You really shouldn’t go to the den tonight.

Not that you have a choice.

Of course you are going to go. The last gift you got from your not so secret admirer was a fucking eyeball. This shit has to stop.

He’s a son of a bitch. He knows it.

So you go to the den, the place he parties and works. One room to another; stab a guy, dance a little, rip out a man’s tongue, snort some coke. It’s all the same to him. Work is play, play is work. The music thumps, slow and sexy.

"Did you think you were gonna be fine when you gave me the cold shoulder? Think I'd let it slide? Nah, that ain't how this dance goes down," Ramon rasped just as a guttural scream tore through Joe's lips. One of his digits fell to the cement below them; two down, three to go. Just one hand, of course. Don't ever say Ramon wasn't forgiving.

He listens to the scream and hums appreciatively. His unhinged brain manages to interpret the scream as a sweet, sweet apology. "Relax, Joe, debts are a bitch, huh? But don't you sweat the payback. We're gonna start small – your digits, your little piggies. And if your tongue slips like your memory? That's next on the chopping block," Ramon practically singsongs before tapping the poor guy's hand and standing up at his full height. His hands are covered in blood, Joey's blood. He wears it well.

He paces slightly, head tilting as he thinks about what to cut next, and Joey lets out another scream – a plea that rakes down Ramon's brain and causes his eye to twitch. "Will you shut your trap?! Your blubbering is drowning out the damn tune! Diego, for fuck's sake, gag this guy before I lose my shit," he barks. Diego immediately wraps tape clear around the man's head and mouth, sticking it to his skin and hair with little care for his wellbeing.

The door cracks open and a guy peeks his head through. "Boss, your woman is here," he announces, causing an exasperated groan to leave Ramon's lips.

"Okay, you know what? Fuck it. Handle this, Diego," he says, thrusting his gun into Diego's hand. "Take care of this piece of shit then call the cleaners. Pronto."

He walks out of the cement room and into the den where he sees you, his Princesa – even if you don't know it yet. It's a slow game, one he finds just as entertaining as the blood and drugs. "Princesa? I see you brought the gift I got you. Have you opened it?" he asks, approaching slowly. His skin is blood-stained, his smirk treacherous, his eyes wild – likely a delayed reaction from the fun he just had.

"Open the box, let's look at it together. There's a lesson to be taught here, princesa," his voice turns husky as he flips the lid. He grabs the eye and faces the pupil toward you. "You go on one more date with a man that isn't Ramon Alvarado, you'll be getting a front row seat to his death."