Page 84 of Property of Fox

The man laughs as he stalks towards me. His large hands gripping the back of my chair, dragging me over within a few feet of Brea’s ensnared form. Tank steps forward. With one swift motion, he pushes his hand against Brea’s chin forcing her gaze upon mine. I can barely breathe, the chill in the air tightens around my throat as I watch Tank bear down on her. His grip on her chin is unrelenting. It's like a physical manifestation of everything wrong in this world. My heart pounds so loud I swear it could drown out even his depraved laughter.

“Look at him,” Tank snarls through gritted teeth, “watch how helpless he is. I want you to watch him break when I take you.”

“Brea, baby, I am so sorry,” I sob.

“It’s not your fault,” she cries. “I should have never left.”

“Don’t say that, firefly. Don’t let him break you.” I want to reach out to her, but my chains restrict me from trying to comfort her. To protect her from what we both know is coming. “Keep your eyes on me. Focus on me.”

“I love you,” she mutters.

“Don’t say that now. Say it when we’re both safe. Not when you think this is goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” she cries over and over again like a mantra, trying to soothe herself for what’s coming.

“How about we get this started already?” One of his members interjects “I’ve gotta pick up my kids in an hour.” The idea that this man is here, about to steal away Brea’s innocence, all the while having kids, makes me retch.

“You’re right,” Tank smiles, looking directly at me. “We’ve all waited long enough.”

Tank releases his hold on Brea, tugging at his fly while he stalks to the end of the metal table. I watch in horror as he settles between her open legs. He pulls out his half-flaccid cock, giving it a few pumps before stepping forward into position.

I need her to focus on something else other than what’s about to happen. Tank moans as he forces his cock between Brea's thighs.

“Eyes on me, firefly. Keep your fucking eyes on me,” I shout, my voice cracking under the strain of my rage and despair. The world narrows around us, the darkness of the room collapsing in as Tank presses closer. Everything within me screams to burn the floor beneath him, to tear this whole place apart and drag her away from this hell.

Suddenly, the ground shudders beneath us. A low rumble resonates through the room, shaking dust from above and causing faint glimmers of light to flicker from every corner like a swarm of fireflies caught in a windstorm. The tremors grow stronger until they become an unbearable force. I’m not entirely sure if it's terror coursing through my veins or sheer adrenaline at this point.

In that split second, time stretches impossibly thin. Brea’s eyes dart open wide as she senses it too. The foreboding wave crashing toward us both and for just one brief moment silencesuffocates all sound. Tank’s twisted grin fades into confusion, my own desperation hanging like broken glass on a precipice about to fall.

Then it happens. A colossal explosion erupts with violent fervor against our backsides. Light swells, a blinding flash envelops everything, an ethereal mix between dawn's glow and hellfire consuming me whole. I feel myself being hurled backward as if someone unhitched gravity itself. There is a loud crash as the chair I am chained to shatters underneath the force and my weight, freeing me from its confines but not the chains. I roll onto my side, my injuries screaming for me to stop.

But there’s no stopping now. I crawl across the debris-strewn floor, each movement a searing fresh agony in my torso, yet I push through it—through every ounce of pain and despair that threatens to pull me under. The vision of Brea’s form pinned beneath the overturned table pushes me forward until I reach her. Blood trickles down her temple like crimson tears.

“Firefly,” I rasp as panic surges in my chest. “Brea!” My voice is raw with desperation as if calling out for some magic savior to lift this horror away from us both.

The room blurs into an inferno of reds and oranges swirling together. I reach Brea just as Tank gets to his feet, stunned. His cock hanging from his undone pants like a limp worm. Tank sees me, grabbing me by my shackled legs, pulling me towards him. I fight against him, my heart pounding like a war drum. I twist and kick with everything left in me.

“Get off me, you bastard!” I snarl as Tank’s grip tightens, his hands rougher than ever, sinking into flesh that is already tender. With more force than I thought possible given our position, I twist myself onto one elbow and drive a fist straight into Tank’s jaw. He stumbles back but not far enough for comfort: fury burns in his eyes again as he lunges forward oncemore, just as several shots ring out, followed by heavy footsteps approaching closer amid shouts demanding order amidst it all.

“Fox! Get down!” A voice bellows in the distance, and I barely register it over my own heartbeat.

Tank lets out a primal roar of anger as he lunges for me again, but his movements falter. Something is off about him. In shockingly slow motion, I see three bullets strike him square in the chest. A blossom of crimson unfurls on Tank's shirt like grotesque flowers breaking through concrete. He stumbles backward, confusion flashing across his features before they’re washed away by sheer disbelief.

I freeze mid-fight as time fractures once more. “Fuck…” The curse escapes my lips just as Tank collapses at my feet. His mass crashing onto dusty concrete with an almost synesthetic thud.

Van stands behind him. A smoking gun in his hand. He rushes forward, dropping to his knees next to me. Eyes flickering with a mixture of fury and relief. "You okay?”

“Get to Brea! Get her out!” I shout back through gritted teeth before another pain shoots through my side. “She’s pinned under the table. Check Tank’s pockets. He might have the key.”

Van nods, urgency lacing his movements. He pivots on his heels, charging for Tank’s lifeless body.

I can hardly breathe as I watch Van scramble over the heap that was once Tank, every muscle in my body tight with adrenaline. My mind races a mile a minute.

Van's fingers probe through the wreckage of Tank’s clothes with deft precision. Each second passes as if they have their own heartbeat.

"Come on," Van mutters through gritted teeth, frustration layering his voice as he digs deeper into pockets cloaked by blood-stained fabric. “Got it.” With one triumphant yank, he retrieves it.

I watch, my heart pounding, as Van rushes to Brea's side. The table that pinned her down looms like a monstrous beast. Van's muscles strain as he grips the edge, his face contorting with effort. He heaves the table off her, the screech of metal against concrete piercing the air.

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