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𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒕'𝒔 𝑾𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ꜱɪʀ ᴊɪᴍᴍʏ ᴄʀʏꜱᴛᴀʟ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏꜱᴛ-ᴀᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘᴛɪᴄ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ, ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ᴛᴏᴘ/ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛᴛᴏᴍ ᴊɪᴍᴍʏ, ꜱᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴄᴏᴡɢɪʀʟ ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴄᴀᴛᴀᴘᴜʟᴛ ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴀᴍᴀ/ᴅᴀ' ᴋɪɴᴋ, ɴɪᴘᴘʟᴇ ᴘʟᴀʏ, ʜᴜɢᴇ ꜱɪᴢᴇ, ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ʏᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ, ᴊɪᴍᴍʏ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴄʀᴇᴇᴘʏ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟ.

ɪɴᴛʀᴏ: ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜᴇʀ ᴀᴛ ʟɪɴᴅɪꜱꜰᴀʀɴᴇ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ɢᴜɪᴅɪɴɢ ꜱᴘɪᴋᴇ, ɪꜱʟᴀ’ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴇᴅᴜᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜱʟᴀ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ Qᴜᴀʀᴀɴᴛɪɴᴇ, ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪʟʟɴᴇꜱꜱ ʙᴇɢᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ. ʏᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴠɪꜱɪᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴡʜᴇɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴅ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ—ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱʟᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘɪᴋᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴇ. ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴊᴀɪᴍᴇ ꜱᴇᴇᴍᴇᴅ ᴜɴɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ, ᴀ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴇʟꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀꜰᴇᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀᴀɴQᴜɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɪꜱʟᴀɴᴅ, ᴛʜʀᴜꜱᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴜɴᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴛɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇᴅ.

𝘈/𝘯: 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘵. 𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘴, 𝘐 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘵. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 - 𝘖𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳!

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 13ᴋ

You dropped your backpack and bow against the creaking wooden floorboards with a heavy grunt, making the shadows lurking in the corners of the old, dilapidated house jump for a moment. The noise echoed between the cracked walls and the dirty window panes, then quickly faded, replaced by the slow, methodical rustle of papers that you spread out on the rotten table with trembling, filthy hands.

With a pastel marker, you drew a large X near the small cluster of houses where you had been, a few hours’ walk from your base. The empty streets, broken rooftops, and overgrown gardens offered no clues. No trace of Spike or Isla there either. Only silence, dust, and signs of the infected.

You slid into the chair with a sigh that carried all the exhaustion of weeks of solitary marches. Burning eyes scanned the surface of the map you had snatched from the abandoned shop—a prize taken at a high cost. Three fast infected, hidden behind the counter, had almost turned your stroke of luck into a tragedy, but once again, you had survived.

For weeks now, you had wandered without encountering a single living soul. Only wildlife—predators and prey invisible among the decrepit buildings—had allowed your starving body to survive.

You found yourself thinking, almost with a bitter smile, that if you ever crossed that final threshold into the beyond, you would thank your father. He had been the one to teach you how to read the signs of nature, how to navigate, how to endure. Without him, now you would be just another shadow among the ruins.

A drop of sweat slid down your temple, lightly stinging your skin, and you wiped it away before it could reach your dry lips. The smell of dampness and rotting wood filled the air, while a sense of urgency pushed you to think of the rainwater barrel you had filled the day before. It would be better to use it before the water became stagnant and murky.

Outside, the sky was beginning to turn a dark orange. The sun was quickly sinking behind the green hills, and soon darkness would swallow everything. Going out now would be madness, with twilight turning every corner into a potential hiding place for anything or anyone still roaming nearby.

You grabbed your bow and quiver and slowly climbed the stairs to the upper floor. Each step protested under your weight, releasing puffs of dust and a creak that bounced off the cracked walls. The house was full of holes in the floors and ceiling, gifts of time and weather, but at least you had a roof over your head. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to snatch a few hours of rest each night. Half an eye open, always vigilant, always ready to react to the slightest noise, but better than nothing.

Your clothes fell in a small pile at the foot of the barrel. They would have to take a bath later, just as you had done with those still hanging on the line on the terrace, exposed to the pale sun and light breeze that slowly dried them.

You slipped in one foot, then the other, using your arms to lift yourself enough to submerge your entire body. The icy water sent a shiver through you, making you flinch, but by now it was a sensation you knew all too well. Every immersion was a small challenge to survival: the cold water sharpened your senses, washed the fatigue from your aching joints, forcing you to focus on the present, your breath, your heartbeat.

You lowered yourself slowly until you sank, letting the cold bite at your head, penetrating your hair and the grime built up on your scalp. When you were satisfied, you emerged quickly, taking a deep breath. The water gurgled around you, sliding along your tense muscles, carrying everything away.

You grabbed the hard bar of soap you had brought from the island, letting it slip between your wet fingers. It was worn at the edges, with small cracks that told of days of use, but still fragrant, with a dry, slightly sweet smell that brought memories back. Years ago, you had given Isla an entire pack of soaps, in different shapes and colors, as a little treasure to keep. When you asked her about the gift, Isla never remembered what you were talking about; she would laugh and shake her head, confused, and you would smile bitterly.

But when you passed that bar of soap under her nose, something changed. Her eyes lit up, as if an invisible thread pulled her back to reality. She would thank you with a tired but genuine smile, and you would see her use it carefully, often on herself and on Spike, leaving behind a faint scent that lingered on you every time you met them. It was a small gesture of normalcy, a trace of affection in a world that had almost erased it.

Now, immersed in the barrel, you clutched the soap in your hands and began rubbing it slowly over your body and through your hair. The white foam formed gradually, sliding over your skin like a fragile caress, mingling with the icy water. Every movement was methodical, almost ritualistic: you scrubbed your arms, neck, back, until you felt the sensation of cleanliness under fingers numbed by the cold.

With a deep breath, you lowered yourself further, fully submerging, and ran your hands through your hair to wash out the foam.

You stayed submerged for a few moments, your body suspended in the cold water, eyes closed, surrounded by a darkness that was not threatening but strangely comforting. In that moment, however brief, you felt human again, alive again, even though the pressure of the water made it hard to breathe.

Then you suddenly resurfaced, your body still trembling from the cold, and you slowly lifted yourself over the edge of the barrel. Water dripped down your sides, sliding across the cracked floor as you tried to find your balance. With an automatic gesture, you grabbed the worn, faded towel resting on the shelf in the middle of the hallway and began blotting your skin, wiping away the excess water.

The cold air scratched at you, but you preferred it to the feeling of dirt and sweat that had often plagued you for days on end.

You were about to grab your clothes and start washing them when a dull noise from the floor below made you freeze. Your heart leapt suddenly into your throat, and for a moment, the whole world shrank to that sound. A creaking floor, a falling object—or… something alive? There was no time to reason.

Your instinct took over. In a flash, your hands seized the bow and quiver, and before you even realized it, an arrow was already nocked. The movement was automatic, a trained reflex: muscles tense, breathing controlled, eyes scanning the shadows. The arrow pointed toward the stairs leading down.

A shiver of adrenaline ran down your spine as your lungs sought oxygen and your fingers maintained the perfect tension on the bow.

The noises continued below, and your bare feet moved silently across the parquet, granting you temporary invisibility.

When you reached the first steps, the wall vanished, and the scene opened before you.

Someone, dressed in a dark jumpsuit, was kneeling on the floor, rummaging through your backpack with casual curiosity, tossing aside the traps you had painstakingly created. Every piece of metal, every rope, every small gear fell with a dull thud, and your heart tightened with a mix of anger and fear.

The front door of the house was half-closed, swaying slightly in a breeze. Passing it cautiously, your eyes saw no one beyond it, nor outside: it was empty.

With slow but precise movements, you drew the bowstring back until you felt perfect tension between your fingers. The arrow, dark and pointed, immediately found its mark: the blonde head of the kneeling person illuminated by the dim moonlight filtering through the broken glass.

“Don’t move, or I’ll put an arrow in your head,” you hissed, your voice steady and sharp, infused with a determination that left no room for doubt. Silence followed your words, heavy and dense, as you watched the thief’s back straighten suddenly and stiffen.

“Turn… slowly,” you ordered, voice low and firm, as you observed the thief raise their arms in surrender. Their feet lifted slightly off the ground, and that’s when you noticed how tall they were, much taller than you had imagined. “That’s it…” you murmured, trying to maintain control as every fiber of your body remained taut.

The thief turned slowly, and the youthful face of a boy hit you square in the stomach, a sudden blow that was not physical but left you breathless. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. His eyes—blue, or maybe green, you couldn’t tell at first—lowered slowly, scanning your naked body with curiosity, and a faint, amused smirk appeared on his lips.

For a moment, your grip on the bow wavered. Your muscles tensed abruptly under the cold air that had entered the room, every hair on your skin rising, your heart racing as if it wanted to leap from your chest. Before you could turn or react, you felt the cold, metallic tip of a knife pressed firmly against your throat.

The contact was precise, threatening, and the smell of metal filled your nostrils, mingling with the scent of dust and rotting wood.

“Lower yer weapon,” he said in a low, slow voice, each word charged with an ambiguous savor, as if he were enjoying every second of your discomfort. “I wouldn’t want to leave a nasty mark on this bonnie neck, missy.” The faint smile curling his lips was almost imperceptible, but enough to make you understand he wasn’t joking.

The bow in your hands suddenly felt heavy, and the cold of the room penetrated deeper. Every breath of the young blonde kneeling before you seemed held, while the malice of the third person filled the air.

Every fiber of your body screamed to react, but your mind was clear. The knife on your skin left no margin for error. Slowly, you lowered the bow a few centimeters, then let it drop to the floor, eyes fixed on the boy in front of you who finally lowered his arms and let out a sigh of relief.

“Damn, Shite, where have you been?! This bitch almost blew my brains out…”

A cold hand planted itself on your side, knuckles against your ribs, and the fingers—short, dirt-stained—dug into your flesh like hooks. They squeezed without warning, pulling you sharply toward the soft fabric covering the boy’s figure. For a moment, you lost your balance: your feet shuffled back a couple of steps, trying to find grip on the uneven floor, moving away from the only thing giving you power at that moment—the bow.

“Ye’re still breathing, right? Then stop whinin' and take the bow,” the boy behind you, Shite, growled, pressing the blade just slightly against your throat to remind you not to move a muscle.

The blonde huffed, limped forward toward you, and picked up the bow and arrow; when he stood, he was suddenly just a breath away from your face. Up close, you could finally see the details: an inverted cross, carved like an eternal mark on his forehead, and the unnatural line along his hair betraying a poorly fitted wig.

“Is there anyone else with you?” he asked, poking your stomach with the tip of your own arrow as if it were a scepter.

“No,” you replied, eyes narrowed to slits, chin high despite your less-than-dignified state.

“Good.” A glint caught your eye: the blonde had drawn a knife from his hoodie. He raised it slowly, measuring the movement as if marking a point on a map. The tip lowered toward the spot where your arrow had just grazed, and you felt your breath shorten, as if someone had pressed on your chest. “Shall we teach her a lesson first?”

You tried a step back, but Shite—iron hands and a cruel grin—held you firmly. The blonde’s blade rested against your stomach; a thin line of blood began to form, dark little beads clinging to the metal before dripping drop by drop. The cold of the blade, the metallic taste in the air, the dull burn: everything concentrated in a raw instant.

Then a voice slid into the room, breaking the tension like an iron bar shattering glass.

“What are you doing?”

Shite barely turned, just enough for you to follow the trajectory of his gaze. His eyes fixed on a figure you knew well: two sky-colored eyes studied you as if reading the insides of your pockets.

Spike.

The young man entered with a dirty face, expression choked with astonishment—and upon hearing your name, Shite’s blade on your neck tilted, lowering a few millimeters. For a heartbeat, it seemed the world had opened a crack.

You seized that moment with the precision you had learned to cultivate: you twisted the boy’s wrist, jerking it upward in a sharp movement, and sank your teeth into the back of his hand with all your strength. The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth; the boy’s knuckles stiffened, a strangled growl escaped his throat. The blade slipped from his hand as he struggled to free himself from your bite.

The knife was yours now as you felt the body behind you recoil. For a moment, the world shrank to the shiny knife in your hand and the ragged breathing of the one in front of you. You pulled back your arm to bring the blade toward the blonde, intent on killing, when he dropped the knife and, hands raised, pointed your own bow at you.

“Stop!” Spike stepped forward, voice tense but carrying something more than fear—it was anxiety, protection. He positioned himself between you and the blonde, eyes shifting from you to the boy, hands half-raised to signal that this was not the way. From the swing of hostility, a fragile truce emerged, a pause that could shatter in a second.

Shite slumped onto the first step, his left hand bleeding in his lap. His gaze mirrored that of the other blonde: angry, betrayed, wounded. They looked at you with resentment and the same sense of ownership, as if everything were owed to them.

Your naked body was thrown hard against the floor, the impact rattling through your ribs and sending a sharp cry from your throat. You slid until your cheek almost brushed the toe of a filthy sneaker. The stench of sweat and damp rubber filled your nostrils, making your stomach twist.

The pain was already unbearable. Your feet, raw and torn from being forced over jagged rocks, left streaks of blood across the floor. You didn’t even attempt to push yourself upright with them; every touch of weight would’ve been agony. Instead, you clawed at the floor with trembling hands, dragging your body inch by inch until you could raise yourself onto your elbows.

It was then you felt it — a touch. Familiar, trembling, hesitant. Spike’s hand against your back.

Your breath hitched, the briefest thread of relief piercing the haze of pain. You turned your head just enough to catch his wide, scared eyes. For his sake, you forced the smallest nod with your chin, a silent acknowledgment: I’m still here. Don’t lose yourself.

“What’s that mean?”

The voice was harsh, grating, dripping with amusement. It yanked your attention away from Spike, toward the figure seated just ahead of you.

Lounging like a king in his ruined throne, he sat sprawled in an armchair that had seen better years, its fabric torn and stained, its stuffing poking through. His legs were spread wide, planted firmly, ownership dripping from the posture alone.

The man wore a purple tracksuit with a numerous gold chains around the neck that caught the dim light. On his head — absurd yet terrifying in its certainty — rested a tiara. Not plastic. Real. Gilded. Jewels glinting faintly against the shadowed room.

Long blond hair framed his face, curling wild on his shoulders, giving him a feral kind of regality. His sharp jaw twitched as he smirked, eyes narrowing on you with something halfway between curiosity and hunger.

“Well?” he asked again, tilting his head like a predator pretending at patience when nobody answered him. His voice had softened, but the edge in it remained razor-sharp.

Spike was still holding your arms, his small hands tense but stronger than you remembered. You turned just enough to meet his eyes and were surprised: there wasn’t just fear in them, but anger. A young, pure anger that left no room for hesitation.

He glared at Shite with a venomous look, then at the other boy—Fox, or so you had understood his name was. He stared at him as if he could tear the skin from his body with his gaze alone. Then he lifted his chin and looked toward the adult man looming over you.

“She’s my friend. I don’t want her to be hurt.”

His words cut through the air like the knife you’d had at your throat just minutes ago, sharp and clear, and for a moment there was silence. The other boys turned toward him as well, some with surprised expressions, others almost amused by the audacity of this kid daring to speak that way in front of what was almost certainly their leader.

You felt his grip on your arms tighten, almost painfully, as if to emphasize that he meant every word. And you stood there, holding your breath, wondering when he had changed. Spike had always been bold, with that spark that made him different from the others, but this strength he was showing you now… this fierce confidence… you had never seen it fully before.

You tore your gaze away from him, too young to carry so much weight, and turned it back to the man.

His pale eyes pierced you. He studied you silently, unhurried, with a calmness that carried something cruel. His gaze drifted over your naked body, lingering shamelessly on your chest—a heartbeat too long, a moment more than necessary. You felt your skin burn under that invisible weight. Then his eyes returned to your face, and he gave the faintest, unsettling smile.

His right hand, adorned with heavy rings, moved slowly. He reached toward one side of the armchair and grabbed something: a worn but still warm fleece blanket, perhaps recently used.

He took it and, without a word, threw it decisively over your shoulders. The fabric enveloped you instantly, covering your nudity, like an unexpected gift—or a silent command.

“Aye, Spike. Ye know it. Yer mates are me mates too.”

The tension in Spike’s hands eased slightly, as if that approval had, for a moment, softened his anger. But you sensed that something was still off.

Finally, the man slowly rose from the armchair. His presence was imposing, and the candlelight made his rings glint like claws. Yet his face remained calm, even gentle, as he knelt and adjusted the blanket slipping from your shoulder with two fingers.

“I’m Jimmy Crystal.”

His voice flowed through the room like worn velvet, imbued with confidence. Then, with a half-smile, he added, “But ye can call me Jimmy.”

He extended his hand, the right adorned with heavy rings glittering. His fingers were long, slender, but strong; the rough skin on his knuckles spoke of fights fought.

For a moment, you froze, uncertain. Every instinct screamed not to trust, not to grant even that minimal gesture. Yet… there was something in his gaze that told you he knew your hesitation and was savoring it.

His hand hovered between you, steady, patient, as if certain that, in the end, you would be the one to yield.

And he was right: patience won you over. With a slow, almost reluctant motion, you raised your hand and placed it in his.

The contact surprised you. His skin was warm—incredibly warm—as if fire ran beneath it. Strangely comforting, like the icy water in the barrel in the house you had occupied and would never return to.

“Nice to meet you,” you murmured, enunciating your name more softly than expected. It was a formality, a mechanical courtesy dictated by your upbringing, but when his lips curved into a satisfied smile, you understood he had gotten exactly what he wanted: your acknowledgment.

“There,” he said quietly, releasing your hand only after a few seconds too many. “Now we’re mates.”

Mates. The word didn’t sound like an invitation but like a declaration. A fait accompli.

Jimmy’s blue eyes slowly drifted toward the floor. For a moment, his face lost that self-satisfied smile, replaced by a quick grimace, almost of disgust, when he noticed the small scarlet drops scattered under your wounded feet.

“Mm.” His tongue ran over his protruding canine, as if tasting the idea. Then he looked up at Spike, with the icy calm of someone accustomed to giving orders and seeing them executed.

“Take her to yer room, lad,” he finally said. His voice was low, but carried a tone that admitted no reply. “She needs to be looked after.”

You stared at him, surprised, unsure whether he was genuinely concerned or playing a role. And for a moment—just for a moment—he seemed almost sincere.

Jimmy snapped his fingers sharply, a gesture elegant in its theatricality. The sound bounced off the walls of the silent room like a conductor’s signal.

“Jimmima. Ink.” His tone was honeyed, but in reality left no choice. “Give her a hand.”

From behind the sofa emerged two female figures you hadn’t noticed. Both wore blonde wigs, and their extravagant, two-tone outfits made them seem as if they’d stepped out of a twisted carnival. Yet their eyes were hard, obedient, without hesitation.

Without a word, they bent over you. You felt their hands slide under your arms, warm and firm, and your exhausted body had no strength to resist. They lifted you up, forcing you to walk unsteadily as they supported you on both sides. The smell of their synthetic clothes filled your nostrils—stifling, almost nauseating.

As they dragged you across the room, you noticed other footsteps behind you. Two, maybe three boys from the group followed at a distance, ready to intervene. A silent escort that made your blood run cold: this wasn’t help, it was surveillance.

Then, behind you, Fox and Shite moved, and Shite tried to step forward, extending an arm as if offering to carry you himself.

They didn’t make it.

A sharp, cutting whistle exploded from Jimmy Crystal’s mouth. That was enough.

“No.” His voice rang harsher, less playful. “Not you two.”

The two froze like dogs halted by their master. No one protested. No one dared take a step further. They exchanged only a brief look, frustration and fear mingled, before stepping back.

Then the doors to the room closed behind you.

The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the distant crackle of a fire and the hum of the wind filtering through the uneven boards. The pungent smell of makeshift disinfectant filled your nostrils, a mix of alcohol and macerated herbs that stung as soon as it touched your skin.

You had slipped into a pair of old pants and a sweatshirt they had found for you, discarding the underwear that seemed used and unwashed.

Spike was crouched in front of you, sitting on a low stool. He had retrieved an old cloth and a chipped glass bottle, filled from who-knows-where. His hands, dirty and calloused, moved slowly but steadily, gripping your foot firmly as he wiped the soaked cloth over your wounds.

You gritted your teeth, holding back a whimper as the liquid burned. The boy looked up, his clear eyes illuminated only by a flickering candle on the nightstand.

“I know it hurts,” he murmured, “but we have to clean them well. We can’t risk infections in here.”

You nodded softly, watching him anxiously. You wanted to ask the fateful question, but you were terrified of the answer. You bit your lip.

It only took one look from Spike for him to understand your inner conflict.

He remained silent for a few minutes, working carefully. Then, without warning, he spoke.

“She didn’t suffer, y'know… after we escaped from the island…” His voice was hoarse, low, almost hesitant. “We met a man. A doctor. Dr. Kelson.”

His tone shifted as he said the name: a mix of respect and bitterness.

He continued disinfecting you, but his hand trembled slightly.

“It seemed almost like a miracle. Someone who still knew how to heal people… who hadn’t forgotten how. For a while, we believed he could fix everything.”

You felt tears sting the corners of your eyes.

Spike drew a deep breath. “But mom… mom wasn’t well. He understood immediately. She pretended to be better than she was. I could see it. She said nothing; she didn’t want to worry me.”

He paused, holding your foot tightly in his hands, as if he needed something to anchor himself.

“Kelson ran some tests… as much as he could, with the means he had. He said it was a tumor. Advanced. There was nothing to be done.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the quickened beat of your heart. You wanted to say something, but your voice died on your lips.

Then Spike looked at you again. And in his eyes, there was no anger, no tears: only a dull pain, a wound that would never close.

“She didn’t want to keep suffering. She didn’t want to become… a burden.” The boy shook his head slowly. “And Kelson… Kelson chose to help her. To take away her pain. He gave her… a peaceful death.”

You placed a hand on his arm, and he didn’t move. He accepted your comfort.

“I’m so sorry, Spike…” you managed to say with difficulty, as the image of Isla waving from the veranda of her home slowly faded from your memory, leaving only an empty house behind.

You were about to pull the boy against your chest to comfort him when the door opened, and Jimmy Crystal entered as if the room belonged to him. Spike spun around, ready to say something, but Jimmy only raised a hand, the smile on his lips tight, filled with that false calm you had come to recognize.

“Lad,” he said, his voice flat, mellifluous. “Go fetch another kit. And some scran. Our guest needs energy.”

Spike hesitated for a moment, his gaze shifting from you to him. You wanted to tell him to stay, but Jimmy left no room for discussion: he nodded to him, and Spike lowered his eyes. He left the room with quick, nervous steps, closing the door behind him.

The silence that followed made you shiver. Now you were alone.

The blonde man advanced slowly, the soles of his shoes sliding across the floor. He crouched in front of you, mirroring the position Spike had held moments before, and took your foot in his hands without asking, with a confident, almost intimate gesture. But you jerked back sharply, your heart hammering in your chest.

“I can do it myself.”

Your voice was sharp, decisive. You ripped the soaked cloth from his hands, gripping it tightly. And without waiting for his reaction, you began tending your wounds alone. The burn of the alcohol made you grit your teeth, but you preferred that pain to his hands on you.

Jimmy watched you, one eyebrow slightly raised. Then he smiled, showing his worn teeth, and leaned calmly against the back of the chair beside you, as if your refusal hadn’t affected him in the slightest.

“I’m sorry ma lads left ye like this…” he said, his voice low, almost sweet. “They can be real beasts sometimes.”

You didn’t answer. The cloth moved quickly over your ankles, smeared with dried blood, your fingers clenched until your knuckles turned white.

Jimmy didn’t seem bothered by your silence. He kept watching you, his blue eyes gleaming in the flickering light. “Hope ye understand. This world… it’s made them fierce.”

You paused, raising your gaze to him. Hostility churned in your throat, stronger than fear.

“This world, you say?” you asked flatly, sarcastic. That world was fucked, sure, but you knew what a man with a big ego and the desire to elevate himself to God could do.

For a moment, you thought you’d hit a nerve. But Jimmy… laughed. Softly, low and warm, almost surprised. He ran a hand through his long blonde hair, adjusting the tiara as if it were a natural part of him.

The smile he gave you was almost paternal, yet it sent shivers down your spine. “You’re sharp, I like that.”

Yet it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t afford to guess at his game. You had to see how much space he would allow you, how real his apparent mildness was.

So you decided to expose yourself. A blunt, bold statement that would collapse any mask if his calm was merely a fragile act.

“I’m taking Spike with me. We’re going home.”

The silence that followed was almost tangible, thick as smoke.

For a moment, Jimmy’s eyes gave nothing away. He remained motionless, leaning against the chair, his gaze fixed on your face with the air of an impartial judge. You felt as if you could hear the ticking of a nonexistent clock, every second stretched to infinity.

Then his jaw tensed slightly.

“Home?” he repeated, savoring the word as if it were foreign. “And where is that home, hen? Cause from what I can see…” he gestured with his hand toward the emptiness beyond the walls, “…out there, there’s nothing left.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. Spike hadn’t told him about home. About yours island. He had been clever, careful, and foresighted. He didn’t trust these people; they hadn’t manipulated him like you thought.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped, menacing. “Right?”

You didn’t lower your gaze. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t show fear, or he’d know. “Home is wherever he is with me,” you whispered, tense but firm. “I was late for his mother, but not for him.”

You considered half-truths the safest approach when lying skillfully, and Jimmy seemed to drink it in; his torso relaxed, and even the lines on his forehead smoothed. He believed you, or at least a little.

“Good, then I’ll make sure ye feel comfortable here… enough to call it home.” His smile widened, but it wasn’t warmer.

Jimmy reached out toward your face, making you tilt your head slightly back, but didn’t touch you. Instead, he shifted and lowered his hand, brushing your sweatshirt-covered shoulder, pressing lightly. It could have been a comforting gesture… if done by someone you knew well.

“If ye stay with us, if ye learn to trust…” he tilted his head, the chains at his neck jingling “…we can make sure Spike's alright. That ye're alright. And this place…” he gestured lightly toward the ceiling “…becomes yer new refuge. We’re the only grown-ups here. Let’s work together.”

You swallowed. Your throat dry as sand.

“Aye?” Jimmy pressed, his voice low but firm, as if he wanted to wrest confirmation from you not just with words but with your very skin. His fingers, still resting on your shoulder, squeezed lightly. Not hard, not painful, but enough to let you know he wasn’t joking.

“Aye.”

The word escaped in a breath. You weren’t sure you wanted to say it, but found no other way out.

The reaction was immediate. His hand slid away abruptly, as if the contact had suddenly become useless.

It was at that moment the door opened.

Spike appeared in the doorway, his hair tousled, his face still tense with worry. He held a steaming bowl in his arms, the aroma of hot broth immediately filling the room, mingling with the acrid smell of disinfectant. In his other hand, he held a small box of sterile gauze, taken from who-knows-which survivor cabinet.

“I found these,” he said quickly, a bit out of breath as if he had run. His gaze fell first on you, then on Jimmy, and you noticed the shadow of suspicion pass through his eyes.

Meanwhile, Jimmy didn’t flinch. He showed neither annoyance nor surprise at the interruption. He settled more comfortably in the chair next to you, elbows resting on his knees, and greeted Spike with a smile as sweet as honey.

“Good lad.”

The healing of your feet was slower than expected. Despite the clean bandages, the hot broth, and Spike’s care, the wounds burned every time you tried to put your heels on the floor. So you stayed in the room for almost three days, confined to that corner of the large house that reeked of mold and wood smoke.

To prevent your muscles from stiffening, you spent most of the time moving your legs stretched out on the bed, lifting them slightly, then bending them, or raising your arms above your head and crossing them like a slow exercise. You didn’t want to let weakness creep inside you. Not there. Not with them around.

Spike was your only support. He came often, bringing you water, food, or just his voice. He told you trivial stories, fragments from when he was still on the island, or memories of Isla that he tried to reconstruct to remember her. He spoke of the things he did for Jimmy Crystal and his boys, but always in a low voice, as if the whole house had ears.

The thing that comforted you most was a simple detail: Jimmy Crystal hadn’t shown himself. Neither with his gentle, false smile, nor with the hands that knew how to creep where you didn’t want them. A truce that kept you on edge, certainly, but still a truce.

It was on the afternoon of the fourth day that the monotony changed. You were leafing through an old book Spike had retrieved for you from a looted library — a worn novel, with pages stained by moisture and edges eaten away by time. It didn’t matter that it was incomplete or hard to read: it was a connection to the world before, to normalcy, and that was enough.

The door opened quietly, without knocking. You looked up and found a small, hesitant figure, walking almost timidly.

It was one of Jimmy Crystal’s girls. The one with slightly darker skin that Spike had told you was called Jimmy Ink, the label the boss had stitched onto her.

“Spike told us you’re a teacher,” she said, her voice steady but with a trace of uncertainty. “That you can read and write.”

You straightened on the bed, surprised by that tone, which had none of the cockiness of the other boys.

“That’s correct,” you answered softly.

Ink bit her lip. She looked at you without really looking at you, her eyes hidden beneath that ridiculous wig. Then, with a breath that seemed to cost her, she murmured:

“W… would you teach me?”

The question struck you right in the chest. You hadn’t expected it. In a world where survival was reduced to blades, blood, and fire, someone asking to learn to read and write was an almost impossible echo, a fragile memory of what you had lost.

And yet that request took you straight back to your students on the island. To the children who followed you with wide eyes, to their hands gripping pencils too tightly, to the smiles when they managed to read the first sentence on their own.

Your heart softened, despite the mistrust that still lingered toward anyone bearing Jimmy’s name.

“All right,” you finally said, raising a finger in front of your face. “But on one condition.”

The girl stiffened immediately. Her thin shoulders lifted, and you sensed panic in the silent moments that followed. Perhaps she feared a bribe, a price to pay like those she had probably been accustomed to from Jimmy Crystal.

You couldn’t help smiling. A small, almost amused smile.

“When you’re in here, you have to take off that hideous blonde wig.”

There was a suspended moment of silence. Then Ink made a strangled sound that could have been half a laugh or a stifled sob. Slowly, she brought her hands to her head and lifted the wig. The hair that came out was dark, badly cut, but real.

She was a different person. A young girl, far too young for the hardness the world had imposed on her.

She looked at you, uncertain, as if expecting you to make fun of her. But you simply nodded.

“This is better.”

Ink took a deep breath, and it almost seemed as if she had been relieved of an invisible weight. She sat on the chair next to your bed, hands tightly clasped on her knees.

“We’ll start from here. One letter at the time. It won’t be easy, but you’ll manage,” you told her, turning the book toward her.

Something that resembled gratitude flickered in her eyes. Fragile, hidden beneath years of fear and submission, but genuine.

In that moment, you realized that perhaps, amidst Jimmy Crystal’s cruelty and his boys’ brutality, there was still a crack. A gap. A place to plant a different kind of seed.

And for the first time in days, you felt that the room was no longer a cell.

Your sessions were short since Jimmy often called the kids away, but repeated several times throughout the day, so her progress was remarkable.

At first, it was only Ink.

She came every day, sitting with her body hunched on the chair next to your bed. Her embarrassment was palpable, but the effort she put in was genuine. Every time she traced a crooked letter with the dull pencil, she bit her lip and looked at you as if to ask forgiveness. You smiled at her, and that simple gesture encouraged her more than a thousand words could.

Then, slowly, the others began to arrive.

First was Jimmy Jimmy, the boy with endless chatter. He had peeked around the door during a lesson, chuckling to himself, and the next day he had sat of his own accord next to Ink, declaring that “he had nothing better to do anyway.”

Immediately after came Jimmima, the tall, thin girl with two blonde braids and an always-evading gaze. She didn’t speak much but paid attention, occasionally asking precise, surprising questions, as if she harbored a secret hunger for knowledge.

With three students, the room was already beginning to feel too small.

When you finally managed to move with less pain and place your feet on the floor without flinching, you decided to transfer the lessons to the main living room. It was a larger space, with tall windows and a long wooden table scratched by time and sharp weapons. The kids settled there, some sitting, some lying down, some perched on the edge with legs dangling. You were in the center, with books and papers that Spike helped you gather.

That’s when two more joined: Snake and Jones. Snake came one day just to cause trouble but stayed because he discovered that writing swear words in the notebook was more fun than he had expected. Jones, on the other hand, had a serious, somber air, and seemed to treasure every word as if it were precious.

The biggest surprise came when Shite and Fox stepped forward. They did so with a challenging air, as if the idea of attending your lessons was ridiculous, but they didn’t want to be left out.

“It’s not like our mates have much gray matter,” Shite muttered. “If they do it, then so do we.”

Fox just crossed his arms and nodded, as if the decision were inevitable.

So you found yourself with a class of eight students. Eight young people who until recently had only been tools in Jimmy Crystal’s hands, and who now, around the table, were becoming kids again. You found yourself laughing when one teased another about how they had written a word, or when Snake turned every exercise into a battle of insults on paper. It wasn’t your old school, it wasn’t your former students, but it was something dangerously close.

One afternoon, while the kids were engaged in group work — Ink and Jimmima trying to write an entire sentence, Shite deliberately misreading aloud to make Fox laugh — you noticed that Jimmy Crystal had approached.

He lowered himself slowly onto a chair next to yours, so close that the scent of his aftershave reached your nose. He rested an arm on the back of your chair, a gesture casual only in appearance.

“I could start callin' ye Wendy,” he said softly, with a smile that almost seemed like a confidant’s.

You raised an eyebrow, keeping your tone neutral. “Uh?”

Jimmy nodded toward the kids, scattered around the table, arguing over who had written a word better. “Look at how ye’ve lined them up. My lost boys. They don’t even seem like the same ones I used to have smashin' heads around.” He leaned slightly closer, his breath brushing your ear. “Isn’t that what Wendy did?”

A small smile escaped you, despite staying on guard. “It’s just school, Jimmy. A little discipline and lots of patience.”

“Aye, exactly,” he retorted with a spark in his eyes. “I’ve ne'er been good with patience. Ne'er had the right touch… but ye do. Ye speak to them an' they listen. Just like their mama.”

You stiffened at the word. Your fingers clenched on the edge of the table, but you managed to keep an ironic tone: “Does that make you Peter Pan?”

Jimmy laughed softly, low, as if he liked the comparison. “Why not? I’ve been a good da' to these bairns, haven’t I? Didn't I deserve a wee bit o' recognition from ye as well?”

You huffed amused at his pout, but your amusement didn’t seem to satisfy him.

His calloused fingers slipped into your hair, moving it gently aside, until they uncovered the side of your neck. That’s when you felt it: his warm breath brushing against your bare skin.

Too close.

Too intimate.

Heat rushed from your neck to your face, and before he could say anything, you sprang to your feet. The chair scraped back, and you immediately moved toward the kids, pretending to check their notebooks.

“All right, let’s see now,” you said in a voice louder than necessary, as if to overpower your racing heartbeat.

The kids laughed among themselves at one of Snake’s mistakes, and you forced yourself to laugh with them, dissipating the tense atmosphere from a moment before. But you still felt Jimmy’s gaze on you, steady, calm, as if he had seen too much.

When you had almost fully regained your strength, the thought of staying idle became unbearable. You couldn’t keep relying on Jimmy Crystal’s kindness or Spike’s courage. If you truly wanted to bring the boy back with you, you needed a plan—and above all, resources.

That morning, taking advantage of the group’s absence—Spike included, out with the other Jimmies on one of their mysterious expeditions—you decided to take action.

The house was silent, broken only by the creak of the wind sneaking through poorly sealed windows. You moved quickly from room to room, opening drawers, pushing furniture, checking every corner. The loot was disappointing: a few dented cans of beans, a couple of kitchen knives with chipped blades, nothing that could really change the game. There were no proper weapons, no useful supplies, no maps or documents that could reveal anything about the group’s strategy.

But when you closed the last drawer, your gaze inevitably fell beyond the window.

Beyond the small hill overlooking the clearing, the church.

You realized that in recent days, Jimmy had visited it several times, always alone, with that slow, theatrical gait that seemed a mix between a procession and a parade. None of the others dared follow him inside. It was clear that this place, once sacred, held a special meaning for him. And if it hid anything—supplies, weapons, medicine—it was surely there.

The opportunity was perfect.

With your heart beating a little too fast, you slipped out the house door and walked along the dirt path. Every step sounded like a risk, and you kept looking back, ready to turn around if anyone appeared. But the hill remained empty, the afternoon silence broken only occasionally by a crow cawing in the distance.

The church door loomed before you like an ancient guardian: dark oak, massive, with a cross carved that time had almost erased. It took strength to push it, and when it finally gave way, a low groan echoed through the nave.

Inside, the air was heavy—damp, thick with dust and mold. There were none of the neat Orthodox icons you would have expected, no mystical serenity. Only disorder, ruin, and sinister traces.

The shattered glass was scattered across the floor, piled mostly near the wooden pews. Walking cautiously, you noticed it creaked beneath your steps, releasing a sound that made you clench your jaw for fear someone might hear.

Then, the stains.

Along the nave floor, there were clear dark marks, faded but unmistakable: blood. Not a single drop, but congealed pools, dragged marks, as if someone had been severely wounded or worse, slaughtered.

A shiver ran down your spine. It almost seemed as if the building itself was breathing, soaked in past screams and unnatural silence.

You advanced slowly, hands at your sides, every muscle tensed. The crucifix hanging above the altar stared down at you, blackened by the smoke of old candles and tilted to one side, as if even Christ had grown weary of remaining there.

Your hands trembled slightly as you opened one of the altar’s old drawers. The wood creaked, soaked with the scent of dead incense and mold, but inside there were only cobwebs and a couple of long-burnt candles. Another drawer, and another, with the same stubborn hope that something useful had been hidden there. Anything that could help you on the journey back.

You bent down, biting the inside of your cheek, and pulled hard on the lowest drawer, which resisted.

“Ye won’t find anything in there.”

The voice behind you froze your blood.

You jumped, heart in your throat, and spun around.

Jimmy Crystal was standing in the shadow of the entrance, hands buried in the pockets of his shiny plum-colored tracksuit, his messy blond tuft falling over his eyes. He was smiling—not with overt malice, but with that subtle, almost amused curve that made everything seem like a game whose ending he already knew.

“Scaredy cat, are we?” he asked sardonically, tilting his head slightly.

You didn’t answer immediately. You tried to control your breathing, to not show him how your body was still trembling from the sudden adrenaline rush. You stood up slowly, smoothing your dust-covered clothes.

“What are you doing here?” you finally managed to say, trying to mask your tension with hostility.

Jimmy took a few steps forward, his shoes crunching on the broken glass. “I could ask ye the same, lassie. But I’d say the answer’s plain as day.” His gaze flicked to the open drawer, then back to you, sharp and blue.

Your instinct screamed at you to deny it, but you knew it would be useless. So you crossed your arms over your chest and murmured, “I wasn’t doing anything.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Mmhh… liar. Ye’re not even good at it. An' I respect that.” He stopped in front of a pew and let himself drop onto it, hands still in his pockets. “But believe me: if ye were hopin' to find some hidden treasure, ye’ll be disappointed. The survivors who passed through here years ago looted everythin'. An' what’s left…” He gestured vaguely at the mess on the floor, “…is just debris.”

You sized each other up in silence until Jimmy tapped the empty space beside him.

“Sit with me.”

You frowned.

He watched you patiently. There was no anger in his eyes, no overt threat—and that was exactly what made it harder to resist his invitation. You knew that sitting beside him meant giving him something, but standing in front of this man, with your heart still pounding, was like showing him your cracks.

“Come on, hen,” he murmured with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I dinnae want to hurt ye. Just a wee chat. Here, in church… if this isn’t the right place, then what is?”

His ironic tone made you clench your jaw. You didn’t want to give in, but your feet—still tender, still sore—complained under your weight. In the end, you let yourself carefully drop onto the pew, a step away from him. Not too close, not too far.

Jimmy tilted his head slightly, satisfied, and remained silent for a moment. The distant sound of a crow broke the unreal pause, and then he finally spoke.

“Y'know, my father died right here.”

The sentence struck you by surprise. You turned your face toward him, but he was staring straight ahead, at the altar and the faded statue of Christ.

“Well, more precisely there,” he continued, raising a hand to indicate. “At the foot of that cross.”

A shiver ran down your spine. You followed the direction of his finger: the worn wood, the dirty marble beneath the Redeemer’s figure. There were no bones or remains, but the very idea made your stomach tighten. He was infected.

Jimmy leaned slightly forward, fingers intertwined on his knees, as if speaking more to himself than to you. “He was gaspin'. Sayin' it was God’s will. That that infection… that shite out there…” He gestured vaguely toward the windows, “…was the final test. The apocalypse, ye get it? The fulfillment o' prophecy. And he, as a faithful servant, let himsel' die. No fight. No fear.”

He shook his head, with a grin that was neither smile nor scorn, but a twisted mix of both. “He said God was callin' him. That it would be an honor. And I watched him… watched him choose to choke on his own blood rather than flee with me.”

You swallowed, hands clasped in your lap to hide the trembling. “And you?”

Jimmy finally looked at you, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I wasn’t in it. I didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. 'Cause his faith would have killed me along with him. So…” He lowered his voice, almost a whisper, “…I went down into the crypt. I waited. An' I heard everythin'. Every prayer, every muffled scream. Every gasp till silence, then again into monstrous hisses.”

A heavy silence settled between you, harsher than any scream. You felt breathless. You didn’t know if the story was entirely true or twisted to push you in some direction, but the way he told it—the icy calm, the clarity of detail—made you believe at least part of it.

Jimmy leaned back, arms stretched along the pew’s backrest. “That was me first lesson, sweetheart. God saves no one. Faith saves no one. We save ourselves. With our hands, our heads, our strength.”

You realized you were holding your breath and forced yourself to relax, inhaling slowly. “And your kids? Do they believe it too?”

Jimmy’s smile curved again, ambiguous. “Me lads believe in me.”

The answer made you shiver, and you realized it was the most terrifying truth of all.

You stayed silent for a moment, but things weren’t the same anymore. You had come too close to the heart of that man, to something he should never have shown you. And yet he had. Why?

Perhaps to win you over. Perhaps to bind you to him with the invisible chain of trust.

Jimmy lowered his tone, almost intimate. “And now ye’re here. Riflin' through ma drawers, lookin' at me like ye’re searchin' for the monster under the bed. But tell me… did ye find it?”

The question pierced you more than you wanted to admit. It forced you to meet his gaze again, intense and bright like a fire that never goes out.

You didn’t answer. You just pressed your lips together and shook your head slightly.

He nodded softly, rising to his feet. The sound of his steps echoed as he approached the altar, passing the spot he had indicated earlier. “Do not worry,” he said lightly, turning just toward you. “I don’t want to be yer God. I just want ye to understand: here, in this world, ye either choose to live… or ye choose to die. And I don’t let anyone I can save die.”

He paused, the smile returning to curve his lips. “Even ye.”

The last words clung to you like tar—sweet and threatening all at once.

A few evenings later, you were all sitting in the common living room, lit only by the flickering light of the fireplace and a couple of battery-powered lamps casting a pale glow on the walls. The smell of dinner—soup reheated in a pot with pieces of vegetables and some wild roots—still hung in the air, along with the laughter of the kids that hadn’t yet died down.

Spike sat next to you, chin resting on the now-empty bowl, and for a moment, you could almost pretend it was a normal post-dinner scene: the kids joking around, the crackle of the fire, the echo of silly quips bouncing through the room.

Then Snake pulled something from behind his back: a wig of messy, straw-blond hair, clearly worn. “Hey, Spike!” he shouted, tossing it across the table. “Now that you’re one of us, you need one too.”

A chorus of laughter followed. Fox whistled, Jimmima clapped her hands like a child at Christmas, and Jones laughed until he cried.

Next to you, Jimmy Crystal grinned.

Spike froze for just a moment, then grabbed the wig and tilted it onto his head. His eyes lit up, and a huge smile spread across his face—sincere, genuine, childlike. That image hit your chest harder than anything else. Spike, whom you hadn’t seen smile like that since… you couldn’t even remember how long after his mother had fallen ill.

Your heart warmed, but immediately your stomach tightened. Because you knew, with the same cruel clarity, that you might never convince him to come home with you. Here, there was warmth, acceptance, a group that treated him like a brother. A refuge, however twisted. You were the voice reminding him of the island’s pain and losses. Jimmy, instead, was the promise of something new.

The thought hurt so much that you looked away, staring at your clasped hands.

When you raised your eyes again, the kids were already hugging him, laughing, dragging him off the bench. Spike protested halfway, laughing too, until the whole group pushed him toward the door, shouting something about a game to play outside.

“Spike—” you called, your voice barely cracking.

But he didn’t have time to turn around. Someone was already tugging at him, the door closing behind him amid a burst of shouts.

The silence that followed fell on you like a boulder. You found yourself with your hand still raised mid-air, ridiculous in its helplessness.

Then, suddenly, the weight of Jimmy’s hands slid onto your shoulders. You hadn’t even noticed he had stayed there. With a calm, almost natural gesture, he guided you back onto the chair facing the fireplace.

“Let him have his fun,” he murmured, his low voice brushing against the back of your neck.

You tried to argue, but the words dissolved in your throat as his fingers began pressing on your shoulders, slow, measured. It was a firm touch, not intrusive. His fingertips glided along the tension you had accumulated, and before you knew it, you caught yourself stifling a sigh.

“There we go,” he said, as if he had won a small battle.

You focused on the warmth of the fire brushing your face, trying to ignore how his touch was creeping past the barriers you had erected. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t want to let go. But the muscles in your neck, stiff for days, were beginning to loosen under his pressure.

“Spike is safe,” Jimmy continued, thumbs moving along the base of your neck. “Safer here than he’s ever been. D'ye see how they look at him? He’s already a brother to them. One o' the family.”

You closed your eyes for a moment. It was true, and you hated having to admit it. Seeing him laugh like that… it broke you and warmed you at the same time.

Jimmy lowered his voice near your ear. “And ye’re too hard on him.”

A shiver ran down your spine. You opened your eyes, staring at the flames writhing in the fireplace grate. You searched for an answer that wouldn’t make you weak. “I don’t trust you. Any of you.”

You sensed rather than saw the smile curling his lips behind you. His fingers paused for a moment, then resumed the deeper massage. “I know, bonnie. Ye’re so stubborn after all. But look at him an' tell me he's no better off here.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, unable to reply. Because you had seen it. Because Jimmy was telling the truth, and that made it painful.

He seemed to understand. His hands slowly slid down your shoulder blades, pressing firmly, making you relax against your chest almost against your will.

“Ye’re always tense,” he said softly. “Always ready to fight. But here, at least for one night, ye can let someone else tak' care o' the rest.”

His words, whispered like a promise, made you close your eyes again. For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe without fear, to be enveloped by the warmth of the fire and the pressure of his hands.

It was a luxury you hadn’t granted yourself in too long. And that’s exactly what scared you most.

His hands continued working on your shoulders, slow, steady, as if they had all the time in the world. Each precise pressure forced a breath you tried to hold back but inevitably let out.

Jimmy leaned slightly, his breath brushing your ear.

“Better, innit? I knew it.”

You didn’t respond, staring at the flames. You told yourself it was just fatigue, that your muscles needed relief, that it wasn’t him giving you comfort, but the gesture itself. And yet… the way his voice slid low and velvety made your whole body hum.

“Y'see, I’m not always the bad guy ye think.” His fingers moved along your back, slowly down toward your hips. “Everyone needs someone to take their hand sometimes. Even ye.”

Your body stiffened for a moment, and he noticed. He chuckled softly, a gentle laugh, as if teasing you without malice.

“Ye deserve it. Ye can feel good. Do not have to just survive.”

The words hit a raw nerve. How many days had you felt like nothing more than a machine enduring, gritting your teeth? Perhaps too many. Perhaps even while you were safe in Lindisfarne.

“Jimmy…” you started, but your voice came out more broken than expected.

“Shhh,” he interrupted, a finger brushing past the barrier of your hoodie, barely touching your bare skin, making you shiver. “No need to say anythin'. Enjoy the moment. It’s time for someone to take care o' ye.”

He leaned sideways enough to look at your face. The firelight caught his eyes with blue and orange reflections, making him look younger, almost handsome. The sculpted jaw, golden hair falling softly at his temples, the confidence with which he occupied space: he was the kind of man who had learned to seduce with presence alone. There were no men like that on the island…

He traced two fingers along your jaw, up to your cheek. A feather-light touch, forcing you to focus entirely on him.

“There,” he murmured, eyes fixed on yours. “Finally. Ye have no idea how beautiful ye are when stop growlin' at me.”

Your brow furrowed. You wanted to snap back, push him away, remind him he had no right to speak that way. And yet, you remained silent, trapped in that magnetic gaze.

Jimmy smiled slightly, not the confident smirk he wore with the kids, but something more intimate.

“Dinna fash yersel' about Spike. He’s happy out there, dinna ye hear? His laughter reaches a' the way here.” His thumb brushed the corner of your lips, playing at the joint but without forcing you. “And ye… ye are alone, tormentin' yoursel'. What’s the point?”

You tried to look away, but he tilted his head and closed the distance, forcing you to stay. His voice lowered further, a whisper vibrating between you.

“I can give ye the pleasure ye’re lookin' for.”

Your heart started racing.

“No—” you began, but he stopped just shy of your lips, without kissing you. The anticipation was worse than the act itself.

“Ye don’t trust me, I know.” His smile widened, but remained gentle. “But ye didn’t get up yet. Ye didn’t push me away.”

You realized in a panic that he was right. You hadn’t reacted. Your body, tired, hungry for warmth, was giving ground.

Jimmy knew. He always knew. He pressed his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as if he were the one seeking comfort. The gesture disarmed you more than his words. “Let me be the one to remind ye how good it feels.”

You felt his warm breath on your mouth, your heartbeat racing uncontrollably. Instinct screamed at you to get up, to run, yet a part of you was nailed there, in that suspended moment, both drawn and scared.

Your fingers gripped the armrests of the chair. The silence of the room, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant sound of the kids’ laughter, became deafening.

Your throat went dry. You could say no. You could stop him.

Your lips parted, ready to form words—a refusal, an excuse, anything to buy some space—but Jimmy didn’t grant you even that breath. His mouth crashed onto yours with brutal force, his tongue invading immediately, pushing deep before you could resist. The kiss wasn’t a request; it was an assault. Wet, dirty, total.

His fingers clamped around your jaw, forcing your mouth open wider, while his other hand gripped your waist in a steel hold. In an instant he turned you fully toward him, erasing any chance of pulling back. His body was a wall pressed against yours, his heat smothering, and the relentless push of his tongue twisting and tangling with yours dragged an uncontrolled moan from your throat.

The sound slipped out like a betrayal, and Jimmy swallowed it whole, driving even deeper. His mouth dominated yours, the sharp taste of the wine he’d been drinking flooding your tongue, mixing with your ragged breaths. When he shifted you onto his lap, straddling him, your body gave in almost without realizing it, and the pulse of his erection against the thin fabric between you made your heart skip violently.

His lips curved into a smirk against yours, smug, like he already knew he had you in the palm of his hand. He kissed you again, slower now, filthier, biting at the corner of your lips, sucking your bottom lip until a broken whimper slipped out that made him growl with satisfaction.

His hands slid down your back with calculated slowness, as though memorizing every line of your body, until they stopped at your ass. He grabbed you with both hands, squeezing hard, shaping you to his palms as he dragged you tighter against him. A low grunt rumbled in his chest as his fingers dug into the soft flesh, and he leaned back just enough to drink in the sight of your flushed cheeks.

“Fuckin’ sweet…”

You huffed into his mouth, the sound more of a growl than a breath, and Jimmy’s eyes gleamed with sheer amusement at your rebellious bite.

“Shut up,” you hissed, your voice low and sharp.

You pushed off him, your legs trembling slightly from pent-up arousal, and in one swift move you stripped off your hoodie, letting it drop to the floor without caring where it landed. Your pants followed just as quickly, shoved down in a frantic motion that left your thighs and heat bare against the warm air of the room.

Jimmy’s blue eyes devoured you, hungry, but you didn’t give him a chance to comment. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen you naked.

You dropped back onto him with the same fierce decision, your thighs clamping around his hips as you shoved him down against the couch. Your hand pressed flat against his chest, right above his heart, anchoring yourself.

His breathing deepened, vibrating beneath your palm, but he didn’t resist. On the contrary—his eyes sparkled with a silent challenge, and the smile stretching across his lips was that of a predator letting its prey think it had seized control.

“It’s always the quiet ones that five ye a surprise,” Jimmy drawled, amused, though his voice cracked around a groan that betrayed just how much you affected him.

Your fingers tangled roughly around the heavy gold chains hanging from his neck, cold metal biting against your sweaty knuckles. You yanked them hard, dragging him forward until his nose nearly brushed yours, and Jimmy’s blue eyes burned into you like live coals.

“I said shut up.”

You crashed your mouth against his, teeth clashing, tongue claiming. He groaned into you, the sound sharp, sending molten heat straight between your legs.

His hands shot to your hips, rough, strong, trying to guide you, to wrest the control back into his own. But you didn’t let him. In a swift motion, you grabbed his wrists and slammed them against the couch cushion, pinning him. The muscles under his hoodie tensed, but still he didn’t fight you. Instead, his gaze glittered with dark approval.

You moved with deliberate force, driven by something fierce—you didn’t just want to ride him, you wanted to dominate him, prove you weren’t a toy in his hands.

Jimmy gasped, tilting his head back, unable to hold back the guttural groan that tore from him.

“Where the fuck have ye been hiding all this time, missu…”

You shifted, grinding your clit harder against his thick length. The fabric of his pants was sturdy, but not enough to dull the friction: the solid ridge of his cock rubbed against you, sparking fire through your core. The pressure made your breath hitch, a soft moan tearing from your lips as your thighs trembled.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You let the rhythm take you, dragging yourself over him with steady, deliberate motions. Each stroke of friction made your stomach clench, each grind fed the ache between your legs. And while you chased your own pleasure, you watched his composure fracture piece by piece.

Jimmy—the man who always held control—was panting beneath you. The veins stood out along his throat, his chest rising in sharp, ragged breaths, and the ever-present cocky grin bent into a grimace of unguarded pleasure. He tried to free his wrists, but you held them tighter, and the guttural sound he made was half-growl, half-plea.

Your clit throbbed with each drag, each stroke pushing you closer, and the desperate noise that spilled from your lips filled the air.

Then Jimmy struck, sudden as a snake. He lunged forward and sank his teeth into your neck, biting hard enough to make you jolt with a strangled cry. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a claim, a demand for the attention you’d been denying him.

His hot breath seared your skin, then softened into a wet stroke as his tongue traced the mark. He licked slow, deliberate circles over the sting, and you realized with a shudder that his eyes weren’t fixed on you—they were aimed lower.

You followed his gaze and burned scarlet when you saw the dark patch spreading over his pants, right over the thick, straining bulge of his cock.

Jimmy chuckled, a low, filthy sound that made your teeth clench. “Fuck, love…” he murmured, his voice dripping smugness. “Ye’re soaked. Playin' hard to get and now look at ye…” His tongue flicked your skin again, deceptively tender, while his words sharpened like blades. “Drooling over me cock like a desperate little slut.”

Your blood boiled. For a heartbeat you let his mouth ravage your neck, but the fury surged through you like a storm.

Your grip snapped from his wrists to his blond hair, yanking hard. Jimmy snarled, the sound guttural, animal, vibrating in his chest as his head was forced back. His blue eyes flared with heat, not anger—arousal. He was enjoying your rebellion.

You dragged his face close, your breath ragged, lips trembling with both rage and desire. “Say that again,” you spat, your voice hard as steel, “and I’ll ride your cock until I come on my own, and leave you with blue balls.”

His chest rumbled with a low, gravelly laugh, his tongue sweeping slowly across his reddened lower lip. “Feisty little thin', aren’t ya.”

But he didn’t resist when your free hand slid down to the knot of his pants. In fact—he spread his legs just slightly, his chest trembling with the weight of his ragged breath, as if he wanted to give you all the space you needed just to enjoy the show.

Your fingers, trembling with impatience, tugged the fabric down until he was freed. His cock sprang out, thick, hard, swollen at the tip. It stole your breath, and instinct made you clutch his blond hair even tighter in your fist.

“Go on,” he murmured, his voice hoarse as he watched your eyes locked on his cock. “It’s all yers.”

You didn’t answer him with words. You lifted yourself just enough, then sank back down slowly, feeling his cock glide between your wet folds until it pressed against your entrance.

The first push of his cock made you gasp—sharp, desperate. He was too big, too thick, your body straining around him as he forced his way in. You didn’t want to drag it out. You didn’t want him to touch you softly and prepare you. You didn’t want that intimacy from him.

The stretch was unbearable and intoxicating all at once, your cunt fluttering helplessly around the sheer girth splitting you open.

He groaned low, his head thrown back, while his hands finally left your hips to climb to your chest. He grabbed your full breasts, kneading them with calloused fingers, groping hungrily and teasing your nipples until they hardened under his touch.

“Christ…” he panted, as you sank deeper, the tip forcing its way inside, spreading you wider. “So fuckin' tight… knew ye’d be tight as a goddamn virgin.”

A choked moan tore from your throat as you slowly swallowed him down, inch by inch, until you felt full, stretched to the limit. Jimmy bent forward, his mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking hard before biting, leaving a sting of pain that made you cry out louder.

His tongue circled over your nipple as you began to move, riding him with slow but deliberate thrusts. Every time you sank down, his hands grabbed your ass, squeezing and forcing you lower, harder.

It took forever, every second an ache of pleasure and pain, until finally your ass met his thighs and he was buried deep, splitting you open. You whimpered at the overwhelming fullness, your cunt fluttering helplessly around him.

Jimmy’s teeth ground together, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. “God almighty… little hole tryin’ to strangle me.”

The pace quickened, your moans rising sharper, and Jimmy leaned forward again, biting your other nipple, leaving red marks that burned as you moaned his name.

Then his right hand slipped from your breast, trailing down your sweaty stomach to the spot between your bodies, where his cock stretched you open. He didn’t reach for your clit with his fingers but with his knuckles, rubbing them in rough, circular strokes against the swollen, sensitive bud, forcing louder cries from your throat.

His knuckles ground against you mercilessly, in perfect rhythm with your desperate thrusts. The sensation was raw, almost too much, and you found yourself clawing his shoulders, then yanking at his hair, screaming into his mouth.

Jimmy laughed into your broken moan, kissing you filthily, shoving his tongue down your throat while he kept punishing your clit with that brutal touch. Every snap of his hips sent your body jolting, every grind against your slick folds dragged you closer to the edge.

“C’mon, lass…Cream all over ma cock, I wanna feel it—fuckin’ drench me.”

Your body gave out with a strangled cry, the orgasm exploding low and wild, waves of uncontrollable pleasure tearing through you. You collapsed against him, trembling, your pussy clenching hard around his cock, milking him mercilessly.

Jimmy groaned loud, his forehead pressed to your sweaty chest, while his hands kept dragging you up and down, making you ride him even as your body shook with aftershocks. “Yes—fuck yes—that’s ma good mama…”

He let you ride him a little longer, enough for your trembling thighs to betray your exhaustion. Then, with a growl rumbling in his throat, he grabbed you beneath the thighs. Effortlessly, he lifted you from his lap, his cock slipping out of you and making you whimper at the sudden emptiness.

“No, love,” he whispered against your neck as you clung to him with arms and legs. “You’re not done with me yet.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he carried you toward the couch. He set you down on the armrest, forcing you to perch on the cushioned wood. Your hands clutched at the pillows behind you as he guided you to lean back, legs spread wide to welcome him.

His cock pressed against you again immediately. With one sharp thrust of his hips, Jimmy drove back inside, spearing into your still-hot, wet cunt. The impact ripped a strangled scream from your throat, your head slamming back against the cushions as he overwhelmed you.

“Sss-hit,” he groaned, his hips pounding into you. “Fuckin’ perfect, takin’ it all.”

Each thrust was harder, faster than the last. His hands gripped your thighs, holding them open as he fucked you mercilessly, his heavy body crashing between your legs like a storm. The couch groaned beneath you, the armrest shaking with every slam of his hips.

You bit your lip, but the moans spilled free anyway, uncontrollable, mixing with his guttural grunts and the wet slap of your bodies colliding. Jimmy’s hand darted down between you again, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing with the same brutal pressure that had already broken you once, forcing you to flinch at the overstimulation.

“Yeah, give me another one. Ye can give me another one.”

His words—filthy but laced with command—pushed you past resistance. Pleasure surged again, fast and vicious, as he kept driving without pause. Your hands clawed the cushions, nearly tearing them, as your body bent under his relentless thrusts.

Jimmy bent over you, his lips crashing onto yours in a filthy, wet kiss, his tongue forcing its way in as he fucked you without mercy. His grip on you was bruising, iron-tight, promising marks that would linger.

“Show me how good I fuck ye, mama.”

Your body shattered once more, a violent orgasm ripping through you with a muffled scream against his mouth. Your walls convulsed around his cock, squeezing him in relentless waves that made him groan louder.

Jimmy didn’t stop. With a guttural snarl, he drove harder, deeper, his thrusts frenzied, desperate, until his breath broke raggedly. He clutched your thighs, yanking you against him with one final slam, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulsed, spilling hot and heavy inside you.

“Fuck—” he gasped, his body trembling as he pressed deep, grinding into you.

When his heartbeat steadied, he lowered his head, his breath ghosting against the damp skin of your forehead. His lips pressed softly to your temple—a tender gesture that clashed violently with how brutally he’d just fucked you.

“Mmmh,” he murmured, voice rough, frayed with pleasure and exhaustion. “Ye’re full of surprises, darlin'.”

He lingered a moment, his mouth brushing your skin, before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His blue gaze was piercing, sharp enough to send chills down your spine despite the heat of your tangled bodies.

Then, with a calmness that felt almost rehearsed, he dropped a line that froze your blood.

“I’m curious to know what kind of men Lindisfarne breeds.”