Deceitful Devils

X: Deviousness Begins

❝Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive out of itself; it only requires opportunity.❞

Melbourne, Victoria: 2010

They were kicking him—seven of them. The men in black jackets and dark sneakers. She could see them, their cruel eyes, their sneering lips as the beaten man groaned and cried. She could see the darkness that loomed around them; she could see their hatred and agony. She cried for them, she cried for the bloody man on the ground, she cried for herself, and she cried for the suited man as he stood up and walked towards her.

All of them suddenly stopped, now staring at the man with a fierce watchfulness when he suddenly stopped right in front of her and leaned down near her face.

"How old are you?" He asked with expression that was a mixture of menace and carelessness; somehow that appearance struck her as the most terrifying thing in the world that second.

She cringed away from him; away from his gloomy aura; away from his cold, calculating eyes. "Please.." she begged looking at the man's polished shoes, hot tears slid down the bridge of her nose and onto the carpet. The guy in red shirt held her back with her arms, blocking any movement. "Please.. Don't hurt him, please. I'll do anything, please." She looked up directly into the suited man's eyes making the tears run down her cold cheeks.

"Will you now?" The cold man raised his palms and ran his fingers along her cheeks, smothering the tears rather than wiping them away. "Will you do anything..?" He said softly.

Amia resisted the urge to throw up. His closeness disgusted her, and the coal black eyes terrified her. She thought she had seen enough horrors in her life, while the horror was just beginning. "Yes." She croaked. "Yes, please. Don't hurt him. He's good, I know he is. Please. Please, please." She sobbed some more.

Out of nowhere, the suited man slapped her hard across the face, his rough hands slammed on her cheek, making her brains scramble as she flinched involuntarily.

"Fuck. Fuck!" Parker cursed loudly across the room as he tried to get up. One of the men pushed him down with a kick on the chest. He coughed and screamed again, "Amia." His eyes looked for hers. "Amia, don't listen to that bastard. Don't fuckin' listen. Don't—"

Another kick.

Amia cried harder, grounding her teeth together. They couldn't hurt him. They couldn't.

"Please. Plea—"The suited man slapped her again, cutting her off in mid-sentence. "I asked you a fucking question, you little whore." He snapped.

Across the room, Parker snarled, his voice burning with hatred and rage.

"Don't touch her, you asshole. Don't fuckin' touch her!"

The man's cold hand travelled towards her shoulders, near her chest. "Or what?" He asked turning to Parker.

Parker spit out blood from his mouth and looked at the suited man squarely in the eye. "Don't touch her." He repeated.

The man's hands withdrew from her shoulder.

The girl in the dark blue velvet dress hadn't even gotten the chance to sigh in relief when he suddenly looked up at the red t-shirt guy and said in an bemusedly ruthless voice.

"Rip her apart."

+++

❝If there's anything better than to be loved, it is loving.❞

Carol stared at the yellow black M3 driving in an irritatingly slow speed towards what seemed like a homey restaurant. A restaurant..really? She thought to herself. Could this guy be a bit original? Who even takes people on a first date in a restaurant?