"Are you delusional?" The woman chuckled, her stiff shoulders visibly relaxing.

Greg was shell-shocked. The sentence: are you delusional, echoed in his head.
Delusional. Delusional. Delusional. That one simple yet lethal word buzzed around Greg's head like the classic DVD logo bouncing back and forth across the loading screen of his mind.

Like a ticking bomb bursting into flames, Greg roared up and, with lightning speed, grabbed the blood-soaked hands of the woman—a snarl etched in his throat.

"Delusional?" He snarled. "I wouldn't use that word on me if I were you: an embarrassment of a killer." He spits up a glob of saliva beside him for emphasis.

The unexpected flash of his hand grabbing her hands made the woman gasp out in surprise. Her gradually relaxing body stiffened up like a board, her heart hammering away, trying to burst through her ribcage. Even through the thick layer of fear covering the woman, her disbelief at all that was happening around her gave her a pushing force to go on a back-and-forth quibble with this old individual.

"So you also have a few screws loose with being delusional?" The woman asked, head titling to her side as her eyes followed the masculine hand that held hers in a vice grip, now slowly loosening its claw-like grip.

Greg's thick eyebrows furrowed, jaw tightening as he urged himself to keep cool.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
He gingerly loosened his fingers from around the soft, blood-stained hands of the woman.
Kill her. Kill her. Kill her. 

A heavy sigh blew past Greg's lips, his tightening fists flexing into a more relaxed position. His head bowed. A quizzical frown painted the woman's face. The drastic mood changes in this man's personality within the last ten minutes confuse her to the core. Greg looked up at the woman, her almond-shaped hazel eyes staring at his own sharp, slanted black ones.

Kill her.
The thought clawed at the inner walls of his mind: begging, demanding. You are delusional. The voice continued taunting as Greg stood frozen in his position. Riling him up, anticipating a reaction.

Amidst his internal taunts, a fleeting thought breezed past his mind. "Are you delusional?" It was a question. The woman was frozen in fear, but she asked that question instead of screaming or doing something stupid. It was a question. A tinkering bulb lit up with a wicked idea. A desire burned up Greg's chest, his bowed face carving into a mild smirk. Why kill her when I can use her?

A manic snicker crawled up his throat, startling the woman. The faint scampering of squeaking rats dashing past accompanied his gradual laugh.

"Ah," Greg started, his laughing fit slowing its descent. "I have a proposal."

The answer to the previous question now marked its concrete spot in the woman's head. He is definitely not sane.

"I'm sorry?" The woman asked, a visible confusion on her pale face.
A chuckle escapes Greg. "I want to save you from being an embarrassment and teach you the ropes of killing. Properly." He delivers in a why-even-ask tone. A hand darts past her confused face and points behind her, the bloody corpse glistening in the faint moonlight glow.

"That. It's embarrassing to even look at. A shit piece of work. Ain't even worth being called a work. A—"
"Stop!"
"I've heard enough." A hand jumped in front of Greg, successfully putting a stop to his rambling. A faint blush painted her face, slowly descending her neck, down, down, and down under the darkness of her black top.

"So..." Greg dragged on the O in a sing-song note.
"I-" the woman started, opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water, trying but failing to comprehend what was happening and what her response should be. Should there even be a response, thought the woman.

"Really don't wanna stink up the place more, woman; hurry it up," Greg complained, looking around the dingy alley. His ears picked up faint chortles of passersby and the constant beeping of city traffic.

If this situation were a Japanese comic panel, a thick swirl of lines would have been floating on top of the woman's head. Her thoughts were a mess, debating between accepting this ridiculous offer and just handing herself to the cops. Both are out of the question, thought the woman. Her eyes were fleeting towards Greg, who was already staring at her with an annoyed expression. Yeah, both are crazy. She peeled her eyes from that dark expression and focused on her hands, stained from the aftermath of her altercation.

She returned her gaze to the old man. Better take the hands of a crackhead than rot in jail. And with a determined look, she responded, "I'll be under your care."

"Why the fuck do I have to carry this shit in my car?"
They were in Greg's car en route to his hideout (or studio, as he likes to call it).
"I cannot believe I'm ruining my car with this shitload," Greg grumbles under his breath, fist pounding on the steering wheel. His eyes darted towards the rearview mirror, meeting eyes with the woman, Mara.
(What should I call you now that you asked for my help?)
(Even. Mara Even.)

Mara's unblemished face contorted in a frown as her eyes gazed out of the window. Her presence lay on a heavy weight in Greg's car, but also, at the same time, it felt like she was an illusion. Her presence was quiet like a mouse.

The astigmatic zooms of front lights blurring past as Mara felt fleeting gazes on her. She tried to ignore Greg's blatant stares, looking out the window at the dark shadows of trees covering the neighboring houses. She wonders where this man is taking them.

An abrupt stop pulled Mara out of her thoughts. Her eyes fleeted towards Greg, who was pulling out his keys from the ignition. Her eyes followed Greg out of the car as he walked around the car and softly tapped on her window. An indication that they had arrived.

Mara stepped out of the car, her shoe scrunching on the rubble.

"Where are we?" She asked, eyes following Greg as he stalked towards the boot of his car.

"Where else? My studio." Greg replied, nose crinkling up at the state of his car, stinky and blood-stained. Now, I cannot let others use this for a while.

Mara let his words sink in. Nodding, she looked around, and all she was met with was a wall. A freaking cul-de-sac. Noticing the silence from his female companion, Greg peeked from behind the boot.

"Don't just stand there." He muttered before sighing exasperatedly, "Help me move your man over here."

"My bad."

"Do you need an invitation to move those working legs you got?" Greg huffed, his arms heavy with the butchered upper half body of the poor nameless dude. The lower half is held by Mara.
"Where?" Came the response, accompanied by the searching-for-something head motion.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill her.
This woman is really testing his patience, and if it weren't for the plan, he would have ended her life and, most importantly, did not have to stain his car with this dude's filthy blood.

"The Studio!" A vein popped up on Greg's forehead. Reigning in his raging shackles, Greg jutted his chin out to his side in a directing motion, "There."

And there she looked. Only to find a family home.

She was expecting a rundown storage facility, maybe even an under-construction site. But definitely not a townhouse. More so in a residential area.

This is definitely a scam. This is payback.

This is definitely not a crackhead, wannabe murderer's "studio". Surely not.

"Get moving, slowpoke." Came the quipped-out voice of Greg, already moving forward with the load. Shaken out of her thoughts, Mara followed suit.

The moonlight did nothing to help focus her eyes on her surroundings. The soft scrunch of their footsteps on the rubbled ground and the sounds of the night creatures enveloped their short journey to the front step. There's a forest nearby.

Mara explored her surroundings like a schoolgirl on her first museum trip. The townhouse was surrounded by wooden fences, the two-storied house seemed to envelop her. She wanted to see the front door, but her body took a right turn. She turned to Greg, who ignored the entrance as if it didn't exist.

Mara didn't know if it was the night's effect or the fact that the neighbors clocked into bed early. I mean it was barely even ten o'clock.

She watched the entrance grow further and further as her body was ushered towards the side of the house. To the backyard. The basement.

The crazy man halted in his steps, making Mara stumble forward. The dead man was the saving grace of her fall.

"Wait here." Came the command. And just like that, Mara was alone. Alone with the dead man at her foot, his massacred face staring at her.

Accusing her: you have done fucked up.