What they don't tell you growing up is that it's not the monsters fault that they hide under your bed, or in your closet. Monsters hide because their pain is too great. It's when they stop hiding that you should be worried.

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Logan didn't bother reading the labels on the orange bottles. They were all just made up words that classified them as heavy anti-psychotics. Thorazine. Perphenazine. Lurasidone. Pimavanserin. He thought back to the jokes that he would make regarding his daily regimen of chemicals; it wasn't so funny when they had been stuffed into his mouth, gagged on, the intensity of getting used to whatever prescription they would load him up with next. He could often still feel the burn of straps against his wrists or the too bright light being navigated into his eyes. There weren't many jokes he could tell about those moments.

"Come back to bed, baby.", she purrs from the bed which has a slim window look into the bathroom where Logan stood. Her dark hair was like fresh brewed coffee with eyes as dull as biscotti. Naked as the day she was born but poised like a queen to rule the wrinkling of his sheets. A little bit of orange lit up half her face when she lit a cigarette.

"Give me a minute." And he doesn't sound too awake himself. They're both strung out on different levels of substance abuse; she had a love affair with China White while he courted bottles of alcohol like they might be his next one night stand. Mix in the frenzy of after hours sex and you had yourself an almost perfect blend of euphoria and regrets. Her finger prints are all over him. Her breath still near his neck. There's the brief eclipse of disappointment in himself when he remembers that he needs to put some money on the dresser for her.

"How long you gonna'be in town for, baby?"

"Who knows. Couple more days, couple more weeks. Just depends on this job. I'm sure you know how it is." From his stand point in the bathroom he can make out her silhouette in the mirror. She looks more dangerous in the dark than she does under the pale glow of the cigarette she's smoking. It's probably what coaxed him to her shore.

"I've been here for years, baby. I don't think I'll be going anywhere any time soon. What kind of job are you doing?" She was curious. Curious because John's were hard to come by that weren't ripe with abusive breath and fat guts. He was a cut of a different cloth.

"What's your name again?" He had to ask. There was no evidence that he may have felt bad for forgetting.

"Whatever you want it to be, baby."

Logan smirked in the mirror. More at himself than at her unoriginal comment. It was typical jargon that he was used to for how many times he traded some Benjamin's for a quick fuck. What most didn't know, or try to understand, was that it wasn't about the climax. It wasn't about the spine shuddering ending, the curtain call that made teeth grit or fingers flex. What he paid for was the contact, the skin to skin cinema that he craved where body language told the whole story. Gave up all the plot lines and the twists of drama when he either went too deep or too hard, when they wanted to pant his name but they couldn't get it out because he was stealing it right from their mouths.

He wanted something real for as brief as possible. Before his mind could shatter into a million pieces and he lost himself again in the avenues of his own head. Those tunnels and districts? They were often too dark to navigate. And he couldn't take anyone with him.

"Really, what is it?" He asked again, shaking a few pills from one of the many bottles lined up crookedly across the back of the sink into his hand.

"Real name, or street name?" Smallest tilt of her head brought a show of thick hair across her breasts. She could tease with out even trying. Her age was beginning to show near her eyes but it was appealing even in the dark.

"Either."

"Gaia for the streets, baby." Tiny pause in her murmuring. He could see the ghost of a smile behind the smoke she hid behind. "Rose is my real name. It's been a while since anyone has asked me what it is."

"Gaia.", he spoke it before tossing back a handful of pills. Water from the sink was used to help guide them down. The moon enjoyed spying on his back where a few scars were that almost blended into the smooth way his sinew stretched beneath his skin. "I like Rose better. You're not a Gaia. No one's a Gaia and not everyone is a Rose."

Rose reapplied some coquettish nature to her posture. Her shoulder line, the swell of her breasts, dragging sheets in a rumpled state around her thighs. Logan moved to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching to quietly ask for the cigarette she was still nursing. She obliged.

Why would a man like this pay for sex?, she thought, almost openly stating that question on her expression alone.

"I need to ask you a couple questions, Rose. And I really, really need you to be honest with me about them."

Rose came up behind him, flush a long his back, reaching to coil her arms around his shoulders and let hands dangle near his chest. His skin was rough in many areas. Scar tissue that bubbled like angry memories. She traced at one or two that could easily be identified as bullet wounds.

"Ask away, baby.", she whispered near his ear.

"Where's Bastian Pocci?"