First:
He stands in a dark hallway, hands deep in his pockets, trying to look inconspicuous. His head jerks up as he hears the clicking of heels, quick, frantic, rounding the corner. Then he sees her. She looks bad. Her left eye is slightly swollen, burst blood vessels tainting the white of her eye pink. Her hair is in disarray, the complete opposite of the sleek, shining waterfall it was, hours ago. Her clothes (clothes he is not used to seeing her in, despite all the months of training) that clung to her like a second skin, glittering in the artificial lights, are now rumpled and ripped in a few places, lending a full view of the four angry scratch marks the run from around her throat to her decolletage.
"I got the bastard, in the end," she tells him, quickening her pace, longing for his reassuring presence. "Now let's get out of here before it's too late."
He examines her, wondering how she does it. Only the subdued quivering of her lips gives her away, shows her weakness. He places a hand on her shoulder, and looks into her eyes. "Are you all right?"
She smiles, a little shakily, placing her hand over his and squeezing, meeting his eyes. "I'm fine. It wasn't so bad. Not like they said," She trails off, glancing around nervously. "Come on, we better hurry."
So they turn and walk away, keeping to the shadows and never looking back.
Inner:
'Shit,' she thinks. 'Shit, shit, shit.' He is leering at her from his spot on the bed, waggling his eyebrows and beckoning with one finger in a way that would have been humorous were she not so scared. She gives what she hopes is a confident smile, sauntering towards him, swaying her hips just as she practiced, so many, many times. 'It is all muscle memory now,' she tells herself, trying not to flinch as he takes in her form. He really isn't an unattractive man, really not an evil man, but he is her enemy, and this is her job. She will prove her worth, she will be important. Down the hall, just out of hearing distance, her partner waits, depending on her to finish this task. He has done his part, getting her this close, and if she backs out now all his hard work will go to waste. 'I have no reason to be nervous,' she chants, 'I have practiced enough, I am ready,' but it is her first time, and it is not an easy job to complete.
The cool metal of the knife, tucked carefully in her boot, reassures her. 'I am ready.'
Outer:
The man watches the girl, the pretty girl, walk towards him. She is a skinny thing, with just a hint of muscle showing through, giving something away (although he's not sure what). She has a hungry look in her eyes, a desperation, and he knows that she is willing to do what he says. He is a wealthy man. He takes care of his whores, and she such a pretty, pretty whore. "Come here," he says, and he places his hands on her hips, she is shaking, ever so slightly, a stark contrast to the confidence in her eyes. "Don't be sacred now, I'll be nice." She is so young, so fragile looking, 'a dancer,' he thinks, gazing at her well toned limbs with sudden understanding. "Dance for me," he says, to her astonishment. She blinks, once twice, before smiling coyly. "I didn't think that was what I was here for," and she runs a hand up his thigh, bending over, just so, such that her breasts hover just in front of his eyes. He laughs, a hearty rich sound, and, laying hand on the flat of her back, pushes her onto his lap. "Right you are." She collapses with no resistance. "Now lets get you out of those tight clothes."
He reaches for her boots, running a hand down her calf, and she suddenly tenses, panicking. He smirks. It didn't take long for that bravado to fall. He means to comment, to tease the little thing, when all the sudden he is pushed down. Before he can respond she is reaching back, dipping her fingers into her leather boot, pulling out a knife and pressing it flush against his throat.
"Sorry Mr., not today." But she underestimates him. With one hard shove, she tumbles to the ground, still clutching the knife, looking determined.
"I'm sorry it turned out this way, Sweetheart. I hate to kill such a pretty thing." In the time he takes to smirk down at her, she is on her feet, lunging toward him. He twists away, throwing out his arm and catching her cheek with his flailing fists. She feints back, dropping the knife and cradling the wound with one hand, glaring at him through her good eye. He comes again, kicking the weapon away and lashing out. She jumps back, crashing into a night stand, turning it over, shattering a vase and scattering the flowers it had held. He storms toward her, wrapping his fingers around her throat and beaming with victory. That is until she cuts a rather deep slash in his stomach with a jagged shard of glass. He gasps, stepping back, arm wrapped tightly around his middle as he fights down the pain. She leaps across the room, grabbing the knife and clutching it tightly in her fist. Running towards him and dodging his weak attempt at defense, she jams the blade deep between his ribs. She pulls it out with a sickening squelch, jerking back away from his grasping hand, which claws at her throat as he falls to the ground, producing a muffled hiss. He collapses, gasping for breath, blood bubbling at his lips, and, in just a few minutes, he is dead, laying motionless at her feet. She wipes the blood from her blade on his expensive silk sheets, and with a single calming breath, exits the room.
Last:
Her fingers leave tiny, bloody fingerprints of the door knob, which she quickly wipes away. With one more pull they are outside, the cool night air raising goosebumps on her arms. She glances back to see that he is following, then begins to flee, racing into the dark.
The go for about an hour before he deems it safe to stop, and they set up camp, keeping the fire low, and bags packed, just in case a quick escape is necessary. They lay out their mats and sleep. Except she cannot. Instead she pictures what could have happened, all the things that could have gone wrong. The other girls' horror story haunt her. After ages of sleepless tossing and turning she sits up, rubbing her eyes in frustration. He is staring at her, worry hinted in the shadows of his face.
"I'm fine," she repeats. "Nothing happened really," he glances at her questioningly, "It is just all the things that could have. All the things that probably will happen if I keep this up."
He rises to his knees, and crawls towards her, putting his arm around her in a gesture completely foreign to him. "You are strong," he says, no doubt in his tone, "I will not lie and say bad things will never happen, but you shan't be broken by something like this." He glances down at her, "And should you need it, I will be here, we are partners. We stand together."
