Previously

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          PREVIOUSLY

          "How long are you going to pretend to be asssleep?"

          I scowl at Simon Zackery, bitterly biting back "I don't know, depends on how long you're going to pretend to be an asshole. Oh wait, that was a full time gig, wasn't it?"

          Zackery storms forward to my kneeling figure on the marble flooring. "You hold your tongue—"

          He chokes.

          Blinking back in surprise, the blood and venom splutters from his mouth and he collapses to his knees, soon after plummeting the full length to the floor with a large golden dagger with a blue hilt embedded in his back. My father's dagger.

          "I found that lovely piece of weaponry in your bedroom at Avengers tower. Whoever carved it did a marvellous job," a strange voice praises, boots clicking in the shadows hauntingly.

          I don't allow him the pleasure of any discomfort or fear. "I do recall at some stage calling dibs on having to kill him, I do so love skinning snakes."

          "A favourite hobby perhaps?" The voice inquires, now behind me where I cannot see. It's recognisable, and I have a general idea of who the culprit may be.

          I click my tongue, staring forward. "I prefer breaking noses, but it's definitely in the top ten."

          His voice rings to my right now. "Ah yes, breaking noses. How many have you broken now?"

          I shrug. "Mid hundreds, maybe."

          "You know who I am." His sudden change in topic and mood doesn't surprise me, his identity does however.

          I smirk knowingly. "You call your father a self-centred ugly son of a bitch when you turn out to be so much worse, Samuel Hemmings."

          His boots click and clack once more, a small fragment of sunshine peeking through a window high above onto his golden blonde hair, his smile lopsided and accompanied by a charming grin. "You think you play the game so well."

          My smirk broadens. "I own the game."

          His eyebrows rise mockingly. "You own the game? The game of illusions, deceit, lies, moves and counter moves? That game? And you believe you own it?" He laughs loudly, his voice booming across the walls.

          "Oh that's rich!" He continues, his grin sinister and baneful.

          "I learned from my father," I admit, which only induces his smile to expand.

          "Your father? The one I have chained and beaten far beyond repair? That father?"

          "You're bluffing, always have been."

          "You don't know that."

          I tilt my head, feigning a pondering shrug. "Oh, but I think I do."

          His smile twists into one of devilment. "You think you know so much. Tell me, where do you think you are right now?"

          I give a simple answer, even though I know it's wrong. He'll buy into it, call me an imbecilic twat and inform me where we really are anyways. "HYDRA base or camp, I presume."

          His eyes flash with an unrecognisable emotion. "You presume so much, and think that I will bite into such petty bait."

          Staring at him bewildered, he steps further forward, leering at me. I stick my nose up at him after shaking the puzzlement off, narrowing my gaze into fine slits. "You think you know all the tricks and lies but you listen to me, I know so much more—"

          "Oh sweet child," he intervenes with a derisive coo, his body flashing green like a hologram with a sickening realisation hitting me that follows. "You think you know more than the God of Mischief and Lies? Your own father?"

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