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[nestingdevil]

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[nestingdevil]

With the midday sun blaring at his back, Greed's face contorts. He's fighting himself on so many different levels: anger, distaste, his internal conflict between his nature and what he has to do now. He's never been a man easily ruled by someone else. But in this instance, his choices are limited; his freedom's gone. Every precaution, every inch he's ever gotten, circling back to bite him in the throat.

"You'll never get out if they're in charge of your departure, Greed."

Another stray stone of asphalt scurries out from underneath the tip of his boot and skips across pavement like a flat rock on a summer's still lake. "What? Did you think I'd just let you get off that easily?" He steps closer, leering and baring a strained, manic smile. "Ha - ! You do remember who I am right?" His heel slams down. "I'm Greed, not a fucking charity case. And because you cost me, it only feels right that I return the favor. Equivalent exchange," his mouth spits venom and his tongue lashes his teeth. Lying has never been his strong suit, but that doesn't mean he can't adapt. And this? It's like any other show: give the patrons what they want, make it memorable, make it real, and never, ever let them forget.

A weight settles into his chest that he can't describe. It writhes in him, screams through every inhale of smoke he takes and strangles deep in his lungs.

"They'll never let you go - "

Greed grunts and reaches into the backside of his slacks. "You shouldn't have trusted me to begin with. That was your first mistake." He quickly switches one cigarette out for another, the motion a frantic gesture of fingers and desperation. The tip of the fresh smoke meets the new one and the Sin sucks in, clawing old tar deep into his chest and leaving an oily film of ash to linger in his cheek.

Greed flicks the spent butt to the pavement; his heel all but grinding it to dust. "Tch," he snarls around his smoke and nearly bites through the filter in the process. All of this, all of this - it always comes back, doesn't it? Ghosts of himself, of his own, haunting every step he takes. And while he can handle it, Kaito doesn't know the signs. How they move, where they go, the ways in which they work. It isn't fair to put the kid up to that kind of torment.

Better to cut the cord while they still have the chance.

Greed crouches down a foot away, his knees spread out and his hands sunk low. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth. The way it hangs between his knuckles feels heavy. The smoke twines in his fingers, the ash slowly sloshes off into thick, wadded clumps. There's a weight on his shoulders that's clear now, it almost hurts. As if his whole world could shatter in an instant. As if, no matter how far he ran, no matter his choices, it would all lead to the same conclusion.

He takes another drag and his fingers wrap around his face. "I need you to get as far away from here as you can. Anyone you care about, anyone you love," Greed watches the clouds pass them by. They move over his face and his sunglasses like a passing tide. To anyone else, the day is just that: another day. Another 9-to-5 for a paycheck, another call home, another jog to add to the routine. He'll never have those moments, not really. And he doesn't regret it.

Still, here, at the brink of it all -

Greed bows his head - the last cloud of smoke slowly escaping his mouth a tell of sorts. As if it's trying to desperately say what he can't.

"Pack it up and go. Just get as far away from here as you can, kid."

[whiteofcrime]

A whiff of ash and nicotine makes its way down even here. Kaito struggles to sit upright but doesn't try to stand. He's winded, probably got another bruised rib - definitely the look of someone beaten down for a job not done.

He still doesn't quite understand. Greed's words ring in his ears and it seems like his surroundings do too but it all conflicts with the care he'd been given. The man has to be lying. Right? Kaito's always put more stock in verbs than nouns. Words are flimsy - words get broken all the time in his world but you can't take back a hand that's been dealt on the table.

One thing does get through to him though: get out.

Making use of his one good hand, he pushes himself backwards, scrabbling, scuffing shoes, cloth, and more skin as he puts distance between himself and the smoking demon.

"Th-thank you," he manages to stammer out. For what? Anyone watching might wonder. Kaito does too. For the mercy, probably.

Whatever the case, he manages to get to his feet and starts to run (stagger, more like). He can only hope that he doesn't get a bullet in the back for it.