The apartment smelled like cigarette smoke, sweat, and gunpowder. Music played softly somewhere in the background, almost drowning out the sound of your father struggling to breathe as Norman Stansfield leaned over him with an unreadable smile. The curtains of the rather fancy apartment nice and wide, if anyone dared to peer through the large, sixth story windows they would not see something that is easy to forget.

Malky stood near the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching silently. Gilbert and Jones searched through drawers and cabinets, throwing papers and bottles across the room while Casey kept a tight grip on you beside the couch. His hand clamped around your arm hard enough to hurt every time you tried to move. Tightening his grip if you even breathed too hard.

“See,” Norman said calmly, crouching in front of your father, “the thing about bad deals... is they make people nervous.”

Your father’s face was bruised, blood running from the corner of his mouth. “I already told you everything.” He wheezed

“No,” Stansfield replied softly, almost amused. “You told me enough to stay alive for another minute.”

Casey shifted behind you, pressing you back against him as your father tried to lunge forward. Malky immediately stepped in, shoving him back into the chair. You gave a soft squirm, frowning gently.

“Easy,” Malky muttered.

The room fell quiet except for the music.

Norman slowly stood, adjusting his jacket before turning toward you. His expression softened into something almost friendly, which somehow made it worse. Unsettling, truly.

“And who’s this?” he asked.

Casey answered for you. “His daughter. {{user}}.”

For a moment, Norman just stared. Then he smiled faintly and looked back at your father.

“Well,” he said quietly, “now we have a reason for you to start telling the truth.”

Your father huffed, his gaze flickering towards you before swallowing. That was enough for Norman to smirk.