"I've killed before; what makes you think I wouldn't do it again?"

When Spencer is offered a chance at her own place, she jumps at it without a second thought about the previous owner's dark past. It isn't until four masked guys bang down the door to her new apartment and drag her off for a ransom that she's forced to face the consequences of someone else's choices, at the hands of NYC's most notorious gang. Can she convince them that they've made a mistake, before the darkness consumes her?

Growing up in foster homes on the wrong side of the city Justin Bieber has learned a thing or two about mistakes, and how to keep yourself from repeating them. It's simple really; you get rid of the problem, before it gets rid of you. So why can't he get himself to make this one go away?

"Nothing's completely good or bad, because one can't exist without the other - just like the dark needs the light to survive."

Are you ready for the darkness to take over?


2. The Reckless

1. The Reckless   

// Spencer // 



  "Dad, I'm fine," I reassure him for the millionth time since I moved out, as I trap my phone between my ear and shoulder.

I'm rummaging through moving boxes, trying to find space for my last few things.

"Are you sure, 'cause we can find you another place," he stresses, "Or you can always come back home."

I suppress a groan and flop onto the small couch in the barely there living room space of my new apartment. It's directly attached to the tiny hallway and the kitchen on the other side. It's small, and barely fits what little belongings I have, but it's mine.

"Dad," I sigh, exhausted with the conversation already. It's only been a week and yet we've had this conversation at least twice before.  "I'm fine. It's no big deal."

"Someone died in that place, Spence," he exclaims, and I roll my eyes, grateful that he can't see me.

Not this again.

He's been worse than usually with his overprotectiveness ever since he found out about the girl who lived here before me. I should've never agreed to him doing a background check on the place. I was hoping it would calm him, and not cause a ruckus like this. In fact, a ruckus was exactly what I was trying to avoid when I decided to move out.

"Dad, people die all of the time," I remind him. He, of all people, should know.

"Yeah but they're not all drug abusing college students your own age," he stresses, his voice soaring to new heights. "That could have been you."

"Except it wasn't," I remind him, "And it couldn't be."

"Of course not, 'cause I taught you better than that."

"You did," I agree with another eye roll. Being the goodie two shoes daughter of the captain comes with responsibilities and expectations that no other teen my age would be able to meet. From the age of ten my father's strict rules have been drilled into me, like a chant or national anthem of our household.

No dating. No drinking. No drugs.

All of which I've broken at one time or another, but my father doesn't need to know that.

"You can always come home," he tells me, the volume of his voice dropping drastically.

I swallow a small lump that's formed in the back of my throat. "I know."

I think he's about to say something else, no doubt another remark about the previous tenant or a new reminder of the self defense classes he's had me brushing up on since he found me sneaking out past my curfew in junior year of high school, but there's a knock at my door that distracts me from anything he might be saying.

"Dad, someone's at the door," I tell him, "I have to go."

"Don't open for strangers, Spencer!" He scolds me like a little child, earning him another eye roll. 

"Bye," I hang up before he can make another remark, as whoever is at the door knocks again.

It's strong, powerful knuckles banging restlessly and mercilessly against the wood. I rush to the door, fearing that it might give out any time soon, unable to withstand the amount of force being pushed on it.

Who on earth bangs on doors like that?

I turn the lock and reach for the door handle, until I realize that no ones rang my door phone to be let in to the building. Who ever is at the door obviously didn't want me to know that they were coming. And just in that instance of realization the door is forced open with such a force that it bangs against the wall it's attached to. I spring back as to not get hit with the door, but end up colliding with the wall as well.

Then a group of dark clothed figures file into my apartment, all in black hoodies and bandanas covering the lower half of their faces.

"What the -?"

The two first reach me and slam their hands on my mouth, before I can make another sound. Another figure follows the two first, passing us and heading towards my small dinning room table, as a forth figure follows the three first and slams the door shut, making sure to lock it. It all happens within seconds.

I'm trying hard to breathe, but the hands on my mouth are blocking my nose as well, and their arms, pinning me to the wall, are crushing my windpipes.

The third figure grabs a chair from the table set, pulls it from the table and drags it across the apartment floor, until it's situated in the middle of the room, facing the couch.

There's ice cold fear running its course in my veins. I can't breathe. The lack of oxygen is making me dizzy. My fear is overpowering all other senses and I'm incapable of moving or doing anything to throw these guys off of me.

Then the figure by the couch turns, and nods to the three by the door with me. This sets the two at my side into motion, releasing their grips on my arms just enough to readjust and then drag me further into the apartment and towards the chair.

Then something clicks within me, like a switch being turned on and then I can move again.

I thrash, with everything I have within me, trying to throw the guys off of me, but their strength is tenfolds against mine.

With little effort they push me into the chair and hold me down, as the third figure takes a seat on the couch in front of me, and then I feel ropes tightening against my wrists, binding them together behind the back of the chair. The more I fight them, the harder they tighten the ropes. 

Once my wrists have been secured, now sore from where the ropes are digging into them, and they seem to be satisfied that I won't be able to get out, the two figures holding me down releases me. And with their release I scream.

A toe curling, blood boiling scream. Not out of fear, but malice for these masked intruders.

"You can scream as much as you want princess, no one will come for you," the figure on the couch chuckles dryly. "There's no one here to hear you, when you cry for help."

His voice is darkness encapsulated, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, and leaving room for no mistake: he's in command.

I can feel his henchmen breathing down my neck, rushing a shiver through me. I keep my eyes on him - he's the one calling the shots. 

There's a slit between the end of his hood and the beginning of his bandana. From the slit, dark eyes stare back at me. In the darkness I can detect the mockery and the fulfillment.

He's enjoying this, watching the fear in my eyes. So I straighten my back, as much as my bindings will allow me, and I meet his eyes full on with mine, willing all traces of fear to disintegrate from them.

Rule number one, never let them see you sweat.  


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