past the horizon. Your body aches against the hard wood it's tethered to, begging for a different position to stretch cramped muscles.

It's quiet outside the door. The shop is probably still open—if it even gets any customers. You can't imagine patrons of Kenny's stupid little shop, but for a moment you wish they existed. Maybe if you cried out at the right time, they'd realize the shopkeeper is trapping a helpless student in his backroom.

But the shop seems dead. Nobody is here for you now.

After another hour, your cell's door is peeled open and in steps the devil.

"Here." Kenny drops a plastic bag on the mattress before crossing to your chair. "Dinnertime."

As soon as the cuff is free you leap to your feet and bolt, but your shirt is grabbed and you're pinned in place. Another dance of battle and subjugation takes place until you're set on the mattress, a wrist shackled to the metal bed frame.

"You can manage with one hand." Kenny presents a takeout box and a plastic fork, pushing the lazy meal closer to his zoo animal.

"I'm not going to eat that."

He rolls his eyes. "Missy, starving yourself just to be annoying won't help either of us. Eat, before I make you."

You huddle against the wire headboard, picking at a speck of peeling white paint. "No."

"'Kay. I'll let you run through whatever breakout tactics you've read about. Will that settle you?"

"Shut up."

"Have you tried picking the lock yet? We can take a crack at that. Maybe summoning the spirit of your dead grandma to guide you. Oh, a classic: I'll give you a spoon, if you want to dig out. Or, if you get Caven close enough to you, you can take her hostage and threaten me—"

"Shut up!"

He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Just tryin' to help. You're only going to be as comfortable as you behave. Eat your food. Sleep. I'll have more for you to do tomorrow."

"No—wait." As soon as he moves to leave, you try to make him stay. He's horrible, but at least he's company. "Why are you doing this? Can't you at least answer that?"

"Tomorrow. G'night."

Alone again, every word of protest given to deaf ears. You set your dinner on the floor and sit dumbly on the bed, disinterested in eating or sleeping or thinking. You're stuck in a pit right now, and only things outside the well interest you. Your surroundings, your food—it's all pointless, rendered nonexistent in the shadow of the walls around you.

You wouldn't quite label what happened to you as sleep, but somehow your body and mind cease to exist for several hours and then the sun is rising. There's snowfall, too, a sight that might be quite blissful if not viewed from the hopper window of your prison. It's late January, deep in the climax of winter. All the city has to show for that is an occasional dusting of light snow.

The room you're in is warm enough, though not pleasant. You're a step above trembling, still hugging yourself tightly to conserve warmth. Your untouched dinner has gone cold just like everything else in the room.

Outside, the hum of a car dies and footsteps crunch on the snow-topped gravel. Kenny has come back, here to check on his shop and his captive.

You don't lift your head even as he enters your room.

"G'morning."

Now, you wish sleep could take over simply to avoid witnessing his face.

"Did you eat?"

You rub a thumb underneath the steel cuff, soothing your wrist. Your stomach aches, too, but you tell it to shut up.

"Here, more. Still hot." A thump beside you suggests the presence of a landed bag, a new meal inside. "I could be feeding you slop, you know. You're lucky Caven runs by a breakfast chain every day anyway."

Scents of warmed bread and sugary treats emanate from the bag. It's enticing.

"Wait—are you dead?"

You freeze up when he lifts your head by the hair, your face pulled out of your knees. "Hey—stop—"

"Okay, good." Now that you're exposed, he releases you and tries to offer the food again. "Now eat. I'm not leaving until that box is empty."

"I'm not going to fucking eat. Let me go."

"Fuck, you're stubborn." He fishes around in his trenchcoat, soon pulling out a folded knife. Cocking the blade open, he checks to see if you've changed your mind before proceeding. "Alright. Give me your hand."

"No—wh-what the fuck?!" Terror chokes up your throat when he holds your cuffed hand firmly and slips the blade between your ring and pinky, ready to chop into the smallest digit as though it were a carrot. "Stop—get away—"

"Eat."

"Don't cut me—please don't—"

"Then eat," he barks, and your free hand instantly connects with the food box.

"Okay." Your voice is tiny as you promise to obey, your eyes glued to the sharp steel. "I—I will. Please let go."

"No. Start eating."

With trembling fingers, you peel open the box and take out the first thing you touch, finding a small container of granola. Desperate to appease him, you take out a handful of the oats and dried fruit and shove it past your lips.

"Keep going." His hands are still, relentless in their threat. "While you eat, I have some questions."

You nibble on a chunk of oats, avoiding his eyes. The hand in his grasp twitches.

"So, if you don't show up to work today, do you think Levi will still have classes? Or would he cancel them in a panic?"

"No idea," you mumble.

"Now's not the time to be avoidant. Give me an answer."

The steel kisses your skin. You swallow.

"He probably would. At least, until he knew where I was."

"Okay. Good." Kenny's thumb rubs into your palm, almost in a mocking attempt to console you. "Would he alert anyone else?"

"I—" You intend to answer with another declaration of uncertainty, but you'd rather not befriend that blade any more. "M-maybe Dr. Smith. Or, if he thinks you're behind it, he might not say anything. He'd try to solve it himself."

"I taught him well, then. He won't risk outing either of us."

"He's going to panic, though. He always does."

And when he does, you become the scapegoat. Somehow, you're the one to receive his anger when you spend time with Zeke or fail to text him often enough. You hate to imagine what he might do if he finds you here. It is not remotely your fault, but he'll react as though it is.

"I'm sure he's calling my phone—where is my phone? Where's my stuff?"

"Elsewhere." Kenny scrapes your skin as a reminder to shut up and eat. "Does he know where you live?"

"Yes. He'll check my apartment."

"And then?"

"I don't know." You tense, remembering the danger of giving that answer, but Kenny doesn't react. "Maybe he'd come here. Or go back to his apartment—if he even left his apartment today. I really don't know."

"That's fine." For once, Kenny's dismissal actually calms you down; it gives the same sense of comfort that Levi's apologies do. "We'll give him a few hours before we call him. Wanna bet on if he comes here or not?"

"No."

"Suit yourself." He nods to the box. "Keep going. I'll wait until you're finished."

With your prison guard close by, you eat your required provisions in a crippling silence. You ponder on how Kenny intends to lure Levi, or even why, but you don't risk sharing your theories with the villain. The most hope you can muster in this predicament is the thought of Levi showing up; it's a nice daydream to picture him at your side again—just as long as he's not a frenzied beast that curses you for disappearing.

It's pleasant to have a strong knight as a guardian, only less so when that knight could turn on you should his mood overtake him. You're not sure if he'll lash out at the damsel or the dragon first.

When breakfast is finally consumed, Kenny tosses the empty box and last night's dinner across the room and leaves, turning your cell into a dumpster. The bed frame is also bolted down, but at least you have enough mobility to stretch and contort your form into a few positions to stimulate as much blood flow as possible. Fresh air would be welcome, even if it is joined by the nip of winter's chill.

As the day goes on, you wonder if Levi actually would drop by the pawn shop in search of you. It seems like a viable choice to explore, though once several hours pass you find it odd that he hasn't come yet. He's always been wary of Kenny—one missing intern and several unanswered phone calls later, you'd think he'd make his uncle the prime suspect. There's little to stop him from coming here besides his own fear of his uncle. Perhaps his hesitation is strong enough to delay a visit to hell itself, even if his treasure waits inside.

Coward, you accuse. He's awfully haughty for someone that can't even come rescue you when he's needed most. Of the two of you, you have much more prerogative to be upset.

When the sun turns the overcast sky to a bright grey, suggesting it might be around midday, Kenny comes back. You have no idea if the shop is occupied, or if even Caven is here, the cell like a pocket in reality.

"Alright. Time to move." He unlocks the cuff hugging the bed frame and tugs you off the mattress. "Four whole feet over. Nice change of scenery, hm?"

"Fuck off," you grunt as you're set back in the chair. "Why even do this? Just leave me on the damn bed—it makes no difference."

"If I did, Levi might think I had my way with you. He should know better, but even so, I would like to remind him that I'm a gentleman."

"How fucking civil." You try to rip off the slat as soon as you're secured to it, a useless but stubborn effort.

"Thank you." He shows you a phone—not yours, but its case is so scuffed and its screen so smudged you figure it must be his. "Let's give him a call. He's clearly not in any rush to come find you, so we gotta pull him out of the university."

"Fine," you huff, glaring as he dials a number. Truthfully, it would be a welcome relief to hear Levi again, to let him know that you're unhurt, but in danger. Just to call for his help would feel good.

"Alright." Kenny puts the ringing dial tone on speaker, holding it between your bodies to kindly offer you a part in the conversation. "Say hi, missy. Ask him how his classes are going or something."

"Fuck you," you mutter as you watch the phone call connect.

But you find yourself a bit mute when you know Levi has picked up. You fail to say the first word and thus allow Levi's, "Kenny!" to ring out in the cell.

"Mornin', runt," Kenny greets lazily. "How're you?"

"Kenny, what the fuck is going on?" Levi's voice is brimming with rage, as you expected. You just can't decide if it will be directed at you or used to protect you. "You fucker—where's my goddamn intern?"

"Yeah, I dunno why she isn't speaking up. Say something, missy." Kenny's eyes drill into you, demanding you talk.

Pinned to his glare, you part your lips.

"Levi," you utter, about as simple as an infant.

"Intern," he roars back, injecting you with terror. He can't be mad at you—he shouldn't be, but he might be—no, he absolutely is. Despite hearing from his precious lapdog after her sudden absence, his first reaction is anger targeted wholly at you.

"Please." Your next word is a mighty effort to quell his frenzy, or at least redirect it. "Levi, I—I tried to escape. I don't want to be here—"

"I know that," he rasps. "Kenny, what the fuck are you doing with her?"

"Come to the shop, kid. I'll explain once you're here."

There's the sound of furniture moving, footsteps, a door slamming. "The fucking shop—dammit, Kenny! If you hurt her, I swear to god—"

"Are you hurt, missy?" Kenny asks sweetly.

Scoffing, you shrug your shoulders up. "Please come here, Levi. Just...come here."

"Are you hurt?!" Levi demands to know with a louder echo of his uncle's question.

"I'm—I'm fine. I'm not hurt."

"She will be if you don't haul ass," Kenny says. "So get over here. You've got an hour."

"I will kill you," Levi snarls. "I will fucking kill you, Kenny!"

"You can give it a shot once you're here. See you soon."

"You—"

Kenny hangs up, ceasing his nephew's cries.

"Wait," you beg. "Call—call him back. I wasn't done."

"You'll see him in a bit." Kenny tousles your hair, tainting you with his disgusting touch. "Cheer up! He's comin' to take care of you."

"He really is going to kill you." You figure he might take a chance, anyway. You don't know the limit of his rage.

Kenny bears a wide grin as he slinks to the door. "That'd be exciting, hm? I'd love to see how the little professor matches up against me."

He disappears, calling out to Caven as he closes the door. You slump in your seat, able to bear the conditions under the hope of Levi's arrival. You want to believe he will rescue you and keep you safe, but it's troubling to acknowledge that such an outcome isn't guaranteed. He might lash out, or fail to save you, or end up worse off once meeting Kenny.

But he is coming. For better or worse, Levi is on his way to see you. You've never wallowed in such grim hope.