Like all cities in the world do, Madrid has its share of famous crimes. However, there’s a house in the very heart of the city that seems a magnet for them. One could argue that the entire street is, indeed, prone to tragedy and violence. But number 3 concentrates the higher amount of murders. The most known took place in may 1962, when a taylor murdered his entire family in the third floor, before taking his own life. But it wasn’t the first one, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Even if it didn’t happen inside the house, it must be noticed that a man was killed just in front of the main entrance, in 1915.
The first crime which took place in the building was the murder of the shirtmaker Felipe de la Breña in 1945. He was found dead days later on his bed, in his appartment of the first floor. Lying on his bed, his head bloodied, and still held a lock of hair in his hand. The conclusion was that he had surprised (or been surprised by) a burglar who had hit him in his head, causing his death.
On May the 1st, 1962, Mr. José María Ruiz Martínez, a taylor who had his workshop near the house killed his wife and his children. He hit her with a hammer and later stabbed his children, one by one. From a balcony he cried that he loved his family and that he had killed them in order to avoid killing certain bastards. He then asked for a priest, claiming that he wouldn’t open the door to anyone else and that he now could kill himself. The priest arrived then and tried to negotiate with him, urging the taylor to repent and surrender to police, but Mr. Ruiz carried out his threat, shooting himself.
In 1964, a young woman in the first floor made a macabre discovery: the corpse of a dead baby hidden in a drawer. It turned out to be her sister’s Pilar own son. Pilar was single and had given birth alone, immediatly killing the newborn to avoid disgrace (being a single mother in Franco’s Spain turned a woman in a social pariah).
As noticed above, the street itself seems to concentrate a high rate of violence: a woman attacked her husband’s lover with vitriol, there were several people ran over different vehicles, suicides, and if all this wasn’t enough, one of the most infamous serial killers in Spain used to hang with his friends near there.
The series El Ministerio del Tiempo dedicated an episode to the crimes of the house in Antonio Grillo street, but changing the adress to Antonio Grilo, 10.
25 years ago an unknown Chinese protester stood in front of a tank in defiance of the government. No one knows the identity of the man but he was given the nick name “Tank Man”. This is one of the most iconic photographs of the century.
It’s actually been 27 years now since the incident known as the Tiananmen Square Massacre occurred. The picture above, famously referred to as “The Tank Man” was actually taken on June 5, the day after the massacre. (Which honestly makes him the one of the bravest person, to go back and stand up to a regime after such a terrible event transpired)
So what happened? I’m gonna give the TL;DR version:
April 15, 1989. Hu Yaobang, a former Communist Party Chief dies.
Many people, including workers, laborer, students and some officials come to mourn. You see, those protestors were originally there to mourn, not protest.
Time passed and there were some hunger strikes, and protests, and a call for accountability and reform from the government.
Eventually, things went south, because the communist party doesn’t have time to deal with these sorts of “demands” and grievances.
Keep in mind, the people wanted nottheend of the Communist Party, but for the party to stop with the official corruption, rule of law, and the gross monopoly of information and power.
Incidentally, China still suffers from all of these SAME problems to this day…
June 3, 1989. The massacre started at night to disperse the crowd. Many were shot, wounded, and killed.
June 4, 1989. Some of the parents of the protestors who never came home went looking for them. It was still total mayhem.
June 5, 1989. The iconic image of the tank man was taken. To this day, no one knows what became of this person.
Content Warning for video: blood
“Tell the world…”
I cannot stress how important it is that people remember and know about this event. Do you know how China responded? With lies and censorship.
Even now, in 2016, we do not have an official death toll on the Tiananmen Square Massacre, the Chinese government doesn’t even acknowledge the event as a “massacre”. And they weaves these cover stories of “counter revolutionaries trying to overthrow the government”. Therefore, the violence was necessary to ~protect~ the people. (Or some bullshit like that)
The amount of lying and censorship in China is, quite frankly, scary amazing. Tumblr, which somehow managed to fly under their radar, found itself being blocked in that country.
After all, tell a lie often enough and it becomes the truth.
And those who remember the incident in China? …………well, you tell me.
Please at least REMEMBER this tragedy. Untold innocent lives were lost, and a nation has been fed a lie for almost three decades now from their oppressive af regime.
I have never seen this video before.
What the fucking hell.
What the hell.
Tiananmen Square happened when I was seven, and let’s just say children have a really interesting way of interpreting information.
I just remember thinking it was a happy event, because all these people were out on the street, and at first the army were interacting with these people. And it almost looked like a festival because people were singing and talking, and hopeful. And then tv coverage for the events got cut off.
The blocking of the live coverage had all the adults anxious, nobody said anything for ages, I just remember my grandmother saying, “Just be glad your father isn’t in China, now.”
And that stuck with me to this day. Because yeah, if dad had been in China then he would have been in Beijing studying, he would have been on those streets with those other students.
It was the first time I knew that something horrible had happened to all those people I saw on the television. I don’t even remember how I knew that the army must have shot at the civilians, I just knew. Because when you grow up in China, especially in the 80s you knew there were things you don’t say, that you can’t express in a public forum, because that can get you and your family in trouble. You just knew, and it didn’t fucking matter if your were a child or an adult.
To this day I don’t remember how I found out what happened in Tiananmen Square, because the news covered it up, but people found out. My grandparents knew, my uncles and aunts knew. Extended family visited my grandparents, I remember people telling my mother not to mention my father’s name because my father was a Chinese Beijing University graduate, who had gone overseas. Because there were people who died in the protests that my dad knew.
And it was all just so frightening because nobody was telling me directly what was happening, but I just knew that all the people on the streets was probably dead.
Looking back on it, Tiananmen Square instilled in a me a life long distrust of governments, but especially the Chinese government. I’m ethnically Chinese but I never want to return to China, not even for a holiday, and this has been my attitude even before Xi Jinping took power. Because Tiananmen Square was a peaceful protest that ended up with the army using heavy artillery against their own people. How can you trust in a system, in a government like that? Because if my dad had delayed further studies overseas by two years he would have been one of those students, one of those fucking kids on the streets that would have died.
And you know, when the Umbrella movement was happening in Hong Kong I was deeply panicked and just anxious because I kept on thinking all those people, all those kids are going to be killed. And when that didn’t happen it was such a relief.
When I found out years later that Chinese people a few years younger than me didn’t know what happened in Tiananmen Square I was so fucking angry. I can’t even articulate the rage and the sheer tiredness of it all.
Dad and I talked about Tiananmen Square a few times through the years, broadly, politically, and at times with sheer rage on dad’s part. I don’t even know what I wanted to say, but just fuck this fucking regime.
I was In Hong Kong when Tiananamen Square Massacre happened. Hong Kong was still a British colony then and had full freedom of press, and its reporters were there recording live footage while trying to stay as long as possible when tanks rolled in and shots were fired, when students lay in blood and their fellow students piled the injured bodies on those wooden plank carts to get them to the hospitals, while asking the Hong Kongers who were there to support the movement to please remember that night and spread the story of the massacre far and wide, because they already knew they would be silenced, if not imprisoned or murdered.
That night, and in the upcoming months, Hong Kong was in perpetual tears, and in literal shock.
Hong Kongers were mostly Chinese, just south of the border with people traveling back and forth. It also shared a language, and so HKers could follow the whole movement and hear news that western media had little access to without the distorting effect of translations. And they followed very closely, because by then, Hong Kong was already scheduled to be returned to China in 8 years time. How the Chinese government dealt with the movement would be a sign of how it’d treat dissent, how it’d treat people who’re used to the idea and practice of freedom.
What they saw was deadly. Ugly. It broke the hearts of millions of Hong Kongers who trusted that The Chinese Government had left its Great Leap Forward, its Cultural Revolution days behind. Those who could leave, left. Everyday the airport was filled with families about to be torn apart, who decided to trade the life they had in one of the richest, most vibrant and freest city at the time with the unknown, just so their own children would have the freedom to speak their minds, to have a higher education and not to be seen as the enemy of the state because higher education always led to independent thinking, to questioning, to asking for a better government as those university students in Beijing in the spring and summer of 1989 did.
The heartbreak and fear was almost palpable in its intensity. Most HKers were refugees from China or 1st generation of them. Unlike the HK youths now protesting who are more generations removed, they felt much more connected to the people in China. They still saw themselves as Chinese, like those students in Beijing. They mourned. They cried and cried and cried. They wore black or white everyday like it was the death of their closest relatives. TV stations played these Tiananmen Square clips all day. I can still play many of them out of my memory, can still recite what the students and government officials said (for example, they didn’t use tear gas because they only had three), the songs played — I know every word of China’s national anthem for that reason; the students were singing it. They were patriotic. They demanded reforms because they wanted their country to do better. 8964 was and still is, etched in my psyche. It is just one of the long list of atrocities this government has done against its people, but this one, I was close enough to feel it.
China censored the June 4th Massacre quickly and thoroughly — if you believe China has censored queer material, for example, I’d say this — the extent of that censorship is not even close to what a true China censorship does. A true Chinese censorship is you can’t find the info, or a hint of that info anywhere. You can’t talk about it in a roundabout away. You can’t change some elements of time/place/person and pretend it’s fictional. It would literally ban the numbers 8,9,6,4 from search results, even though the searcher may really be just be interested in the numbers themselves. Whoever speaks of it may be sent to the police station for a “discussion”; their family would be sent, if the speaker is outside China; the speaker may be arrested, and may never be seen again.
The western worlds pretended to be enraged about the massacre for a while and soon forgot about it, kept its diplomatic relations with China and did business with its government as usual. UK returned Hong Kong to China as scheduled, on July 1st, 1997. The city has been the only place that insisted on the mourning the victims and had done so insistently, consistently for 30 years, holding a yearly candlelight vigil in Victoria Park until this year, when because of the protests, the Chinese government decided to not even pretend to honour the international treaty they signed that promised HK its freedom until 2047 anymore. They shut the vigil down in the name of the pandemic (there were <10 cases/day then). Still, some people risked being arrested to go to Victoria park and lit their candles.
The Chinese government fears HKers for this reason. They are outside their iron curtain / firewall but have always been close enough geographically, culturally and ethnically to know and more so, to care. And there’s nothing more a government like China’s fear than people who insist on remembering the truth. With the National Security Law in place in Hong Kong now, probably the yearly vigils can’t continue. To understand how insane that law is, by writing this reblog, by saying things that make you dislike the Chinese government, I’m already in violation of its Article 38. It doesn’t matter I’m writing it in a foreign country. It doesn’t matter I’m a foreign citizen. That law includes everyone on Earth.
Yes, that includes you. And you. And you. And you. They can arrest you for trying to overthrow the Chinese government if you pass the borders of Hong Kong.
Please help remember 8964 Tiananmen Square Massacre. That summer day, Beijing citizens asked Hong Kongers to please remember this event for them because they knew they wouldn’t be able to afford to remember it themselves. Now that Hong Kongers can’t afford to remember it anymore, I’m hoping that everyone who reads this to please remember it, for the students who perished only because they wanted their government to be better, for the Tank Man who, on his way home with his groceries, decided to stand in front of a tank all by himself because it was the right thing to do.
My mother and father were grateful, too glad for respite, for salvation, to question our reversal in fortune. We did not starve. Far from it. My lettuces leafed so rapidly, it was all I could do to cut them before they bolted. The strawberries were fat with fruit, and put forth runners like weeds. I picked the raspberry canes each morning, and by dusk they were once again filled.
Winter passed, and spring returned. I planted hedge of wicked briars and a trench of stinging nettles to shield my garden from curious visitors. I sowed the garden beds with nightshade, with henbane and mandrake. With hellebore, with foxglove and monkshood. For all I told myself that it served as both defense and a warning, I knew it for the empty gesture that it was: latching the barn door well after the horse had already bolted.
A miller fell slowly but surely into poverty, until finally he had nothing more than his mill and a large apple tree which stood behind it. One day he had gone into the forest to gather wood, where he was approached by an old man, whom he had never seen before, and who said, “Why do you torment yourself with chopping wood? I will make you rich if you will promise me that which is standing behind your mill.”
“What can that be but my apple tree?” thought the miller, said yes, and signed it over to the strange man.
Warning - This fic will contain the following: blood, violence, gun violence, torture, manipulation, coercion, gore and graphic depictions of murder. If any of these are triggering or make you uncomfortable, please do not proceed. You have been warned.
Chapter One Prompt: Abducted
Of all the ways Sakura thought her Wednesday night would end, it was not like this. After getting out of a ten-hour trauma surgery, she had planned on pouring a large glass of wine, curling up on her sofa with a good book and falling asleep before finishing the first chapter. Not by being thrown into the back of an unknown town car by a bunch of rough-looking men.
They had grabbed her out of her own staff parking lot at the hospital, squishing her between them to keep her from trying to escape out the doors. She didn’t know who they were, but the handguns on their hips had kept her from asking from too many questions. They looked mean and ready to prove their strength at any given second.
The only thing that seemed to be keeping them back was the well-dressed and otherwise handsome man that sat across from them. He wore an expensive wristwatch and a tailored suit that wrapped around his lithe, and undoubtedly, strong body. He had dark eyes and a mane of dark hair that made his pale complexion even paler but no less stunning. Sakura had seen plenty of kidnapping stories on the news during her breaks on shift, but she was pretty sure kidnappers weren’t supposed to be this attractive. For some reason, that set her further on edge.
He had only glanced at her twice after her abduction, but he held himself with an air of confidence that made it clear that his word was the one that mattered.
Like a cornered animal, Sakura curled up in the center seat with her purse clutched to her chest. She tried to make herself as small as possible, as if they might forget she was there all together. No one had said a word to her since entering the car, except for the man on her right who had warned her only once to keep quiet. She was too frightened to disobey.
Her mind raced through the reasons of why she might be there. She had no family, no money. She was no one. Well, almost no one. She was the city hospital’s newest trauma surgeon. But she had no money for a ransom. She made a decent pay check, but the majority went to her medical school bills and insurance payments. She was comfortable, but not as well off as the man in front of her seemed to be.
The inside of the vehicle was silent as they drove, the roll of rubber against the road filling the quiet until they eventually arrived at the International District. The car slowed as they approached what appeared to be an abandoned fish market.
As soon as the car pulled to a stop, the driver hopped out and opened the back door. The man in charge exited first before the guards slipped out. When she made no move to follow, one reached back in and grabbed her wrist. Her survival instincts kicked in.
“No! Let me go!”
For a minute, she struggled with the man until he hauled her from the inside of the vehicle and slammed her back hard enough against the side of the car to nearly knock the breath from her lungs.
The man in charge stepped forward then, making a vague gesture to his man to release her. Still holding her purse to her chest, Sakura peered up at him, not sure if he was going to rape her or cut straight to just killing her. After all, she had seen most of it already in her new position at the hospital.
“Dr. Haruno,” he spoke, his voice calm in comparison to her frantically beating heart. “We require your presence. The more you cooperate, the easier this will be.”
Sakura gripped her purse tighter, as if that would protect her from what may happen next. “I don’t understand. What do you want with me?”
“Our intentions will be made clear soon. Please, come.”
It was clearly an order, but she still hesitated as her escort turned and made his way inside. At least until a guard grabbed the front of her jacket near her collar and yanked her off the car. Sakura’s struggles renewed, but she wasn’t given the opportunity to escape as her captors grabbed her by the arms and forcefully made her follow.
They dragged her through the empty fish market, the sour smell of old seafood flooding her nose and mouth, and into a large backroom that was perhaps bigger than the market itself. Like going through the wardrobe into Narnia, the guards forcefully pushed her into a well-furnished room with lush carpets and hardwood floors. There were expensive paintings on the wall and handcrafted wooden feet on the couches and armchairs.
Around a large, varnished table were a handful of men looking over something she couldn’t see. Everyone was seated, some with a glass of fine whiskey in their hands or cigars hanging from their mouths. The smell made her nose scrunch up.
On the far side of the room, a man was bent over the side of the couch. Whatever he was looking at she couldn’t see, but her attention turned as her escort approached another man.
The pair looked alike with their dark hair and even darker eyes. Even their high cheekbones and strong jawlines were similar. Perhaps an older cousin or brother. He was dressed just as finely, but there was an air of absolute authority and command about him that made even her escort look small. It seemed she had been wrong. Whoever he was, he was definitely in charge.
Without looking up from his phone, this new boss listened vaguely as her escort spoke in a murmured voice. Their conversation was indecipherable amongst the quiet chatter throughout the rest of the room, but her escort must have said something important for the man in charge glanced at him before turning his sights on her.
Sakura felt as if a set of crosshairs had just fixed upon her. A chill went down her spine, but she wasn’t given the chance to run before the guards shoved her forward until she was half-standing, half-cowering before this new boss.
“Dr. Haruno Sakura, I presume,” he said. His voice was smooth and easy as if he were discussing the full moon that were out tonight.
It made Sakura bristle and she glared up at him with more bravery than she actually felt. “Who the hell are you? And how dare you kidnap me on my very own hospital property.”
The man before her was hardly fazed by her tone. He simply inclined his head minutely. “I apologize. Where are my manners? My name is Madara. And this is my brother, Izuna,” he told her.
Her escort bowed his head slightly as if his politeness now would excuse his abrupt abduction of her only twenty minutes ago.
A scowl crossed her face. “What the hell do you want?”
“Simple really,” Madara said, turning away to approach a nearby dry sink bar. On one side was a crystal glass of whiskey that he unstoppered before he filled a pristine glass. Only once he had resealed the expensive liquor did he turn back to her. “I require your skill.”
Sakura blinked in bewilderment. “My skill?” she parroted.
“Your surgical ability,” he clarified.
“What about it?”
“It seems we had a small altercation this evening,” Madara told her before taking a sip. “The Senju are becoming quite an issue for us.”
Sakura said nothing, but her expression must have expressed her continued confusion. It was like he was speaking another language.
Madara simply gestured to her. “Come.”
Knowing she would be forced to follow either way, Sakura trailed some paces behind him, her eyes darting from his back to Izuna before returning to Madara again. He stopped in front of the couch, one hand in his pocket, the other lifting his drink to his lips before he gestured towards the couch with his whiskey.
“It seems my nephews, Itachi and Shisui, may have crossed paths with a less than amiable Senju tonight. Such aggressive, violent people. Shisui needs urgent medical attention.”
Now that she was standing before them, Sakura understood what was wrong. One man, apparently Shisui, was laying on the couch with blood gushing from a wound in his shoulder. It was hard to see the extent of the damage from where she stood, especially with Itachi pressing a bloodied towel to the area, but it was obvious the injury needed to be seen to immediately.
Then something crossed Sakura’s mind. Senju – she knew that name. She had heard it on the news and read about them in the newspaper whenever a violent crime had been committed within the city. There were only ever rumors, but Sakura had worked trauma in the city long enough to know there was an Underground that dealt in weapons, drugs and women.
If the Senju were Madara’s enemy, that would mean him and these men were of the Uchiha family. In other words, mafia. And Shisui was likely suffering from a bullet wound.
Her fingers itched to help him. Every nerve in her body was yelling at her to go assess the damage and fix it, but she was also aware the instant she touched him, she would be bound to these men. There would be no escape.
“I won’t do this,” Sakura said, her eyes still glued to the man bleeding on the couch. “I won’t get involved.”
Like someone had abruptly raised the needle on a record player, the room went utterly silent. Even the men around the polished table stopped what they were doing. The sudden stillness pressed down on her like a physical weight, forcing her heart into the pit of her stomach. She swallowed thickly as her eyes darted around the room. The hair on the back of her neck prickled when she found everyone was watching her, cigars and whiskey halfway to their mouths as they paused to see how this would play out.
Itachi, who was still bent over Shisui and applying pressure to his gunshot wound, was openly glaring at her. He looked as if he wanted nothing more than to hold her at gunpoint until she agreed to help. Which she realized was likely not far from the truth.
It was Madara who broke the silence. “I understand your reluctance,” he said, causing her gaze to flicker back to him abruptly.
Both his tone and expression were calm, almost friendly, but she got the distinct impression it was all a front. After all, this man was the head of one of the most dangerous mobs in the country. And he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
He stepped towards her, his black, perfectly polished, cap toe shoes clacking sharply against the hardwood floor. Each step was like a clock slowly ticking away the seconds left of her life, until Madara stood before her like Death himself.
Sakura shrunk under his towering form and gripped her purse tighter to her chest. He stood at least a head taller, forcing her to crane her neck back to meet his dark, obsidian gaze. He was a handsome man, at least a decade or more older than her, but the mild lines around his mouth and eyes only made her realize that as much violence as she had seen in her career, he had seen more. He had likely caused it too.
“I will only ask once,” Madara said calmly. “And you do not wish to know the consequences should you refuse.”
Sakura inhaled a silent but shaky breath as her gaze briefly returned to the bleeding man on the couch. His face was pinched in obvious pain, his complexion pale as he breathed through clenched teeth. Itachi was holding pressure to the wound, but his gaze was focused on her, his eyes sharp like he was just waiting for the order to kill her should she say no. Behind Madara, Izuna stood only a few feet away, a similar expression on his face.
She only had one choice.
Flickering her gaze back to Madara, she asked, her voice coming out with a small waver, “And what happens to me after I do as you ask?”
“That depends on the condition in which Shisui is in when you are finished.”
She didn’t have to ask to know what he meant. The only way she got out of this alive was if Shisui survived.
After a hesitation that seemed to stretch on for a lifetime, Sakura gave Madara a weak nod. "I’ll need some tools.”
Madara casually turned to Itachi then as if he hadn’t just threatened her very life. “Get Dr. Haruno what she needs. You will assist her as she sees fit.”
To her surprise, the glare was gone from Itachi’s face when she turned back to him. In fact, there was no emotion in his expression at all. She didn’t know which she preferred, but she wasn’t given the opportunity to decide before Madara turned and made his way towards a door in the back of the room, his expensive shoes clacking against the hardwood. He threw her one parting message over his shoulder.
“You better get started.”
xx
As quickly as the madness had begun, it ended. Sakura did what Madara had asked. She had dug the bullet out of Shisui’s arm and stitched him back together before starting him on a course of antibiotics. Then Madara’s men, this time with the absence of Izuna, had dropped her off on her apartment building’s doorstep as if nothing had ever happened.
That had been over a month ago.
Since then, Sakura had done her best to move on as if the incident had never happened. She went to work as usual before heading home, most of the time catching a ride with her best friend and fellow surgeon, Naruto. She doubted his presence would keep the mafia at bay, but she felt safer than when she was by herself. Still, she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder, as if expecting to find a shadow everywhere she turned.
Tonight was an exception. Naruto had left for home some hours ago while Sakura stayed behind to review a case. She had a high-profile surgery tomorrow and the latest labs for her patient weren’t what she was hoping.
After ordering more tests and pushing more drugs, she finally got the results she wanted. Just in time for her to go home and catch a few hours of sleep before returning to the hospital in the morning.
Yawning, Sakura shrugged on her peacoat. She grabbed her purse from her locker before she closed it and left the quiet attendings’ lounge. There were a few messages waiting for her when she finally checked her device for the first time in hours, including one from Naruto asking if she was home yet.
Smiling faintly, Sakura shot him off a quick reply that she was on her way now. The rest of the messages could wait until later. She slipped her phone into her pocket before she searched for her car keys.
Only to halt abruptly halfway to her vehicle when she realized there was a shadow leaning against the back door. In the lighting of the parking lot, all she could see was a young man dressed in a nice suit with a flashy watch and curly hair.
Shisui.
Sakura didn’t wait to see if he noticed her. She turned sharply, about to escape back into the hospital, when she ran into a wall. No, not a wall. A firm chest.
“Going somewhere?” Itachi asked.
Sakura opened her mouth, but before she could cry for help, he clamped a strong hand over her lips and leaned down to whisper, “Scream and you will regret it.”
She got the vague impression he wanted nothing more than for her to give him an excuse, but she bit down on her tongue sharply even as she shrunk under his towering presence. He didn’t give her the chance to try anything else before a town car skidded to a stop beside them.
Itachi opened the door and shoved her inside without regard for her comfort. She nearly landed on her face, only just catching herself with her hands. Automatically, she scrambled for the door on the other side, but before she could reach it, Shisui opened it and slipped inside. She was effectively trapped.
Backpedaling, Sakura crawled into the corner of the back-facing bench. Neither Itachi nor Shisui paid her any mind as they settled in. As soon as their doors were closed, the car began to move.
Sakura didn’t bother asking questions. She suspected they were heading towards where they had taken her before. Once again, she pushed herself into the corner of the seat, hoping to make herself as small as possible.
Itachi didn’t even glance at her as he scrolled through his phone, his expression akin to boredom as if she was his annoying little sister his parents had made him pick up from school. Shisui, on the other hand, wouldn’t take his eyes off her.
His arms were crossed loosely over his chest as he chewed on a piece of gum slowly. She eyed him at first as she wondered how well his wound had healed. Then she noticed his expression. It was friendly enough, but she didn’t think she liked the way the corner of his mouth was curved into a hint of a smirk or how his gaze was just a little too unwavering. He didn’t even seem to blink.
Unconsciously, Sakura flinched and turned her sights out the window. The city passed by rapidly as the car flew down the highway. They took an exit into the downtown and drove through a number of winding streets until even Sakura didn’t know where they were. Eventually they pulled into a garage and parked the car.
Itachi and Shisui both exited. When Sakura didn’t immediately follow, she heard Itachi’s voice from outside, “You have three seconds to get out on your own or I will assist you.”
She didn’t wait for him to start counting. She hurried out of the car with her purse in hand. Itachi shot her a look as if to say ‘there, wasn’t that better?’ before he turned and continued further into the garage. A silent command for her to follow.
Swallowing, Sakura didn’t dare refuse him. She had felt the hard metal of his gun when she had body slammed into him in the hospital lot and she doubted he kept it on him just for show.
Now that she had a chance to look around, she realized they weren’t in a normal parking garage. It was a loading dock. Like the kind transport trucks and vans used to deliver shipments for the offices in the building. In the middle of the bay was a large area where trucks backed in to unload their shipments onto a higher platform before they were taken into the freight elevators.
Only there weren’t any vehicles now. Just two other town cars off to the side like the one she had been kidnapped in. Again.
In one of the parking stalls was a man bound to a chair. Another man stood over him, his knuckles bloody and torn from delivering blow after audible blow. Each smack made Sakura wince. She hoped with every fiber of her being that she wasn’t next.
A second man stood beside him, his hands less damaged, but blood speckled the front of his white shirt. She didn’t recognize either man, but a few paces behind them was Izuna.
He was watching the event take place before him with a passive expression, but it shifted slightly when he glanced up at the sound of their footsteps. He eyed Sakura silently before his gaze briefly flickered up to the unloading platform above them.
Sakura followed it to find Madara standing at the railing as he supervised. He looked like an emperor overseeing his subjects in his black, iron-pressed pants. He wore a matching black vest over a white button-up shirt. The suit of his jacket hung over his shoulders, his hands in his pockets.
The first time they had met, Madara’s arms had been covered. Now, the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. His forearms were littered with tattoos. So much so that she couldn’t tell where one ended and another began. There was more ink than skin.
He was listening to one of his men speak a few paces behind him, but his dark, dark eyes tracked their movements as Sakura ascended the stairs with Itachi and Shisui at her heels. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, hoping no one would see how badly she was shaking. She had hoped after their last meeting, she would be left alone if she did her job well. She didn’t know what Madara wanted from her now.
As soon as they reached the top step, Madara dismissed his man. Sakura tried to swallow back her fear, but she knew even with his back turned Madara could sense it. He was like a shark who could smell blood in the water.
“Good evening, Dr. Haruno. I hope you had a pleasant trip,” Madara greeted.
There was a vague hint of friendliness in his tone as if he actually cared how her car ride was. It made her anger briefly overpower her terror.
“If you call being manhandled into the back of a car pleasant, then sure,” she retorted coolly.
For a moment, Sakura wondered if she had pushed him too far already with her sharp reply when Madara turned around. He seemed to scrutinize her before his eyes landed on the pair behind her.
“Gentleman, I thought I made it clear you were to treat the Doctor with respect,” he said. His tone was calm enough but there was a hint of ice that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. And she wasn’t even on the receiving end.
Itachi’s glare burned a hole into her back, but she refused to look behind her.
“She was treated fairly enough, given her uncooperative behavior,” Itachi said indifferently.
Madara eyed them a moment before his gaze returned to her, his expression once more an apathetic mask. “My apologies, but we do in fact need your assistance once more this evening. There was a small incident an hour ago that we do not need to go into the details of. All you need to know is one of our men sustained a severe injury. He was stabbed in the abdomen with a blade.”
At the end of his assessment, Madara’s gaze turned towards the far side of the wall. Sakura followed it to find a group of men huddled together she hadn’t noticed until now. They were standing around a makeshift bed that consisted of an old table covered with moving pads. The top blanket was dark blue, but the side of it was stained almost black with what she could only guess was blood.
The doctor in her zoned in on the injury, trying to assess the damage from where she stood. From her distance, it was impossible to tell what condition the man was in. The only thing she was certain of was that he was much worse off than Shisui had been. This man was likely in critical condition. She would need more than just a couple of tools.
As if it had just occurred to her where she was, Sakura peered about the loading dock. It was dirty. And not just because the scent of blood lingered in the air. There were pools of stagnant water in the corners of the room, left over from the rainstorm the night before. Cockroaches scurried from one crate to another and everything seemed to be coated in a fine layer of dust. At least when she had stitched up Shisui, they had been in a cleaner environment.
Sakura shook her head in exasperation. “I work in a hospital with unlimited resources and equipment, and a team of trained staff. What exactly do you expect me to do here?”
When she turned back to Madara she found he was watching her with an utterly blank expression. He didn’t look angry, but she got the impression she would have to watch her tongue and how she addressed him in front of his subordinates more carefully moving forward. Lest she preferred being the city’s best dead trauma surgeon.
“I expect you to do your very best to save him,” Madara told her like a parent chiding their child.
Even though she wanted nothing more than to shrink away from his towering form, she couldn’t stop herself from frowning in frustration. “You said you would leave me alone after helping Shisui.”
“I said you would be released. Not that you wouldn’t be called upon in the future as our needs arise.”
Scraping together all the bravery she could muster, she shook her head. “I won’t do this again.”
Madara’s expression didn’t exactly change, but a shadow seemed to flicker behind his eyes like when a bird or airplane briefly flew in front of the sun. He said nothing, but a faint click from Itachi had her glancing over her shoulder.
He had drawn his gun. It wasn’t pointed at her, but the threat was clear. Far clearer than it had ever been before.
She clung to the last bit of her quickly dissolving courage as she returned her gaze to Madara. “If you kill me, he will die.”
Well eventually at least. If they hurried and got him to the hospital, he might still survive, but his chances were growing slimmer and slimmer with each passing second. They were wasting time. And Madara knew it.
“The same offer I provided to you with Shisui applies now,” he told her.
Meaning the only way she survived was if the man did too.
“And after that, you’ll leave me alone?” she asked, trying her best to keep her voice from wavering.
Perhaps she was pressing her luck, but if she didn’t stand her ground, these men would walk all over her. Some silent thought passed behind Madara’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly she wondered if she had imagined it. Then he gave her his ultimatum.
“If he survives, we can discuss it further.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted, but it was all Madara was willing to give her at that time. She held his gaze for one moment that seemed to stretch on for hours and then another before she gave a silent but frustrated sigh and got to work.
Sakura didn’t know how long she stood over the man – the gangster – as she attempted to stem the bleeding. He had been stabbed in the upper right quadrant of the abdominal cavity. She knew for sure his liver had been nicked, but judging by his poor breathing, she suspected the lower portion of his lung had been pierced as well.
If she had an ultrasound or any medical piece of equipment other than a single scalpel and some crappy sutures, she might be able to save him, but as each second passed, she could feel his life slipping away. And with it, hers.
Another warm gush of blood slid down the back of Sakura’s hand and down her arm before collecting on the sleeve of her shirt. The material was dyed red, but the deep crimson turned it nearly black everywhere it touched.
She paid it no mind. Her entire focus centered on how she could possibly delay this man’s death. He had been in terrible agony when she had first started, but as the blood continued to stain her hands and the moving pad beneath him, he had quickly lost consciousness. She didn’t even know if he would want saving at this point. The muscles were sliced clean through, his liver had damage and she would be lucky to save his lung. His quality of life would be terrible. But she had to try. Because her life depended upon it too.
“Fuck,” Sakura cursed.
She grabbed a large wad of bandages from the little medical kit they had provided her and began shoving gauze inside the hole in the man’s chest. She didn’t know if they were sanitary at this point, but she was far past the ability to care. She had to do something to stop the bleeding.
“What the hell are you doing?” Shisui asked somewhere over her shoulder. She had been left in his and Itachi’s charge.
Sakura didn’t look up as she continued her work. “I’m packing the injury. This is beyond what I can do here. He needs a hospital.”
“That’s not an option.”
“That’s the only option if you want him to live!” she retorted.
Shisui might have said something else, but she was no longer listening for she glanced at her patient to find he was no longer breathing. Another long string of curses slipped between her lips before she placed her palms on the man’s chest and began compressions.
Somewhere very far in the back of her mind, she knew it was useless. But the louder, even more urgent voice yelled at her to keep going. If not for him, then for herself.
She put all her strength and energy into her compressions. She pushed down until his ribs cracked and his cartilage crunched beneath her hands. The seconds stretched onto minutes and the minutes into what felt like hours until Sakura’s arms ached. Her body quit before her mind gave the option.
Numb, her hands stilled over his chest. Her eyes drifted over the now-deceased man’s face. He was grey. Whatever blood might still be circling from her attempted CPR was pooling in his abdominal cavity and seeping through the gauze she had shoved into his side.
Utterly spent, Sakura stepped back from the table only for her knees to give out on her. She would have collapsed to the floor hard enough to bruise if it hadn’t been for the pair of hands that helped soften her fall. She didn’t know who it was. She didn’t dare look at them. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man on the table.
He was dead. Which meant only one thing: she would follow shortly.
Sakura’s gaze dropped to her hands. They were stained crimson, wet and sticky, but they didn’t tremble. They never shook. No matter how stressed she was. And given the circumstances, she was under a great deal at the moment.
As soon as Madara learned of her failure, he would kill her. She wondered if he would be merciful with a simple bullet to the back of her skull; or would he make her suffer a slow, painful death before he dumped her in some ditch on the outskirts of town?
Sakura couldn’t move. She wondered if her body even remembered how to. She just sat there. It could have been a minute. It could have been a year. Then she heard the sharp clip of Madara’s exclusive, polished shoes. Her eyes didn’t leave her hands as he stopped a pace behind her. She barely dared to breathe as he delivered his verdict.
“Itachi, dispose of this,” he ordered. Then the longest pause in the world followed before he finally said, “Shisui…take her home.”
Amazed, Sakura turned her gaze up to Madara slowly as she tried to process if she had just heard him correctly. He simply stared down at her. His expression was utterly unreadable, but for a moment she thought she saw the slightest shift of something behind his eyes. She couldn’t be sure, but he turned and walked away before she could look closer.
Stunned, Sakura didn’t move as his footsteps faded away. She likely would have sat there forever had Shisui not finally reached down and helped her to her feet. The real world felt so far away. Like she was seeing everything through water. She barely remembered being guided into the car.
The next thing she knew, she was standing in front of her apartment door, her shirt and hands still stained with blood. Not even the hottest shower could seem to scrub it all away.
Okay so…I have been having thoughts, don’t perceive me…
Viking!Kirishima who has long hair. Its a symbol, his pride hinges on having hair. He’s well-groomed first off, having long luscious hair is a symbol of his wealth and stature in the Viking world. Its said he dyes his hair with the blood of his enemies and thats partly true, he uses beets and crushed flowers to get his hair to that beautiful red shade but being a warrior he does get covered in blood.
Viking!Kirishima who let’s you play and braid his hair to your hearts content. Putting it up in a bun before battle so it doesn’t get in his eyes or weaving clasps through the strands for an upcoming feast. Sitting on his massive lap, him grinning in contentment while you braid beads and even gems into his hair. He always shows your work off as if Freyja herself came down to Midgard to design his newest hairstyle.
Viking!Bakugo who is the most feared King in all the North, who has taken the crown of every Jarl and melted it down for his own. A man who is said to be blessed by the Æsir. Famed to be a son of Odin, why else would people say he has a dragon? Who else could tame the spawn of Fafnir and fly through the skies like a hawk?
Viking!Bakugo who lives by the code of “you keep what you kill”. Who raids and plunders village after village for entertainment and to conquer, whatever he finds is his. By right.
Imagine being a servant to a cruel and old Lord that Viking!Bakugo kills for his land and wealth. Fearing the worst you think you’re next too and you take up arms with a random, discarded kitchen knife. Its either him or you right?
Viking!Bakugo who is too shocked that you of all people attack him and you manage to get a good hit. Stabbing him right in the chest but he doesn’t die, oh no, he doesn’t die. He laughs. A booming, maniacal, unhinged laugh. Entirely feral.
Viking!Bakugo who finds the failed assassination attempt completely adorable. You were so close to ending him, his reign of terror on the land, and by right would’ve inherited everything. His everything. The world. Instead of squashing you like a bug he takes you.
Viking!Bakugo who dresses you in fine silks, who wreaths you in glimmering jewels but not as his newest servant but as his Queen/King.
Viking!Bakugo who gives you his everything, his world, for trying to kill him. You were so hellbent on finishing the job before to take everything he had so why not give you it willingly instead? Right by his side.
He keeps what he kills, true, but he gives as much as he takes.
