*Charlie's P.O.V*

It was my first time with Berry alone in his apartment. He was a pretty chill host, though I preferred going to Harry's instead. To not sadden the man, I did everything he asked. When he offered food, I ate; when he gave errands, I went. Then he showed me his short film ideas and their scripts, making me read through dialogues, offer recommendations, and more.

It was odd how Berry respected my opinion because I was just a teen who read a lot, not a professional film critic. No one knows how glad I was to leave once Sil's acting class ended for that day.

That was just the beginning. More instances came for Berry to bring me to his apartment. From faulty pipes to bulbs, that man would call in aid and carry me away to a beach or elsewhere. That was less annoying since the sea breeze was enjoyable, like the other places we sought inspiration. He had a personal journal he made me write in, so I knew everything he was up to. Our only conundrum was over his ghost children plots, which were frankly disdainful.

"Why? Don't you believe in ghosts?"

I didn't answer him. That night, I was sleeping when something pulled my leg. I awoke and searched around my room to no avail. When I returned to bed, it grabbed both my legs, elevating my fright. I almost screamed if not for Berry jumping out of the bed covers to shut my mouth. It was dark, so my inability to recognise him gave me strength to push him off. I ran to the door, so he laughed.

"I thought you didn't believe in ghosts."

"Uncle Berry?" I panted. "Ah, it's not funny."

"Sorry, sorry." His amusement festered under my exasperation. I climbed back to bed, thinking of telling him off.

"Hey," Berry whispered. I shot him daggers, but he smiled. "Wanna go to a planetarium tomorrow?"

I nodded.

"Then wake up early. Don't tell your sister."

So I didn't. The sun rose with my lips sealed so tightly my sister sensed what was up. She inquired about some weird noises she heard at midnight, to which I shrugged. She asked if it was Harry. Still, I shrugged. When my silence got unbearable, she smacked my precious book into soapy water, and that's how our next brawl began.

So Sydney was right to ban us from fighting. Our quarrels have always only been void of item damage when I start them. I don't throw Sil's stuff in soapy water or create a mess in the house. I'll tickle her.

I am tickling her now.

"Annoying!" she screams again, finally giving up. I stick out my tongue. She cringes. We stay like that until Leo walks by with a facepalm. Forgetting what incited me to invade my sister's sanctuary, I skip out.

Leo hands me my phone. Mia's missed calls shine like a nail on a chair, so I call back, and when she doesn't respond, I check for voicemails. There is none.

*

Sun rays energise my rush to the modelling agency. Madame PR doesn't have my neck, but she sure has me roaming Liverpool the rest of the week to make up for my absence. From photoshoots to exhibits, I work twice as hard as I would have in Vegas.

I even run into Monet, and we have brunch, where she mentions hearing about my off days - Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Monet presumes I'll quit the agency because of the opportunity I 'stole' from her.

I tell her not to worry because the arrangement is even for a different field.

*

Speak of that field, and the day of reckoning will come! You will wish for grass, not a panel of interviewers scrutinising your every move.

Anyway, I do the interview, do my best, come out, and think the worst of myself. I don't answer Jackson's texts until the firm emails my hirement contract.

The week after, I feel odd, stepping into a non-criminal organisation, knowing that man is near. He spots my entrance, traces my steps towards a tiny cubicle, and passes by. I am too engulfed in introductions to react, so Jackson retires to his office.

It's at the day's end that he almost runs over a stressed out me.

"Woa, relax, kid! Want a ride?"

"No."

He frowns. We are by the road close to the building to the view of my new colleagues. I shake my head, but he opens the car door, grunting, "You're my assistant. Get in."

Reluctant, I bang the door after myself. My theatrics humour him to drive faster. Watching fleets of cars and pedestrians, I lean by the window as he mutters, "The Adiantes; you know they are winning their war against cops?"

"Thanks to your weapons?" I ask.

Jackson agrees. "We can't let them get so successful that they become our threat. I've talked the son into selling their low quality weapons -"

"Low quality?" I scanned them for weeks; I would know if they were low quality.

Jackson smiles.

I squint at him for a minute, only to notice - "What you provided them is the lowest quality in their storehouse - literal secondhand!"

Content with my outburst, he says, "You'll learn. Starting from your trip this weekend."

"Just me, huh." I look away, clenching my jaw. The Adiantes 'want me' because Jackson is afraid. I don't care what other reason he conjures. Once he drops me a little near the modelling agency, I tell him this, to which he smiles sadly.

My steps are hot off his car. Stomping onto land, I call the PR to inform her I'm booked this weekend, so all my photoshoots should be brought to tomorrow.

*

I don't go home. I work and work till the weekend arrives. This time, Jackson does not get me a jet. He barely says anything besides "good luck" and "I'll handle things at the office." My friends presume I'm travelling to the States to meet a designer.

To sell the lie, I vlog my journey to the checkout point, where a driver the thugs sent finds me. The driver acts like I'm royalty, much to my unease. Mustering a grateful smile, I observe fleets of cars bypass us, surmising that nothing good comes from my coming to the States.

There is always some horror that awaits. Am I ready?

*

Mastro reintroduces me to his home. If my minimal luggage, a backpack, is not an adequate indication of the length of my stay, what is? I try to avoid his advances for an outing, but then his sister skiddles in. The irritated brother dismisses her with a head shove that sends Alexis flushing to the dining room.

After dinner, I humour her till Mastro steals me away.

"You better not mess around with her, or you'll answer my fist." He folds his sleeve.

I smile, following him into a four-wheel, reminded not to feel too comfortable around him. Mastro sits so close I can hear his breath when it quivers with the vehicle's movement.

The engine hums to a halt in a cul de sac. Six minutes lapse for trucks to surround us. Two jeeps boom on opposite sides as the front passenger bellows, "Eyo, tell your mandem, this ain't the spot!"

"Where then?" Our driver pokes his head out. The bellower makes some hand gestures.

"What's that? Gang signs?" Mastro grimace. "Britsh people."

"I'm British," I remind him.

"You are refined," he slews, "these guys are bloody ingrates!"

"That's not nice of you to say!"

"We're not here to be nice."

He's not wrong about the latter. The minute all vehicles stop, and they get to business, my ears are bombarded with insults left, right, and centre. Mastro makes his men unload trunks of missiles into the other thugs' truck, all while the thugs blast them for the least of things, like the dust on the rifles or their smell.

"Smells like shit!" One loud thug turns to us. Since we are still in the car, he doesn't receive Mastro's response of a snicker, which makes him storm to us, growling, "I said your stuff smells like shit!"

Unfazed, Mastro pulls up the window while the chisel-jawed thug's eyes pierce through his.

"What? You think you are better than us?" The thug pulls out his rifle. "Get the bloody hell out."

No one tells me to reach for the door handle.

"I said get out -"

"Mastro, let's just listen -"

"Be still." Mastro snatches my hand. The nerve he has not to care!

What is this? What have you gotten me into, Jackson? Mastro?

Finally, Mastro drops his resolve, his gaze retracting from the thug's dark outline. "They sell girls too. You can handle him."

"Handle him how?"

Mastro's shrug does anything but answer me. Groaning, I step out and follow the man to the trunks. Upon a sniff, I stand akimbo. The thug squints in anticipation.

"Please, it's the manure we hid them in," I admit. "If it bothers you, we can procure newer sets."

"Now, you are talking!" The thug starts to grin, but I hold up a hand. "Transport and other inconvenience costs are on us. Yours is to pay with cold cash and-" I halt, nose upturned towards a squinting Mastro.

I smile at him and spin, taking in our surroundings. The thug's guards hover in a triangular arrangement, all focused except for the guy on the far left scratching his crotch. In swift steps closer to the thug, my hands calm behind me, tethered by a monotone. "You sell me your captives."

The thug frowns. He turns to his mates, who seem equally disconcerted, before I add, "200 quid per person. It's the best offer you'll get, considering that your man there has an STD."

Then, I point to the crotch scratcher. The horrified look the guy shoots me is priceless.

"Who gave it to you, sir?!" I yell, "Lydia? Becca -"

Off goes a bullet into the crotch scratcher.

My jaw drops. If not for Mastro shaking his head, my recovery would be delayed by years.

"We got a deal." The thug boss sniffs the smoke from his pistol.

I pause.

I sigh.

Blood is oozing out of the crotch scratcher's scalp.

I muster my smile. A firm handshake seals our encounter, and I vanish into the four-wheel as calmly as possible. Mastro's eyes have widened, and it's not for the sake of the darkness engulfing our side of Earth. I ignore him.

Fortunately, our next stop is our last, the mansion. Immediately we arrive, I rush to my room to vomit.

Moonlight from the curtains roars the reality that men like Leo's father, the Yeltsins, the Adiantes, the Pamela-s, and the Igor-s are uncountable. Another day breathes another organised crime.

Another death.

I've seen so much of it, starting from when Leo's dad killed in front of me. While this doesn't overthrow the terror my 15 year old self felt then, it is sad to be stuck with a heartless murdering psycho again.

But I need to focus, not fear. Thinking this through, my head bows over a water closet while Mastro barges in. He hovers in my room until hears me shut the toilet lid.

Reaching the kitchen, he says, "Just got a call. They got 245 girls. You want them?"

"Yes."

"Is Jackson aware of this plan of yours?"

"What plan?" I look up at Mastro, so he folds his arms.

"Jackson brought you here to mediate our transaction, not strike another deal."

I blink to this. His tone is petulant and cautious, preceded by a smirk that tells me he has surmises. "You are trying to go out on your own?"

Exhaling, I bob to my heart rate. There's a phenomenon called noise; Mastro knows how to weaponise it. In under three minutes, he then demands all kinds of answers without coherent backing questions. I don't hear much except for his harsh breathing when he confesses that he cares for my safety even more than Jackson, that he didn't want me there, but his father insisted that there was no need to play nice with those 'vulgarists' and I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!

"... If you want to start your shit, let me help you. Like you said, their captives probably spread STDs in their camp -"

My veins twitch. "I made that up."

"Yet it was true -"

"Everything was made up. Just a lucky guess. Can you please leave me be?"

That said, he submits. I go to sleep.

*

*

The next day, a suitcase sits atop my drawer. Mastro pulls me out of bed.

To match his enthusiasm, I down some oatmeal and drive off with him to our pickup venue. When the British thugs appear, I alone step out to greet them. In comes their truckload of cargoed women, to my utmost disgust. I try to calm as the drivers inspect the 'goods' before switching vehicles, so ours will take the ladies to the Adiante hangar, as Mastro suggests.

After paying, we get on with the original trade of Mastro's weapons, earning back more cash. I hate transactions business with criminals, but I must admit, the speed of everything relieves me.

No death occurs this time. I return to Mastro's four-wheels with his briefcase of cash, to which he smirks, "Look at you, Mr Bigshot. Hurry, and let's go."

"Hurry to where? My work here is accomplished, so I have to return -"

*

It happens two minutes after my inquiry, and when it does, our ride speeds far off just a glimpse of fire, smoke wafting as the residue of destruction.

I don't precisely react. It takes me a minute to turn towards a jubilant Mastro before realising the shift in life.

"Did you... blow them up?"

He looks up from the suitcase. He pats my shoulder. "No one stresses you and goes scot-free on my watch, Charlie."

A pause.

"How about Jackson next?"

No," I croak.

Mastro exhales. "Don't worry about your girls. They are safe. You can go home tomorrow."

*

It's weird witnessing an explosion; even from as far as we were, I can still smell it-the smoke.

Yet Mastro is anything but concerned.
We return to his father's mansion, where he acts like nothing happened. It's his sister's banter that gets a scowl out of him, pushing him to hint at his exhaustion from 'getting rid of some trash'. Alexis understands immediately. She goes quiet as though in honour of the 'trash'. When a beam stretches her face into a canvas for my viewing, she starts a 'no one else cares to talk to me' conversation.

Entrapped in her words, I don't see Mastro leave us. Noon peels over the azure firmament, so I suggest a walk more to enjoy the sun than to shut her up.

Fortunately, she hates the sun. I walk on my own, pondering minutes away. I circle their compound and then gather speed, edging their greenery, soaking more tension in my soles. I haven't gone out on my own like this - not the last time, anyway. Perhaps I can find somewhere to call the police without anyone noticing -

"Judas?"

I spin. Mastro squints. "You are calling Jackson?"

"Yes. I'll have to leave soon -"

"Leave tomorrow."

"Ya, that's what I was -"

Mastro cuts me off again, stating, "If you go today, you won't be able to move the girls. It's hard as it is getting the plane ready."

I sigh. "Oh, ok. Can you make sure they are fed then?"

Mastro contends, "They won't die without food for a night," but I am insistent.

"Let's talk about this inside," he says cautiously, making me frown.

"You are scared the thugs will come after you?"

"Sure, they will. That doesn't mean I'm scared." He grabs my arm. "Relax."

Then he tugs me back inside and pours me some raspberry juice and words of encouragement. I nod along as if not shaken by his duality.

Listening to him takes me out. I am out of it sporadically, and then the daze drags on longer. I tell him I'm tired. I need rest. He nods.

*

The next day, I wake beside him and his sister, our clothes sprawled across his bedroom floor.