( call it instincts, or street smarts, or just having common fucking sense when a man reaches for an improvised weapon — ani flinches, confident aggression washed right down the drain for three (vulnerable) humiliating seconds. the kind of animal reaction from a cat facing off against a spray bottle, a beaten dog expecting a hard hit again. still, there's no whimper, no cowering, no satisfaction of letting anyone have the chance to read the fleeting fear in her eyes; in retaliatory anticipation, her hand shoots out quick, wrapped around an abandoned glass, and glares down at —

fucking igor. the dawning realization doesn't loosen her grip. hard-won lessons in life: just because a man treats you nice doesn't mean he'll always treat you nice. not even 'til death do you part. pointless promises they wipe their ass with and flush away, down into the sewer with all the other filth. )

You got some fucking nerve asking me that.

( the quiver in her voice is barely perceptible. taut fingers slip away, but not without reluctance, to cross her arms over her chest — not for a joke like modesty, but to march an accusation beeline over to him, looming, poking hard between his eyebrows. )

This is your style. It's got your goddamn name written all over it.

( kidnapped girls, trashed rooms — he can take his pick. but even as she barks and bites it out, she isn't wholly buying into the narrative, infinitely more pissed that she can't trick herself into believing her own bullshit. with an eyeroll, hating herself for the inconvenient impulse, she snatches at the nearest thing she can find — someone's discarded, lacy panties — and leans down to artlessly shove them under his bloody nose.

tired, but no less edgy: ) You fucking boogeyman. ( for always haunting her, showing up at her lowest. )