Weight sank onto his chest, collapsing the air from his lungs.

    Mark gasped for breath—opened his mouth to scream—but he couldn't make a sound. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he'd relived this moment in his head, he couldn't do anything.

    He looked up and met eyes with the gun pointed down at him. And then when he focused, the weapon blurring into the foreground, Wilford's face. A snarl, a killer's glint in his eye. The same look he'd given him the night he kidnapped Dark.

Time warbled around them, and then Wilford glanced to the side.

    The darkness around him rippled, and a shadow of a man brought Dark's body into view—Dark's limp, hanging body.

Mark shook his head—could feel the hot streaks of tears down his face. He screwed his eyes shut, belting out another silent scream, and when he opened his eyes again, he was back at the party, back at the building on Fifth Street.

His eyes focused on Dark and Wil, standing in the middle of the dance floor.

Mark stood on his feet now—the world swaying around him—and when he tried to step forward, tried to pull Dark into safety, his legs lagged like he was walking through sludge. He shouted for his boss, but still, no sound came out. Just white noise, the echo of his own scream in his head.

The room went quiet—the drone of chatter and clinking glass cutting out—and then all the partygoers around Mark turned towards him, their faces deadpan, eyes vacant.

And then Dark pulled away from Wilford, took a step back, and when he glanced over his shoulder and stared right through Mark, dread seeped into every inch of his body.

"You could've done something," breathed Dark, and although his voice was quiet, it echoed all around Mark, tearing through him like a bullet. "Why didn't you do something?"

"Your fault," crooned the words all around him, and Mark's breaths picked up, his heart rate spiking. Every single person in the room stared him down, muttering the words under their breaths, no emotion but all poison. "All your fault."

No, thought Mark as he shook his head, stepping back. Or maybe he was saying it, mouthing the words, but still, no sound.

No, no, I did try to get him back, I did—

A beeping noise cut through the silence, and the world around him wavered. It quickened. Grew with every furious pound of his heart.

"Your fault."

Pressure closed around Mark's shoulder—like the grip of a hand—and he stumbled, losing his footing. More pressure. Shaking. The rapid beep like a siren.

The room crumbled around him, dissolving into darkness—

And then he woke up with a gasp.

The hospital monitor screeched the notes of his heart beat, and a hand shook his shoulder, urging him to wake up.

Mark glanced around—confused at first—but the more he returned to reality, the more he remembered why he was here.

Right, he thought as he caught his breath, the nightmare still fresh in the back of his head. I came here for surgery.

He gazed down at himself and spotted the bandage wrapped around his shoulder, spotted with blood. And then his foot, propped up by a pillow, bandaged as well. He took a deep breath and sighed, glancing to his uninjured side, and met eyes with Agent Nelson. His lashes fluttered at the sight of her; she was the last person he expected to visit.

"Oh," he said, still breathless. "It's you."

Amy smiled, and she pulled her hand away, relaxing in the seat by the bed. Mark winced, and he put a hand to his head, brows furrowed. If he weren't pumped full of pain medication, his head would be throbbing.

"That was quite a nightmare you had," said Amy, eyes kind. Searching. Mark glanced at her.

He found himself getting lost in her comforting gaze, and he huffed out a laugh, turning away. He glanced out the hospital window instead, finding it pitch black outside. The lights in the room were dim.

"It was... nothing," he said. He shrugged, then winced, reminding himself of his wounds. Amy gave a soft sound of disbelief, the chair creaking as she scooted forward.

"Your heart rate reached 120 and you were tossing and turning," she said, leaning an arm against the side of the bed. Mark glanced back at her and pressed his lips together, sending her a half-hearted glare, and Amy's gaze softened.

"It's okay, I get it," she said. "You don't have to tell me."

Mark's gaze lingered on hers, and he sighed, glancing around the room again. The clock by the television displayed the time 3 A.M. His brows furrowed.

"Why are you here?" he said quietly, glancing at her. "It's kind of late to be visiting, isn't it?"

Amy smiled, and she leaned over, picking something off the floor. She stood up and held out a clipboard with paperwork in front of Mark.

"You're being discharged," said Nelson. Mark took the clipboard and set it in his lap. "Detective Abe's been going overdrive in the office, so he sent me to check up on you."

Mark nodded, and he scanned the papers, squinting at the text through the dim lighting. "Do you have a pen?"

Amy handed one over, and Mark scanned the paperwork, signing when he had to. A silence fell between them, punctuated by the steady beeps from the monitor. The occasional racket of a cart passing or a doctor barking orders echoed from the brightly-lit hallways.

When Mark had a page left, he wavered, set the pen down, and glanced over at Nelson. She blinked at his gaze, tilting her head.

"Have... you guys gotten any leads, yet?" he muttered, brows furrowed with worry. Amy searched his features a moment, eyes darting over Mark's face, and her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"No..." she said quietly, shaking her head. "Not yet."

Dread coiled in Mark's stomach, and his heart rate picked up. The monitor didn't let it go unnoticed.

"Do you know if..." Mark's fingers tightened over the pen. "Do you know if Mr. Edwards is safe?"

Amy's eyes swam with conflict, and she pressed her lips together. The answer was obvious, and Mark knew it too, but he was so desperate to hear anything other than—

"I don't know," she said.

Mark's jaw hardened, and he turned back to the papers, signing the rest of them. When he was done, he clicked the pen back in place and set the clipboard aside. Amy softly sighed, the sound catching his attention.

"I know it might not be much consolation," said Nelson, "but there is a possibility Edwards isn't in danger."

Mark's spirits didn't lift at the statement; if anything, they felt numb. His curiosity peaked, nonetheless, and he glanced at Amy, gaze imploring. The agent continued.

"Like you said in your statement yesterday," said Amy, "Wilford was dancing with your boss. We saw it, too, we were there." She shifted on her feet, folding her hands in front of her. "From what the Detective's researched, Wilford doesn't approach anyone in such an... intimate manner like that unless he wants something."

Mark scoffed. "What could he possibly want from Mr. Edwards?" he said, brows furrowed. "Warfstache already runs L.A. He's got—money, and land, and—hell, anything he wants. Kidnapping Edwards is just—well it would be..." His face fell, and his blood ran cold.

"He..." Mark searched Amy's face. "He wouldn't kidnap Edwards just for... fun. Would he?"

"He doesn't act out unless it benefits him," said Amy. "It'd be reckless to make a move like that."

"That's all Warfstache is though, isn't he?" pressed Mark. "A reckless, selfish bastard—"

"Look, I can explain more at the precinct," said Nelson, gently waving a hand. "But what you need right now, Fischbach, is some rest. Try and put all this aside for now... will you?"

She tilted her head, sending Mark a careful look, and the bodyguard sighed, forcing his tense muscles to relax. It would be easier said than done, of course, but she was right. If there was anything Mark needed, it was time to recover. And worrying about how much of a bad person Wilford was wouldn't help matters.

Mark gave a subtle nod.

"Good," said Nelson, and she grabbed the clipboard from Mark's lap. She sent him a soft smile. "I'll go get the nurse."

———

"There," said Celine, laying the suit down on Dark's bed. "Nearly done."

    She'd selected a deep red suit from the man's closet to relay her message—a piece that caught her eye from first glance. Not because she was fascinated by the material, but because she recognized it. Knew about it, not only from papers or magazines, but from memory. A memory that had a black ball of energy coiling in her chest.

    Blank leaned against the doorway, silent as ever, watching Celine go about her work with a calm expression. He could feel the negative energy simmering out of her—blackening the room until it was darker than the night outside. As much as he wanted to speak, he kept his mouth shut.

    Celine ran her hand along the soft material of the suit and scoffed under her breath, resisting the urge to tear it to pieces. Instead, she motioned towards Blank with long, sharp fingers, eyes downcast.

    Blank shifted, and he pulled a DVD case out of his ill-fitting suit, leaning over to hand it towards her. Celine took it and shifted it in her grip, a faint warmth fluttering in her chest; something she'd buried for a long, long time. Blank exited the room then to give her some space—a moment to let her deal with her emotions.

    Even now, Celine was genuinely surprised to find the DVD in Dark's house. It was a movie that her ex husband starred a role in—some drama set around a cursed manor and a man who couldn't die. She remembered when he filmed it; remembered it like it was yesterday.

    Her fingers ghosted over the front cover, the face of her husband gazing up at her with that daringly cocky expression. The edges of her lips twitched into a faint smile.

    Actor Mark, said his stage name at the bottom of the cover in bold letters. She sighed to herself, then shook her head, setting the DVD on top of Dark's red suit.

    She genuinely loved the man when they were together. But he just had to backstab her; just had to have an affair on her with Mr. Edwards.

He just had to give Celine a reason to kill him.

She took a step back from the bed, deeply inhaled, the memories flooding through her... and when she exhaled, she pushed all of them back down and left the room. Blank followed her as she descended the staircase, her dress trailing behind her like liquid silk.

At the sound of her arrival, Freddie and Deja rose from their seats in the living room, eyes searching.

"Well?" said Celine, gazing at the women. "Did Madam Dumont give you any more information on Dark, Ms. Lounds?"

"Just a few things I can use," said the journalist, smirking. "But not nearly as much as the things in his house you've given me. As well as your own stories about him."

Celine's eyes went half-lidded at that, and she hummed, satisfaction rolling off her in waves.

"I am going to have fun," breathed Celine, "ruining this man's empire."

Deja stirred at that, and she cleared her throat, stiffening when Celine's gaze flicked onto her. She stood her ground.

"Mrs... Larose," said the woman. "I saw Wilford Warfstache... kidnap my associate." She shook her head. "If that's the case, he won't be coming back home, so—why even leave a message?"

Celine smirked, and she glanced back at Blank, who carefully stepped forward and joined her side. She motioned a hand towards the man.

"Wilford is predictable," she said, "according to Blank."

Blank nodded, and he glanced at Celine, his eyes almost black in the darkness. The woman straightened herself and tipped her chin up.

"Wilford has three options," said Celine, her smirk growing when she held up three fingers. "He can either play along with my little game... pretend none of this ever happened and bring Dark back here... or—" Her eyes glittered with excitement, "—he could kill him."

Deja's face dropped the more Celine went on, dread swimming in her eyes.

"But, as of now," said Celine, "Dark is too valuable to Wilford to be killed." She smirked, and she began to head towards the front door, making her exit. The others followed, the silence suffocating over them. "It's going to be a waiting game."

———

Wilford leaned his hands against the desk, his head bowed, hair shrouding his face.

    "This person," breathed Wilford, cigarette bobbing against his lips, "has really put a dent in my progress."

    Host paced the study room, both of his hands occupied. In one, he held his phone, refreshing Tattlecrime's page or typing in other articles. In the other, a TV remote.

A flat screen in the corner of the office blared at full volume, displaying a news channel with bright red banners and flashy pictures. The news anchor was a young woman, blonde, with an intense expression.

"I mean, this is ridiculous!" said Wil, throwing a hand out. He grabbed his cigarette and pulled it away from his lips, huffing out a large plume of smoke. "Whoever's doing this is a touch dramatic."

He sat against the edge of the desk and pulled out his golden revolver—he'd only gotten it back a few hours ago—and pointed it at the television. Let the news anchor's face line up in his sights.

"That's ironic for you to say," chimed Host, walking over to set the remote on the desk. Wilford lowered his gun and took a long drag of his cigarette. "Maybe this is an admirer. They could be taking after you."

"Oh please," said Wilford, smoke billowing from his lips. "The only admirers I get are the people who want to take my place."

The two of them fell quiet, and they turned towards the TV, eyes locking onto it. After a short sequence, the channel was back on, along with the anchor who sat with her fingers interlocked.

"My name is Linda Martin," said the woman, "and you're watching City Radar."

Wilford narrowed his eyes.

"Two nights ago, world-renowned CEO of Edwards & CO, Dark Edwards, went missing," she said, "after celebrating his new purchase on Fifth Street." Linda waved a hand, and a headshot of Dark showed on the screen. The red banners on the bottom of the display showed a new title:

Dark Edwards: Gone Missing.

"The majority of eye witnesses suggest Edwards just disappeared, but photos and articles posted to Tattlecrime.com prove otherwise," said the woman.

The screen went to a different slide, full of pictures. Pictures of Dark and Wil, close together on the dance floor. And then a blurry one—a snapshot of Dark mid-fall with Wil holding him up. At a glance, it looked like he was shit-faced drunk, with Wilford holding him up. But with the "evidence," and the way the news anchor was talking, it looked more and more like a kidnapping.

"Unbelievable," breathed Wilford, hand flexing over his gun. It would be harder to cover anything up now that it'd gone on air. Just how many resources did this enemy of his have? Even when he'd made the FBI look the other way (if only for a moment), this person had the connections to spread their agenda in other ways.

By how it was going, they didn't want Wilford caught.

They wanted him pinned like an animal.

"We've yet to hear from FBI," said Linda, the camera focusing back onto her. "If you see Dark Edwards, contact your local authorities immediately." Dark's headshot appeared again, and Wilford huffed, careful not to grit his teeth. The cigarette at his lips began to feel bland. "And if you see this man—"

An image of Wilford popped up, but before the woman could go on, Wil rose his gun and pulled the trigger. The shot exploded in the air, and the TV died in a fit of sparks and smoke. Host's lips twitched into a frown.

"I could've just turned it off," he said.

Wilford flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it against the floor with his shoe, anger simmering under his skin. "All I wanted," he breathed, "was my property back." He glared at the smoking TV, then at Host, his eyes dark. "Not this shit show."

The door slammed open, and Wilford snapped his head towards the intrusion, beyond irritated.

"Did I say you could come in?" he spat.

Chase wavered at the door, paling. "S-sorry, boss—" he stuttered. "Just—I heard the shot, h-had to make sure you were—"

    "Of course I'm okay, you buffoon!" Wilford groaned, throwing his hands (and the gun) about. "You'd know if there was trouble."

"Oh, a-and—"

Wilford glanced over his shoulder and glared, raising a brow. Chase gulped.

"He's—the guy's waking up."

Wilford stilled, and his eyes widened. "What?"

"Mr. Edwards..." breathed Host, growing with energy. Chase nodded furiously, pointing down the hall, and said again, louder:

"Yes, him. He's waking up."

...

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

Love, Vic xoxo