CONDEMNATION ✓

Chapter 8

Waltzing into the room, you were greeted with almost a prison-like scene. Walls barren of windows, the floor rough concrete. You could see a few pools of dark red that had faded over time but, undoubtedly, was once fresh blood. There was only one chair in the room, and R's prisoner occupied it. His wrists were chained behind him. His ankles cuffed to the legs of the chair. The man looked to be in his late thirties, probably a year shy of his fortieth birthday.

He didn't look like much. He was dressed down in casual business attire. A white-collar shirt rolled up at the sleeves and elegant black slacks that matched his overpriced dress shoes. His hair was chestnut brown and parted at the side. It had been gelled back to offer a more professional look. Based on the bruises that hung on his cheek and neck and circled one eye, it seemed as though you weren't the first person to get to him. His head hung low; silence filled the room when you entered. You were sure he knew you were there by the rapid shifting of his dark brown eyes that didn't quite meet your figure as he kept his head down in solitude.

Given the lack of furniture, you made your way to the corner of the room and leaned into it. Crossing one ankled boot over the next as your hands folded at your chest, just under your bust. "Look's like they did a number on you." You started, tilting your head to the side as you sized him up. "Yeah, now you're here to do the same?" The man growled as he finally shot his head up, boring his eyes into you. His hair was displaced and framed his forehead. 'Very, Jack Dawson.' You thought to yourself as his messed up hair had an old fashion appeal to it. Despite the bruises and a bloody lip, he wasn't half bad in appearance. The type of wealthy guy you normally flocked to in attempts to bleed them dry of their riches.

"Nope." You shook your head, causing your bright blue locks to sway. "I'm a prisoner in this piece of shit myself." You raised a hand, curling your nails into the neck hole of your shirt and pulling the t-shirt down a bit further. You flashed your choke bruise to the man, a sign of trust. "Guess they decided to give you a cellmate." You were lying, but it wasn't too far from the truth. You were simply stretching facts. You released the fabric and let it spring back in place. The look in the man's rage-filled eyes softened, he was biting on your story, but his eyes still seemed faintly suspicious.

"Why did they bring you here?" You questioned, refolding your arms to appear on the defense yourself. He tightened his lips, turning his head away from you. He wasn't willing to answer. You'd have to gain a bit more trust. "Well..." you popped your lips and slacked your jaw, running your tongue over your teeth. "I was dumped in this shit-hole just because I'm the daughter of the Yamanaka Foundation." You rolled your eyes as the lies seeped from your mouth as quickly as an exhale. You tossed out the family name of a decently known foundation, not one too large that would have too many connections but not one so small no one would know who they were. "They think, for some reason, I have any information on my father to give them." You scuffed, raising a hand to rub at your wounded neck, faking pain though the area was still tender. 

"Do you?" He questioned lowly, drawing his hazed hazelnut eyes back to you. His voice was hoarse and raspy. You could tell by his tone he was parched. "Hell no." You quickly tossed your hand into your hair, giving it a fluffed bounce. "Look at me. I'm the black sheep of the family. They disowned me years ago." The mysterious man let his eyes crawl up your figure, searching for lies in your bulletproof story, but you already had an entire history planned in your head and ready to use at the moment's notice. You were no stranger to lies; they flowed through you as quickly as the blood in your veins. 

"What's your name?" He asked, tilting his chin upward. You could see he was starting to let his guard down, but only slightly; it wasn't enough. "Leanne." You seamlessly replied before gesturing to him, silently wanting him to give you his own. "Chase." He didn't give a last name. Hell, his first name meant nothing to you either. This might take a bit longer than twenty minutes. He was a businessman, no doubt, but the faint tattoo you could see just to the left, exposed due to his white-collar shirt buttoned a bit low, let you know he wasn't likely a talker and perhaps wasn't as white-collar as one might be lead to believe.

Deep in his eyes, you could see that loyalty to a corrupt organization. He has secrets, more than ordinary people. He knew things that could get him killed, and those close to him were put into an early grave for being a snitch. You might not have been a 'ring leader' long, but some people just made it so easy to read them. Sliding down the wall, you let your body slump to the ground with an exaggerated sigh. Well, best get comfy. This was going to take a while.