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Who is this sassy lost child
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Alvaro Vacanti. Alessio Rigano. Isabel Ramirez. Lily Caldwell.

That was what Jae had thought to himself over and over, imagining their deaths, imagining that he would get some kind of release when he had made sure that none of them made it home for what they had done to him.

Alvaro had been... well, he would have burned himself out eventually. It was only a matter of time before he ran afoul of someone better-equipped, someone who wouldn't be caught off-guard. It was a grim sort of inevitability he had felt when he heard Alvaro's name called for the last time.

Isabel had been satisfying to hear, yes. It had been drowned out by Jae's disbelief over Dorothy taking part, but satisfying all the same that the bitch had gotten what was coming to her. He hoped that she had suffered.

He hoped that she had suffered more than Lily was suffering right now because Lily sounded pretty fucking terrible.

It was how she called his name that wrenched Jae out of his dazed fugue state and then there was the choking horror and the sick twist in his gut but god, he wasn't sorry for it. He had meant it. For every murder that she had idly stood by for. For Asha. And for the fact that when she finally had the chance to make things right and do Isabel in herself, she hadn't taken it.

Jae took a staggering step to the wall and leaned heavily against it, sliding down to sit with a thump, cradling the crossbow in his lap like it was his child.

Lily gasped and wheezed as she bled out, and Jae clamped his hands over his ears to block her out.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."

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