The windowless room allowed no light. Lisa felt the distress of her eyes, futilely straining to discern anything in the desolate space. She had no notion of how long exactly she'd been left in the room alone. Two hours? Three? Her hands were bound behind her back to the wooden chair she was seated in, yet she was not struggling. Never before had she felt so acutely alone, as if there were no people for miles around. Her senses practically ached with neglect; no sound reached her ears, her mouth tasted dry and cottony, and the room seemed to smell of nothing.

Perhaps this unnatural absence of feeling was what it felt like to lose every vestige of hope. Slumped in the chair, Lisa made the unsettling realization that through the previous trials in her life- the rape, Jackson- she had nurtured thoughts of escape and recovery. But this time, no one could help her. No conceivable possibility of freedom or salvation existed, and even her most faithful companions- fear, anger, and sadness- had abandoned her.

At that point, she was not living, but merely existing.

Her eyes ceased their struggle.

-

A lock turned somewhere in the distance, polluting the sterile atmosphere with harsh sound. The door creaked open and light rushed in, eager to remind the room's inhabitant of its existence. The quiet flick of a switch echoed smartly off the blank white walls and the overhead fluorescent lights came to life with a low buzz.

Lisa had not shown any movement since the arrival, her form completely slack in the chair in the center of the space. Douglas glanced at her from the doorway, and then turned to his associates.

"Remain here, I will call when I need assistance," he ordered, and the two men silently moved to flank the door.

Satisfied, Douglas returned his attention to his captive and entered the room, pulling the door shut tightly behind him. He set a small case on the floor near the door, and then approached Lisa.

He wordlessly circled her, hatred etched on his features as he examined his brother's murderer.

"Did you think," he began in a low voice, quivering with suppressed fury, "that you would get away with it?"

Lisa neither acknowledged his presence nor responded, causing Douglas' anger to increase.

"Did you actually have the arrogance, the pretension to believe that my brother could be so easily destroyed and forgotten?" he continued with mounting ire, now looming dangerously over her prone form.

Still, Lisa showed no indication of having heard his words. Douglas grabbed her chin roughly and forced her to look at him. However, though her eyes were upon him, they were unfocused and eerily vacant.

Growling, he slapped her across the face, this stinging blow causing her head to whip to one side. Red furiously illuminated her colorless cheek, but she made no sound.

Frowning, he crouched down and peered at her expressionless face. He reached behind her and felt her wrist. Her pulse was beating in a slow, steady cadence.

"Fucking hell," he muttered. "I've bought a broken toy."

A cold smile curled his lips.

"But you're hiding in there somewhere," he remarked, standing up and walking to his bag.

He unsnapped the clasp and unfolded the cloth case to reveal several sharp, glinting blades. Waving his fingers quickly over the array of tools, he chose a small knife and examined the edge of the blade as he returned to Lisa.

"And I have methods of finding you."

Lifting her chin up, he cut a fine line along her jaw, crimson blood dripping in his wake. His eyes focused on her features, yet he detected only a miniscule reflex flinch. However, the small indication of pain was enough to spur him on.

"Lisa," he sing-songed harshly, crouching down and slicing down the side of her calf.

Watching intently for her reaction, he squeezed her leg brutally, increasing the flow of blood from the large wound. The attack, which should have elicited screams of agony, produced only the same slight wince as the first cut.

Scowling, Douglas grasped the knife firmly in his hand and prepared to sever one of her ears when suddenly the muffled sound of two successive gunshots from beyond the closed door reached his ears. His movements stilled completely, and he turned.

"Peterson!" he demanded, though telltale uncertainty laced his tone. "Edwards!"

His henchmen failed to answer his address, and Douglas tensely stood and faced the door. He gripped the knife tightly and licked his lips. A drip of sweat trailed down his cheek, but he ignored it and kept his eyes trained on the entrance.

Suddenly, the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps could be heard, getting louder and louder until they abruptly stopped just outside the door.

After a moment's pause, the door was kicked open and slammed hard against the wall.

Douglas relaxed, staring at the intruder with confusion.

"What the-"

He was unable to finish his sentence. The bullet struck him in the center of his forehead, and he slumped to the ground.

"I hate when people touch my things," Jackson remarked, lowering the smoking gun as he eyed Douglas' lifeless form with distaste.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - (flashback)

Jackson pushed open the door to the quiet diner and entered, his leg wound forcing a slight limp in his normally intimidating stride. He had carefully concealed his pain in front of Lisa, determined to deny her the pleasure of witnessing the full extent of her little attack.

He cast a swift, calculating eye around the diner, still tense with the remembrance of Lisa's presence and the lingering feeling that he needed to be watching her, ready for an attack or another escape attempt.

Sliding onto a stool at the counter, he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his collared shirt and attempted to relax and revel in his victory.

She was gone. Forever.

His lips curled darkly into a private smile.

As his bullet wounds and neck had healed and scarred, so had hatred embedded itself and thrived inside of him. He had thirsted for revenge, obsessing over gruesome, humiliating deaths for Lisa. His hands had tingled with the desire to feel the warmth of her blood as she begged for mercy, totally broken before him.

Truthfully, he thought of her more than he cared to admit, and not necessarily in a negative light. He remembered the alluring vanilla scent of her hair and the way her full lower lip quivered attractively when she was scared, craved the warmth of her soft skin beneath his fingertips as much as that of her blood.

However, above all, he was a professional. Jackson had not pursued Lisa not because the organization had expressed strong discouragement, but because it had simply been too soon. He refused to become a slave to his emotions; logic and cool confidence were truly invaluable, and especially necessary in any dealings with Lisa Reisert.

When Douglas had phoned him and proposed the plan, it had still been too soon. Jackson had realized this the moment he had set eyes on her in the restaurant, when fury and hatred had risen like bile in his throat at beholding her, so infuriatingly happy, so flawlessly beautiful, so alive. She was still the same irrepressible, unpredictable woman who had nearly killed him, and at that instant he had inevitably reverted into the same depraved, mindlessly furious man who had thrown her down a stairwell.

But such a large payoff was too tempting to deny for such a short, relatively simple task, especially one that provided him with so much personal pleasure. And with the exception of a few amateur slip-ups, Jackson had successfully suppressed his violent rage and, though he loathed to admit it, perverted attraction.

"What can I get for you, sweetheart?" a middle-aged waitress inquired disinterestedly.

"You wouldn't happen to serve alcohol? I could really go for a seabreeze," he stated, smiling engagingly.

The woman eyed him in irritation, snapping her gum. "No."

"Okay, then, I'll have a cup of coffee. Black," he requested, still smiling as the waitress walked away.

He tapped a quick, cheery cadence on the counter with his fingertips, feeling as if an immense weight had been lifted from his shoulders. And yet… in a small, dark corner of his mind, something was not right.

Jackson was wary, not willing to inspect this unexpected sensation of discontent. What is your fucking problem. Everything was perfect, he ended up on top and Lisa had ended up six feet in the ground. And yet…

He was unsatisfied.

As a professional, Jackson had executed his duties to a very satisfactory degree.

But he was also a killer. And he had neglected the natural, primal part of him that hungered for violence, that was now screaming its frustration at having been denied the kill it had longed for.

A cup of coffee slapped onto the counter in front of him and Jackson's crystalline eyes snapped to it coldly.

"There you go. Anything else?" the waitress inquired flatly, hands on her hips.

Maybe he should kill her. Relieve a little tension, appease his assassin with a blood sacrifice. Yet, as his gaze swept over her bleached blonde hair, hard features, and too large curves, he made the tired, grudging realization that her death would mean nothing. It would not sate him.

"No," he answered shortly, and she frowned at his sudden change in temperament as she left.

A feeling suddenly flared within him, one that he had brutally suppressed earlier. It had gathered it strength and now overpowered him, refusing to be denied.

It was the instinct that what he'd done was wrong. It had felt unnatural to hand over Lisa, a woman who had offended, mutilated, and humiliated him in every respect, to a man unworthy of the privilege to kill her. Who lacked the passion, the right to appreciate and to break a person of such rarity.

She was his, and the thought of her blood touching the hands of another man suddenly sickened him.

Jackson mechanically rose from his seat and rebuttoned his shirt grimly. Straightening his dark jacket, he threw a couple dollars onto the counter and strode to the door, no longer aware of the pain in his leg. His single-minded ambition made him strong and ruthless, as a machine mindlessly performing the purpose for which it was made.

- - - - - - - - - - -

"I hate when people touch my things," Jackson remarked, lowering the smoking gun as he eyed Douglas' lifeless form with distaste.

His attention shifted to Lisa, sitting completely slack in her chair and surrounded by an alarming amount of blood. He observed her emotionlessly for a beat before approaching and feeling for a pulse in her neck with two fingers.

A faint beat was detectable, but was rapidly weakening from blood loss. Her normally vibrant eyes were blankly unseeing. Jackson felt vastly mixed emotions at seeing Lisa like this, but of one thing he was certain: he could not have her die yet. Not like this.

He knew he had limited time to work with and stripped off his blue collared shirt, wrapping the fabric around her leg as a crude dressing.

Lisa blinked once, twice. Her eyebrows furrowed as a myriad of sensations abruptly bombarded her and she gasped for breath. Harsh light pierced her vision, and she squinted and moaned as her body registered excruciating pain.

Jackson, feeling her muscles tense with life beneath his fingers, glanced up at Lisa's face as she moaned and struggled to re-enter reality.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and she looked at him, a light of recognition sparking in her gaze.

"Jackson?" she asked in a small, cracked voice before passing out.

-