I thought I knew pain.
When I was six years old and was in that accident with my parents, I broke my arm and bruised my ribs.
It hurt like a mother and I couldn’t breathe without wanting to cry. There were countless voices floating around me, speaking and arguing in Japanese. When I woke up in the hospital, though, my grandparents were there and told me I’d live with them.
You’ll be a ‘real’ Weaver now. Those were Grandma’s actual words. In order to do that, she said I’d have to forget everything my parents had taught me.
They didn’t attempt to lessen the blow of a child learning that his parents were dead. That I no longer had a mother or a father.
That the world as I knew it had collapsed with no chance of ever rebuilding again.
I lay there with my casted arm on my chest. My lungs exploded with every breath and my face felt swollen.
But I still didn’t feel any pain.
Or maybe I felt so much pain all at once that I blacked out.
I’ve always used that time in my life as a reference for any discomfort I’ve felt. Strained muscles? That’s nothing. Sprained an ankle? Child’s play.
But none of those compare to the pulsing pain in my upper shoulder. It’s as if invisible hands are rummaging through my wound, digging and twisting until my breath is stolen.
It might be bearable if I were alone. If Naomi wasn’t pressing her shirt against it with a desperation that mutes the color of her dark eyes as moisture clings to her long lashes and forms lines down her flushed cheeks.
Watching her cry is equivalent to digging a shard of glass into my chest.
I don’t like seeing her hurt, especially if it’s because of me.
Now we’re both searching our surroundings to find the voice that filled the room a few seconds ago.
Let the games begin, he said.
Naomi mentioned that she recognized him in the forest and that he could be one of her father’s men.
She once said that she was searching for her dad and that her mom didn’t want her to connect with him, which is one of the main reasons that her relationship with her mom was strained.
But why do I feel like my grandparents could have a hand in this?
Dad said it fifteen years ago, ‘You were there when they said they’d only attend my funeral. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a hand in quickening the process.’
Grandma was obviously against any relationship I had with Naomi, just like she was opposed to my parents’ marriage.
Nate always warned me to be careful so that I wouldn’t share my father’s fate.
Not only that, but he made it his mission to act as some sort of invisible shield between me and the world—my grandparents included. As if he knew exactly what they were capable of.
But they wouldn’t have had me shot, right? After all, I’m the future leader of the Weaver clan, as they like to remind me.
Though anything is possible if the goal is to teach me a lesson.
I attempt to sit up again, but Naomi places a soft yet firm hand on my chest to forbid me.
“I’m fine,” I strain.
I’m not. The mere act of moving is like lifting weights with my fucking teeth. My head is dizzy and the wound pulses like a motherfucker.
But I can’t tell Naomi that or she’ll be more scared and hurt than she already is.
The cold concrete floor scrapes against my thigh and palm as I slowly sit up and lean against the wall. Despite her protests.
“You’re hurt…” she whines, but gives up trying to stop me and helps me into a comfortable position.
Fresh tears stream down her cheeks as she carefully maneuvers herself so that she’s on my injured side. She’s still clutching her T-shirt with determination, as if letting go will cause the life to evaporate out of me.
Or allow me to bleed out.
I don’t like seeing her cry. Well, I do, but only when I chase and conquer her, because I know she enjoys it, too.
I love her fuck-me tears.
Her ‘no, please’ that are actually ‘yes, please’ tears.
But not these.
The pain and desperation in them fucking gut me.
I dislike it when she’s sad or hurt. It’s even more painful than if they were my own feelings. I can brush those off, treat them efficiently and push them to the background.
I wish I could do the same with Naomi’s. I wish I could take away her feelings and treat them as my own so that she’s no longer hurting.
Is that…what empathy feels like?
“Hey…” I palm her cheek, thumbing away the moisture gathered there. “I’m really fine.”
“You don’t seem fine,” she murmurs.
“It looks worse than it actually is. Do you want to make it better?”
“Of course.”
“Then stop crying, baby. That hurts more than the wound itself.”
She sniffles, wiping at her face with the back of her hand.
Static fills the room again and both of us stiffen as the same voice from earlier speaks again, “Very touching. You nearly put me to sleep.”
“What do you want from us?” Naomi’s gaze searches the room and when I do the same, I spot a few blinking cameras in the corners and a white speaker from which his voice reaches us.
“I already told you. A game.”
“Are you one of my father’s men?”
“What gave you that idea?”
“Mom said you were.”
“Sato-san says a lot of things. It’s better not to believe them all. Now, for our game…”
“We’re not playing,” I grunt out, then wince.
Sick people like him get off on driving others to a point of no return. They like stripping people down to their most primitive forms where they can freely exploit them. There’s no way in fuck we’ll give him the joy of seeing us spiral out of control.
“Who said you have a choice, Quarterback? Either play or there will be no water and food. Oh, and your wound will get infected and you’ll die.”
My lips twist and I curse under my breath. I should’ve known they’d use our basic needs against us.
There must be a way we can thwart his plans…
“If we agree, will you get him help?” Naomi asks.
I shake my head. She’s playing right into his hands by revealing that she cares about my well-being. I would’ve grabbed and kissed the fuck out of her under different circumstances, but right now, we don’t know what we’re actually dealing with.
This could be a rogue group that’s rebelling against her father. Or maybe her father himself is a sick bastard who doesn’t care about putting his own daughter into dire situations.
Until we figure out their angle, we need to be extra careful about our survival, and that means revealing as little as possible about ourselves.
“No promises,” the man, Ren, as Naomi called him, says. “Now, the game. We’ll start with the rules. No lies. I mean it. We’ll know when you lie and if you do, there will be punishment.”
“What type of game is this?” I ask.
“I’m glad you asked, Quarterback. We call this survival of the fittest. Just like your tattoo.”
I don’t miss the smile in his voice as he said the last part.
He knows about my tattoo and he’s Japanese.
There’s no way in fuck this whole thing is a coincidence.
“Now, let’s start. I’ll go easy on you the first round. One of you will tell me a deep, dark secret that no one in the world knows about. Do that and you’ll get water. Bottled, not whatever filthy shit is dripping from that faucet.”
“Don’t say anything,” I whisper to Naomi.
“We need water,” she murmurs back, her hold steady on my shoulder. “Your lips are chapped and dry, and you were bleeding out not so long ago.”
“I’ll be fine. If you play into his hand, it’ll only break us.”
“I don’t care as long as we survive.”
“Not to be a fun-ruiner, but you have ten seconds before your chance is over.” Ren pauses. “Seven, six, five…”
“I was molested when I was nine,” Naomi blurts, her lips and chin trembling.
My fist clenches at my side, not only because of her state or that she’s playing Ren’s game, but also because of the reminder of what she’s been through.
She’s not supposed to divulge that for a sick game.
She’s not supposed to rip open her wound and tell a fucking stranger her most intimate secret.
“That’s not a deep, dark secret,” Ren says.
“It is. No one knows about it and there wasn’t a police report.”
“Your mother knew, as well as a few therapists and the man who molested you. It doesn’t count.”
“But—”
“You have five seconds for another try. Four…three…”
“Shit,” Naomi mutters under her breath. “Think, Naomi, think…”
“Two…”
“My parents were killed,” I whisper low.
Naomi’s eyes flit to mine, the dark brown widening with a thousand questions.
“Your parents were in an accident, Quarterback.” Ren’s provocatively calm voice fills the space.
“It was a premeditated accident. They were running away from someone and the accident was a camouflage to cover up their murder.”
Naomi gasps and covers her mouth with the back of her free hand. I can tell she wants to ask me more, but she also recognizes we’re being watched.
Her small body snuggles into my side and she doesn’t even need to utter a word. Her inquisitive eyes say it all.
I’m sorry you went through that.
I’m here for you.
Maybe if I’d heard those words when I was six years old, things would’ve been different.
Maybe if I’d known her back then, I would’ve been able to live another way.
Maybe we wouldn’t have ended up here, where she’s pressing her shirt to my wound.
“Sekai,” Ren says in an amused tone.
Correct.
He knows. The fucker already knows about my parents.
The bad feeling I had when he started this game comes back to haunt me. There’s something absolutely nefarious about this. But what?
The sound of screeching metal makes Naomi jump and I stiffen. A small window opens in the door and a bottle of water is thrown inside and then, just like that, the only opening is slammed shut.
She grabs my good hand and places it on top of hers on the wound. “Hold it tightly. I’ll be right back.”
After I take over the task, she jumps up and hurries to fetch the bottle of water, then runs back with it in hand.
She kneels beside me, opens the bottle, and places it at my lips as she presses on my wound, even when I don’t remove my hand.
“You drink first,” I say.
“I’m fine. You’re the one who’s wounded.”
“But—”
“Just drink already.” She jams it at my lips and helps me take tentative sips. The cold, fresh water soothes my dry throat.
I nearly drink half of it, not realizing just how dehydrated I am.
This is bad.
At this rate, I’ll get worse real soon.
“Drink more,” she urges.
“You drink, baby.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. Your lips are also dry.” God knows how long we’ve been here.
Judging by the small pool of blood beside us, it’s been some time. I strain sideways, wincing as I study our surroundings.
I try not to be obvious about it, pretending that I’m looking at Naomi as she drinks.
But whether I’m obvious or not doesn’t matter. The place has no escape route except for the metal door that they didn’t even open to give us water.
“Second round,” Ren’s loathsome voice echoes from the speaker. “We’ll spice it up a little this time and go with a dare. If you do it, we’ll give you food. If not, there will be consequences.”
A deep, growly sound comes from Naomi’s stomach at the mention of food. She closes the bottle of water that has about half left and stares up. “What is it?”
“Remove the bra.”
My jaw clenches as her face reddens. Her gaze flits to mine as she bites her lip slightly, unsure. I sharply shake my head once.
Fuck that and him.
There’s no way in hell Naomi will be stripping for the sick bastard.
No way will anyone see her and her gorgeous tits but me.
“Seven…six…” Ren counts leisurely. “This will have a punishment…”
“Let me do it,” Naomi whispers. “I don’t care.”
“Of course you do. You don’t even like changing your clothes in front of everyone in the locker room, let alone in front of fucking strangers.”
She releases her lips and they form into a stupefied ‘Oh.’ Is she really surprised that I noticed that about her? I notice everything when it comes to Naomi.
“I’m fine if it’ll get us food,” she insists.
“Fuck that,” I mutter.
“Two…one,” Ren finishes with a closed off tone. “Aaaand time for punishment.”
Naomi and I watch the door, thinking someone will come in and beat us up or something.
Neither the door nor the small opening moves.
Was he bluffing?
That thought hasn’t fully formed yet when the entire room goes black.
