The exchange was clean, simple, and easy.

Xilef's shop was barren of any people, but full of classic cars that glittered and shined under the lights. When Wilford arrived, he had led him to a room reserved only for him—a large space full of cars in all shades of pink—and with one glance around the space, the mafia boss was set on a new car.

A few conversations later, an exchange of cash, and the car was Wil's. A 1957 Studebaker, mildly used, with a light pink finish and white fenders.

Xilef wiped off oil on his uniform and grabbed a set of keys off a metal cart. He turned towards Wilford, who still ogled at the new car with a childish delight, fingers running over the pink surface.

"There you go," said Xilef, throwing the keys in the air. "Your new ride."

The keys jangled as Wilford caught them, and he sent a beaming grin towards the mechanic.

"Always a pleasure doing business with you, Arvid," he sang, circling around the vehicle. A bit of an impractical purchase, but he couldn't help but indulge himself.

"I can never deny my favorite customer," said Xilef, walking towards a wall of levers and buttons. "I'm not so sure a car like this would be the best idea, though." He rose a teasing brow and pulled a lever. "Especially if you're going to have Maseratis chasing you down."

A garage door rumbled with life and began to rise, letting in the evening light. The beginnings of sunset glinted against the decals of the car.

"It was a one time thing," slurred Wilford, waving a hand. "There won't be any more car chases as far as I'm concerned."

He opened the car door and slipped inside, the cushions sinking under his weight. An excited thrill went up his spine when he put his hands on the wheel, and he couldn't help but grin. He put the key in the ignition, turned it, and pumped the gas pedal, reveling in the purr of the engine coming to life.

Once the garage door fully opened, Wilford shut the car door and rolled down the window, sending a glance towards Xilef. The mechanic tilted his head.

"Keep an eye out, will you?" said Wilford, resting an arm out the window. "If you see any signs of the FBI, call me right away."

Xilef's expression hardened, and he nodded. He didn't ask any questions. "Of course," he said. "Have fun out there, Warfstache."

Wilford smiled, and he winked. "Always."

———

Wilford walked through the wide halls in the mansion, sending nods towards any of his crew that passed by. When he reached the doors to the living room, he took a deep breath and huffed.

He wouldn't be excited to see the doctor, but it had to be done.

A few grumbled curses under his breath, and he pushed open the doors, alerting anyone inside.

Host glanced up first. He stood at the end of the couch with his hands folded in front of him, posture relaxing at the sight of the mafia boss. And then there was a head of bright green hair bobbing from behind the couch.

Wilford's eyes narrowed.

"Wil," greeted Host, taking a step back. He glanced down at the doctor, who still hadn't acknowledged him. "We were just wrapping things up."

Wilford stepped past Host and circled around the couch, looming over the doctor with a glare. He looked scrawny as ever—with a scraggly scruff, that obnoxious green hair, and a lab coat that swamped his body. His hands still worked expertly as ever, jotting notes or fiddling with medical equipment.

Wilford cleared his throat loudly, and the doctor jumped, glancing up and blinking out of his trance. His face paled a degree.

"Oh—velcome back, Varfstache!" piped the doctor with a thick accent, stumbling to his feet. "D-did you have a nice trip—"

"Just get on with it, Schneepelstein," Wilford growled, motioning towards Dark's body laid over the couch. "Will he die, will he live, what is it?"

The doctor pouted, fumbling to adjust his glasses. He sank back onto his knees before Dark, packing up small bottles and test tubes.

"It vas a pretty heavy-duty poison," said Schneep, nodding to himself. "I can't tell you vhat it is yet, but I can tell you that he vill survive." He checked his notes. "He should be vaking soon, actually."

"I was going to ask you," said Host, leaning towards Wil's ear so Schneep wouldn't hear, "what are you planning to do with Edwards?"

He hadn't thought about that. As far as he knew, if Dark woke up, he'd pin everything on him. There was no way to convince the billionaire otherwise unless he had proof.

Wilford huffed, brows furrowed. "Keep him sedated," he said, loud enough for the doctor to hear. "I don't want him waking up for a few more hours."

Schneep's lashes fluttered, and he carefully rose to his feet, hauling the satchel of equipment over his shoulder. "You're sure?" he muttered, glancing between Wil and Host. "Zat can get... quite dangerous."

Wilford spared a glance at Dark's body and gave an unamused smirk. "Does it look like I care?" he breathed, gaze flicking onto the doctor's. "You do what I say or you're more than fired."

Schneepelstein swallowed, and he nodded, fishing a few items out of his bag. He knelt by the side of the couch and rolled back one of Dark's sleeves. A moment of fiddling, the prick of a needle, and he was done. He rose again and brushed himself off.

"I'll take these samples to my lab," said Schneep, nodding at the others. "I can guarantee results in a few veeks."

"One week," said Wilford, leading him towards the doors, "and a list of who could've administered the poison."

"Oh, V-Varfstache, you can surely understand how much time—"

"Thank you for your help, doctor," said Wilford, pushing him out the doors. "Hurry along now; shoo, shoo!"

"B-but—I don't know vhere to go—"

Wilford slammed the doors in his face, and he turned around with a chuckle, raising a brow at Host. The man only shook his head.

"That wasn't very nice," he said with amusement.

Wilford shrugged, and he headed back to the couches, sitting on the edge of the one Dark laid on. He ghosted a hand over the man's face and brushed his hair back, examining his every feature. Something warm fluttered in his chest, and he sucked in a breath to try and suppress the feeling.

"Whoever did this knew I'd be with him," said Wilford under his breath. He ran his fingers along Dark's jawline; enjoyed the way his breaths picked up like his body tried waking up to the touch.

Wil dropped his hand and glanced at Host, who sat on the couch across from him. "There couldn't be any other reason," he said. "I mean, I can see why someone would want to poison him, especially because of his status, but..." He shook his head, glancing back down at Dark. "This feels... planned."

Host took a deep breath, carefully sighed, and Wilford glanced over at him. He didn't like the sound of that—nor did he like the way Host shifted and grabbed his phone to type something. His face had gone deadpan.

"Unfortunately," said Host, "I may have evidence to prove that."

A tension fell over the room, and Wilford took a deep breath, eyeing the phone. Host slid the device over the coffee table and motioned towards it, his face stern.

Wilford sent a glance at Host, hesitated, then leaned over, bringing the phone closer to him. His eyes scanned the website—named Tattlecrime.com—and his face fell. He'd had a history with the author of that website, and by god, to see it again had his insides churning.

His eyes landed on the title of the article.

'CRIME BOSS Went Mad,' shouted the heading in bold red, 'Wilford Warfstache KIDNAPS Dark Edwards for Unknown Causes.' And then under, in smaller print, 'Is he losing it? Or is he just getting desperate?'

Wilford's eye twitched, and his blood boiled, every inch of his skin crawling with anger. If he were holding the phone, he would've clutched it so hard it'd crack.

"When was this published?" breathed Wilford, the writer's name leering up at him.

"This morning," said Host. "I've kept notifications ever since your last run-in with her."

Wilford exhaled, and he wrung his hands together, knuckles going white.

Written by Freddie Lounds. Of course it was Freddie Lounds.

"This is ridiculous," said Wilford. "I didn't... kidnap him."

Host sighed, and he glanced at Dark's body, then at Wil. "Well, it certainly looks like you did," he said carefully. "So that means whoever poisoned Edwards... they aren't just some amateur. They know what they're doing."

"Like that narrows it down," spat Wil. He rose to his feet and threw his hands out. "God, I can't believe this!" He ran a hand through his hair and groaned, circling around the couch. "I mean, it's one thing to go out of my way to get that woman to stay out of my way, but this—this..."

He shook his head, huffing with anger, but before he could spew out any curses, Host spoke up.

"That's another thing," said Host. He spared a glance at Dark's body, then stood up, meeting Wil's frustrated gaze. "You may have threatened Lounds all those years ago, and she stopped... but now she's writing about you again. And she has absolutely no restraint this time."

Wilford ran a hand over his face, and he exhaled carefully. Host was right; publishing something so unshrinking as that article was a new type of blow from Freddie Lounds. The journalist had always acted wildly and unpredictably, but there was one thing they could be sure of. If she was brave enough to land a hit like this, that meant she had an out. She never acted without some sort of backup plan.

Host took a deep breath, and he searched Wilford's face, his expression drawn back.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he breathed, searching the other's face.

"Find her, nab her, and beat her into a pulp?" said Wilford loudly. Host groaned at that.

"No," he said. "This means there's a possibility that the person who poisoned Edwards... is working with Freddie Lounds." He shook his head in thought. "If that's the case, that narrows the list down."

Wilford deflated. "Oh. Well that doesn't sound nearly as fun."

"If that's the case, you have to think about your next move carefully," said Host, gazing pointedly at Wilford. "This new enemy of yours might already be a few steps ahead of you."

Wilford ran a hand over his face and moaned. "I need a drink."

"No," Host said. He grabbed Wilford's shoulders and turned him around to face Dark's body on the couch. "What you need right now, Wil, is to think about what you're going to do." He pointed at Dark's body, and Wilford stared.

"With him."

———

The outskirts of LA were quiet.

Four figures huddled in front of a door, one of them picking the lock with steady, experienced hands. Even if someone were to be walking down the street, they wouldn't notice the group for a while—might even mistake them as shadows in the darkness.

The lock gave, and Blank pushed the door open, the wood giving a creak like a breathy sigh. Darkness stretched ahead of him, but at the end of the hall was the bright shine of moonlight.

He carefully stood up, acknowledging the presence of the three women behind him.

"Looks empty," said Blank softly, sliding his gun out of his belt. He glanced over his shoulder, and Celine met his eyes cooly, sending him a subtle nod.

Of course Dark's penthouse would be empty. As far as they knew, he lived alone, and now that he was "kidnapped," they had all the time in the world to rummage through all his most precious belongings.

Blank exhaled, and he stepped through the doorway, walking down the front hallway with the gun hanging at his side. Celine let him gain a few paces ahead before following after, her heels clicking against the polished floors. She expected the other two women to follow after her, but when she didn't hear the pad and click of footsteps behind her, she turned around.

Freddie Lounds stood halfway through the doorway, her curls like black embers in the night. She glanced back at the other woman, silently urging her to follow, but with no luck.

Celine cleared her throat.

"Madam Dumont," she said carefully, tipping her chin up. "Do we have a problem?"

Deja took a step back, shrinking in on herself—a gesture so unlike her, yet expected in her current predicament. She shakily exhaled and wavered, smoothing down the front of her suit to try and feign some sort of control over her emotions.

"No," said Deja simply, keeping her voice firm. "Not at all, Mrs. Larose." She swallowed, and she glanced out at the street. There wasn't another house nearby for miles, which meant there was no chance of running away without getting help first. She huffed. "Perhaps it'd be... best for me to wait outside."

Celine hummed, and even though it was hard to see through the darkness, Deja could feel her piercing gaze.

"You and I made a deal," said Celine carefully, her voice low, soft, but never void of authority. "I don't have to remind you of our terms, do I?"

Dumont took a deep breath, and she shook her head, still lingering by the doorway. Celine ran her eyes up and down her figure, considering her a moment, before nodding.

"Good," she said. She flicked her eyes towards Freddie. "Keep her by your side. And lock the door."

Lounds nodded, and while she collected Deja and closed the door—shutting out the rest of the world behind them—Celine continued forward.

Her heels clicked against the sleek, black marble floors, the sound echoing throughout the penthouse like a hollow song. Blank's figure rounded the corner, heading up a flight of stairs, but Celine was too immersed in the beauty of her surroundings to fully notice.

Everything was stunning.

The hallway opened up to reveal an enormous, open floor; no walls for separation, no decoration. Every surface was flat, minimal, and high-class; cleaned to such perfection that the house looked brand new. Like it was straight out of a magazine.

There was an open kitchen on the left, a spacious living room in the middle, and to the right, the staircase Blank headed up. The place was certainly barren—no signs of life anywhere—and despite the endless stretches of space in the house, there wasn't any furniture big enough to take up the space.

Celine's black lips curled into a careful smile, and she walked forward, feeling small in the penthouse. The living room was her favorite space, by far. It wasn't the furniture or the setup that fascinated her, but the wall made entirely of glass, which stretched up so high into the ceiling that she had to tip her head back to look up.

She could see a glimpse of the city from here—all those dazzling lights—and above it, the full moon, which glowed as bright as the sun.

"Well," Celine mused, enjoying the way her voice carried in the penthouse. "Make yourselves at home, girls."

She glanced over her shoulder, and Ms. Lounds smiled at her, a twisted excitement in her eyes. Deja didn't look nearly as ecstatic, but Celine knew the risks when it came to using civilians for her dirty work. That was all they were, in the end; just civilians, people who went about their day to day without finding satisfaction in the sweet melody of chaos.

"You know," said Freddie, looking around the building with mock awe, "I've always wanted to interview the famed Dark Edwards."

Celine walked into the kitchen, running her fingers along the smooth countertops.

"Why haven't you?" she mused. When she pulled her fingers away, there was a faint film of dust that coated her fingertips, and she hummed with curiosity.

"He's a picky man," said Lounds, heading towards the living room. "You ask for an interview with him, and you'd be on a waiting list for months." Deja followed after her, and although she only felt a sliver of comfort in the journalist's presence, she was the least intimidating of the group.

She and Freddie seated themselves on the couches. They were stiff from ill-use.

"And besides," said Freddie, running her hand along the couch, the white fabric coarse to the touch, "even if it were my turn in line, he'd turn me down in a heartbeat."

"Well, I can understand that," said Celine with a smirk. She opened the fridge, the cold air ghosting against her skin. It was empty. Completely, barrenly empty. "Many people know your work, Ms. Lounds. Men fear you because you've got the same killer instinct as them. You're a shark."

She shut the fridge and turned towards the living room, smiling coyly at Freddie. "I mean that as a compliment, of course."

"Compliment taken," said Freddie, returning the smile.

Footsteps sounded from above, and then Blank reappeared, heading down the stairs and stowing away his gun. He lingered a moment, taking in the scene of the three women on the first floor, and nodded at Celine.

"All clear," he said, voice quiet.

Celine smiled, and she clasped her hands together, the sound crackling through the room. Deja flinched.

"Wonderful," she said, gazing at the others. "It's about time I left Dark a little message."

...

Heheheh... Celine revealed some interesting things about Dark, hmmmm? 🤔

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day!

Love, Vic xoxo