22.

"What deal?" She scrunched her nose, knitting her eyebrows together. She was both curious and afraid.

"You tell me about the Black Den, and I help you escape from here," He suggested calmly.

She stared at him for over a minute, trying to register his words.

Did he just say that he would help her escape?

Unbelievable.

Was he playing games? Was it one of his tricks to make her turn in? What was the proof of his sincerity? How can she trust him without the fear of being betrayed?

If he seemed to be betraying his gang, which she was sure he was, what was the guarantee that he wouldn't betray her too?

"I don't trust you," She said, loud and clear.

He stayed silent. The air grew thicker around them, getting tense with each second, making her feel sick to her guts.

"Then tell me, what shall I do to earn your trust?" He asked calmly, his eyes shining with a depth of sincerity.

But was she convinced? No man could ever make her trust in their kind again. Being betrayed several times had her fear their every intention, even if they looked sincere and truthful. People are deceiving, and so are their eyes, and so can their truthfulness.

She didn't say anything, searching his face to catch even the slightest bit of deceit, even just an atom of lie.

There were none. All she saw was his empty, yet deep eyes boring into hers intensely, sincerely, and deliberately.

She held back the urge to look away. She would never show him she was tamed by his orbs. She was, but letting him know would be an utter stupidity.

"You can do absolutely nothing to earn my trust. I don't trust any men, at all," She answered truthfully, emphasizing a few words to let him know he came under the same category.

His gaze lingered somewhere in the space beside her. He seemed to be thinking about something.

"Alright, then I'll just do it my way," He stood up from the bed, walking towards her.

She remained calm, although her heart skipped. Each step forward resulted in the drop of her heart.

What did he mean?

Her breathing paced up when he leaned over, almost hovering over her.

She couldn't keep herself composed now. She sank back into the soft cushions, blinking a few times in bewilderment.

"What are you doing?" She gasped, his face was just a few inches away from her.

She knew he wouldn't do anything, she just knew it. But men are men. There was still a small uncertainty that lingered in her.

"What do you think I am doing, Squirrel?" He leaned in more, his one hand circling her waist but not touching her.

She stared at him wide-eyed, not understanding him.

She felt the feather movement of the hoodie she wore at her waist, gulping down nothing but fear.

The fear of betrayal—the fear of being betrayed yet again. Did she trust him? Not at all. But she trusted that he wouldn't do anything, at the very least. That he wasn't like the other men, that he wasn't one of those dominative, hungry dogs.

"You-" She started, but he leaned back before she could say anything further.

She dropped her gaze to his hand which was almost touching her waist just a few seconds ago, holding the bowl she finished.

She dragged her gaze back to him again, meeting his eyes as a small smirk played on his lips. And like most of the time, it didn't contain mockery or threats.

"You need to change your opinions about me. You still think of me as someone as Nike,"

It contained disappointment.

He turned to leave. She watched his retreating steps, guilt rising to her chest and through her veins.

He exited the room, and she let go of the breath she didn't know she was holding.

So what. Any girl would've felt threatened. She consoled herself.

And even though she knew she was not wrong to feel as such, the tiny guilt still managed to bother her to the core. It wasn't much, not even on the surface, somewhere in the deepest part of her heart, in a far-end corner, but it was there.

-----

"Why do you always take me out at night?" Leyla asked him, swaying his hand with her as they walked through the silent, empty road side by side, shoulders attached, and their hands intertwined.

"Nights are beautiful," He answered, tightening his hold on her hand affectionately, "like you," He added.

"Like me?" She turned her face to him, a small curious smile on her lips as she regarded his beautiful, boyish side view.

For someone who's 20, he sure looked younger than his age.

And way more handsome than any guy she has ever seen.

"Yeah, your name means night. And you're beautiful too," He gave her a cheeky, flirty grin, pulling her closer to him as he let go of her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulder instead.

She laughed, the dim orange hue of the headlights hiding the natural crimson shade that crept on her cheeks.

"How do you know the meaning of my name?" She giggled, looking up at him. Her thick black hair colored in the different shades of red and yellow under the street lights, glowing her face beautifully.

He met her gaze with the smile still on his face, admiring the way she was clutching the hem of his jacket in a small fist.

"I searched up," His smile widened as her eyes dilated in a mix of surprise and affection.

His efforts had always been what warmed her heart. Every time they would meet, he always did or had something unexpected for her, with her.

He caressed the smooth skin of her cheeks softly, lovingly, remembering the moments.

It was midnight, she was asleep and he wasn't.

He stared at her like she was his only world, his entire planet, his whole universe. At that moment, it was only her he could see, only her he could feel, only her he could love.

And he wanted nothing more than to keep on doing it. But he knew he couldn't.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," He muttered, his eyes beginning to pool with unshed tears.

His chest tightened, and the muscles around his nose started to tense and hurt, he tried to take a deep breath in, to not let those tears fall.

He had no right to cry over it, no right to weep, no right to be in pain. He caused that pain to both of them, he wrecked both of them, and he ruined it all. No one else was to blame but him.

"I'm sorry," He apologized again, and this time, a tear rolled down the corner of his eyes, sliding through the bridge of his nose, falling on the pillow and disappearing in the pillow.

He sniffed, clenching his jaw to control his sobs, to control his screams, to control himself.

He leaned forward, still keeping his hand on her cheek as he placed a tender kiss on her forehead.

He let his lips linger there for a while, taking in the moment, carving it into his memory until he felt his whole body answer it.

A warmth spread through his chest, urging him to not let go of her ever.

He tore himself away before that desire could grow more and take over him.

His head fell back into the pillow, and she opened her eyes weakly.

"Good morning," She whispered in a sleepy voice, her lips formed into a small pout.

He chuckled, forgetting his ache for a while.

"It's still night," He replied.

"Good night," She closed her eyes again, leaning into the warmth of his palm.

"Good night," He smiled, pushing a strand of her hair back, caressing her temple delicately. His touch was filled with longing, eyes filled with tears, and heart filled with love.

The night was still just as beautiful to him as before. But it was lonely now.

-----

"Alright," Tiger answered the other side of the call, cutting it shortly afterward.

"Who was it?" Warren twirled around on his chair.

"AK, he's coming over tomorrow," Tiger replied, taking out the washed chicken from the fridge along with the other ingredients needed, and collecting them all in one place on the counter.

Warren nodded.

"But DK-"

"DK thinks AK has gone to France for business. We won't have any problems until you decide to open your mouth and spill everything," Tiger glanced at him, the warning in his eyes so evident.

Warren scoffed.

"Where were you the whole night?" Tiger inquired, waiting for the oil to heat up to a certain level so he could fry the chicken.

"I was... out, somewhere," he trailed off, his body suddenly tensing up.

Tiger gave him a look, a knowing look. He knew exactly where he had been throughout the night. Warren knew that he knew, but he was not ready to talk on that topic, even if it was just as small as it was.

"Um hm," Tiger hummed, touching the pan with the back of his hand to see if it had heated enough.

Warren watched him do that so often that he no longer gets shocked. But to see someone touching the burning utensil to check the heat was still unusual for him.

Tiger cooked the dish silently, immersed in his work while Warren watched him in comfortable silence.

"Did you ask her about it?" Warren asked, breaking the quietness.

"Yes,"

"What did she say?"

"She doesn't want to help," Tiger replied, keeping his tone nonchalant.

"Oh... I thought she would agree. What's the reason?" Warren tilted his face in confusion.

Tiger did tell him about the offer. And Warren thought it was pretty much of a good deal to engage in. She would finally get to leave after all.

"She said that she doesn't trust men, the whole population of men to be precise, and I could do nothing to make her trust me either," Tiger replied, the deepness of his voice which has always been so threatening and evil sounded distant and faded.

"Ouch. Someone's sad," Warren remarked, wiggling his eyebrows with a mischievous grin.

"Warren," Tiger glared at him, taking his name as a warning, his eyes shooting daggers at the latter.

And Warren knew, the subtle rage in his eyes was not for him, it was for himself. He was mad at himself for being rejected, for being denied.

"Come on, admit it already. You are a little sad," Warren teased, knowing he was playing with his life at this point but he doesn't want to live anyway.

"I.am.not," Tiger gritted out, pressing each word with much emphasis, his face neutral and devoid of any expressions.

"Alright," Warren gave up.

He knew he could never make Tiger do or say something he didn't want to. Tiger listens to and obeys nobody but himself.

Selfish. Arrogant. Lethal bastard.

-----

Hayat stared out of the window, she could see the moon clearly as it sat there in the dark sky, with all its grace and ethereal beauty, playing hide and seek with the clouds.

She was back in her small crib, her hand now tied to the poll again. It had been days and her wound was healing slowly, though it still stung a little at movements.

She turned her face to the sleeping figure of him. He was on the bed, eyes closed, hands folded under his head as his tough muscles were tight and flexing on his arm.

She stared at him absent-mindedly, still considering his offer.

Even though she didn't trust him, there was a voice telling her to take the risk.

Also, he had been keeping his distance from her and even protected her a few times.

Life is all about taking risks, bigger or smaller. You would never know if you never try.

She sighed, letting herself have some more time to think.

She leaned her head on the poll, hugging it while her eyes remained fixated on him.

He was sleeping just where she had slept for a few days.

A smirk broke out on her lips–an attempt to suppress the smile, her cheeks heating up, her stomach doing flips thinking about all the times he had been a little kind to her.

She kept looking at him meekly, hugging the pole tighter.

His face was covered in different hues of dark blue and silver, his muscles and veins—she felt herself gulping at the sight.

Her fingers itched on their own.

No. She didn't want to touch them. Why would she?

He removed his hands from under his head, shifting in his position a little.

She sighed, telling her heart to tame down as it thudded against her ribcage.

She was about to close her eyes but caught a slight movement in him.

She tilted her face, frowning subtly, squinting her eyes to look closer to him.

His jaw twitched, eyes squeezing together mildly, faintly, but they did. A bead of perpetration rolled down his temple under the blueish-silver glow.

She suppressed a gasp at the realization.

His face tilted slightly, eyes squeezing shut. And although his whole body wasn't moving, his muscles were tense, and little twitches kept on happening.

Was he having a nightmare? The question lingered heavily, unsettling, making her uneasy.

She held her breath as his eyes squinted tighter, the lines of his face tense and hard to make out in the dim light. His jaw clenched, muscles straining as if bracing for something. Then, with a sharp, sudden breath, his eyes flew open.

Her heart jumped in her chest, she stared at him wide-eyed.

He sat up, his chest heaving in slow but heavy breaths.

He stilled as if realizing something, his face turned to her the very next moment. She panicked, closing her eyes instinctively, hoping that he didn't see her.

Her skin burned, and she would never agree to the fact that it wasn't because of the sudden shift of atmosphere in the room but because of his aflame, lingering gaze on her.

A small guilt rose in her chest. She felt as if she had just invaded his personal space, his privacy. As if she invaded him. As if she did something she was not supposed to. As if she saw something she wasn't supposed to.

And that feeling of remorse, that feeling of unfaulty regret, that feeling of inculpable guilt was unsetting, distressing.

When she didn't feel her skin burning anymore, she risked opening her eyes just to peek at him, hoping for her dear life that he wasn't still looking at her.

He wasn't. She let out a sigh of relief slowly, careful to not even make a mere movement while doing so. He is vigilant, unbelievably, and impossibly vigilant. All the times she had seen him in unexpected situations, though there weren't many, she had come to know that he was very quick-witted, intuitive, and sharp-minded. He could sense things before they could even happen.

She was glad that he hadn't caught her, but also surprised.

She kept her eyes half-closed, watching him. He now had his one knee bent, his other leg spread out just as before. He shifted back, sinking into the pillows as his back leaned into the headboard.

He stared ahead, running his hand through his silky, thick black locks, shuffling them back. His breaths were now back to normal, or was he trying to make them normal? Either way, he has calmed down now. But something in his slow breathing, his fisted fingers, his ablaze, stilled eyes was reeking of an emotion. Anger? Or maybe sadness? Or probably both.

"Also, eat fast. He might wake up anytime," She recalled Warren's words on her first day there. She didn't pay much attention to it back then, but now she wondered if this was the reason.

But she never witnessed him like this on any other night. But then again, she slept early and woke up whenever the sun's rays disturbed her. And he was always awake before her.

Just what this man was? He was difficult, too complicated to be understood by anyone.

She watched him silently, not making a movement, not making any sound.

Even though the room was covered in darkness, she could still make out his silhouette—tensed, and disturbed.

For the very first time, she had seen him in such vulnerability, such miserability. And she would be lying if she said that she wasn't affected. Hell, he wanted to do nothing but comfort him, even if he wouldn't allow her to.

But she won't, she couldn't. It was wrong, in every way, in every context, for every reason.

So, she just sat there and wished that he would be fine, that he was fine.

-----

"Where are you going?" She asked Warren as he took the empty plate from her crib.

"How do you know I am going somewhere?" He let out a surprised chuckle.

"Oh, I saw him getting ready so...I thought he was going somewhere with you," She trailed off, embarrassed. She didn't want Warren to think that she kept a check on the mentioned guy.

"Him who?" Warren raised his eyebrows, knowing she never called him by his name.

"Him. Your friend," She answered, her cheeks heating up, for unknown reasons.

"Well, my friend does have a name, you know," Warren smiled teasingly.

She rolled her eyes, giving him a look, ignoring the way her stomach flipped and her cheeks were burning.

"Alright, alright," Warren laughed, clearly not sorry at all, "Yes, we are going out for some work, and will return a bit late too," he informed.

She blinked at him, feeling a knot forming in her stomach, her body tensing up.

Warren sensed her fear.

"Ah, don't worry. Nike won't come today,' She wasn't relieved by his answer. If not Nike, someone else would be coming. And all of them are the same.

"In fact, he won't ever come now," He continued, smiling in what seemed like evil happiness.

"Why?" She asked, narrowing her eyes in confusion.

"Because he is dead," Warren whispered, making a slicing gesture with his thumb at his neck.

She stared at him in shock and bewilderment, her mouth half opened at the very surprising, yet very sweet and pleasurable news.

"Wha....When? How?" She asked, feeling her heart finally recovering from the surprise and floating in happiness.

Was it a bad thing to be happy about someone's death? Of course not. But Nike wasn't just someone, he tried to assault her, rape her. He had hit her, tortured her, scarred her. He deserved death.

"The very same night of the day when he came here. Tiger killed him, brutally," Warren said proudly.

She smiled. After a very long time, she smiled genuinely. A smile that wasn't forced, a smile that wasn't a reassurance to herself in the bathroom's mirror, a smile that wasn't half-hearted to Warren every time he showed a little kindness to her. It was a simple, small but heartfelt smile. A genuine, and happy one.

She looked up at him, the knot coming back in her stomach.

"Who is coming here then?"

"AK. You might not know him, but he is a good guy, he won't do anything..."

She didn't listen to anything of what Warren said, his words faded into the background after that mentioned name.

AK.

She knew him. She knew him all too well. She had seen his shadow silhouette at the window when they brought her there on the first day; she had seen his name flashing on Warren's phone's caller ID the other day. The knot in her stomach grew tighter. The thought of meeting him again was both pine-chilling and unnerving.

She knew him.