And NOW You Want To Have Small talk?!

"Why did you manipulate Weyden into doing that to you?" Angry-Rebel-Leader-Dude asks me once Weyden has left the room, locking the door behind him. I roll my eyes and spit out the blood pooling in my mouth. It's a shame that it doesn't get rid of the pungent metallic taste.

"Because feeling pain is the only reminder I have that tells me I am still alive." I glance at him sideways and pull off my shirt. I use it to clean my bruised and bloodied face.

Angry-Rebel-Leader-Dude immediately looks the other way. His pale face turns a pretty pink.

"What?" I smirk, amused. "Don't tell me you have never seen the naked torso of a woman before."

"Uh... I um... I- I have, actually."

"Doesn't seem like it."

"I just didn't expect you to pull off your shirt."

"What's your name?" I ask as I continue cleaning my face with my shirt.

"And now you want to have small talk?!" Angry-Rebel-Leader-Dude rolls his eyes. "Let me remind you of last night when I asked you the same thing, and you just rolled your eyes at me." He stares at me with a deadpan expression. "So, enlighten me. Why do you want to talk now?"

"Because I am getting tired of calling you Angry-Rebel-Leader-Dude in my head," I answer, rolling my eyes. I lower my gaze to meet his. His dark eyes stare right back.

His eyes do something to me. I don't know what exactly. Neither do I know why. But what I do know is that I do not like it. Like at all. I hate that only looking into his eyes creates a feeling of safety and comfort.

That's a fucking lie.

It isn't safe anywhere.

I don't like it when someone lies. And feeling things that are not even real is even worse. I don't know why I feel this way by looking into his eyes. I don't understand a single fucking thing concerning him.

Why did he kill Polly?

How did he kill Polly?

Why do it yourself instead of sending a pawn to do it for him? That's what the King in a game of chess does. Sacrificing others. That is precisely what Father does. So why doesn't he?

I look away from his eyes and continue cleaning my wounds.

"Dagon. My name is Dagon."

I nod and put my shirt back on. "You are not seriously thinking of pulling that bloodied cloth back on, are you?" Disbelief and maybe a hint of disgust linger in his voice.

I stare him back in the eye. My face expressionless. A few moments pass by with us just staring into each other's eyes. I shrug and divert my gaze to the painting supplies Weyden had kindly thrown on top of me at his arrival.

"My other clothes are in my bathroom. I don't want to stand up and use my sore legs."

"What about this shirt," Dagon says. Without looking away from the brush I inspect, I know what piece of demonic fabric he's referring to.

"I can't stand the feeling of it."

"I can grab you a clean shirt from the bathroom."

"And having you rummaging through my things? I don't think so." I nod approvingly, having inspected all my new supplies. I pull a canvas on my lap and bind my hair into a high ponytail. That way, it won't be in the way.

"Why are you being so difficult?" Dagon asks in a way I can't put my finger on. "Do I need to remind you that we're in the same boat?"

"I can assure you, Dagon," I say, dipping my brush into the black paint. A feeling of calmness washes over me. Painting or drawing always had that effect on me. It calms me down. Calms my anxiety down.

"We are absolutely not in the same boat. We're not even drifting on the same ocean."

Dagon stays quiet.