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"You, me and a dark hole. Just like old times, Pretty."

He licks his lips, imagining the boy in wanton abandon underneath him: arching, moaning.

Scofield ignores the remark and climbs reluctantly down the metal ladder. Searching his way through the semi-darkness T-bag follows him, wondering about the endless opportunities to make this lair underneath the office Michael's own personal Gate of Hell.

He wants to tie Scofield up to one of these pipes, strip him of his arrogance and clothing and see him put up a delightful fight. 

He's still infatuated with Michael in a helpless way that angers him, cause it tastes like a weakness. 

Scofield has never been anything like the others T-bag toyed with: Maytag, Cherry... All of them too fragile, too weak, almost willing to be victimized. And none of them as beautiful as the boy.

The Pretty isn't one to be forced holding on to pockets. T-bag isn't sure if Michael wouldn't make him grab and hold on instead, surrender to all that beauty and brilliance and this newfound darkness in the boy's eyes.

There is a hole in the Pretty's soul and it counterparts the black void in T-Bag.  

Very unlike old times. 

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