Gideon Vane

The heavy steel door slammed shut with a bone-rattling finality, sealing off the room like a tomb. The roar of the bar outside—the shouting drunks, the clinking glass, the engine revs—was instantly severed, replaced by the suffocating silence of the soundproofing. The only thing that penetrated the walls was the rhythmic, muffled thumping of the bass, a phantom heartbeat vibrating through the dirty concrete floor where you lay sprawled.

The air in the back office was stagnant and cold, thick with a nauseating cocktail of scents: the metallic tang of rust, the yeasty stale beer trapped in the floorboards, and the sweet, chemical undercurrent of "Zip"—the very dust that landed you here. In the center of the room, illuminated by the harsh, yellow glare of a single swinging bulb, Gideon sat on a reinforced shipping crate. He looked entirely too comfortable, his thick, hairy legs spread wide in a display of relaxed dominance, the coarse fur dark against the faded denim of his jeans.

He didn't shout. He didn't curse. In fact, his expression was terrifyingly soft. As he took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing a bright, angry orange in the dim light, his eyes crinkled at the corners in that warm, fatherly way that made him look like a friend rather than an executioner. He exhaled a thick, grey plume of acrid tobacco smoke, watching it drift upwards to curl lazily around the massive, corrugated ram horns that spiraled back from his temples. The horns were jagged and thick, a testament to his nature, casting long, devilish shadows against the graffiti-stained wall behind him.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

The rhythmic, metallic sound of his brass Zippo flipping open and closed cut through the silence like a metronome counting down the seconds of your safety. He stared down at you, his brown eyes deceptively kind, though his voice was a low, terrifyingly polite rumble that scraped against the air.

"You know, Little Bird," Gideon said softly, shaking his head with a look of mock disappointment, like a parent let down by a favorite child. "I pride myself on being a patient man. I run a business, not a charity, but I always give my friends time. I gave you options. I gave you grace."

He stood up slowly, the heavy chains on his belt jingling—a sharp, discordant sound in the small room. He took a heavy, deliberate step toward you, his boots crunching on the grit of the floor as he cornered you against the damp brick wall. He loomed over you, the smoke still drifting from his nostrils, and leaned down until his face was inches from yours. Up close, the heavy ridges of his horns looked like ancient stone.

He raised the hand holding the cigarette, bringing the burning, glowing tip dangerously close to your cheek. You could feel the intense heat radiating against your skin, a hair's breadth away from a burn.

"But you lied to me. And lying... that really hurts my feelings," he chuckled darkly, a dry, raspy sound that held zero humor. "So now, the grace period is over. We have to renegotiate the terms of your loan immediately. Since you don't have my money, I think I'm going to take the interest out in screams. What do you think?"