It was cold. Wherever she was, it was cold, and she was uncomfortable. She tried to lift her head, but it felt heavy in her grogginess. Opening her eyes was a struggle. She didn't want to be awake yet.

"Deputy."

That single, slowly enunciated word startled her awake and she sat up quickly, head spinning. Each perfectly pronounced syllable sent an icy dagger into her heart. She forced herself to focus and found herself staring at a pair of clean, black boots that looked to be attached to knees instead of legs. His fingers tangled in her hair, forcing her head back violently to look at him. He was couched before her, a pleasant smile on his lips. A smile that didn't quite reach his piercing blue eyes. John Seed himself.

"Good morning, Deputy!" he said brightly, although in her addled state he may as well have been yelling into her ear. She winced. "Did you have a nice nap? I almost thought you weren't going to wake up - you've been asleep for a whole day!"

He chuckled then, lowering himself to his knees before her. His fingers relaxed their grip in her hair slightly, and he brought his other hand to rest under her chin. He turned her face from one side to the other, examining, as his thumb reached out to stroke her lower lip. Feeling her anger building, she went to bite his thumb but missed. He laughed heartily before slapping her back-handed across the face, then withdrew his hands and sat back on his heels, watching her. She was panting, blinded momentarily by the blow to her left cheek.

She turned her head back towards him slowly, raising her eyes to meet his. She said nothing, yet the anger she felt radiated from her in waves. This seemed to please him. He spread his arms wide.

"There's that wrath, Deputy. There's your sin." he smirked. "Not that you can do much from in here-" He glanced around. "No one knows where you are. And you're not really in a position to be going anywhere."

He groaned softly as he stood up, before he turned and walked over to a bench on the opposite side of the room. She used this opportunity to look around. She was in some sort of cell. Concrete walls, concrete floor, no windows. One door. Two metal chairs in the far corner, and a bucket. Her wrists and ankles were shackled to chains attached to a point in the wall above her. She was still wearing her own clothes, thank God.

He returned with a plastic cup. "Drink." She eyed the cup wearily. "It's only water, Deputy." he sighed exasperatedly. "I can't have you dying of thirst - we haven't had any fun yet."

She pursed her lips. She was thirsty. She reached a shaky hand out for the cup. He let it go, but her hand trembled violently and she started to spill the water onto herself. He rolled his eyes and helped her, wrapping his warm fingers around her hand to help steady the cup.

"So, Dep," he began, placing the cup to the side. "Shall we begin?"

"Begin what?" she rasped, eyeing him wearily.

"Your confession!" he replied gleefully. "But first, let's get you more comfortable." He walked over to the corner of the room and dragged the two chairs over, making as much noise as he possibly could. He threw one against the wall next to her, facing the room. She flinched, thinking it was going to hit her. Before she could open her eyes, he'd bent down, grabbed her under the arms and hoisted her up. He stood there, looking down at her for a moment, before throwing her unceremoniously into the chair. He pulled the other chair to face hers, and sat opposite her, with a small leather bag on his lap. She eyed it suspiciously. What's in there?

Her question was immediately answered when he opened the bag and produced a tattoo gun. He then reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small flip knife. "How can someone so small cause so much trouble?" he asked slowly, twirling the blade between his fingers. "You know I had to punish those guards that let you into my home. I saw you creep past my bedroom window. I'll admit, I was impressed." He leaned forward and put the blade under her chin. "I was tempted to shoot you right there. But then you played Joseph's message - which was rude, by the way. That was private. However, it made me reconsider. For now, at least."

He grabbed the neckline of her t-shirt with his other hand and used the knife to cut the shirt open from neck to sternum. He parted the material and leaned back, watching. Smirking. She said nothing. "Imagine my surprise when the woman who had escaped from under my nose turned up in my living room! It was as if God himself gifted you to me. Confess your sins to me, Deputy. Let's start with your name."

She shook her head. "Deputy is fine." she mumbled, throat still dry.

He made a small noise of disapproval. She looked at him when he turned on the tattoo gun. The low buzzing was oddly comforting in the gloom of the cell she was in. But she knew that it wouldn't stay comforting for long. He leaned forward.

She sat, unmoving, while he finally branded her with his mark. She couldn't see it, but she knew he was inking WRATH onto her skin. Her supposed sin. The needle pierced the skin under her left collarbone repeatedly, what initially felt like a scratch became hot and rough, like sunburn. She inhaled deeply while he worked, trying to calm herself. Occasionally she would inhale a spicy, musky scent, that seemed familiar, yet she was unable to place it.

He turned his head to whisper in her ear. "Done." His fingers lingered on her collarbone, tracing a faint line beneath her freshly inked skin.

It was him. That smell was him, and she'd smelled it on the handkerchief he'd used to drug her. He leaned back in his chair, admiring his handiwork. The buzzing stopped. A smile played about his lips. "Wrath is your sin. And it is my job to free you from that sin. By any means necessary."

With that, he got up, kicked his chair back to the corner of the room, and walked to the door. He turned to her in the doorway. "Make yourself at home, Dep. You can use that bucket in the corner if you need to piss." he said casually. "If you can reach it."

She heard the door lock, and the soft notes of John whistling We'll Meet Again as he sauntered down the hall. She glanced at the bucket. It was in the far corner, where the chairs were originally. She wouldn't be able to reach it. She glanced once more around the room. The pitcher of water was on the bench opposite. She couldn't see anything else on the bench. There were no cupboards, not even a cot. It was just an empty, cold space.

She hung her head and sat in silence, listening to the faint screams and cries of John's other prisoners.