Blood & Roses

Running From The Past (Optional)

A Few Years Earlier

"Fuck him. Fuck him. Bastard."

The screen of his laptop was bright with images, tinting the rest of the dimly lit apartment a sickly shade of green. Images of his own face, plastered above and across lines of text revealing dates, locations, details, his name, his name, his name, his name. He let his eyes unfocus until the numbers that accompanied them blurred beyond recognition, until he couldn't tell how much he was worth, and still, the feeling sunk like a stone. Inescapable. He'd never been worth anything to him.

His knuckles were turning white from how hard he gripped the phone in his hand, biting down hard on his bottom lip. It took several seconds for the pain to flare, to distract him enough to stop him from trembling. To remind him that there was someone else listening. "Fuck. I'm sorry. Talk."

The line was silent for so long that he worried it might have disconnected, though he couldn't bring himself to check.

He only held his breath and screwed his eyes shut, bracing himself against the table with the palm of his free hand, and frenetically tapped his nails against the surface until the soft sound of Angela's voice nearly made him shudder. "Dorian? Are you feeling..."

The doctor didn't finish the question - or wouldn't, perhaps, for his sake. He couldn't bear to hear that word now. "Of course I'm not. That son of a bitch posted pictures of me on every dark web forum that allows a png upload, Angela. My name. My address. Even those shitty fucking... bounty boards they keep up for common criminals. Why the fuck would he..."

He trailed off with an exasperated sigh, shaking his head as he held the back of his hand against his temple. He clicked on the speaker option and set the phone down on the table, gravitating towards the flask on his kitchen shelf like it was magnetic, and poured more than a few fingers worth into an empty glass.

"I think he wanted you to see it," Angela explained, tenuous, the quality of her voice distorted by the speakers. She paused again. She was being so careful. "Can you think of anything you might have done recently to provoke him?"

Dorian downed the liquid and scratched his nail across his lip, burning. "So this is my fault, is that it?"

A heavy exhale. " Scheisse . I didn't mean it like that."

With a snarl of frustration, he threw the glass against the wall, watched as it shattered on contact with enough force that it scraped splinters from the wall like a wound. He wished he could have struck something that would bleed. Wished someone else could hurt so it didn't have to be him. He loosened the tie around the collar to relieve himself of the dizzying warmth that rose from his skin, spurred hotter by the rage, misplaced but nonetheless virulent.

The seconds ticked by. Dorian couldn't tell anymore which one of them was waiting for him to calm down, but it wasn't him who spoke first. "You won't like what I have to suggest."

He winced, sucking air through her teeth. "You're not locking me down in fucking New York. Not again. I can't stand it there, Ange, not after-"

"I know," she murmured, scarcely loud enough to be caught by the receiver, "But you'll be safest at a watchpoint until we can get this figured out. You'll have better security. More resources to tackle this with."

He barked a laugh, stumbling slightly when he took a step back towards where she'd left her phone on the table, beginning to suspect that the dizziness wasn't purely a result of her own anguish. "All I want right now is a dead rodent. And you mark my words, Angela, I'm going to kill that son of a bitch, pardon my language. I'm going to rip his throat-"