Chapter 12: Bed, Business, and Body Count * *
Elijah stepped out of the shower, the hot water having washed away the last lingering exhaustion from the night, replacing it with a cold, focused energy. He dried himself quickly, the towel rough against his skin, and pulled on fresh clothes—a plain black jeans and a dark hoodie which covered his frame without drawing attention. Yeah, the one that made him look like another teenager in a house full of them.
Elara's locks were a predictable challenge, not a barrier. He didn't waste time checking the main doors; he knew they were sealed. Instead, he walked to the back of the house, stopping at the small, seldom-used laundry room window. It was high up, overlooking a narrow alleyway, and secured only by a flimsy latch. A quick, forceful shove with the heel of his palm snapped the latch. He then used a screwdriver, pulled from his emergency toolkit, to jimmy the frame open just enough.
It was a tight squeeze, but he was agile—years of calculated movement in tight spaces had trained his muscles for this exact maneuver. His shoulder scraped against the peeling paint, his breath hitting the cool glass as he twisted through the gap. The drop to the alley below wasn't short, but he landed
lightly onto the dirt and overgrown weeds below. He looked back at the house, the walls standing like a pathetic little prison.
He tucked the screwdriver into his pocket, adjusted his hoodie, and moved down the alley with quick, shadowed steps. Outside, the neighborhood was quiet and sunlit. With his hands shoved into his pockets and a subtle smirk playing on his lips, Elijah walked away—free, and ready to meet his obligations.
The familiar hum of the city enveloped him—the distant blare of car horns, the occasional laugh from a passing group, the scent of fried food drifting lazily from a nearby takeout. Elijah inhaled deeply, the chaos settling into his bones like an old friend.
Meanwhile, in the less civilized outskirts of the city, the atmosphere was thick with dust and the smell of stale beer.
Also, in a dimly lit mobile home, Yuri was hunched over a battered laptop at a small folding table, typing furiously on his laptop. The screen glowed, displaying the clean white interface of The Grid—a massive social media platform popular among the city's darker corners. He was scrolling through feeds, his expression one of concentrated boredom.
Behind him, on a large, stained mattress that took up most of the trailer's floor space, Zigi was vigorously pounding a young Mexican girl, a year older, from the trailer park. He was silent except for the occasional grunt, his slightly young muscular arms flexing as he gripped her waist, thrusting with ruthless efficiency. The girl beneath him wasn't equally silent despite there being another person and was moaning loudly, her legs wrapped around his waist, fingers digging into the cheap sheets beneath her—she was enjoying herself, and she wasn't shy about it, crying out loudly with every thrust.
The surreal part was the soundtrack: the rhythmic creaking of the springs, the girl's loud moans, and the completely detached conversation between the two boys.
"You ever think about how weird it is?" Yuri mused, squinting at the screen. "Like, why do people post pictures of their lunch? Who gives a shit?"
Zigi grunted, gripping the girl's hips tighter as she arched beneath him. "Fuckin' narcissists," he panted between thrusts. "Same dumbasses filming themselves 'helping' homeless people for clout." The girl moaned louder, nails raking down his back, but neither boy broke eye contact with their respective distractions.
Yuri snorted, scrolling past a blurry photo of someone's avocado toast. "Seriously. Like, congrats, you ate. Want a medal?" The laptop wobbled as Zigi's rhythm intensified, the trailer's thin walls amplifying every slick slap of skin. The girl's cries hit a crescendo, but Yuri just yawned and cracked his knuckles. "Should start charging these idiots for wasting our bandwidth."
Zigi's thrusts stuttered as he smirked down at the girl—her pupils blown wide. "Bet they'd pay," he rasped, rolling his hips in a slow, cruel circle that made her whimper. "Five Nox per like. Ten for a shitty inspirational quote." The girl's back arched off the mattress, her scream dissolving into breathless laughter as she came, but Zigi didn't stop. His gaze flicked to Yuri, deadpan. "Make it twenty if they tag their location."
Yuri snickered, but it was then a thought struck him, "Did you see that post about the model, Zara?" Yuri muttered, scrolling quickly. "The one claiming her agency 'forced' her to do nude shoots? Bullshit, right? Girl knew what she signed up for." The girl gasped sharply, her fingers twisting in the sheets—whether at Yuri's words or Zigi's brutal pace was unclear.
Zigi grunted, his pace slowing a bit. "Yeah, saw that. Probably just buyers' remorse," he muttered, his hips rolling in a slow grind that made the girl breath a bit. "She got paid, took the cash, then cried 'exploitation' when her grandma found the pics." The girl whimpered, her fingers tightening around the pillow beneath her head—whether in agreement or just trying to hold on, who could say? "Less talking, chica. You're distracting me," Zigi huffed, shifting his grip to her thighs and driving back in hard enough to make the folding table rattle.
"I saw a news thread too," Yuri continued, ignoring the disruption. "They're still screaming about that politician's leaked nudes. Like, damn—didn't his wife warn him about iCloud backups?" The girl hearing that tried to giggle but it dissolved into ragged gasps as Zigi leaned down, murmuring something crude directly into her ear, and she shuddered beneath him—her toes curling tight against the cheap polyester sheets.
"Backups," Zigi scoffed, his breathing heavy. "You think that guy even knew what—" Three sharp raps against the trailer's flimsy aluminum door interrupted him, the sound reverberating through the thin walls like gunshots.
Yuri looked up, a faint smile touching his lips. "Speaking of the devil himself, no?"
The girl beneath Zigi stiffened, her fingers digging into his shoulders—whether from fear or another climax, it was impossible to tell. Zigi didn't slow, didn't stop, just rolled his head toward the door with a lazy smirk. "Elijah. Early."
"I knew you'd show up," Yuri said, a hint of genuine relief smoothing his usually anxious expression. He closed his laptop halfway.
Elijah nodded pointedly toward Zigi. "Of course, he would come. After all, his threatened sister told him we wanted to see him," Zigi said, his eyes fixed on Elijah, still thrusting into the girl. But then he managed to raise one hand high in a lazy, mocking surrender. He forced a wide, fake smile. "It was a joke, boss! Just trying to put some fear into the little mistress to keep her quiet!"
Yuri's fingers twitched toward the laptop's edge—a subtle tell Elijah recognized instantly. The girl beneath Zigi whimpered, her fingers tightening around his biceps like she was trying to anchor herself to the moment.
Elijah nodded once, acknowledging the weak apology. He didn't dignify the lie with a response. Instead, he simply crossed the room and, to the girl's shock, casually slumped down onto the very edge of the large bed, resting his back against the peeling wallpaper, his gaze fixed on the girl who was now trying to covering her chest with the sheet for some reason.
"When are we meeting the associate?" Elijah asked, his voice low and bored, as if discussing grocery logistics rather than criminal enterprise. The girl beneath Zigi shuddered—whether from Elijah's presence or the relentless pace—but neither boy acknowledged it.
Yuri frowned slightly. "I thought you were going to handle the first contact. It's your negotiation, Elijah. You're the one who's going to make the deal. Isn't that how it's supposed to be?"
Elijah shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. "No. I'll cause a ruckus. You know I will. I'm not built for subtlety. I'd lose my temper, and we'd have a severed head rolling across the floor by minute three." He exhaled sharply through his nose, amused by his own hypothetical carnage. He opened his eyes, directing a sharp, cool look at Yuri. "The scheming one should do it. You have the brain for this kind of subtle, structured risk."
Zigi let out a hearty, booming laugh, his body shaking the mattress. "Scheming one! Ha! He knows you too well, Yuri! Yes, let the scheming one handle the scheming." He punctuated his mockery with a sharp thrust that made the girl gasp sharply—her legs trembling around him.
Yuri glared at Zigi, but Zigi only laughed harder. Even the girl beneath him, despite her embarrassment, let out a choked giggle—which Zigi punished with a particularly rough snap of his hips, silencing her again. Elijah merely smirked, leaning back against the trailer's thin wall.
He stretched out, pulling his hoodie up to serve as a makeshift pillow. He then gave an audible, tired sigh. "Whatever. I'm taking a nap."
Yuri looked confused. "A nap? Now? Amidst all—"
"I was awake all night," Elijah cut him off. "My sister decided I was a giant, warm teddy bear, and I couldn't move without giving away the fact that I was actively ignoring her emotional manipulation. Had to pretend I was sleeping, you know." He slumped further down onto the mattress.
Zigi, showing a strange blend of respect and casual disregard, immediately reached over and grabbed a dirty, crumpled pillow. He pressed it over the girl's face—not hard enough to suffocate her, but enough to muffle her increasingly ragged moans.
"Quiet down, chica," Zigi mumbled, returning to his brutal rhythm as the girl's muffled whimpers vibrated through the pillow. "Boss is sleeping. Don't disturb the boss." Her hips jerked involuntarily—whether from pleasure or panic was impossible to discern.
Elijah stretched out comfortably beside them, unbothered by the wet sounds of flesh slapping flesh inches from his face. Yuri rolled his eyes and returned to his laptop, the screen's glow catching the sweat glistening on Zigi's straining shoulders.
Elijah didn't wait to see if the pillow worked. He closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep—a trick learned from surviving his stepmother's lectures—but not before muttering, "Wake me when the circus is done, and we'll go settle this properly." His breathing evened out instantly, one arm slung over his face to block the flickering trailer light.
Zigi smirked down at the muffled girl, his thrusts turning deliberately slow—cruel, measured strokes meant to prolong her pleasurable torment beneath the pillow. Her fingers clawed at his wrists, not in protest but in desperate synchronization with each deep grind. Yuri rolled his eyes and snapped the laptop shut, tossing a crumpled energy drink can at Zigi's back. "Wrap it up, idiot. We've got real work."