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</div></div><br/><i>Weasel.</i><br/><br/>A very apt, and strange word, for a very strange girl. Peter wasn’t even sure if weasel was the animal he was referring to but it seemed like the type of creature, of which so many desperate and ragged humans now mimicked. Burrow when danger was near, sneak out when danger had passed. It was a wise and prudent strategy in this day and age. Never knew what sort of sicko, maniac, or killer might be lurking around.<i>Especially half-hearted sickos holding hooks with something to prove, yet no motivation to do so.</i>Inspired enough to hurt, but not inspired enough to go the right length. For the poor victim, a long road caught in the terrifying anticipation between.<br/><br/>Peter opened his mouth to respond to Tinker’s suggestion, before Weasel herself started speaking, demanding answers despite her bound, submissive posture on the bed. Who was she to make such demands? In what position?<i>With what authority?</i>He turned his dark eyes from Tinker back to the girl, her bright enticing eyes and pale complexion filling the third eye of his mind more so than they did his own pupils. She looked disappointed in him, and that seemed to annoy him even more.<i>Ah, why did his father put him in this position?</i>He knew what he had to do to her. It was supposed to make him a man. He was going to do it, he told himself. Every other man he knew did something like this. But why did she have to be so…so god damn<i>pretty</i>?<br/><br/>And rude?<br/><br/>Her mention of taking her home made him break out with a snort of amusement.<b>”This is your home. My name is Peter. I…we, are keeping you, yes.”</b>He just answered her, before grabbing at her again. A strong hand came under Weasel’s jaw and with his other…he pulled the sleeve of his jacket over his palm and used it to wipe at her face more, clearing most of the blood now, but still leaving some blemishes behind.<i>Better than before.</i>Now she looked real pretty and he drew his hand back, though he held on to her jaw. She felt so…soft. And gentle.<i>Fragile.</i>And he felt like one wrong move or manifestation of his strength might shatter her into a thousand pieces.<br/><br/>A curious part of him wanted to do just that,<i>to see what would happen</i>.<br/><br/>He flipped his hand around, her neckline fitting smugly between his thumb and pointer finger. He looked at her with a far off yet curious expression. One…squeeze, would he break her swanlike neck? Would she scream? Cry? Squeal? He heard some men talking before that the<i>squealing</i>was the best part.<b>”Tinker,”</b>Peter asked, inadvertently namedropping her nickname in front of Weasel,<b>”do Weasels <i>squeal</i>?”</b>He inquired thoughtfully.<br/><br/>Or why don’t they find out first hand?<i>His fingers began to clench around Weasel’s windpipe…and choke.</i><br/><br/>It took several minutes of oxygen deprivation for serious effects to harm the brain but how would Peter know that?<i>He did know what a brain looked like, however.</i>Since a young age, he had seen…people’s heads blown asunder, by bullet, blunt, or bladed edge. How long would Weasel last, before she began to…squeal? Very difficult given his grip on her neck, no doubt. But it might cause other, interesting, dances of her limbs, bound as they were…