Chapter 80: Subservient
I was lying on the couch in the living room the morning after my little conversation with Scar Face when Scar Face refilled my glass.
I hadn’t asked for it, I hadn’t even looked at him. But the second I had emptied it, he had moved so fast to refill it you would have thought that I had screamed at him.
But I wasn’t complaining. The point of the exercise wasn’t that I wanted water, the point was that the man in charge of the survivors was waiting on me... hand and foot.
He set the glass pitcher down on the coffee table in front of me and stepped back without saying anything. His posture was different now that he understood his place and I couldn’t help but smile in approval as I took a sip.
His shoulders were hunched slightly forward as he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. It was like he couldn’t decide if he was going to move because I needed something else, or if he was already planning his exit strategy.
But I didn’t acknowledge any of his movements. I just drank the water and kept my eyes on the TV. The glass was cold against my palm, condensation running down the sides in thin lines. On screen, someone was talking. I wasn’t really listening, just letting the sound fill the space.
Scar Face moved to the other side of the room and adjusted the curtain. The afternoon light had been hitting the couch at an angle, warming the fabric where I was lying and casting a glare onto the TV.
He pulled the curtain across without being told, and the light shifted away and I could watch my show that much better. He didn’t wait for thanks or confirmation that he had done good, he just moved back to his position near the doorway and stood there.
One of his men, Baby, walked in from the hallway. He stopped when he saw Scar Face standing by the door, his arms loose at his sides, his attention fixed on the room. The man’s eyes moved from Scar Face to me, then back again. His expression shifted—confusion first, then into something sharper as I continued to pretend to be engrossed in something... TV ish.
"What are you doing?" Baby asked, rotating his shoulder like it still hurt. Like I said... he was a baby. His voice was flat, but there was an edge underneath like he was reprimanding Scar Face.
Scar Face didn’t answer right away. He shifted his weight again, this time in uncertainty, his eyes flicking toward Baby for half a second before dropping to the floor. His jaw worked, I could see it opening and closing from the corner of my eye, but no words came out.
The silence stretched on and Baby’s confusion deepened.
"Why are you acting like this?" Baby asked, shaking Scar Face’s shoulder. His tone was harder now, as irritation bled through. He didn’t understand, and because he didn’t, he was walking into a field of mines.
Scar Face’s shoulders tightened like he wanted to beat Baby for the insubordination. However, he only opened his mouth again before finally saying, "Nothing. Just standing here."
The answer was weak and everyone who was watching the scene without actually watching the scene had heard it.
Baby’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Scar Face the way you’d look at something broken. Scar Face didn’t meet his gaze. He kept his eyes down, his posture stiff but not defensive. Just... off.
Another survivor, Fuck Face, appeared in the doorway behind the first. He took in the scene—Scar Face standing awkwardly as Baby stared at him. I sat on the couch for the first time since everyone moved in, a glass of water in my hand.
Fuck Face’s expression shifted from neutral to wary in the span of a breath.
"What’s going on?" Fuck Face asked.
Baby didn’t turn to Fuck Face. He kept his eyes on Scar Face. "That’s what I’m trying to figure out. He’s acting weird. He’s acting like she is a queen or something." He jerked his chin toward me just in case no one knew who he was talking about.
Scar Face’s hands curled into loose fists at his sides. His breathing was controlled, but his chest rose and fell just a little too fast. He still wasn’t looking at either of them. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere near the floor. He could tell them what happened... but would anyone believe it?
In a way, he was valiantly trying to save their lives, only they didn’t appreciate his gesture.
"I’m not acting weird," Scar Face replied at last. His voice was steady, but it lacked weight. It didn’t carry the authority it used to.
Baby stepped closer. "You’ve been following her around all day. Refilling her glass. Moving shit. What the hell is that?"
Scar Face didn’t answer. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The silence was worse than any excuse he could have given. The two men exchanged a look. Fuck Face’s hand drifted toward his waistband and the gun that was tucked there.
He wasn’t being threatening yet, just... reminding everyone that he thought he had the power.
I took another sip of water. The glass was still cold. I didn’t look directly at any of them. I just kept my eyes on the TV, watching the chef trying to explain the perfect way to whip egg whites by hand.
Baby’s attention snapped to me. His eyes were hard, calculating. He looked at me for a long moment, then back at Scar Face. Understanding settled across his face—not complete, but enough. Something had happened. Something had changed. Scar Face wasn’t in charge anymore.
"This is because of her," Baby said. It wasn’t a question and his face twisted into a look of disgust. "Why? She is powerless without the other four looking after her."
Scar Face’s jaw clenched. He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t confirm it either. He just stood there, silent, his hands still curled into fists, his breathing shallow.
Fuck Face moved into the room fully now. His posture was tense, his eyes moving between Scar Face and me. The air in the room felt heavier. Baby’s hand moved to his side, fingers brushing against something tucked into his belt. Probably a knife knowing him.
I set my glass down on the side table. The sound was soft, barely audible, but all three men reacted. Scar Face’s shoulders went rigid. Baby’s hand stopped moving. Fuck Face took half a step back.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t look at them. I just leaned back into the couch and crossed one leg over the other.
Baby’s breathing changed. It was faster now, sharper. His hand moved again, this time with purpose. Metal glinted as he pulled the gun from his waistband. He didn’t shout. He didn’t warn me. He just raised it and aimed.
Scar Face froze. His whole body went still, his eyes locked on the gun, his mouth slightly open. Fuck Face didn’t move either. The room was silent except for the faint sound of breathing—three men, all tense, all waiting.
I can’t say I approved of his action.
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