On the outskirts of Domino City, in the older, more ragged part of the industrial district, there was a warehouse.
It was old and run-down, with grass growing waist-high in the yard. The concrete foundations were crumbling, parts of the sheet-metal walls rusting away or missing entirely. Nobody came here – ragged scraps of yellow-and-black striped "CAUTION" tape fluttered from posts and doors.
The warehouse had a long string of previous owners – all very brief ownerships. It "had a bad feel". Might have had something to do with the four girls buried under the concrete.
Marik had moved in not too long ago and made the place even better.
Outside there were a few scattered patches of bleached bone and fabric shreds, nearly buried by the grass – Marik's old playmates. He gave nary a thought to them as he waded through the grass to the warehouse.
Inside in the inky gloom you could just make out little rotting heaps on the ground, staining the concrete dark colours. Marik's failed experiments. The oldest had been on the concrete for about eighteen months, partly mummified in the still conditions, partly-rotted jaw hanging open in a silent scream. The youngest was just under a week – a boy, with blonde hair and fair skin, and little trails of ants leading from his milky eyes.
Boys and girls. None older than twenty. Marik's tastes were wide and varied.
He walked past these past ventures, footsteps echoing on the concrete no matter how softly he stepped. Not that there was a need to be quiet – only the dead and a very much blacked out Ryou were in earshot – but Marik found himself doing it anyway. Some weak, long-forgotten second-hand instinct told him to do it. Maybe because part of him thought Ryou would wake up.
Not so much as a peep from the boy since they'd left his bedroom. Not even when Marik had accidentally elbowed him in the nads getting him onto his shoulder. He could practically hear that black concoction oozing through Ryou's veins.
Marik had no idea what that little bottle contained. Or what it was supposed to do. He'd just found it in his pocket one day, and had an overwhelming desire to feed it to his next experiment.
The realm was good to him like that. Little presents every now and again.
The warehouse was only fifty meters long, but Marik had walked at least half a kilometre into the inky blackness. It was a good sign, too – most people he brought in here started to warp at about two hundred metres, but Ryou was still in once piece.
He looked down at the boy again. It was difficult to carry him without spreading his hair everywhere and getting his hands knotted in it, so Marik had wrapped it around his face like a veil. He could just make out Ryou's face beneath it, hair caught in his long eyelashes.
He was a joy to look at. So pretty. In another time slavers would have razed his hometown just to have him, and sold him for a king's ransom to the Emperor of a distant land. The brilliant jewel, the pride of a Sultan's harem.
In his mind's eye Marik saw Ryou dancing slowly, clad in shimmering, fluttering silks and little else. Maybe with a little gold collar around his neck. Something that would be easy to tear off his pale, writhing body at a moment's notice.
Marik's face split into a perverse rictus of a grin. This was going to be fun.