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The double doors were shrouded in shade, darkness devouring the closed bar beyond the thick hardwood. Empty sixth floor lobby, shiny tile slick and scuffed beneath his heels, elevator quietly descending behind him. Silence, then: A grunt, muffled. Something anyone else would have lost in the hum of the yellow mid-century wall lamps. Evil Uno squeezed the latch and pushed one door open.
“Adam?”
Silence. The glimmer of an ice cube in a whisky glass illuminated by a single banker’s lamp. Denim hugging a bouncing knee, one eye bright blue and the other shaded black. Stained fingernails, split lip. Embroidered roses painted red.
“Adam.” Closing the door behind him and walking slowly, Uno swept his hands out, palms open. Let the mask smile for him. Button behind the bar, amber glow wrapping around the polished wood, soft yellow lighting up shelves of bottles and glasses. Wood polish, ethanol, sweat, blood. He could hear Adam’s ragged breathing. “Little dark in here, isn’t it?”
“Was,” Hangman muttered, boot heel clicking against the barstool once, raw knuckles splitting as he tilted the whisky glass towards himself with his fingertips. The ice clunked against the side and refracted the light, throwing a kaledescope on the bartop. He stifled another grunt, exhaled slowly, and let the glass rest with a thunk. “Used to be quiet, too.”
His hair was plastered to his scalp, stiffened by coagulated blood. He was staring at Uno unblinking, expression unreadable; Adam didn’t look particularly unhappy, concerningly. Uno clasped his hands together, stepped up to the stool beside him, and inclined his head towards it. “May I?”
After a nod he sat, precariously slipping on slick tile. Blood, surely. Think about that later. Finally looking away, Adam snatched up an already bloodsoaked rag, almost absentmindedly pressing it to his lower lip, giving up, twisting it, uselessly wiping at ash on his wrist and only managing to smear it further. For what must have been the upteenth time, Adam gave up and flung it back down. Uno watched him through his eyelashes, still, patient. Finding all the cracks and peering into them.
Adam didn’t wrestle on Dynamite, aired only hours ago. He wasn’t even on the card.
Uno was starting to lose control of Hangman. He was losing Adam. To Strickland. Somehow, one man was pulling him from between the fingers of the entire Dark Order. Like sand: No resistence.
“Let me get that.” Uno procured a light purple handkerchief edged in black, uselessly dabbing at the blood caked on his temple, fabric staining instantly. Blood dripped from the corner of the folded bandana wrapped around his neck. The red was never coming out of those roses. Frowning, Uno leaned forward, yearning for a pair of gloves as his hand hovered over the bandana. It was soaked. He reached for the knot. “You’re bleeding through it-”
Crushing, bruising force, a strong hand wrapped around his forearm, nails tugging hair off at the roots. Sharp inhale, raised voice, grit teeth; stay composed. “Alright- okay, okay, Hangman- Adam, it’s o-kay.”
He tried to throw Uno’s arm away from him, grunting with the effort. Surging against him in tandem, Uno remained stalwart, free hand resting on his dear friend’s thigh.
“No, no, you can’t- Look, I- I need you to understand something, here.” Breathing even more labored, eyes wild, Hangman let him tug the loose knot free and flick the dripping bandana aside. Nasty puncture wounds, blood pulsing with every rise of the blond’s chest. This was going all wrong. “… You’re not yourself, Adam.”
He was going to have to do something drastic. Something more.
Uno locked eyes with Adam, leaning forward, one hand grasping his shoulder tightly. He dug his nails into the weave of the denim. The light shining off the embellishments of his mask was almost blinding. The Dark Order could benefit from a powerful, dominant figurehead.
The ice cube cracked, loud.
“Not without me.”