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demiya is always up late at night.

that’s when he does most of his field work and he likes the quiet when he can get it. if he’s not out on a job he focuses on routine tasks like straightening up his meagerly furnished apartment, cleaning firearms, setting up burner phones and moving money to offshore accounts. simple stuff, really.

one night he hears belligerent ranting outside. it’s irritating, but it also hits him with a sudden wave of concern. this isn’t by any means a safe neighborhood, so why was anyone outside causing a fuss and making themselves known? he peeks out the window and sees a skinny looking rent boy stomping on the sidewalk across the street, screaming at the building at the top of his lungs. he can’t exactly make out the words, but it’s obvious to tell that there had not been a proper exchange of goods and services.

if some kid, even a prostitute gets shot on this street it’s gonna bring in some unwanted attention. demiya really doesn’t want to move — he’s paid his rent in cash for the rest of the year to secure this place. so, with an irritated huff demiya decides to go outside and see if he can’t spook the kid away from the neighborhood.

when he gets across the street he realizes the kid is limping, looking like he’s rolled an ankle in the too-big pair of heels he’s wearing. there are a number of bruises and marks littering his pale skin, including harsh bite marks on his inner-thighs and neck. he’s wearing hot pants and a light tattered t-shirt in november. he’s got to be freezing. demiya notices shortly after though that his erratic behavior isn’t just for show — the way his pupils are enlarged tell demiya that this kid is absolutely loaded. whether or not it was his choice is another issue entirely. he’s scrawny; small. it’s not likely he can handle much of any substance without severe consequences. approaching in his best attempt to seem non-threatening, demiya clears his throat.

“you might want to be quiet. the people in that building shoot first and ask questions later.”

the kid turns to him, anger burning behind the haze in his eyes. he’s obviously frustrated beyond words. demiya actually kind of ... feels for him.

“that fucker didn’t pay me! he made me... “ he can’t finish for whatever reason, so he picks up somewhere else. “said it was equivalent cost.”

demiya frowns.

“i want my money! i can’t go back without it!”

there it was. that small twist in his chest again. demiya can’t help but want to fight for the marginalized, even now when he’s flunked out of that lifestyle spectacularly and makes his living carrying out contracted assassinations.

“how much?”
“4,000¥.”

oh, god.
not even a fair market rate.

“come on. i’ll give you the money, but you gotta lay low until the people over here think you’re long gone.”

the kid frowns warily at him, like it’s too good to be true and demiya kind of wishes it was. but with his feel in shambles and the rest of his body just as strung out and exhausted, he simply exhales and follows along.

demiya watches as he gingerly steps out of what we’re likely hand-me-down shoes and bites back small pained sounds as his  purpleblack bruised and blistered feet touch cold wooden floor. he wonders if the kid has been gritting his teeth since the staircase.

breathing out, he leans against the wall with his expansive and lost eyes and demiya wonders what exactly it was that he was given. either way it doesn’t look like it’s close to being out of his system. m

“you need water.”

the kid doesn’t argue that. he follows demiya like a wobbly puppy and only seems mildly embarrassed when he gets picked up and sat on the kitchen counter. there were no chairs in the apartment, after all.

he drinks glass of water after glass of water like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted until he complains that he can’t possibly drink any more. upon closer look in the light demiya can see the kid is also in desperate need of a bath and possibly a hair cut.

more than anything however, he looks like he really needs a stable supply of food.

half-lidded and head lolling, the kid clears his throat. “so, where do you want to do it? you’ve got a bed, don’t you?”

oh, no.
oh no no no no.