Hollywood's Hostage - muke au

one

Michael had managed to stay out of trouble for a long, long time.

But of course, trouble found him anyway.

He'd lived on the streets of Los Angeles for over three years. It was brutal, and scary. He'd been in countless fights, some life-threatening, some not. But he'd managed to find some semblance of peace over the past few months.

He lay in his tent in the back alley of an artisan bakery. They brought him food every day and knew him well. It was the one bright spot he had left.

He drifted in and out of sleep, tugging his sleeping bag higher, hiding half of his face.

But then, screams. High-pitched, blood-curdling screams. He gasped, startling awake. Then he curled in on himself, trying to stay as quiet as possible.

Michael heard a laugh—a strangely giddy, yet eerie one. Then repeated slashing, the sound of a knife breaking through skin, over and over. The screams were muffled now, and soon enough, they faded out completely.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for death, yet again. He'd stopped praying for mercy a long time ago. If he died, he died. It seemed inevitable at this point of his life.

Something was dragged across the concrete, what Michael assumed was the now-dead body. Then a loud thud, and the slam of a trunk. Relief washed over him, a heavy breath slipping past his lips.

But the sound of boots carried closer, and closer still. Then the zipper of his tent pulled at a painfully slow speed, making his heart lurch into his throat. It felt like he was being taunted. Like this was some cruel joke.

He was met with bright blue, glowing eyes, and a wide, sinister grin. Dimples dug into the boy's cheeks, his skin soft and smooth. Blood flecks decorated his blond curls, his hands stained red.

"Hello," he said, his tone far too friendly for the occasion. "How are you?"

"Uh, I'm—I'm fine," Michael stuttered.

The boy tilted his head, studying him with those crazed, frantic eyes. "What's your name?"

Michael shifted a little further away. "Why do you need to know that?"

The boy pulled a knife from the holster on his jeans, the sharp metal glistening in fresh blood. He tapped it against his hand, laughing softly.

"Because you, my friend, are a witness to murder," he said, booping Michael's nose, as if this were funny. A crimson dot stained Michael's skin, showing the faint print of the boy's fingertip.

"I won't tell anyone," Michael said. "Who would I even tell? No one would believe me."

"Maybe not," the boy said, putting his knife back in its holster. "But it's more fun this way, don't you think?"

Michael furiously shook his head, swallowing hard. "Please don't."

The boy climbed halfway into the tent, unzipping Michael's sleeping bag. "Tell me your name."

Michael stared up at him, trembling.

"I'm Luke," he said, tugging the sleeping bag off Michael's body. "Your turn."

Michael's mouth went dry. He swallowed a whimper, then whispered, "Michael."

Luke grinned, bearing his teeth like an animal. "There you go. See how easy that was?"

Luke pulled him upright, then dragged him out of the tent with the ease of someone who'd done this a million times. Then he forced Michael to his feet, pulling a large, thick zip tie from his pocket.

"This is really unnecessary," Michael said, his voice cracking, body frozen in fear.

Luke wrapped the zip tie around his wrists, pulling it tight enough to pinch Michael's skin. "I don't think so. You're the perfect fit."

"What?" Michael said, panicked. "What do you mean?"

Luke forced him over to the car by the back of his neck, sitting him in the backseat. He buckled him in, then climbed into the driver's seat, letting out a contented sigh.

"Are you going to answer my question?" Michael said. "How am I the perfect fit?"

"You'll see," Luke replied, glancing back at him in the rearview mirror with an almost flirtatious, yet unhinged smile. "They're going to love you."