On the Other Side [Tag: Dorian]

[Clayton Ray]

Clayton didn't remember drinking. The throbbing in his head elicited a groan, and he turned in bed to get the light out his face. Funny, his bed felt different. Maybe he needed to change the sheets? He brought them up to his face and took a sniff, frowning. This...didn't smell like his sheets. Did he...no, he never went out on weekdays. So where was he? And why did his head hurt so much?

It hit him like a truck. He had been working late again, and was walking to his car, and then something hit him. Someone had hit him. His heart was pounding along with his head now, but he stayed still and kept his eyes closed, forcing his breathing to stay the same. At least the adrenaline was familiar, which was oddly calming. After a few minutes of pacing his breathing and forcing his heart rate down, Clayton opened his eyes, staring out at the room he had never seen before and taking a second to look at other man there with him. The room was rather nice, if a bit dated, and the man didn't look like he ran the place. In fact, the black haired stranger looked like how some of his inmates behaved, which was a chilling thought. He must've been there longer than him.

Wincing, Clayton slowly sat up, gingerly touching his head to see if anything felt cracked. No blood, thankfully, and while the possibility of a fracture was there, he didn't think he would be in too bad of shape. Now, just to figure out what the hell was going on here...

"Where am I?" His voice was gruffer than usual. He cleared his throat and looked around, and when spotting a tray of food and water, got up and walked over, taking a glass and taking a gulp. How long had be been knocked out?

[Dorian F. Blund]

"Thank you, but I want to stay here."
Dorian locked eyes with Cassim, seeing the clear anguish, his doubt. For a second, he considered lurching forward, grabbing the woman, and dragging her outside. He was big, and strong, and she’d forgone her only weapon, it would be an easy deed, and his mentor himself seemed to be considering it. He would never forget this day, but at least, he would have saved one life out of two.
Then, Della took Cassim’s hands, and Cassim squeezed back. So that was it, then. He would never forgive himself for letting them die, but even less for separating two lovers who wished to share their final moments. They had chosen how they wanted to leave this life.
At least they won’t have to do it alone.

The strangled sensation in his throat tightened, as Dorian’s eyes started feeling uncharacteristically wet. They wouldn’t have to make this decision on their own, wouldn’t have to do the act alone, wouldn’t have to die alone. And yet, it was still his fault. It always was.

The door of the freezer finally closed in front of his eyes. He couldn’t remember who had pushed it; himself, Katherine, Cassim perhaps? It didn’t matter. All he knew was that someone he deeply cared about was about to do something terrible on the other side, and he instinctively reached for the handle. Maybe – maybe he should look. Maybe he should acknowledge it. Not be a coward for once, not ignore the act and live in the aftermath after all was said and done and there was nothing for him to do about it but mourn and regret.

No. This was their moment, not his. He couldn’t interrupt, couldn’t overstep. Despite how much his body begged him to. Despite how much it hurt.

The familiar sound of the speakers. Dorian closed his eyes in apprehension; he didn’t want to know what She had to say. She would probably reprimand him for not taking his prize, maybe even urge him to go back in for her; or maybe this was what She had wanted all along. He couldn’t care less. He didn’t want to know.

And yet, the voice that spoke back to them wasn’t the same calm, young, gentle woman it had been until now, but a strong, older much more aggressive voice. A familiar one.

"No wonder you were no match for my daughter, you spineless maggot."

Dorian’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His hand reached for Katherine’s shoulder, grasping it with a strength that would probably leave a bruise. “Kath.” He called out, unsure of why. Almost as if to ground himself, prove to himself he was still awake, and not yet hallucinating because of the drugs. If she’d heard it too, then…

A strange yet known sensation filled him, and soon, the gas started filling the room. All Dorian could do was turn to the woman next to him, his expression one of pure incomprehension, confusion, fear. Before he could ask anything, tell her anything, he felt the drug overpower him, and soon enough, he had fallen to the ground, unconscious.

ººº

Headache, sore limbs, a possibly bruised shoulder due to the fall, and overall tiredness. It was the same sensation as always, and the moment Dorian opened his eyes, he could tell he was back in one of the rooms. A quick look around told him this was the best room he had ever been in; and yet, he couldn’t have felt worse.

There was a man, in the room, and he was awake. He didn’t pay him a single glance, but he could immediately tell he’d never met him before. It wasn’t Cassim, anyway, so he had no reason to care. All he could do for now, was slowly move to sit on the border of the bed, and try to resist the urge to throw up.

He was an idiot. The most moronic of them all.

The more he remembered Silvio and Claudette’s description of the picture they’d found, the stupidest he felt. Of course. An old wedding picture. An Asian woman controlling everything. A match-maker. Her voice. He’d tried to convince himself he was making it up, that maybe he’d just thought it was hers because of the drugs, but the more he thought about it, the more the pieces of the puzzle fit. Why hadn’t he put it all together before?
Because it makes no sense.

It didn’t. Not really. Not yet. But he couldn’t deny the truth now.

Slowly, Dorian got up from the bed, and looked towards the ceiling, until he finally located a camera. Finding one, he slowly made his way towards it.

“Are they dead?”

His voice was quiet and calm, emotionless. There was no response. No sign, no knock on the wall, no note under the door. Of course.

His new roommate entered his field of vision, and for a short second, Dorian went as far as turning his head towards him, making eye contact with the man… before he walked right past him, opened the door of the bathroom, entered, and closed it back behind him, without saying a word.

Aimless, Dorian stood idle in the room for a few seconds, before sitting down on the closed toilet seat, almost on autopilot, because he just needed to do something now that he was there.

Silently, Dorian’s head lowered and rested in his slightly shaking hands, as his thoughts went back to the game, the freezer. Della and Cassim, probably long gone by now, their body growing cold and dry in each other’s arms, probably frozen together for eternity.

Is it my fault?

[Clayton Ray]

Well, the stranger's lack of response had been...less than helpful. And he had been talking to himself; the question "Are they dead?" gave him a little insight to what was going on, but not much, and it wasn't something Clayton could really use to figure out how to get out. So either someone had died, or had been injured/disappeared and this man was wondering about their fate. That meant that they weren't alone and others were around somewhere. Was this the first time someone had possibly died? What sort of kidnapping or hostage situation was this? 

He looked around a bit more critically this time, noticing the camera in the corner of the room, before seeing some strange marks on parts of the wallpaper. He was used to those marks on metal, thanks to the jail's cell walls and doors, but it looked similar: people had hit or knocked on the same spots over and over again. The same people? Or were people being killed off and replaced? Or was it simply a matter of rotating people around? He approached one of the spots and tested it with his finger before touching an unmarked spot of the wallpaper. Yup, it had been damaged a bit. It made sense that people would start banging on the walls out of desperation or anger, but ruining the wallpaper wouldn't lead them anywhere, and could even result in an injury. Besides, the wall behind it was probably concrete or something sturdy. After all, it's not like a kidnapper would risk having their captors break down the walls and group up or escape, right?

Looking around and staring at wallpaper wouldn't get Clayton very far. With a huff, he finished his drink and grabbed some of the food before sitting down at the desk, staring at the bathroom door where his only companion was. If the man was traumatized, it could be a while before they could have a conversation, which meant Clayton would need to have to get used to his new surroundings quietly. Funny, he usually enjoyed the quiet, but he wouldn't call this the peaceful and restful kind of quiet he was used to. At least there were some books he could grab if he was feeling restless.

[Dorian F. Blund]

Bad thoughts kept harassing his mind, relentless and uncaring. Silence wasn’t as kind anymore, but the thought of going out of the bathroom now and speaking to the stranger felt like an impossible. He didn’t want to talk, couldn’t talk, not right now. But he couldn’t keep contemplating everything, until he would lose himself to his dread. The small part of him trying to stay calm was begging him to get a grip on himself and do something, anything, to distract himself until he could steady his breathing.

His wandering eyes rested on the bathtub. That image did not help him settle down; he had bad memories with those, memories he couldn’t relive now if he didn’t want to go on a full on panic attack. It would have to suffice, however, and quickly, Dorian disrobed, abandoning his clothes to the floor before entering the bathtub, remaining standing at all times. Setting the water to the coldest temperature possible, he closed his eyes as he let the cold water hit his face and shoulders, sliding down his body. The cool was finally helping him snap out of it, regain a sense of composure, until…

He remembered the harsh, frozen cold of the freezer. Dorian shivered under the water; before he could think twice, his hand reached for the regulator and turned it all the way in the other direction until he felt the water burn his skin. That was better, much better.

He stayed there, reaching for soaps and scrubbing himself clean of dirt, sweat and guilt, as long as his body could take it before it begged him out of the scorching shower; the air around him was filled with dense fog that was cooler compared to his skin, and he welcomed the sensation. That was when he noticed a mirror close to him. Staying still for a few seconds, he hesitantly advanced until he was close enough to reach it, and ran his hand over it to dissipate the vapor that had accumulated on its surface. For the first time in a while, having tried not to look at himself too much in the days following his dyeing, he stared at his reflection.

His skin was abnormally red now due to the intense heat, almost worryingly so, and Dorian wondered if the lightheadedness he felt now was truly due to a newly found peace of mind, or if he had come close to fainting. The roots of his natural black hair were starting to show under the dyed blonde, making the entire mess look even worse, but there was a strange relief in seeing part of himself finally peek through the appearance that had been forced upon him, compensating for the chaos that was now his facial hair. He’d tried to keep it as much under control as he could have in the past weeks, but he didn’t even like the idea of having any at all.

Seeing himself now was… strange. He didn’t look like himself, to the point he wondered if his parents would recognize him if they were to see him without notice. Yet, he could still recognize his features, even his own hair reclaiming control over its forced situation. He knew he was reading too much into it, but it gave him a semblance of hope, to feel more like himself.

Not that being him right now was a good thing.

Dorian pressed his lips once again; they hurt a little because of the warmth. He had been doing better chasing the thoughts away, he couldn’t fall back into it now. The last touch his appearance was missing was his clothes. Dorian glanced back at them, abandoned on the floor. For a month he’d refused to get rid of them, doing his best to keep them clean during the two weeks he’d spent with Katherine. They were the only remnants of his past life, the only proof he had left that he did not belong to this place, that he was his own person. He wanted to keep them, to remind himself; but right now… right now, they held too many bad memories. Shaking his head, Dorian brought them into the sink and gave them a quick scrubbing; he couldn’t wear them if they were wet. As he held them to dry, he decided that was as good an excuse not to look at them he needed for now.

It was then that Dorian finally realized that, in his rush to escape from the bedroom and the person waiting inside, he’d forgotten to take any spare clothes with him. And now, the only ones he had with him were unusable. Dorian sighed, heavily. This place was doing things to his head.

Seeing few other solutions, Dorian took one of the towels and wrapped it around his body. He hated people he did not know seeing his body so bare, but that would be the least awful thing to happen to him today. Not to mention the cameras which he knew were filming in every bathroom. Privacy was the least of his problems now.

Exiting the room wearing nothing but his towel, Dorian sparsely glanced at the stranger; he was eating, apparently having accepted his fate and his roommate’s strange behavior quite nicely. Good for him. “Excuse me.” Dorian spoke dryly, mostly out of habit. Without waiting for a reaction, he scanned the room and walked over to a wardrobe; much to his surprise and appreciation, the clothes here were of much better quality than the ones in his old room, and… ah-ah! A suit! Dorian could not believe his eyes when they rested on the garment; it wasn’t even close to as fancy as the ones he accustomed to wearing, but it was better than nothing. If he dressed himself as someone in charge, maybe he could trick himself into thinking he still was. Quickly grabbing the dark blue, almost black suit and pant, a white shirt and some underwear, Dorian made a quick last visit to the bathroom to dress himself, before finally entering the bedroom again, at last almost feeling like a person again. He couldn’t avoid the irony of willingly putting on such clothes when he had been offered a new marriage on a silver platter what he assumed were only hours before; if he had to be forced into a wedding soon, so be it, at least he would have picked the suit himself.

Now… there were no more ways or reasons to escape. He was dressed, he was clean, the bathroom needed a few minutes to let off the steam before anyone else could hide go in, and despite how little he wanted to eat, he was starving, and the granola looked incredibly appetizing, not to mention the aroma of the coffee he could smell from here. He hoped they could have been served pancakes or scrambled eggs again, but alas.

Gingerly, Dorian made his way closer to the man, though keeping his distances, for the first time actually giving him a once-over. He was older than him, in appearance close to Cassim’s age, and giving off somewhat of an intimidating aura, yet nothing in his behavior seemed aggressive or ill-intentioned. Good, because there was no way Dorian could handle getting in a fight in this state.

“I’m sorry for the wait. You may use the bathroom if you want, though I would encourage you to wait a few minutes for the temperature to lower.” Wow. It’d taken him speaking a full sentence for it to finally settle in how little he wished to talk. But he did need to ask him at least one question. “… what’s your name?” This was the first person he’d been roomed with he knew absolutely nothing about, and in light of recent events, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

[Clayton Ray]

The sound of running water was a small comfort, although the amount of steam that crawled from the closed door was a bit worrisome. Was the man trying to boil himself alive in there? He had appeared a bit distressed, but Clayton sincerely doubted he'd find success that way. Still, stress and trauma made people do strange things...The squeak of what he assumed was a faucet replaced the noise of the shower, and with that, he returned back to his food in good conscience. Even in a place like this, he was finding himself monitoring the people and situation around him as best he could. It would take more than a kidnapping to break decades of training, it seemed. If the stranger passed out from the heat, Clayton would of course go to his aid, but for now he would respect the space the man so evidently wanted.

The door opened and the blonde man stepped out, giving a curt couple of words as he made a beeline for the closet. The display of skin didn't bother him, but he was grateful the man wasn't parading about in whatever nature gave him. This was hardly the place for locker room displays. So, they did have something to change into if they wanted, although Clayton doubted their captor had the type of suit he wanted. He sipped his coffee, keeping to himself and letting his roommate go back to the bathroom to change without a word, and when he stepped back out Clayton nudged the tray a little closer to him. It didn't take a genius to pick up that the man was a bit wary of him, and Clayton couldn't blame him. 

Ah, and now an introduction. The shower must've washed away whatever was clogging his throat from talking to him earlier, Clayton thought with wry amusement. Staying seated, he waved a dismissive hand. "Thanks, but I'll probably wash up later after breakfast and a book." He seriously doubted there was anything on that bookshelf he would've normally read, but passing the time in a sane manner was going to be important if they were going to be here for a while. And, from the looks of his roommate, they could be here for quite some time. "Clayton Ray, at your service," he answered, raising a hand for a shake. "I can't say "pleasure to meet you" in a place like this, but hopefully we get along, Mister...?"

[Dorian F. Blund]

"Thanks, but I'll probably wash up later after breakfast and a book."

Well, this man sure seemed to be at peace with his environment. He must be a veteran by now, what with a whole month passing already, and by the looks of it, he seemed unharmed. Dorian briefly tried to think of the other events he’d heard of; the first one had been filled of only women and Geoff, and he didn’t fit the description of anyone from the second game. Maybe he was only this composed because he had no idea what was coming and had it easy so far. Lucky him.

He hadn’t missed the way the older man, who introduced himself as Clayton Ray – a name that didn’t ring any bells at all – had pushed the tray of food towards him, inciting him to take his share. The gesture was nice and all, but Dorian still found it hard for him to eat. He couldn’t stay on an empty stomach forever, though, and so he begrudgingly reached for the cup of coffee. That would have to do for now. He was still reticent from sitting close to him, however, and silently glad they wouldn’t have to share a bed. Dorian didn’t want to be near anyone right now.

Still, when Clayton offered a handshake, his own hand raised without thinking, responding to the gesture he’d had to perform time and time again in full automatism.

“Blund.” He replied. “Dorian Blund.” At this point he wasn’t sure he cared about who recognized him or not. He had a feeling it didn’t truly matter. “I don’t remember you from the basement.” He confessed. It was foolish of him to expect being able to have a clear memory of each of the at least thirty people there, considering how little time they had spent there, the chaos, and being on the move, but it still irked him the wrong way that he went from only being with people he knew to a complete stranger. Was this supposed to be a punishment of sorts?

[Clayton Ray]

At least the stranger - Dorian Blund - was responsive enough to take the handshake and have coffee. Whatever trauma was there wasn't keeping him from functioning on autopilot, which was good to see. How many first-time offenders had Clayton had to talk down due to their inexperience with the law and fear that a single offense would ruin their life turn into trauma? The on-staff counselors were always better at unraveling the damage, but he had enough experience to deal with the surface level, at least enough to keep them from hurting themselves in the short-term. Hopefully he would be able to use that here, both for Dorian and for himself. He wouldn't be able to stave off the panic forever.

"No, I just got here today...I think," he answered at Dorian's basement comment, frowning. "It was night-time the last I remember." A basement besides this room, huh? That meant wherever they were, there were at least 2 levels, or 3 if there was an attic. How large of a place were they in? "How long have you been trapped here?" 

Dorian Blund...why was that name familiar? The man could've been one of his inmates in the past, or maybe there had been a report on his desk about a grievance, but the name rang a faint bell. How would he react to Clayton's occupation? If they shared that kind of past, a fight wasn't out of the realm of possibility, especially with the current stressors, and Clayton wanted to avoid that, if possible. He'd have to keep his guard up, especially if there were others who might've shared a history with him here. "And how many others are stuck here?" Two kidnappings were concerning enough, but it sounded like there were several other people here, given Dorian's earlier question of if "they" were dead or not. 

He was having a hard time keeping the panic at bay now, but he forced it down. There'd be time for a private freak-out in the shower.

[Dorian F. Blund]

"No, I just got here today...I think."

For the first time since he’d reentered the room, the man managed to get a genuine reaction out of Dorian: one of surprise. Today? Everything single person he’d talked to until now had been people who were there in the basement, who had been locked up for weeks on end and were forced to wait to see the cruel games enfold.

“You’re new?” Snapped back to a semblance of reality, Dorian’s eyes travelled down Clayton’s body, eyeing him from head to toe. He’d been too lost in himself before to really take notice of any particular in him, but now that he could, it was true that the man seemed much too… well-kept. No messy facial hair, no clothes that looked and smelled like they’d had to be worn for weeks on hand with only the few occasional hand-washing here and there, and no sign of having ever been in any of the worse rooms where all you had to eat for weeks was stale bread with some water. The man truly looked like someone who had been living a perfectly decent and proper life until just this morning; probably exactly what Dorian had looked like on his first day here.

Then why is he so calm? Dorian thought. Almost immediately, he realized how foolish of a question that was. He had been the epitome of patience and serenity until he had seen Kamala’s burial, always thinking that this was all but a simple ransom situation where true, maybe a few of the poorest people here would be sold off or gotten rid of, but he could buy his way out. Maybe this Clayton was under the same impression, with no idea how wrong he was.

“… She’s kidnapping more people.” Dorian finally realized. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t considered this option before, maybe because there were so many people here already. Yet… more and more people were falling victim to her games. Was she just trying to renew her pawns as they fell down?

What on Earth are you doing? He thought back to her voice, a glint of hurt in his eyes. Why was she going so far? This was all already bad enough, but now she was only making things worse by imprisoning more and more innocents. What do you want?

"How long have you been trapped here?"

“…. A month, I think. Maybe a bit more.” It felt weird saying it out loud. He knew he had been there for weeks on end, yet stating it so matter-of-factly only made it more real. To Clayton’s second question, he shook his head. Everything was so overwhelming at this point he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything about it. “About 30 people or more. There’s been at least four deaths, though, and that’s only what I know of, so I have no idea how many of us are left.” He took a second of silence to think. “… I suppose that’s why you’re here.”

Dorian looked down at his coffee for a few seconds. He was here for a reason, he knew it, his relation to Mrs Baker could in no way be a coincidence. But he knew nothing about this man at all, so he couldn’t be at fault for him being there. So why was HE here?

“… do you have any clue why you may have been picked to be here? Do you know anything about our captors?” So many people here were clueless so it seemed like a foolish question, yet… he wouldn’t lose anything by trying.

[Clayton Ray]

Did he say something wrong? Dorian was looking at him - truly looking at him, not just blankly looking in his direction - and the scrutiny was obvious. Was he being sized up for being "new"? Would this work for or against him? He was used to having people stare at him, both in and out of uniform, but he didn't quite know how to act at the sudden attention when it was just the two of them. 

It soon became apparent that Clayton wasn't what Dorian was thinking about, though, and as the black haired man spoke a second time, he sat up a little straighter in the chair, trying to glean any hints or clues that he wasn't being told. Other people besides those first brought here were being kidnapped as well. Did that mean this was a trafficking situation? He had always imagined trafficking to be cement block rooms and shipment trucks, not furnished rooms and bathrooms. Still, Clayton and Dorian didn't quite fit the bill for trafficking victims; they were both tall and solidly built, so maybe this was a unique "market"? Was this for labor? At least Dorian's information about how long he might've been here wasn't too surprising. It was always said that if a kidnapped person wasn't found in 48 hours, they were likely dead, but that didn't apply for trafficking. He just didn't know if their quality of care was a blessing or a curse.

“About 30 people or more. There’s been at least four deaths..." 

A chill ran down Clayton's spine. Thirty people. The number was almost impossible to believe. How could so many be taken without raising alarm in the community? Unless not not all of the victims came from Maidefield, but the cost and labor needed to keep so many people alive...Clayton ran a hand through his hair, thinking about how Dorian had acted earlier before he escaped to the bathroom. "At least four deaths" meant Dorian had probably seen them occur, if his behavior meant anything. How many more could've happened without his knowledge? Where was everyone else being kept? And would 3 other people be kidnapped to even out those who had died? For the last question, that seemed to be Dorian's assumption, but they wouldn't know for sure until they got more information from an outside party. If that was even possible.

Did he know why he was here? Did he know the captors? Clayton could only shake his head slowly, his mind racing and trying to look at every bit of information he had just gotten to see if he had missed something obvious. "I don't work in the safest field, so I could have plenty of enemies, but no one capable of...this." This. This place, this manner of mass kidnapping, this nightmare. It was way above the usual crowd at Maidefield County Jail. This didn't seem to be gang related or a ransom, especially if Dorian had been here for a month, so what was the point of all of this?

"...you said you saw people in a basement," Clayton said after a few moments, trying to come up with something to help the swirling thoughts in his head. "What kind of people have they been? Do they seem to share anything in common?"

[Dorian F. Blund]

There was something stiff in the way Clayton acted around him at times, even with his attempts at basic decency towards Dorian. Like he constantly expected him to do something. Was he afraid of him? Dorian couldn’t possibly think himself to look like much of a threat now when the very first thing he’d done upon meeting him was run away to the bathroom for an indistinctively long amount of time, then come back with the expression of a man who is trying to cope with the resurgence of a ghost from his past. If anything, Dorian dangerously felt like an easy victim right now, and he did not like that. Then again, if Clayton was truly new, maybe his calm attitude was just a courageous façade to hide his inner fear; he was with a total stranger in an unknown and possibly deadly place, showing himself to be weak would be a mistake, assuredly.

"I don't work in the safest field, so I could have plenty of enemies, but no one capable of...this."

To this, Dorian’s lips turned upwards into a bitter smile. He remembered asking himself the same questions, a month ago, trying to think of what crazy-multimillionaire and/or potential politician he had pissed off enough with a rejected business offer to be sent to this kind of place. Figures, it was just his frankly peeved mother-in-law. Reality truly surpasses fiction. “I suppose you’re never too sure.” Was all he said in response.

"...you said you saw people in a basement. What kind of people have they been? Do they seem to share anything in common?"

“There is everything from wealthy businessmen, popular models, home decorators, teachers, college students and a twitch livestreamer, whatever that is. Frankly, I can’t see any common denominator apart from the fact that all of us either lived in, worked in, or were passing through Maidefield. That seems to be the core of the operations… and possibly where we are right now.” He could only hope, at least. Surely moving all of them around would take too much time and resources… but what about the new ones? “Were you from the city as well?” If he wasn’t, Dorian might have to consider the very possible reality that they were indeed no longer any closer to their original homes.

With that, Dorian drank more of his coffee, feeling the liquid disappear from his cup quickly. His stomach was begging him for something more substantial, but his mouth and mind refused. Not now. He had the feeling if he tried to eat anything right now, it would not end well. Instead, he looked down at the brown beverage, and thought.

Clayton was new, and though wary, still innocent to the horrors of this place. Dorian, in the meantime, had been made much too aware of them, to the point he still couldn’t quite register it. It was like his brain was purposefully ignoring the very real possibility that Mrs Baker had not stopped them or gassed them in time, and that Della and Cassim were now both dead. She could have prevented the double suicide at any moment, yet, was that what she would have preferred? Truly, he did not know, for he did not understand her motivations, and the very fact of thinking back to Cassim, his last words, his last hug, were enough to make him want to chase any thought of the situation away from his mind, content to live in a blissful ignorance that was so uncharacteristic of him.

His eyes landed on Clayton once again. If anyone could not afford to remain unaware, it was a new soul still untainted by the cruel reality of this place. The sooner he knew, the better. Except Dorian had no energy left in him at the time to put any effort, any caution, any tact, in his explanation. So, instead, he spoke cold and fast, as if in a meeting with a client he could not get rid of soon enough.

“… I will give it to you straight. This place is a run by some… obsessed match-maker.” It felt weird talking about her knowing who she was now; he felt wary insulting her too openly in case she was to listen. “She puts her victims in different rooms in pairs of two, so we can get to know each other; after two weeks of cohabitation, we get drugged and moved to a different room, with a different person. If you’re good, you get a good room with proper food, if you’re bad, you get sent to a bad room with only water and bread. That’s the theory at least; I know she must be terribly angry at me, and yet I’m here.” He shrugged. It made no sense. Nothing truly made any sense. “Every once in a while, there are ‘games’ we have to take part in. If we play well, the winner gets a person as “prize” and is forced to marry them. If we don’t, someone dies. Then, apparently, new people get kidnapped to replace the victims, and thus you’re here.” Taking advantage of a second of silence, Dorian brought the cup back to his lips, and took another sip of his coffee. Warm, dark and numbing. He locked eyes with Clayton. “Welcome.”