Chapter Text
“Wait- Let go of me!”
“Trish! Don’t worry- I'll- AGH!”
“No... Giorno... please... just-”
RUN
Waking hit Trish as a full-on collision. Her consciousness crashed through the wall of her mind, shards of it piercing the soft behind her eyes.
Her lungs struggled to catch up, filling sluggishly as she gasped, eventually steadying along with her sight, her hearing.
Her short pink skirt came into focus below, she was sitting. Faint light brushed against the silk.
She was... inside? No, there was wind. A breeze pushed through her bangs.
It was dark out. But, in the way that teases morning light. Across the patchwork cement floor, lit by bright lights meant for onlookers outside the enclosure, iron bars cut through the city lights, far below.
Wait- How high up am I?
A pink lock poked into her eye, and she moved to brush it out, only to find her hands stuck together behind her. Bound by plastic zip ties, tightly against the chair she sat in.
Oh shit.
Promptly she shut her eyes, searched her mind, and found Spice Girl still there, still active, buzzing nervously under her skin. She sighed relief.
A second later, and the bonds melted, and Trish stood up way, way too fast.
Her knees hit the ground, palms slapping the cement to catch her. Her stomach churned and she swallowed the bile down, head spinning. Never before had she had a hangover this bad before.
Finally, when the world was steady enough, she managed one foot under her, pushing up off her bare knee, wobbling.
Yeah, standing was a mistake.
Blindly, Trish shot her arms out in search of a support, finding the railing behind her chair. She clutched it, pulled herself against the iron, bent over it and hurled.
It was a stairwell. The splat’s echo clarified that real quick, and through watering vision she could see the spiral’s shadows descend down the tower.
Tower? Wait-
She knew this place. Had seen it on tourist’s magazines. A clocktower, right?
Propping up on her elbows, Trish managed to raise her head to see an old bell oxidizing less than a meter above.
And her eyes stayed there. Snagged. Her blood freezing them in place. She didn’t want to look. She couldn’t. She’d barely seen it on the way to the bell, but the colors alone petrified her in place.
Images of a dreamy morning’s golden-brown biscuits came to mind, but smothered in that off-brand strawberry jam she hated.
Desperately she gulped down another bout of bile.
Then, his shoulders hitched. A horrible rasping noise escaped him. Her nerves spasmed, caught in the sin of staying still.
She shoved off the railing, scrambled around the stairwell, tripping along the way, but still somehow managed to kneel in front of Giorno without a proper fall.
Arms pulled back, bound around the back of his chair, he slouched forward, the fine pieces of his black suit ripped as though he'd been chewed up by some massive knife-toothed animal. Most of his hair fell in strands around his face, curled bangs and braid loose, barely resembling his usual look.
Without thinking, she’d reached up, pulling back some of the hair from his eyes. Salt and sweat stuck them to his pasty forehead. His crunched brows caught much of the sweat as well as...the...
Blood.
Giorno heaved another hoarse breath. Lungs sounding like ruptured bellows.
Trish brought her hand back, observing the crimson on it numbly.
Blood crusted much of his hair to his face and neck, some rivers of it still flowing fresh. Much of the clear blonde lay overpowered by old and new shades of crisp red.
“T...rish...”
Blood drizzled from his lips. She hoped it was just drippings from his ruddy scalp.
Though, it took another broken gasp of air for Trish to snap back. She inched closer, reaching up to hold his shoulders. “G-Giorno?!”
“Tr...”
“Hey. Hey ok- look at me. I’m here. And you’re here with me now, ok? You’re awake. So, you have to endure this shitshow with me now too, ok?” She shook his shoulders, maybe not as gently as she should have. “Ok?!”
“Mmmmmmh.”
Trish cursed under her breath, giving an official survey of the damage.
“Y-You’re gonna have to make a new skull and a-arm. Probably.” She chuckled in a way she hoped didn’t sound as unhinged as her nerves felt.
“Mmmmmmh.”
“Alright, you’re gonna have to be a little more help than that, Gio.” Reaching around, she had Spice Girl touch the bonds, softening them into a playdough consistency.
The moment she did, Giorno pitched forward, yanking a gasp from Trish. In a dizzying flash, she fumbled a grip on his shoulders, and swung herself around to his front, catching him in a kind of clumsy hug to hold him up.
She hated how she felt a thick crack in his chest. And she hated even more the wet gasps he hacked up afterwards.
But at least, when she settled him into leaning heavily against the rickety wooden chair, his eyes had opened.
Glassy green surveyed the ceiling, the early morning outside, before coming to rest on her.
“Tri...sh.” She couldn't tell whether it was a grimace or a smile. But she could definitely see the blood stained on his teeth.
She gulped the panic down. “Alright. We’re getting you out of here. Just-” Nope. Standing up was definitely still bad. Trish grabbed onto the railing behind the chair for support, clutching her mouth instinctively, even though she was pretty sure she’d completely emptied her stomach a minute earlier.
She’d shut her eyes to steady the merry-go-round of iron bars and cement and bells. So, when she felt a faint puff of coppery air against her cheek, she startled somewhat, opening her eyes to see Giorno’s expression stirring directly below.
He was looking around, head lolling in a way that really didn’t look promising. And the moment he looked down, Trish averted her gaze. She wasn’t keen on seeing that skull and blood-matted hair-mash again if she could help it.
“Trish. L... Look.”
At his eager tone, she allowed a glance past his hair to see him pulling at something in his shirt. “Wait. What’s...?”
She’d failed to notice it earlier. Around Giorno’s neck, tucked under his white shirt, was a string. Kneeling beside him, she pushed his weak fingers aside, fishing the string out herself. At the end, it weaved through a page of notebook paper. Snapping the string, she pulled the note from it, unfolding it to read,
“A good morning to you two beauties,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, as I wouldn’t want you to be in more pain then necessary.
If you’ll recall last night, I made an offer to you, Don Giovanna, that you seemed rather put-off by. And-”
“What-?” A cough racked Giorno, and she saw him desperately try to cover it with shaking fingers. When his breath finally settled into the somewhat-stable hitching rhythm of before, he rasped, “Offer? Wait, he...means...?” Giorno slumped onto his elbows, head resting heavily in his palms. She watched him smear fresh blood from his fingers into the old of his hair. “God... The traffick...ing ring.”
“Who’s?”
Giorno glanced to her, distant look clenching her chest tight. “Keep... reading.”
With a nod and shaky breath, she attempted to uncoil the lump in her throat, but ended up just reading over it.
“-And I took it upon myself to do my best to convince you, with my most persuasive techniques. As you are now aware of.
You’ll find yourself in the Torrazzo di Cremona, not far from my own luxurious home, where you’ll remember dining with me last night. You’ll find the companion you brought there with you is a tad more cognizant than you’ll find yourself to be.”
Trish wasn’t sure if the noise that came from Giorno then was a meant to be a chuckle or a cough, but she kept going when he nodded her on,
“Companion, I entrust you now with your Don’s life. In his right suit pocket, you’ll find a handheld transceiver.”
Before Giorno could try to fumble for it, she found the walkie-talkie, pulling it out for him to hold as she glanced over the last part.
But it stilled her. Words clogged in her throat, even as her lips stuck ajar.
“What’s it... Trish...?”
A weak hand landed on her shoulder and she snapped back, “S-sorry I just-”
“What’s wrong?”
Even as he said it, she watched him stifle a cough, gulping down something with it as though it were the thickest sludge.
She forced herself to look away, and read the note,
“Your Don Giovanna only has one hour to live. That is, only if you don’t follow my instructions perfectly.”
She glanced back. And Giorno met her gaze steadily, breaking it only to point at the next line.
His eyes were unfocused, and blurry, and she read the line,
“Get him to tell you the location of Passione’s most sensitive files on Rome, March 2001, and how we would retrieve the item associated with them.”
“The arrow.” The realization scraped the words against his throat. “Faviloni was talking about- last night- h-he needed- he wanted my help for his trade- but now he just w-wants the arrow-?!” Hacking took over his voice and chest, hunching him over, crushing his eyes shut.
“Gio- Just-” Trish held his arm as he finished the fit, “Y-You don’t need to talk anymore, ok?”
When his breathing steadied, he said nothing, trembling in place, holding his gut in a way that reminded her of-
She jumped up, pulling her skirt up with her just in time for him to retch blood onto the cement.
The sight wrenched a grip on her heart and stomach. Though, the most she could do for him was hold his hair back from his face, bundling it all in one palm, holding his tensing shoulder with her free hand.
When the heaving finally subsided, and he gasped for air through ragged lungs, Trish helped him lean back into the chair. He slumped gratefully, diaphragm shaking from exhaustion.
More as a question to herself, she muttered, “What the hell did they do to you?”
He wiped his lip, the back of his sleeve reddening, as he replied, “Stand is still... in here.”
“Wait- you mean... in you?”
Trish followed his nodding gesture, landing on the gross red-splotched cement. Sure enough, after a second, she could make out the tiniest wriggling forms, like blackened maggots.
“God-” She clamped her mouth with a hand, “That’s disgusting.”
“Mmmmh.”
“Is that why you can’t just heal all of-” She gestured broadly, “-this mess?”
Giorno inclined his head. “Mmhmmmh.”
“I- I thought we knew the Capo’s stand? Some kind of hat-related thing?”
“Isn’t... his. He recently... got new recruits and...”
“Didn’t document their stands properly. Right. Ok. So, you can’t heal yourself ‘cause of the stand and-” Terror hit fresh as she scanned the words again, “and it’s going to kill you in an hour?! That’s not fucking fair!”
“Calm... down.” Giorno’s hand reappeared on her shoulder. “Breathe...”
His look was steady, but she saw him actively stifle a bout of fear.
“I am breathing.”
“Not… calm enough.”
“I know ok, I know.”
Yeah. Sure. Just breathe. Stay calm. Like that had worked so well last night.
---
“That’s the fifth place with one of those custom-order mailboxes that looks like the house.”
“Seems to be a pretty popular thing here, yes."
She huffed, reading Giorno’s tacit desire for silence, and let a minute pass, just for him, before she couldn’t take it anymore.
“Why do I have to be the stupid one again?”
Giorno sighed, signaling for a turn before blowing through the stop-sign regardless. “They know me already, I’m their Boss .”
“ And I’m just your ditsy date?”
Giorno raised a finger. “No. You’re the fantastic actress Trish Una, playing the undercover ditsy date to your dear friend Don Giovanna. Through your brilliant stage-presence as nothing more than a breathtaking beauty, you’ll be marked off as a non-threat, and be able to slip away and rifle through some of Faviloni’s more sensitive documents when you ‘accidentally get lost’ on your way to the bathroom.”
She crossed her arms, hugging herself with them as she attempted to dismiss the way he practically sang ‘breathtaking beauty.’ “You got this whole thing planned out, don’t you?”
“I’ve been preparing for a while now. I should have something to show for it.” He tugged at the briar rose he’d chosen for a boutonniere, a soft, cloud-filled pink, matching the crisp vest beneath his slick black suit.
Trish herself puffed the same shade beside him. White lace fell from her left shoulder like ivy, growing onto the structured bodice of a barely knee-high silk dress, cut to shoot out from her waist, the fabric folding like an open book’s pages, creating oval openings for the blazing fushia underside to shine through.
The dress was loud. Obnoxious. Begged for attention.
And he’d picked it.
Trish flattened out a silky crease. Only after putting on the thing did she see she was a matching briar rose, but flipped upside-down.
She’d fucking loved it.
The dress, she meant. A month ago, when Giorno had asked her if she wanted to attend a dinner party with him- and brandished the dress as a blatant bribe- she’d eagerly accepted. The split-second after, he’d looked worried, and when she asked, he explained it would be dangerous, and that she didn’t have to help if she didn’t want to. But he assured she would be safe and only in danger for as short a time as necessary and-
She’d stopped him, “Do you need my help?”
“...Yes.”
“Then I’m going.”
So, here they were. Just two guests, no extras, as Giorno had promised the host, on their way to the capo’s fancy mansion dinner party to steal information.
As much as she griped about the part she had signed up to play, her limbs tingled with anticipation. She liked to think it was excitement, rather than fear, that jolted her nerves when Giorno pulled the car to a stop in the driveway, peach trees swaying in the evening breeze.
He must have noticed it too, turning in his seat to address her, “Trish, it’s ok if you’re alittle nervous.”
“I know. I know, I mean, I’m excited, if anything. It’s like a movie. Some cool spy movie or something.” She tried to bury her gaze in the mansion beside them. Her poker face was nowhere near as good as Giorno’s. “We should probably get going-”
Click.
It wouldn’t open. “Did you just... child-lock me in?”
“Trish, I just want to talk for a second.”
Reluctantly, she turned, knowing he was waiting for her to face him, and she sighed, “Yes?”
“It’s ok to be nervous.”
“I know that.”
“It’s also ok to be scared.”
“Giorno-”
He shot a finger to heaven. “But it is never ok to think that there is no way out.”
Abruptly, the heat seemed to stop working, and the car froze. Trish could only nod, the air laid too thick for her to answer. Seconds passed like that before-
“Good.” And just like that, his word cut the chain loose, and the air broke, free to flow again. “I’m sorry, I know that you know all of that already, I just... wanted to reiterate it.”
A smirk tickled her lips, “’Cause you’re nervous?”
A matching one pulled at his, “Yeah, maybe.”
The dinner went off without a hitch.
Capo Fausto Faviloni himself greeted them at the door, welcoming them with a smile that sang with genuine gratitude and joy as though they were busy friends that had finally found the time to grace his humble home with their presence.
Inside, beyond the luxurious furnishings, swam an impossibly nostalgic aroma that Trish couldn’t help but ask about. Faviloni, a shorter and stockier man, took time explaining it as a family recipe from his home in Sardegna, which, of course, earned an immense smile from Trish. Hitting it off with the capo himself had seemed a far-too ambitious goal just minutes earlier, as she had been hoping to chat up his wife more so, but this was a turn for the better.
As she plunged into elated conversation on Sardegna with Faviloni, she caught Giorno’s eye, and he nodded, trust and pride exuding from him to her. She smiled. They could do this.
Faviloni’s wife, Faye, was delicate, but nonetheless as warm and kind as her husband played to be.
Right... the way he dropped a meatball on his lap and chuckled heartily with his wife’s snorting giggle like that was...
Trish looked to Giorno at her side, smile fading, setting her wine glass down.
Despite his face, his mask of an entertained guest, staying pleasant and polite, he caught on. And he understood, she knew that much by how the look rested on her, and his hand which-
-rubbed on her ring finger. Giorno then glanced up, cutting his eyes across the table three times.
She followed his signal, gaze coming to rest on the capo’s ring finger. Despite the stubbier digits, old with years of rolled gelatin underneath skin, she saw no indent on his finger to indicate a wedding band. No tan-line to indicate the summers the capo and wife just said they had spent abroad together. A glance to his side, and Trish saw the same lack of mark on Faye’s finger.
Surely, if they were as happy, religious, and as carefree as their stories together claimed, at least Faye would risk a simple band being seen by the public, if not by guests who knew they were happily married.
Neither wore wedding rings, or had evidence of ever wearing one.
It was small, and maybe unfounded, but nonetheless it was a lie. An act. And it reminded her of the files Giorno had on them.
Pictures flooded her memory of this smiling man selling girls and boys like they were the cattle he forced-fed in rotting stables.
“Faviloni would never give up his business partners, even if we tried to ‘persuade’ him. And if we confront him to say we know, then his partners will clean house of any evidence or loose ends to the operation, and disappear entirely. We just need one of his ledgers. We’ll be able to piece together the locations and buyers from there.”
Faviloni, finished with cleaning up the tomato sauce, gleefully announced dessert.
Trish excused herself. Asked where the bathroom was.
Faye smiled, ever so gently, with wrinkles prickling around her eyes in a way that reminded Trish of her own grandmother, the thought making her miss that old smell of hearty perfume and rosemary.
“Down the west hall, it’ll be the second door down.”
Trish thanked her, and sent Giorno a quick glance before leaving to get lost in the mansion.
The office was the fourth door down. The light still on and door ajar, almost inviting her in. And, after a check behind her, she slipped into the room.
She’d worn white silk gloves for more reasons than fashion. Her fingers slinked into drawer after drawer, between paper and book and file until she finally decided to kneel down, looking under the desk-
There you are.
She pulled the middle drawer out again, pushing papers and pens out of the way to press down on the fake back.
A soft thud and up popped the back. There within lay a leatherbound booklet, worn and without dust.
Trish retrieved it, let the pages fall open to see-
Initials, shorthand, and prices, all pressed and exchanged between fine columns and rows.
She’d found it.
Relief settled between her shoulders one breath before she heard it.
Click. The cock of a gun hammer.
“Get up.” A woman’s voice. Cold as the metal in her hands. “Hands behind your head. Slowly.”
“...Faye?” Trish puzzled out loud. But the voice was harsh. Nothing like before.
“I said get up.”
A moment passed before Trish obeyed. Rising. Shoulder blades watching her hostess. Her hands empty above her head.
“Now face me.”
She did.
In the doorway, the capo’s wife stood as a bronze statue, the weight of the revolver nothing to her weathered joints, as though she’d been built to hold one, to fire one between Trish’s eyes.
And she would. Trish could see it.
“What the hell are you doing back here?”
“I got lost.” She said it as a formality.
“Not trying to find the bathroom. What were you looking for?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“You little-” Faye took a step right as a huge CRASH shook the floor, the desk, the bookshelves. Volumes fell, a vase smashed, and Trish braced herself on the desk, Faye grabbing the doorway for support.
Then there was a harsh yell. The back of Trish’s neck prickled with it.
“Giorno-?!”
POW
Trish froze. The shot had just missed her eye. The flash still leftover in her vision.
“I said. Don’t. Move.”
Despite slouching against the doorframe, Faye held the gun steady, aim centered again between Trish’s eyes. The capo’s wife straightened up, inclining her head. “Next time it’s a new eyebrow piercing.”
Trish gulped. Nodded once. A new throbbing told her she now had one cartilage piercing on her right ear instead of three. Though, she didn’t dare check.
Spice Girl hummed under her goosebumps. Angrily. She barely kept her down, and could feel her writhing in anticipation.
Wait. She told her. Not yet.
She’d promised to be smart, clever, and hidden under the star-shaped sparkles she had peppered over her eyes.
When she understood the situation, when she had a way out for them both, then the buzzing under her skin could stand beside her. Right now, a sheathed weapon was more dangerous than a known one.
Footsteps like a stampede rounded the hallway corner, thudding closer.
“She’s in here.” Faye called.
The broad-shouldered suits flooded into the office.
Before she could even count them, one yanked her arms behind her, secured a zip-tie, and shoved her down with a kick. Trish landed face-first on the wool rug, squirming to roll over, but a thick arm pinned her to the floor.
“Wait- Let go of me!”
Before she could break down and let the buzzing take shape, a sharp pang slid into her neck. Terror surged her as, almost immediately, her mind and limbs turned to lead. The hum over her skin dulled.
Shit. Alright, that could be a setback.
“Bring her.”
Then she was up, hauled up onto someone’s shoulder, and carried out.
The hallway flowed as an indefinite river of woven burgundy beneath her. She hoped Giorno was faring better than her on his end.
Though, something told her that definitely wasn’t the case.
Her wrists burned. She groaned. Squirmed. Spouted curses. Got told to stop. Got hit on the head.
Got sat down. Back in a dinner chair. By then her focus was blurry. Waning and waxing and making the crystal chandelier above look like a million dancing stars.
“Hey.” Fingers snapped in front of her. “She’s looking at me, right?”
Someone muttered something beside her and the dark form in front of her shot up.
“ Jesus , I told you to drug her after I explained ...!”
The form moved away from her. Arguing with the someone. Something about... stand users? Oh, was she one too? Trish couldn’t remember.
She wasn’t a threat anymore, apparently. They knew she didn’t have those standing power-things. Unlike the other. The other stuck in the chair across from her.
The one with gold hair named-
“...Gior...no?”
Wait- he didn’t look right. She knew what a Giorno looked like and that didn’t look right...
“H-Hey.” Trish called. The motion pitched her maybe alittle too far forward and she fell. Her cheek slapped against the wood floor, splashing sticky liquid everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere? Why everywhere? How could it be everywhere when it was just from one person? But there it was. One person’s red sticky liquid. Everywhere.
“T...rish?”
She managed to roll over. Above her, behind the gold curtain, pretty turquoise gemstones watched her. The white pools they laid in widened.
She smiled. She wished she could touch them. Dip her fingers in to see how deep it took until she pricked her finger on the faceted stones.
“Your ear is hurt.” The voice from within the curtains mumbled, “Here- just let me-”
A shimmering gold arm slid out of his normal arm, moving towards her-
POW
He cried out, recoiling back as the sparkling arm had a hole punched through it. As the gold disappeared, he groaned and held his normal arm. She could’ve sworn she saw even more sticky red dripping down his fingers. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drippity...
“Trish- Don’t worry- I'll- GAH!”
She stifled a giggle. The sharp thing the suit-man used wasn’t nice but she knew Giorno would be just as floaty and free as she was in a minute, so she was happy for him.
But... he didn’t look happy.
Her mind twisted away from that carefree flying, and suddenly she was falling. Down down down. Wherever direction her mind went, it apparently went very fast. And soon she found herself very sad.
He was sad. Did she do that? He only got sad after he reached down to her and got poked through the arm. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t tried to touch her, right? Wait- she knew that one. The story with spinning wheels that pricked pretty princesses and put them to sleep.
Wait. Was she the spinning wheel? No, she wasn’t shaped like one. And she wanted to be the pretty princess, saved by the handsome prince riding in on the sunrise. A delicate flower to be plucked and protected and cherished. Like the flower on his suit.
But...
But then it was all bright golden spinny spinny spindles and thread. Everywhere. Stringy strings and beautiful colorful colors. And she couldn’t think anymore, only see.
She watched it all snake around her as she lay, floating, weightless, not falling or flying anymore.
Floating... Floaty...
The stars above fizzled out like fireworks.
The rest from there was just that. Fireworks.
Sleep was a dark sky, only broken and lit intermittently, and at intervals Trish couldn’t control. But when the light appeared, it was with a harsh thundercrack.
Each snap, each crack, each yell and cry from someone beside her that echoed heavily in her chest- it whipped her neck up to see where the noise had come from, and what bright sparks had shot out from it. But by the time she found the source, the light had gone out again.
She didn’t float anymore. Now, she sank. Deeper and deeper into the dark sky, like an abyss.
Only when the fireworks cracked closer, when the light from them illuminated the foreign trees and sharp grass far beneath her and the form beside her in the darkness, and she could see the golden hair plastered to his bloody face, did she remember.
“No... Giorno... please... just-
RUN
---
“Trish... Breathe...”
Her lungs were tired. Her throat was hoarse from the forced air. In and out and in and out and-
Trish didn’t realize her face was wet until her lips parted and she tasted salt.
“I- y-you got hurt bad- really fucking bad and I could’ve done something before they fucking drugged me but I didn’t ‘cause- I- I- God I’m a stupid fucking-
“Calm...” Giorno hushed. “It wasn’t your... fault.”
Matted blonde hair pressed into her trembling face, fresh blood melding with the old from her ear. It took her too long to understand he was hugging her on the ground. Stiffly, like if he teetered to the right too much he’d fall. She had clutched fistfuls of blonde hair over his back, which she released upon the realization. The tension bleeding into her mumble,
“And now... you’re going to die? It’s not fucking fair.”
At first Giorno said nothing. She felt his shoulders tense as he pulled away from her, and she steadied him as he settled into a sitting position there.
“I’m not... going to die.”
“What? D’ y- you have a plan?” Trish wiped her face. Sniffing it back up.
Giorno stilled, his face contorting into something that wasn’t quite a grimace but a-
Smirk. He smirked at her.
“You.”
“What?”
He pointed a bloody finger at her. “You’re the plan... Trish.”
“I’m the...?”
“Our only hope.” Giorno’s head dipped, and he tipped forward. “Our-”
Trish caught him, grunting under the weight. “Ok... alright, yeah. Ok. Up we go.” After one last wipe of her nose, she propped herself onto one knee, pulled him up, and heaved him back onto the chair, the motion earning another bout of hacking from him. His eyelids fluttered open at the end of it, and he blinked and squinted like he could barely see.
It pulled in her chest, sitting heavy like marble on her shoulders, enough to push her lungs down and away from her.
At a young age, Trish came to know that wheezing, the strain that crept up the lungs of a body grasping at life. Her grandmama had it. Back then, she thought it was just an old age thing, until her younger uncle had it, battling the last stages of tuberculosis in his body.
It sounds different in each throat, tinted with the hue of that person’s voice.
Giorno’s sounded too young. Like it didn’t belong.
It was a fucking stupid way to die. Trapped up in some clocktower. Being killed slowly from the inside by some fucking coward sipping tea at home.
Giorno didn’t deserve that.
Trish stood. Her head throbbed, stomach broiled, all as pink nails dug into her palms.
Her eyes slid to the walkie talkie.
If they were doing this, they were doing it her way.
---