Author's note: Trigger warning for this and all subsequent chapters. Disturbing content. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Nathan stared at his daughter's bedroom door, his fists clenched, a throbbing in his lower half. There was an insistent urge to open her door, let himself in, and from there let the monster rise. Inside, she would be sleeping—unsuspecting, a prey animal awaiting the inevitable slaughter. It was hard to know, in this state, what he wanted more: her body or her blood. He'd looked in, an hour after her door shut, and found her sleeping. She did not know that he was capable of walking on his own, and would not find out his secret, not yet. He shut his eyes and left.

The girl was very beautiful, out on the street corner. She wore fishnets and chains, and a tight orange dress. Her long, black hair, spidery tendrils at the ends, reached to her elbows. She could not have been too old, perhaps eighteen, though doubtful. He watched her from his perch on a fire escape, watched her failure to attract a lowlife man or woman in spite of her comely face and acutely youthful form. They went, instead, to the surgically altered creatures, people with sculpted flesh, dyed hair, color-enhanced eyes and skin. He chuckled. Oh, typical depravity, that they would cast aside a precious jewel in favor of cheap rhinestones. He dropped to the ground silently, and she did not see him cross the street to blend in to the crowd. Nathan, armed with only his bag and its contents, approached her. Repo Man, looking out from his eyes, behind the glasses, smiled darkly and offered her his highest regards.

"My dear, don't you look lovely this evening," he charmed her, and the whore's pallid complexion was disturbed by an attractive, innocent blush. She held out her hand for money. He took it and drew her arm up, pressed a kiss to her wrist. He tongued it briefly, enough to feel her tremor, then retreat.

Her hands were behind her back as she began negotiations, rattling prices off a menu of sexual activities. She was reciting a meticulously crafted script; everything down to her mannerisms, the bounced hip, a toss of her long hair, was planned. "I'll take Z, too, up to you if it's after… or before."

"Oh, what I have in mind will take the entire evening," he mused. She nodded once, thoughtful, and surely he'd not imagined how her eyes briefly, curiously, greedily flickered below his waist. She wanted him. She'd be willing—at least, at first, until his demands grew too outlandish.

"Where do you live?" he asked her, thumbing a hand through his pocket for her to hear the clink of coins.

"We can go upstairs," she said, a nod backwards, and he saw what appeared to be a closed-for-the-night massage parlor, half the red neon sign blown out. The graffiti on the building and the surrounding walls reviewed and ranked the girls.

"Alright."

"Let's go have fun," she said, skipping off, leading the way into a dark den.

He smiled grimly after her and turned her words over in his head. It had not intentionally been a poor choice of words. Then again, he could find the menace in anything. It was an art.

How long since he'd snuffed out a life? The girl would do. As she took what he assumed was the night-time formula of Zydrate in the bathroom, he looked in her cubby and, impatiently pushing aside a doll, found her bills. There was GeneCo's stamp, and with the feared red ink declaring that her payments were past due. She fast approached the dread date of repossession. He thanked God for the small justices in life. This would ease his guilt later, when he fondly and bitterly recalled this girl, this Shilo look-a-like.

He went into the bathroom. She gave a short, startled cry and, out of a false sense of modesty, held up a towel to cover her nakedness. Her legs were waxed like a new car. He wanted to weep at the sight of her, young limbs losing their tension as she laughed at herself and reached for a white shirt. It did not go far down her thighs, barely covered the essentials, and it held her tightly.

"Too tight a squeeze to do what we want in here," she pointed out, and correctly. It was tiny. He let her out first, and followed. Hurriedly, he took her shoulders and compelled her to lie upon the bed. She bent to his guidance as a child would. It excited him.

"Let's start with a kiss," he murmured. She closed her eyes and he momentarily buried himself in her lovely, long hair, smelled the perfume of it.

He froze. He hadn't been with a woman since Marni. He'd imagined, oh yes. Fantasized, in long, furtive moments stolen outside his daughter's bedroom door, looking in on her, and felt the occasional twinge of excitement when his victims shrieked and hurt at his hands, his every whim. That was not the same as being with a living, breathing female, and one who could easily be her… His hand trailed heavily down her side, and he kissed her forehead.

"Can you follow my directives?" he asked her, placing a hand behind her head. "Answer yes or no. Don't nod."

"Yes," she said solemnly.

"Good. That's a good girl."

Encouraged, she smiled.

"We're going to do a little roleplay." He felt the mask begin to slip, a hint of mania. "Call me Daddy… You're my little girl."

She warmed to the idea, turning over under him and presenting her bare bottom. "Hit me," she offered, looking over her shoulder at him.

He went on his knees and put a hand on her back. "Not yet," he said, releasing himself and, without warning, pressing into her. He groaned aloud at the sensation. She made to drop her head down. He growled at her not to move, to look at him. She winced at each forward push until she went silent and let him work at her, his hands squeezing her hips hard enough to leave deep marks.

"Please, my neck hurts," she whimpered.

"Shut up," he snapped, and pulled out. She collapsed on her stomach, her hands going between her legs to clutch as she writhed in discomfort.

He grabbed her by the hair and forced her head back to look at him.

"I didn't hear a 'Daddy,'" he snarled.

"I'm done playing. Just leave your credits and we'll call it even," she said, attempting to dislodge his grip on her.

"You, my dear, are in no position to bargain. You see, I'm not done with you yet. Move, and I promise you'll be dead in a moment." He nearly giggled at her sudden fright, the luminous whites of her eyes as her dreadful situation became very clear to her. "There, that's a good girl. Shush, Shilo, no need to cry," he crooned, for there were tears going down her cheeks.

He had her bound in no time, and from his bag he drew his hungry scalpel. It sliced through the air.

"No, no, please no!" she begged hysterically, writhing in contradiction to how passively she'd lain as he tied her to the bed. Her thin lips were stretched wide in a terror-struck grimace. She'd been able to keep quiet, as he told her, soft whimpers only, and he knew she could not help those. She did try, poor thing. He shook his head.

"Shh." The edge went to her mouth. She trembled. A tear of sweat was on her neck. He grinned and lowered his head slowly to inhale the salty fear. She was shuddering, and he'd not even cut her yet. "You deserve this, you know." He put the knife to the dip of belly button, and his teeth flashed. She shook her head. "If you'd never disobeyed me..." He pressed, a shadow created as the scalpel teased at an incision. "Say it! Say I'm the world to you! Say you won't leave me!"

An anguished wail escaped as he succeeded and tore up her stomach, pressing deep enough for him to see the riches of organs. He had no interest in them. He intended to tear out her heart. Her screaming would not stop. It began to irritate him.

"Now, that's no way to thank your Daddy!" he berated her furiously. She was gushing blood beneath him; it shot out like feathers from an exploding mallard. "Ungrateful! Little! Brat!" He lost patience and lifted the scalpel from the clean, precise line he'd created to stab and stab as the stuck pig squealed and bucked in a panic, trying to get him off of his prey. "You complain about these pinpricks?" He laughed maniacally, and realized he'd punctured one of her lungs.

The door burst open, light flooding the room.

"What the hell is going on up here? My God—Marie?"

Repo Man growled his displeasure, grabbed his bag, and scurried out the window. Would she live? Who cares? He'd not been able to finish. The energy boiled up, and the monster had seized control. Nathan loved it. Why had he fought all this time when it felt this damn good? This time, when the idea came to go to Shilo, he immediately agreed.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.

"You of all people..." Kiss to her clavicle. "... should know..." Kiss to her breast, drawing out a gasp. "... I go where I want." He took it in his mouth and scraped his teeth up her flesh. "Oh, Shilo, Shilo, Shilo," he murmured, trailing his fingers up her side to cup the other breast.

"I mean it! You're going to get me in trouble with him. Again!"

Graverobber removed himself from the suction he had on her chest to fix her with a dubious stare. "Him? Your dad?"

"Yes," she said. She squeezed her hands. They shook uncontrollably.

"He can't do anything to you, kid. Not ever." He sat her up and busied his hands with rubbing the black off of her breast. "You have to let this paranoia go and move on."

"You don't understand," she said. "The way he looks at me... And I think he spies on me, through my door." She was ashamed to find herself close to tears. "He's strong. True, it's irrational that he could hurt me. He's my dad. He'd never. What if he did? What if he was able to walk again and he came after me?"

"Kid, Shilo, slow down." His hand was on her hyperventilating chest. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't breathe, even when she drew air in with constant gasps. She squeezed his arm and struggled to maintain consciousness. Gradually, Graverobber's touch, along with the unselfish concern there in his vanishing smile, calmed her, and she counted slowly between inhalations. His melody brought her back to a relative calm. "Breathe. Breathe, kid. Breathe."

"What do you care?" Her eyes stung. She ignored the dull pain in her side when she shifted to rest with her head to the wall and glared at him. "You use me for sex. That's all I am to you. What's it matter what happens when you're not around, as long as I spread my legs when you're here with me?"

"Is that what you think?" he asked her angrily.

"It's the truth!"

"Figures," he scoffed, and shoved off the bed. "Shilo Wallace, listen to me good: Nathan Wallace is a twisted soul, and he can do nothing to you. I promise."

"I don't—you can't see it from my point of view," she protested feebly. "I'm scared."

"But there's no reason to be," he consoled her, kneading her shoulder.

"What about us?" she asked fiercely, with brightly gleaming eyes.

"Us? Thought you made that pretty clear. I wanted more. You turned me down. Now I'm here. I came in through your window. You asked me here," he reminded her. "You wanted to see me."

"I wanted to see you," she said softly. "I thought orgasms cured fear. They don't."

"Not even three in a row?" he asked with a smirk.

She shook her head. "No, guess not." She scooted toward the edge of the bed to grab at his scarf and draw him toward her, handful after handful of blue fabric.

"To be accurate, kid, you're the one who's using me." He put a hand over hers to stop the pull. "It hurts, and I've had enough. You want a sex toy, then I'll give you the name of a shop and be on my way."

"What's wrong with that we have?" she asked, anxiously clutching at the sheets.

"Sweetheart, I'm a man with all that it entails. Human emotions, which I've acquired for you. It's not enough to pleasure you when you push me aside. Kid, you see me as what, exactly?" he demanded. "A means to an end?"

"No! I don't know. Please don't go."

"I need more. This isn't enough for me. Sometimes I wonder," he started, and broke off, looking disgusted with himself. He scowled and ripped his scarf from her loose grip. "Do you even want more with me?"

Unable to give the answer he wanted, she looked out the window. She couldn't give him what he wanted. She wasn't capable of it. Things had been changing between them. He sensed her distance when they were intimate, and how could he not? Shilo would not even look at him. Graverobber became kind, more than she could have ever thought of him. He was a drug dealer, for crying out loud, one who defiled corpses on a regular basis, and he acted like he was in love with her. It was all for her benefit. There were wilted funereal flowers on the end table by her bed, and its petals were falling. She watched the progress of the unraveling beautiful thing.

To have more with him would take wanting to see him outside her bedroom. To have more would require energy, and the emotions her father had smothered out of her. Graverobber could move on. Shilo knew that, even if he didn't.

Because, hell, he was one hundred percent right. He didn't give her anything that a dildo couldn't. Except that he tried, harder than anyone else in her life, to make her feel safe and sane and okay. Like a human being, not some delicate sprite floating a step off of the world. His attention was precious, and without a return on the investment on her part, she was going to lose it. Not just the sex, which would be a pity in and of itself. In the space of that silence, Shilo tried to work through seventeen years of repression, and weeks of anxiety, and found that she couldn't do it.

"Forget it. I don't need this bullshit," he sneered, and quickly dressed. Arms through shirt, legs into jeans, dark and dingy coat over it all to sweep the floor. He left through the window. He left her naked and exposed. She wrapped a sheet around her body and ran to the balcony, sorry too late. He wasn't there. Graverobber had left her, and she knew it was for good.