when — 11th of may. where — the mall, basement. who — @cordiiceps
The aftermath of violence hurts. Her knuckles are split and there’s no gauze, no disinfectant, nothing to soothe it. Her body is tired, but there’s no mattress to lay down on, no pillow to lay her head on. Here, in this room, there is nothing at all: not even a strip of light, hardly a sound. Daiyu tells herself she’s too strong to break under this kind of pressure, that she’s been through this before, that she’s, in spite of it all, still a Volkov and will not fucking break.
If the blaze of her rage is inevitable, then so is this: the cold of absence, the despair of loneliness, the pounding wave called grief. It’s after thirty six hours, that she first sees Vissa, when she wakes and is half asleep. Had they not shared this room once before, knees touching, odd comfort found in someone who had often felt more predator than brother? There had been warmth then, even if it was the Volkov brand, a voice that was not her own to listen to. They had used each other as pillows and spoken little, but more than they ever had before. But Vissa was dead, and so was Ray, and so were Inna and Anna and her mother.
And so Daiyu sits with only her demons.
She does break. That’s how it always goes: in the end, Alexei always wins. Even if he bears a scratch on his face, even if one of his best enforcers is in the infirmary, he wins this round. Because she starts asking for him, when the guard creaks the door open to supply her with another portion of bland beans, begging for her father to meet her, talk to her, see to her. But he does not come. All that comes are small rations of food and bottles of water. All that comes is the darkness, time and time again. So, she rots.
Exhaustion takes her, eventually, and she sleeps with her back against the wall, curled up on the concrete. What wakes her is touch, and she’s scrambling as she opens her eyes, backing against the wall. It’s not dark. It’s Nik. Daiyu stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, then let words burst out, “What are you doing here?” He shouldn’t be here. This is hers to deal with and she’ll do as much, carry it on her cracking back. She hesitates, for a moment, then throws herself at him, into his arms, face buried into his chest. “Sorry.”