Darren’s fingers tapped out some vaguely familiar rhythm on his steering wheel. The tremors in his hands made him double tap every third beat or so and it threw the entire tune off. It probably would have pissed him off more if his attention wasn’t lazer-focused on the giant, luxurious house that his shitty Camry was parked in front of. A great behemoth of a house - at what point did the word ‘mansion’ become acceptable? - that stood high and mighty next to all of the equally unnecessarily large houses. The neighborhood was so rich and white it was like he had driven into a giant fucking cheesecake. Not nearly as delicious as it sounded.<br/><br/>The low red glow of the car’s shitty clockface ticked over to 4:34, and somehow he just felt like it was time. One hand popped open the glove box and removed its sole content, and the other hand went for the door. The walk to the house wasn’t a very long one, but it gave Darren a lot of time to think about a lot of things. Nothing really existential, but his mind was in a hyperactive rush and thoughts bounced in his head back to back to keep himself occupied. What was he going to do after this? Maybe grab some food? What<span style="font-style: italic">kind</span>of food? Could he even eat after this? Eventually the questions would reach a stopping point and repeat again on a continuous loop, over and over and over again until he looked back and he was 50 feet from his car and on the front porch of the unfamiliar household.<br/><br/>Too late to turn back now.<br/><br/>The gun was tucked down the back of his pants, fully loaded, safety on. And it would probably stay on, too; he wouldn’t be needing it. He<span style="font-style: italic">never</span>needed it, he just had to wave it around a bit. As it turned out, people were a lot more willing to do what you told them to when they thought they were going to get hurt. So far, he had a pretty good track record of getting people to work with him before it got to that point, but there was always a first time for everything.<br/><br/>Darren pounded on the door, giving it three solid and forceful knocks before standing back and waiting.<span style="color: #0080BF">“Hey,”</span>he said, just loud enough to make it through the door while hopefully still being quiet enough to not alert the neighbors. Of the two houses on either side, it looked like there was only one person that could possibly be within earshot, but the last thing he needed right now was a good Samaritan. Movement ticked his peripheral vision and his head turned in time to see the blinds snap shut again from where someone had been watching him. Once more, he laid his fist into the door, his knocks becoming slightly louder and more insistent.<span style="color: #0080BF">“Hey, I know you’re in there. I can see you, dumbass. Come out and talk to me for a sec.”</span><br/><br/>Ever the patient man, Darren waited. Five seconds turned to ten, turned to thirty, turned to a minute and a half before he leaned his head back and said a silent prayer to whatever gods were listening that this stupid motherfucker wouldn’t try and fight him.<span style="color: #0080BF">“Guess I’m coming in then,”</span>he informed them, slightly exasperated from having to put forth the effort it took to make the door eat his foot and send it flying back on its hinges. From that loud sound erupted a series of similarly loud sounds. Footsteps, screaming, something decidedly glass falling to the ground.<span style="color: #0080BF"> “Christ, what the fuck are you doing in there? You’re gonna make someone call the cops.”</span><br/><br/>“If you don’t get the fuck out of here,<span style="font-style: italic">I’ll</span>call the cops!” came the wavering reply from what sounded like the kitchen.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080BF">“No you won’t,”</span>Darren sang back, kicking his foot out behind him to close the front door as best as it would fit back in the threshold. He took careful, quiet steps as he moved through the house. He poked his head into the living room, appraising everything he saw in search of something worth about $120. A Roku TV, a couple of consoles, a soundbar and that was pretty much it.<br/><br/>Another loud noise prompted him to look up, moving instinctively for the gun as he floated from room to room until he found Ethan hiding in the kitchen, clutching a baseball bat and surrounded by a sea of broken glass.<br/><br/>The barrel of the gun felt cool against Darren’s skin as he tapped it to his temple in agitation just to keep his hands occupied.<span style="color: #0080BF">“Your mom’s going to be <span style="font-style: italic">pissed</span>,”</span>he noted, gesturing to the broken china with his gun. Waving it around no more than absolutely necessary, but very effective all in all.<span style="color: #0080BF">“Especially after she finds out you traded that TV for an eightball.”</span>Ethan’s eyes got huge and wild and his grip on the bat whitened his knuckles. Darren smiled.<span style="color: #0080BF">“Yeah, don’t like the sound of that do you? I’m a pretty reasonable guy. If you wanted to, say, forget this whole thing ever happened, just give me the coke and I’ll be on my way.” </span><br/><br/>The stammering and stuttering that followed was, at best, less than reassuring. Ethan’s eyes were wide and unseeing and he was just panicked enough that Darren could pick up what was going on. He laughed in spite of himself and the situation.<span style="color: #0080BF">“You don’t have it, do you? What’d you do, snort it all? Is that why you can’t answer a simple <span style="font-style: italic">fucking</span> question, because you’re high as balls?”<br/></span><br/>“No-no-no man, we’re cool,” Ethan managed, holding one hand in front of him defensively while the other continued to white-knuckle the bat. “I-I have the stuff.”<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080BF">“Oh yeah?”</span><br/><br/>“Yeah, I swear dude.”<br/><br/>A shaken, sweaty hand went for the pocket of ridiculously expensive, well-fitting jeans. Probably got them from American Eagle, or wherever the fuck these rich-types shopped. He didn’t look like the kind of kid that should end up in this situation. Clean cut, nicely dressed, didn’t wear shoes in the house. He looked like the kind of kid you’d sell a gram of oregano to for $15, and he most certainly did<span style="font-style: italic">not</span>look like the kind of kid that needed to be stealing coke from him.<br/><br/>The small bag made a light<span style="font-style: italic">skiff</span>across the floor until it came to a stop at Darren’s feet. He looked at it and sighed, making sure to fix Ethan with ‘the look’ before bending down to pick it up.<span style="color: #0080BF">“This is what you have left?”</span>he asked, appraising the bag between his forefinger and thumb. He put it in his pocket anyway, but not before huffing about it.<span style="color: #0080BF">“I could still take your TV for this, you know that right? That’s called recooping losses. But I’m a nice guy, so all you’re going to have to explain to your mommy is why you busted the door off it’s hinges.”</span><br/><br/>Ethan exhaled a breath of relief, clutching his hand to his chest to feel what Darren could only assume was a horrifyingly rapid heartbeat. “I-I knew you’d understand, man, I really appreciate-”<br/><br/><br/><span style="color: #0080BF">“Understand?”</span>he asked, baffled at the choice of words. He shook his head slowly, much the way you would when you were trying to explain to a five-year-old that they had said something wrong.<span style="color: #0080BF"> “Ethan, the only thing I <span style="font-style: italic">understand</span> is that you and your boys jumped me and took something that belonged to me. And when I come for it the day after, suddenly I’m coming up short?” </span><br/><br/>He tucked the gun back into his pants and made quick steps toward Ethan who, instead of swinging the bat at him and trying to hit him with it, chose instead to wrap himself around it like it would escape if he let go. The broken glass made a threatening crunch every time he took a step closer, but Ethan had already plastered himself back against a wall and didn’t look like he was trying to run anywhere fast. When Darren finally closed the distance between the two of them, the first thing he went for was the bat, wrenching it from Ethan’s looser, much sweatier grip and throwing it to the ground. Darren pushed him hard against the wall, his hands tangling themselves in Ethan’s shirt.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080BF">“Understand <span style="font-style: italic">this,</span>”</span>he demanded over the sound of stammering and excuses.<span style="color: #0080BF">“Miami’s dry for you now. I will make it so that you never buy another gram in a hundred-mile radius of this place. Is that something you <span style="font-style: italic">understand?”</span></span>All Ethan managed was a pathetic nod, but it was good enough for Darren. He let him go, the gasping mess that he was.<span style="color: #0080BF"> “Good. Then yeah. We’re cool.” </span><br/><br/>Anything else that Darren would have said was lost to the sound of his ringtone. Turning his back on Ethan, he dug around for his phone as he walked back through the house, which was otherwise entirely silent now that he’d gotten Ethan to stop making so much fucking noise. It almost made him laugh, looking back at it. Ethan Briar and his gang of rich, metrosexual coke junkies jumped him and managed to finagle a bag off him, and then<span style="font-style: italic">this</span>is the result - Ethan cowering against a wall and wailing that he’ll call the cops. How fucking silly.<br/><br/>When he finally looked down at his phone, the name that lit up the screen caused him to draw a blank - not as to who it was, but as to<span style="font-style: italic">why.</span>He swiped to answer as quickly as he could, before it went to voicemail.<span style="color: #0080BF">“Abby?”</span><br/><br/>--------------------<br/><br/>Ian paused in his infiltration of the carryout bag just long enough to look impressed, turning his head to fix Kian with a studious glance before he continued in  his doings. “It doesn’t take much for you, does it?” he asked over his shoulder, one hand absently reaching for the nylon butchery sheath and pulling it closer. “I leave for a few hours and you get right with the Lord? It’s almost kind of disappointing.”<br/><br/>The sound of nylon on plastic made an uncomfortable, deliberately slow dragging sound across the table and only seemed to get louder as it got closer until at last the noise stopped altogether. Ian’s free hand busied itself inside his pocket, feeling around for both cell phones until he procured the correct one.<span style="color: #80BFFF">“Where the fuck are you, Kian? Pick up your fucking phone, <span style="font-style: italic">Kian,”</span> </span>he recited mockingly, accentuating the name as he snapped open the nylon case. He pulled one knife out a few inches, examining the blade before pushing it back in and repeating the process with a three other blades before settling on the chef’s knife and withdrawing it from its casing completely.<span style="color: #80BFFF">“I honestly didn’t think you had friends, so good on you for getting one over on me. At first I thought he was a stalker, but then I realized that you’re not nearly that interesting.” </span><br/><br/>The distance between the two closed as Ian sauntered over, the knife dangling loosely at his side while his other hand occupied itself with holding the phone up so he could read. He paused a few feet in front of Kian, offering him little more than a stare as he fixed the handle of the knife firmly against Kian’s abdomen and leaned into it. The blade was cold and felt odd on his own skin as it lay flat against his arm. A chill made its way up his spine, though from the cold steel or the familiar rush of excitement, he couldn’t say.<span style="color: #80BFFF">“Now tell me,”</span>he commanded after a second, pushing and twisting the handle to further antagonize Kian’s bladder. His voice was lower now, having dropped a few octaves from the business-professional tone he had a bad habit of bringing home with him.<span style="color: #80BFFF">“Who is Stiles?”</span><br/><br/>As soon as he posed the question, Ian recognized the familiar rattle-and-screech sound the basement door made when someone was knocking on the front door. It was an old house and it made a lot of strange noises that had taken some getting used to, but that was one he always recognized immediately. The door sat relatively loose on its hinges and shook pretty badly whenever it wasn’t locked. There wasn’t enough WD-40 in the world to cover up the squeaking sound that the weathered and worn hinges made, and if he was being honest he was too lazy to replace them. And, it was a really good indicator when he needed to back off.<br/><br/>Another series of knocks, marginally more demanding than the first, bounced off the walls of the basement. The chef’s knife made a clatter as it was discarded haphazardly on the table, relinquishing Kian’s bladder of its previous torture. Ian stared at Kian, silently judging whether or not that he could be trusted to keep quiet before deciding no, definitely not. Long, fine hair scribbled blonde arcs in the air as he turned his head this way and that, trying to find some sort of cloth or tape he could use to keep him quiet with, but he came up short except for the cloth he used to wrap his tools. He was<span style="font-style: italic">not</span>getting Kian’s saliva all over his wrap. Never a man to be held down by a missing cloth, Ian pulled his shirt overhead.<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFFF">“You’re going to be very, <span style="font-style: italic">very</span> quiet. All of you,” </span>he told them, though it was more or less solely directed at Kian. He spun the cloth tight, winding it into a perpetual spiral before smacking Kian’s cheek lightly, as if he was asking permission to stuff Kian’s mouth with a shirt. But he wasn’t, and proved it by going ahead and forcing it in his mouth anyway. The ends he left out, opting to tie them behind Kian’s head for good measure. He took a step back to examine his handiwork. It would have to do, he supposed.<br/><br/>Upon the third set of knocks, Ian shot the others a warning look.<span style="color: #80BFFF">“Don’t scream,”</span>he reiterated, short and sweet and to the point as always. They knew that if they so much as uttered a prayer loud enough for anyone upstairs to hear that he’d take care of whoever was at the door, and then he’d come down and they’d have a nice, long talk while he was cutting off their fingers. Or something to that extent, anyway.<br/><br/>Satisfied that they wouldn’t be having any issues, Ian bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time and shutting the door behind him, not bothering with the locks.<span style="color: #80BFFF">“<span style="font-style: italic">Alright, alright,</span>”</span>he called out from the hallway, as if whoever was disrupting the peace outside would hear him. Much to his chagrin, the knocking continued. Whoever this was had to be the most patient person in the world, because he took even longer to find a hoodie on the couch to throw on. He mentally prepared himself for Jehova’s witnesses and threw open the door.<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080BF">“Fucking finally, Jesus,”</span>Darren said, quickly turning off his phone and trying to hide the fact that he was about to call. Ian stared blankly at him, waiting for some sort of rhyme or reason for the visit. Darren seemed to notice - he was always so good about picking up on social cues.<span style="color: #0080BF"> “So yeah. Your sister called, said you hadn’t been returning phone calls.” </span><br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFFF">“<span style="font-style: italic">She</span> isn’t the one that’s been calling,”</span>Ian informed him, leaning against the threshold and preventing Darren from stepping inside.<span style="color: #80BFFF">“If she had, I’d have answered. Mom’s been calling. Do you want to hear the voicemails she’s leaving me? Because I can show you why I’ve been ignoring them.” </span><br/><br/>He didn’t give Darren a chance to respond, but then again he was never much into small conversation. He could talk to Darren about Gnosticism, experimentation in mental facilities, unfair genital mutilation of young girls in Africa, psychoactive properties in research chemicals, but not about personal family issues. The fact that he would even humor Abby with a visit like this astounded him to no end, and-<br/><br/><span style="color: #0080BF">“You get a new phone, man?” </span><br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFFF">“What?”</span>Ian asked hollowly before looking down. In his hand sat Kian’s smudged iPhone.<span style="font-style: italic">Well, shit.</span>He didn’t allow himself more than a second to mull it over before his eyes widened in a forced recognition.<span style="color: #80BFFF">“Shit, this is Charlotte’s.”</span><br/><br/>Darren’s brow knitted together in confusion and he stared at Ian for an uncomfortable few seconds before shaking his head in disbelief.<span style="color: #0080BF">“Sorry, I was just trying to picture you with a girl.”</span>Ian was only briefly offended.<span style="color: #0080BF">“But <span style="font-style: italic">nice,</span> that’s the chick from Dr. Saar’s office right?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFFF">“It wasn’t a date, but yes.”</span>As if on some sort of cue to make his life impossibly more tiring, the phone came to life in his hand, displaying Stiles’ name for the millionth time that day. He’d shown up to at least enough theatre classes to get adequate at improv.<span style="color: #80BFFF">“And actually, this is her asshole boyfriend right now. I’m sorry to send you off right after you get here, but I’m probably going to go head over there and switch phones.” </span><br/><br/>Darren looked moderately aloof and unconvinced, but his entire demeanor was always pretty monotonous so it was hard to tell. He was far too smart for his own good.<span style="color: #0080BF">“Right on man, just didn’t want Abby to kill me if I didn’t check in on you.” </span><br/><span style="color: #80BFFF"><br/>“I appreciate it,”</span>he lied.<br/><br/>Some vague plans to hang out and some generic goodbyes later, Ian finally closed the door and locked it. His immediate instinct was to smash the phone and he had to physically restrain himself from flying off the handle. Instead, after some breaths for good measure, he walked calmly back to the basement, digging in his pocket as he walked around the table. Eventually, through the unnecessary amount of things he kept in his pockets, he found his keys and reached for Kian’s wrists.<br/><br/><span style="color: #80BFFF">“Bathroom’s upstairs,”</span>he said as the bindings fell away. One hand tangled itself in the back of Kian’s shirt, the other went to retrieve his knife.<span style="color: #80BFFF">“Let’s go.” </span>