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Vomit. That's what Six more or less wanted to do when the fat bastard sifted through her hair. Still, she restrained herself from instantly spewing over him. That defense mechanism had vanished a long time ago. After he had made his way to the front of the office, Six had found herself with a brief respite where she wouldn't have to acknowledge his presence, especially since they were talking about things that didn't concern her.

Of course, that respite quickly faded as ugly threw a dart directly at the throat of a poor captain. It wasn't a large wound, no. One that he probably wouldn't have died from, anyways. Almost everyone had two pairs, so as long as he kept pressure on it, the thin point would have been nothing more than a cruel lesson. Of course, the fat bastard looked back at her in an attempt to goad any reaction. She gave nothing in response. She reacted like a dead fish to him, always and forever.

As they made their way out of the office and into the hallway, Six made an effort to—as the fat bastard was looking away—walk up to the partially injured captain. As he nervously kept one hand around the dart's tip in efforts of slowing the bleeding and the other looking for any loose cloth to apply pressure to the wound, Six placed her hands on the captain's traps and pulled herself to his neck. Her tongue slowly dragged along his neck, collecting that blood that spilled. To the captain, she gave a slight smile. It was more than the fat bastard had ever received.

Walking past the rest of the Romanian men, Six paid them no mind. The thick doors opened and a frigid blast of winter wind struck them both head on. Inconvenienced by this, the fat bastard sent her to get a car. As much as she would have wanted the fat bastard to suffer in the snow, it was much easier if she just bit her tongue and did what he said.

Quickly, she ran out into the snow. The cold didn't bother her too much. No, she was used to it. Plus, she always had an extra layer on beneath her regular clothes.