Tristan jerked the knife out of the guard’s chest, his the side of his lip twitching as a fresh coat of blood sprayed against his lips. He kicked the corpse out of his path, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before darting to the side. He stabbed down on a lunging arm holding an electric prod; the guard shouting in pain before the knife made itself home in his neck.

With piercing electric eyes, Tristan twisted the knife out of the dead mafioso, spitting out the mix of his saliva and someone else’s blood.

Slow.

So slow that they might as well be standing still.

Though he had been off his ‘regimen’, his power over speed remained.

He really should thank Ira for that, via an unaddressed letter far away from here.

He paused, his knuckles tightening around the knife.

Ira…

She’s going to be so pissed off.

Serves her right. Sending a soft sack of shit to me instead of coming back.

His eyes closed tightly, shoulders trembling as his freehand gripped the side of his head.

That guy…he wanted to help…he actually wanted to help…He didn’t deserve to be stabbed in the back. I didn’t have to do that.

He deserved it. For working for a bitch like her. For thinking he could actually change her. He couldn’t shit. If YOU couldn’t get through, why the hell did he think could?!

He grit his teeth, hearing hurrying footsteps, smelling electric jolts in the air as the tasers crackled on.

That’s right, she forbade anyone from killing him.

Of course, they would have tasers.

He smirked slightly.

“I would do anything for you.”

Beautiful words even when beating his face into a pulp.

He ducked as another guard swung at him, sweeping the man off his feet and onto the ground. Tristan jammed the bread knife into the guard’s chest, twisting the serrated edge through muscle and arteries. He licked his lips as the henchman stilled in his struggle. Once life was snuffed out of the carcass, Tristan tugged the weapon free, looking towards the stairs out of this dungeon.

Out of his peripheral vision, he could see another mafioso running at him from the hall, sparks shooting out of the weapon in the man’s hand. He jerked his head to the side, avoiding a taser lunging down towards his face. Stepping up and With an airy chuckle, he sliced the bread knife upwards, relieving the new screaming henchman of hand. Tristan jerked the jolting weapon out of the free hand and ended the screaming with a quick throw between the guard’s eyes.

All the training, all of that fighting, all of those fucking drugs were paying off.

The alarms blared red and Tristan could hear the buzzing of turret drones flying towards him. He kicked one machine against the wall before grabbing another drone and slamming it into another of its kin. Electric charges surged to him, and he lunged forward to grab the dismembered limb. As he stood up, he slammed his elbow against the side of the hovering machine, sending it to the wall.

The guards had to work with tasers, and the drones were limited as well.

All because it was forbidden to kill him. All because Wrath, Ira, loved him.

He clenched his teeth, ignoring his throbbing arm. He chuckled as he peered up the steps, seeing two more drones blocking his path. Just behind them were two guards.

All in the way of the locked gate to freedom.

She’s not making it easy for me.

Since when did she ever do that?

He shook his head, fighting off his splintered psyche before twisting to the side, dodging more wired charges from the drones. He sliced the knife upwards, cutting the wires free from their source. The severed hand was tucked securely under his arm, and he tossed the blade from one hand to the other. He slammed the dulled instrument into the first drone, ending its change to electrocute him. The next drone was not so lucky; Tristan gripped the loose wires like a leash, preventing its escape.

One henchman ran down the stairs, jolting prod in hand. Tristan licked his lips and pivoted, swinging the bot behind him, then slamming it to the temple of mafioso mook number who-gives-a-fuck.

A thundering crack echoed through the stairway; the impact was fatal. The mook’s head, wobbling like jello, slammed into his partner. Both of them fell against the wall and tumbled down the stairs; one guard landed at the bottom already dead. The other still alive as he tumbled down. Until a sickening SNAP bounced up towards Tristan’s ear.

The prisoner, wiping the sweat off his bro, did not look back nor flinched. He walked up to the vulnerable gate and placed the corpse’s hand on the sensor.

Three clicks.

A buzz.

The gate opened.

“Thanks for the hand.” He quipped mirthfully as he tossed it behind him. Somehow, a one liner seemed appropriate. It allowed him to step through the gate without puking from his stomach, doing a million flips in a row.

He was actually doing this.

He was actually getting out of here.

He took a long deep breath, his knees almost buckling. Ira wasn’t here; he didn’t feel weight shoving down his shoulders, didn’t feel hungry eyes watching every single minute twitch he made. The sea breeze pricked at his skin, goosebumps crawling up his skin as he shivered from the chill.

He didn’t feel her warmth, either.

His head throbbed, and he grimaced, clutching the side of his forehead. The verdant landscaped blurred with the sky. He placed the side of his hand over his eyes, blocking out the sun. That slight shade granted him a reprieve, allowing him to take deep, steadying breaths.

Breaths he needed as more footsteps slammed into the glass mosaic and stone walkways. He could smell electric jolts through the air, held in the hands of desperate and terrified guards. He glanced at his knife, frowning at its bent shape. “Fuck.”

A wired tazer surged towards him and he jumped out of the way before the spiked conductors digging into the ground. The henchman growled, glaring at Tristan, who merely smirked and pulled the wire. The weapon fell out of the nameless man’s hands.

With a whistling hiss, Tristan jumped to the side and then stepped forward, wrapping the trembling wires around the guard’s neck. Tristan knelt down behind the man, jerking his wrist forward.

Another satisfying snap and the man fell.

With a quick search into the dead man’s holster, Tristan’s eyebrows lifted as his hands found two suitable replacements; a folded switched blade and a closed butterfly knife. He only had time to smile before he rolled out of the way of another guard.

He didn’t even have time to screw around.

He needed to get to that beach.

He clicked open the switched blade with one hand and twirled open the butterfly knife with another. With a sharp turn, he jammed it into the knee of another henchman, his own airy laugh carrying above the man’s scream. He jerked the knife out and dove away from the crippled guard. He jumped to his feet and pressed the switchblade into the side of another mook, shanking the man before sprinting away.

They were so slow.

Each step made time stand still, and the beach came ever closer. His ears picked up the foghorn as it was carried by the sea breeze.

The port was closed.

He paused, grinding his teeth.

How long would he have to wait on a boat? Knowing that obsessive bitch, she would look for him, searching every grain of sand on her island for him.

One tooth caught his lip, spilling earthy metal red onto his tongue. His eyes fluttered, and he pressed a bloodied hand against his chest.

She would look for him, wouldn’t she?

No one needed him as much as she did.

The sea and sky blended into the beach, colored by the dim yellow light of the sun.

It was a beautiful dream…

But only a dream.