Page 17 of Filthy Little Fix
Then, the heavy door groans open again. Not Dante. Footsteps, heavy and familiar. Luca. And another man I don't know. What now? More codes?
Luca says nothing. He approaches and pulls me up by the shoulder—I see his tattoos better now; a dagger with open wings, coordinate numbers, letters on his fingers. VITA MORS. The other man roughly shoves a cloth bag over my head, plunging me back into grainy darkness.
I'm pushed forward. We pass through a few doors, some corridors, and the damp, moldy air gives way to the bitting night. The smell of old concrete and stagnant air fades, replaced by polluted air that smells fresh after the warehouse.
A car door opens. I'm shoved inside, unceremoniously, hitting my head on the ceiling again. The smell of new leather and that faint aroma of cigar smoke—a ghost of Dante's presence; I imagine him smoking like a chimney. Where are they taking me? Another interrogation room? Another warehouse?
The car lurches forward. A silent, bumpy ride full of sharp turns, just like when they brought me here. The car stops abruptly. My door is yanked open, and a strong hand grabs my arm, pulling me out. My worn shoes meet rough asphalt. A pair of hurried, rough hands undo the plastic restraints that still held my wrists tied behind my back, and he scratches my hands carelessly to get them off. Are they letting me go?
Then, the final shove. Hard. He pushes me onto the asphalt, and it scrapes my skin as I fall. With my hands free, I manage to brace myself against what must be a sidewalk, and I stand still, waiting for the next command, the next blow, the next touch.
"He certainly knows he has no place here," Luca's muffled voice comes from somewhere. A car door slams. Another. The distinct sound of an engine starting and fading into the distance.
The engine sound grows fainter and fainter. Until there's nothing but the hum of distant city life.
No, no, no. This isn't right.
With trembling hands, I rip the bag from my head. My vision aches before adjusting again to something that isn't grainy darkness, and the cold night air is even fresher and more polluted than before. I look at my surroundings. I know this street. I know this sidewalk, this fence, this dead tree, the fluorescent glow of the supermarket sign on the corner.
I'm home.
I look at what's around me. Scattered on the ground are my documents, my wallet, my backpack. What I had with me when they captured me, and they didn't take anything. I open my wallet as fast as I can, and they didn't even touch the money.
They didn't take me to another hell. They threw me back into myown, into the insipid, tasteless monotony of my daily existence. They discarded me. Like trash.
They took away my only chance to feel. My only dose of adrenaline. Theycut me off.
I crush my wallet. This rage I haven't felt in years.
This isn't over. They think they can just throw me away after everything?
Dante. You have no idea who you just poked.
I know your systems. Your algorithms and vulnerabilities.
They're going to regret this.
I'm going to fuck them up.
CHAPTER III
EIGHT
DANTE
One week.One week since I got rid of that aberration. One week of a silence that, somehow, is louder than all the fucking noise. My normal life drags on with routine meetings, territorial disputes, and the hunt for a rat still hiding in my shadows. Everything falls back into place, except for the annoying absence of…that.
I leave my office, the smell of cigar still clinging to the velvet curtains, and walk down the main corridor. My footsteps echo on the polished marble, a familiar sound that usually brings me a sense of control. Today, it just echoes an emptiness.
As I pass the security room, I hear a nauseating cacophony. A stupid—and irritatingly familiar—electronic beat repeats the same ridiculous phrase on loop. I look inside. Marco, with a scowl, is punching a control panel, and Vinny, the youngest, has his hands on his head, exasperated. Ruslan, as always, cleans his fingernails with a knife, completely oblivious to the chaos.
"What the fuck is that?" I say.
Marco turns, his face flushed with anger and frustration. "This fucking sound system! It's stuck on this shitty song again! I've restarted it ten times, but it always goes back to the sameloop." He kicks the panel, which lets out a metallic clang. "Even the surveillance computer isn't working right because of this noise. The south sector cameras are down."
Vinny groans. "I can't stand that duck voice anymore! Give me a sledgehammer, I'll fix this."
Ruslan, without looking up, murmurs, "Technical problems. Maybe the network has some kind of interference. Nothing a good reboot won't solve in a few hours." He shrugs. "Or a bullet through the speaker."
