The more the seconds passed, the worse it got. Grigori could feel his body both reject and be consumed by the dose of poison. The room tilted, churned, and changed into different forms, all within seconds. He could feel his heartbeat get louder and louder until it rivaled a roaring crowd in a stadium.

‘You failed the test’, some portion of his mind said. Not his own. ‘She knew you would come from the start. This was planned. You walked right into her trap, and you are paying the price. She holds your life in your hands.’

‘Kill her, Grigori. If you do, then you’ll be free of her control. Stab her with that pen on the desk, until she begs for mercy, and you’ll be yourself again.’

'It's what you're good at-- the only thing you're good at. Good for. A machine, meant to turn the living into dead. Machines don't talk, Grigori. This is just the process to reset your code. If you fall, you'll get right back up again. '

The grunt could not tune them out, but they did not control his mind. They were bystanders, nothing more. Dark nothings that only lead to death and destruction. If he could survive the meeting in the Cave of Origin, then this should be nothing.

But his body did not agree. He fell to one knee, hands flat on the desk. Deep, heavy breaths rocked his body, which looked weak and pathetic in this sorry state. A husk that the skeleton could no longer afford to support. His skin started to turn pale white, like the snow that covered the earth.
“Under… the weather,” he grunted. “Unsurprised to know you possess such–augh– dangerous poison. Neurotoxic, I presume?”

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

Things only went further downhill as Elisabeth congratulated the grunt on his correct answer. Even as his body continued to fight and fail in the wake of the toxin, Grigori could rest easy as he knew how the substance corroded his senses.

He kept his eyes firmly shut, but that did little as he now could see things in the pitch black. Shapes, figures, things that shouldn’t nor couldn’t be. A face he knew all too well, and how its lifeless eyes gazed at him. How it pierced his soul.

His breathing became labored quickly, and how it was all the man could do as he gripped the desk tight and press his face into its body. The voices only got progressively louder, and their call all the more enticing. Control slipped, yet he tried his best to keep even a fingertip of power on his actions. 

He was a man of his word. He had told Elisabeth that he was over his anger issues. Between death and to go back on his word, the former was much kinder. Without his word, he was nothing. 

Even as the sweet whispers sang into his mind, how her blood would paint the floors rather well. How howard slayte and Shred were plotting his downfall, that Elisabeth was his superior in every conceivable notion, that Gabe would’ve killed him first if he hadn’t acted, how–

“rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr–”

Make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stopstopmakeitstopstopmakeitstopstopmakeitstopstopmakeitstopstopmakeitstop--

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

Elisabeth reached Grigori’s side with little problem. The needle sank into his neck, one of the few spots of exposed skin on his entire body. Not even the plunger descending earned a reaction from him.

It was the sensation of relief, the sense that things would be alright– that’s when the twine snapped in two. In those final moments underneath the whims of the poison, his arm whipped back. His face wasn’t his own, but one possessed by a demon.

Grunt Grigori Sokolov decked Underboss Elisabeth Fiorelli.

If it weren’t for the fact that it was her face that he swung for, it might’ve been much more impressive. His punches were rarely pulled– one of the few things he did well for Team Rocket. But it also meant that it’d hurt a lot. Maybe not as bad as the Nihilego Poison. Maybe.

Perhaps worst of all is the intense emotion behind the blow. Like a physical manifestation of his rage, his grudge, sent straight into her neurons.

For an infinitesimal moment, she’s not in her office. She’s in some garage, where a car hangs suspended in the air. There’s another person in front of her: tall, lanky, dressed in oil-stained overalls, and defenseless. An arm much similar to Grigori’s swings forward, straight into that person’s face as well. They fly back into a toolbox, and the sound of clattering wrenches fills the void of the space.

“You ABANDONED me, Gabriel!”

That’s all she sees before it ends. A glimpse into the head of the one who clocked her lights.

Said person had fallen to the ground, face down and with his arms extended towards her. Grigori still panted into the ground, still unsure of what was going on. Where was going on. His heartbeat settled, no longer a sonic boom in his head. Why does his fist hurt? Did something happen?

“Ms… Fiorelli. Did you see that… as well?”

His largest mistake. His unforgivable sin.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

His blood ran cold. So she saw that too. Saw that dark moment. She understood. As he raised his head up off the floor, he saw something sinister. Elisabeth looked absolutely radiant. Even though he’d done a pretty number on her, the damage fixed itself right before his eyes.

Grigori’s moment of weakness had literally fuelled the Underboss back to full health. It also gave her the inspiration for her next loaded question. The nail in the coffin for this meeting.

Catch-22. To blame the poison was logical. Sensical. However, it meant he ultimately couldn’t control himself– a perfectly valid reason to keep him in anger management. Yet if he didn’t, then it was also perfectly clear he was still prone to bouts of violence. So, he should go back to anger management classes.

But in the face of such a reality, he would not bend. This would not be the end. It couldn’t. As she rose and tried to push him down, he would be defiance incarnate. He repositioned himself to be sitting, but not to show weakness. He looked anything but as he looked towards the sky, towards Elisabeth.

“No.”

“I will overcome this,” he said, their gazes locked. Elisabeth to dignity as Grigori to determination. “If not now, then in a week. A month. A year, ten years, however long it takes.”

“I know you will not sign off on my request,” he pushed himself off the ground, dusted himself off, and reached over her desk for his file. “But I will prove to you that my past grudges are only a temporary setback. I am more than a man of violence. You have my word on that.”

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

His eyes fell onto the document. The fresh signature that now rested on the bottom was as beautiful and insidious as the woman who put it there. She played with him even now, as she granted his initial request. The entire reason he risked the den of Pyroars. A cruel joke, confirmed as she taunted her.

Grigori snatched the lone paper, the request for leave from the Anger Management program, and tore it clean in two. Its rip filled the quiet left by Elisabeth, and he balled up the two halves shortly after.

“I’m glad I came here after all, Ms. Fiorelli,” he shoved them into his pocket and grabbed his file. “You showed me something very valuable: that I was wrong to make such bold assumptions.”

Since he still held onto that dangerous, unrightful grudge, he still needed to be in Anger Management. Even if Fiorelli claimed and acted upon the opposite, he would not allow her to feel like the boss here. He had entered the den and played her game, and that was on him.

But to leave would be to deny her the satisfaction. Disobedience. The kind he claimed to have fixed. How wrong of him– but not a lie. Just acting on false information. “I appreciate your time, and thank you for your advice on the matter. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you get back to work.”

Grigori started to leave the office, his back as straight as an arrow. Some part of him hoped for her to respond, to act, to get mad, to get angry. But the other part valued his well-being and intact limbs.

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli

Grigori gave her a sideways glance, one eye fully visible to her painful grasp and wicked vision. One full of desire and hunger-- but not from herself.

"Who said anything about ignoring it?"

"I hope you're able to overcome the torment that resides in your spirit, Ms. Fiorelli."

The grunt took the chance to leave the office, letting the woman fester in the depths of depravity and despair. He would not stoop to her level of anger. If anything, it made him feel somewhat comfortable with his progress. Even if he had a long way to go, his progress was tangible. Visible.

Much like the sting of Elisabeth's fangs. 

---

Elisabeth Fiorelli