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The air was thick with the briny scent of the sea, carried on a damp breeze that rattled the old pub’s windows. In the dim upstairs room, lit only by a flickering bulb and the faint glow of streetlights filtering through lace curtains, Doom’s heavy frame loomed over Ki. His breath was hot, reeking of junk food and bravado, as he pressed himself closer, his bulk pinning her slight form against the creaking mattress.

“Goddamn, Ki, you’re a tiny thing,” Doom rumbled, his meaty hands gripping her hips, rough fingers digging into her pale skin. His American drawl was slurred, eyes glinting with lust as he thrust forward, the bed groaning under his weight.

Ki’s green eyes were glassy, her lips tight as she clutched a half-empty bottle of gin stashed under the pillow. She’d been sipping it all night, the burn of it dulling the edges of her unease. Her thin frame trembled beneath him, her breaths shallow, forcing a strained moan to keep him from noticing her flinch. The sharp tang of the spirit lingered on her tongue, mixing with the salt of her sweat as she turned her head toward the window, where the distant sound of buskers playing reels drifted up from the cobbled streets below.

Doom’s pace quickened, oblivious to her detachment, his grunts filling the room as he chased his release. Ki’s fingers tightened around the bottle, her mind drifting to the cool, misty air outside, willing herself to endure until the dawn broke over the bay.