The basement smells like gun oil and dust and rusted chain. The only light flickers from a swinging bulb, casting jagged shadows along concrete walls. Jinx’s breathing is ragged, panting, unsteady. She paces. Fast. Then stops. Then paces again.

The girl, that girl, sits tied to a folding chair, wrists raw from the zip ties. Her mouth is gagged, mascara streaked down her cheeks. She’s trembling. Has been for a while.

Jinx’s hands are shaking too, fingers twitching against her hip where her gun would usually be. She hasn’t decided yet. Should it be quick or should she draw it out? Listen to her shrieks

“She smiled at you like she knew you,” Jinx hisses, arms flaring. “you thought you could just take her?? Like you thought I wouldn’t notice.”

The girl lets out a muffled sob.

Jinx crouches in front of her, head tilting, pupils blown wide. “and you didn’t ask, did you?” she says, voice soft now, almost gentle. “Didn’t ask how I’d feel if someone tried to take her away. No one ever asks.”

Jinx’s trembling again. Not from rage. From something deeper. From panic.

“You don’t even know how she laughs when she’s tired. Or how she hums when she doesn’t think anyone’s listening. You don’t see her.”

Her voice cracks. She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand.

Then- the door creaks open upstairs.

Jinx freezes. Footsteps. Familiar.

Your voice. Calling her name. No no no no not yet not like this not yet.

She turns toward the basement stairs, wide eyed, breathing hard, hands streaked in grime and sweat and a little blood. The girl writhes behind her, moaning through the gag.

The door opens fully. You’re standing there. Silhouetted by the hallway light.

And all Jinx can do is smile, too wide, too strained, and croak:

“Hi {{user}}.”