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Half-screamed sobs float from the kid’s headphones and draw him like a moth to the glow of the screen. There Sato finds a pretty young woman bleeding out on a mattress. She shakes her head weakly in trembling hands, back and forth, as though to deny what was happening.
The man in front of her just laughs. “C’mon, doll. Give me your hand.” He has a bone saw loosely gripped and gestures with his free hand. “We made a deal, yeah? You let me saw off those pretty fingers and you can sleep in a bed tonight.”
She’s already missing a foot, the stump loosely wrapped to slow the tide of her blood. Sato snorts. “Yeah, she’s not living through this.”
The kid hears him through the lull and slips down his headphones. “Oh, she’ll live alright. She’s one of us.” He says it with such relish, such surety, that he has to ask.
“How do you know?”
A few clicks bring up additional windows, all dark web video previews that show the same tearful woman. “I’ve been following these guys for years. They put up a red room every month, and I’ve checked their legitimacy; they’re the real deal. Then, last year, they abducted and killed her. They ended the stream and apparently that’s when she came back, or so they said during her second stream, where they killed her on camera.”
“And it’s not just stage or camera effects?” Sato asks, leaning in to inspect the thumbnails.
The kid shakes his head and then clicks around to pull up the woman’s identification and a file on her as a missing person. “Only one they’ve taken whose body hasn’t been found.” Sato hums, considering the live feed. He vaguely recognizes the man in glasses who is now sawing through a delicate wrist. “Are we gonna rescue her boss? Bring her here or something?”
A slow smile unfurls across his lips. “Or something,” Sato agrees.
She calls him En. Whether it’s the letter or an actual name, she doesn’t know, just that it’s the designation she’d overheard and now uses in her mind. Out loud, she calls him ‘sir” or he gets irritated with her.
That’s the last thing she can afford in her situation of eternal torment.
En visits at least once a week, biweekly when he can.
“There’s my girl.” It’s his usual greeting. She’s on her side, staring at the cement block wall painted stark white. She was given a mattress fairly recently, but it isn’t nearly as comfortable as what she had at home.
She tries not to think of that— that way lays madness. Since death isn’t an option, madness is an eternal sentence.
If sanity doesn’t come back when they kill me.
She’s had moments where she’s practically heard the snap as her eyes roll back and her mind devolves, but once the peace of death fades and she’s back in her body, her mind is clear and the world is as stark and real as it ever has been.
The cold, slick leather of his polished shoe taps her shoulder blade. “Is that any way to greet me?”
She rolls onto her back and says through gritted teeth, “Hello, sir.”
En strokes his foot along her bare bicep, relishing the way her skin pebbles. He keeps her nude except for the damnable shows, and even then, she’s not always clothed before being stripped to act as meat for one of the men who work in his employ. “Much better, pet.” The smile on his angelically lovely face chills her; En extends a hand as elegant as the rest of him. “Come. It’s time for a shower.”
She frowns as she rises from the dingy mattress to allow her smaller hand in his— the one that was sawed off two days ago, in fact, which was also the last time she was allowed a shower. Not due for another for at least a few days, she’s suspicious of his motives. Nevertheless, she follows him to his apartment.
He and his men live— or at least keep quarters— in the compound where they conduct their illegal activities. They pass other cells, though she doesn’t know how many are occupied; as far as she knows, she’s the only one who has ever survived the precious hours after abduction. Other rooms, she doesn’t know, but there are group showers, offices…
They go up an elevator until they pass the basement levels and rise up and up until they’re at his penthouse, because of course that’s where he resides.
She has been here exactly twice before.
“Sh, darling. There’s no point in tears now; what’s the worst that can happen when you can’t die?” At the thought of eternal death in her future, her sobs redouble. Her captor grabs her cheeks in a vice grip. “Really? You survive and awaken to find yourself reborn as a phoenix from the ashes, I carry you myself to my private quarters in order to bathe you, and all you can do is cry like a pathetic child?”
She thrashes back, but he’s strong for such a slim man, so she settles for frowning at him instead. However, his ploy has worked; she’s no longer crying.
“Let me make this clear, darling,” he says in a low, dangerous voice that makes the flesh on her spine crawl, has her leaning forward to listen. “Your treatment, for good or ill, is completely at my discretion. I had no issue having you abducted off the street for a half-hour video resulting in your death and subsequent harvesting of your organs. Do you think I will balk at shoving you in a dark closet to pull out for the occasional snuff video? Hm? If you want better treatment than that, you will behave as I wish. My barest whisper will be a commandment. Do you understand?”
She blinks away the threatening tears and hisses out through a tight, hoarse throat, “Yes.”
The man shoves her back into the tub and water sloshes. “Good. Clean yourself up. When I return, I expect your attitude to have improved.”
The second time was for the New Year, and she likes dwelling on that night even less than her first.
En tugs her toward the ensuite with its standing shower and spa tub. “Can you shower alone or are you weak enough that you’ll need assistance?”
It’s a fair question; immortal she may be, but it doesn’t mean she can’t suffer from low blood sugar or a drop in blood pressure. Of course, an easy way to fix what ails her is a quick death and she’s back to full health.
She tips her head and considers her condition, then sighs. “I think I’m well enough, but I might have to sit,” she admits.
“Would food help?” He’s already headed toward the kitchen when her stomach complains rather loudly; he shoots her a bemused grin and sets about plating a light meal.
Something about constant starvation she’s learned is that her body can’t handle large or sumptuous meals. They just make her sick. Instead, she picks at the crescent and fruit and yogurt Mr. En has given her until she is full enough. “Thank you, sir,” she says again as she hands him the plate.
He gestures off her comment and shoos her toward the bathroom again.
The fragrances and brands he prefers on her are already laid out, as well as a towel for body and hair alike, even a robe set on the marble counter. She opts to clean herself quickly rather than take her time and enjoy the beauty of the moment lest she wane his kindness.
The heat and the humidity seep into her bones; oh, how she longs to stand in the stream of water from overhead and let the perfumed steam become one with her. Alas, too soon she turns off the water and dries herself, feeling spoiled as she massages lotion that she knows En wants her to use into her skin.
Why he wastes such luxuries on someone he keeps locked in a cell, she doesn’t know, but he’s a peculiar man.
The robe is silk and softer than sin. She wants to cry as it caresses her flesh like a lover. It’s gentler than anything that has touched her in so long, maybe she does cry. No one would blame her, she tells herself as she sniffles and cinches the blush belt around her waist, then slips her feet into the house shoes generously provided.
When she finally steps into the main part of the penthouse again, there are voices.
“—you don’t want to do it yourself?”
She pads toward the muted conversation since there were no other orders. There, seated across the stately, ethereal and lovely En, is an older man wearing a cap over his grey hair. He smiles at her when he notes her entrance. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, but she can’t put her finger on it.
En turns and gestures her to him. “Let me see.” Brisk hands untie her scant protection, and she glances askance to avoid his intrusive study. Fingertips trace skin grown more pallid than she’s ever known before from a year of darkness and malnutrition. “Lovely,” he intones, and she wants to shrink away to nothing.
Movement catches the corner of her eye; the smiling man is watching her. He can’t see her bare body, but this still feels like an intimate moment, and he is an intruder. “She is a pretty young woman. I have no complaints.”
En drops the robe, and she hurries to retie it. “Who are you?”
“Manners,” her keeper warns, but his guest grins.
“You can call me Mr. Sato.”
The name clicks with his appearance, and everything slowly falls into place. She gasps, eyes widening, and steps away from the terrorist without a thought. En pulls her flush between his legs. “Don’t be rude.”
“S-sorry,” she stammers. “I just thought— you don’t like Ajin?”
Sato cracks up at that while En smirks and brushes a kiss over the inside of her wrist. “On the contrary, you are a valuable resource, are you not?”
“And you really shouldn’t hate yourself,” Mr. Sato chips in.
She frowns at him as En stills, then glances back to see the lines of the younger man’s face have set in irritation. Slow understanding dawns. “You? But—”
“ But nothing, my dear. I am still a successful CEO, and you are still my asset. And you will keep this quiet.” He thrusts her down onto her knees to stare her in the eye. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she says breathlessly, automatically, though the cloud of shock is still preventing coherent thought. She could no more fight against him now than she can against the cell door or cement walls that usually hold her.
“Now that that’s settled, how do you want to proceed?” She glances over at Sato from her place between En’s legs; this isn’t an unusual position, but one the man often has her assume when they spend any length of time together. Now she wonders if it’s to underscore the differences between them despite what they both are.
“I see what you’re thinking.” Instead of responding to him, En is speaking to her unspoken thoughts. “That we are the same thing, but we aren’t. It’s true that we are more than human, but what Mr. Sato and I have that you do not makes us gods. You, my dear,” he says, cupping her cheek tenderly, possessively, “are like a shy little demigoddess, somewhere between the paltry mortals and those of us with greater power. But don’t worry; we have found more uses for you.” He slides the silk from her shoulders, and she hunches as though to hide her breasts. “We will give you food if you indeed birth an Ajin for us. Can’t stunt the growth of the future gods of the world, can we?” His thumb flicks her nipple as he cups the breast. “Once you have produced a child for my friend here, we shall see if you’re worthy to provide me an heir. Now, remove the robe and go to him.”
Shaking, she rises to her feet and lets the silk fall to pool around them. Tears prick at her eyes. She never expected this particular humiliation, certainly not on the heels of revelations that tip her small world on its axis. But she knows better than to disobey; En holds her existence in his palm, and she has felt the price of his displeasure before.
Once, she refused him her obedience on a visit to her cell. She fought tooth and nail. For some indeterminate number of weeks or months, she’d been locked in a trunk and stowed away to slowly die and rise again. How many times it happened, she couldn’t judge. After all, there were moments she just passed out. And in the beginning, she’d hyperventilated.
When she came out, stinking and sore and quite a bit lighter from starvation (though not nearly as thin as one would think, as her abilities always brought her back from the brink), she was desperately obedient out of fear of returning to the trunk again.
Mr. Sato leans back in his seat and makes a keen, slow observation of her body. “Such a pretty thing,” he says in that voice like well-aged leather, then pats his knee. “Come closer, babygirl.”
She cringes at the pet name, but edges nearer, until her skin skims his clothed legs. He spreads them wide and holds out a hand to welcome her in, and his palms are rough and calloused.
How many people has he killed with these hands?
He drops her hand to run both of his up and down her sides, from thighs up her ribs and back down again until they settle on her hips. “Such a pretty girl, though you look like you’ve dropped weight since that first video. You should fatten her back up, En. Some of us like a little cushion.” Sato squeezes your thighs to demonstrate. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll still enjoy fucking you. How about you get down on your knees and get me ready, hm?”
This, at least, is familiar. How many times has she had to suck off a lazy man? Even here, sometimes the guys make deals to get blow jobs— a meal, water, less pain before they kill her. She settles down and smoothes her hands up his thighs to reach his fly, which he is more than happy to assist with, canting his hips.
He’s half hard, which has her sarcastically lamenting that it seems his age isn’t working against him here. And when she lowers her mouth to lap at the head, he twitches, hot and heavy in her hand.
She learns he’s a grower when he shoves her head down and she’s forced to accommodate his rapidly increasing length. Sato hisses as his fingers thread through her hair and he begins to fuck her mouth.
“That’s it; good girl.”
She gags and swallows desperately and he keeps going; he’s absolutely brutal in this throat fucking, and drool coats her chin, her chest, by the time he finally tugs her off.
She wipes her forearm across her mouth and sits back on her feet to watch Sato pant. He holds his long dick at the base, chuckles, removes his hat with the other hand to wipe at his forehead, and beams down at her. “I would fuck your throat until you asphyxiate, but we agreed it’s best to keep you alive at least until we know if I knocked you up. Maybe next time.” He winks conspiratorially and she has to hold back bile. “Okay, climb on up and ride me, sweetheart.”
At this, she balks. “What?”
Sato grabs a fistful of her hair. “I said, ‘Ride me.’”
She can’t look behind her at En even if she wanted to, so she allows the man to pull her upward and slowly lowers herself over his slobbery hard-on.
“Tight for a fuck-toy,” he hisses as he shoves her down on him until their bodies are flush. She whimpers in pain when he smashes into her cervix, and he gives her no time to rest before he’s using his grip on her hips to maneuver her smaller body up and down. “That’s it, what a good little whore.”
The words aren’t what’s worst, she’s used to those. It’s the position and how it makes her feel complicit in her own rape. It’s also the way her body prepared her as she gagged, how her saliva coated his cock to allow it to ease inside her, and how he hits that spot inside that has stars bursting behind her eyes, shut tight to avoid seeing him.
He leverages her hair and her hips to pull her into a deep kiss, his tongue roving her mouth possessively, and skillfully. He has the experience, that much is obvious, and he’s not afraid of using it on her.
She groans into his mouth, and he chuckles as he backs away. “Gonna cum right against your cervix. Are you ready, baby?”
She isn’t ready, especially not as he begins hammering up into her, deliciously rubbing that spot with his spongy head again and again. He forces her to arch her back so it hits even better, and her jaw drops in a silent cry.
“That’s it. Right there, little whore?” Her nails tear into his forearms, but if anything, that’s what finally sets him off.
He moans, long and drawn out as he empties inside her deep enough that she can feel herself getting full. When he finishes, he releases her hair and lays his forehead against his shoulder.
“Good girl, sweetheart. Fucking good girl.”
They sit like that for a moment and then En is standing there, arms crossed and gaze impassive. “Get cleaned up,” he says. “You smell like a whore.”
She nearly falls from Mr. Sato’s lap, the older man chuckling as she flees from her keeper’s icy fury. When she reaches the shower, she bursts into tears.
This time around, she doesn’t hurry.