As night wore on, Dark got ready.

He felt filthy without a new change of clothes, but he sufficed, nonetheless, fixing himself up in the mirror. Hair swept to the side, fluffier without product. He smoothed his hands over his chest and leaned over, collecting his white blazer from the vanity. One of Wilford's men had knocked on the door only moments ago to give it back to him.

Dark shrugged on the material and tugged on the lapels, giving himself one last glance in the mirror. Once he considered himself presentable, he walked across the room and opened the door, revealing the spacious halls. He glanced both ways, finding them clear, before walking aimlessly.

He examined his surroundings as he walked, hands in his pockets. Neat wallpaper, gold trim, velvet carpet. But what stood out to him were the empty frames lining the halls.

Then again, this was Wilford's place he was in. He'd only known the man for a few days now, and anything ridiculous or confusing seemed to fit him quite well.

He passed halls and empty rooms, then stopped at an open door. Light beamed through it, and Dark leaned towards the doorway, peering into it. It was a study room, with two walls lined with bookshelves, a large desk, and a TV in the corner with a bullet hole through it.

A man in a trench coat sat at the desk, looking up from his laptop. His eye pierced right into him, the other covered by an eyepatch. Dark straightened himself, returning the gaze.

"Mr. Edwards," greeted the man, standing up. He walked across the room and met Dark at the doorway, holding out a hand. "It's a pleasure to properly meet you."

Dark recognized the man's voice from earlier, and he shook his hand firmly. "And, you are?"

"Host," said the man. "I'm Wilford's right hand."

Dark figured as much. Host's presence was enough to prove it, in the way he spoke and carried himself. His curiosity piqued at the eyepatch over the man's face, but he brushed it aside, looking over his shoulder instead. His eyes landed on the laptop.

Host followed his gaze, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Research," he said simply, glancing back at Dark. "We're trying to find out who poisoned you."

Dark hummed, suspicion still coiling in his chest. He wondered if Wilford made everyone stick to the same story, or if they really were telling the truth.

"Where's Wil?" he asked.

"His bedroom," said Host. "You can wait in the living room, if you'd like. He'll be a while." He sent the businessman a half-hearted smirk. "Wilford's a bit of a fashionista, if you couldn't tell already."

Dark huffed with amusement at that. "I'd rather look around," he said. "It was nice meeting you, Host."

The man nodded, and he headed back to his work. Dark lingered a moment longer—suspiciously eyeing Host as he tapped away on his laptop—before continuing down the halls and mapping out his surroundings.

It'd be good to find the exit in case he got into trouble.

———

Despite the late hours, one of the conference rooms in the precinct was alive.

Director Kjellberg had given Detective Abe his own room once he opened Warfstache's case back up. The gesture was surprising—especially after being seen as a clown to the entirety of the FBI—but Abe didn't spend any more time ogling at his luck. Instead, he threw himself into work, milking every second to get closer to catching Wilford.

The difference, this time, was that he was coming back smarter. And, he had two new additions to his team.

Agent Nelson sat at the conference table nearest to Abe and his corkboard, shuffling through files, photos, and notes.

Mark Fischbach glowered across from her, gaze intense on all of the information in front of him.

It wasn't permitted for the FBI to take in civilians like Mark, but he was an expert witness. His personal relationship with Dark Edwards would be vital to the case, and it wasn't like any other officers were willing to join the team. After all, despite the twisted light of recent events, Abe's coworkers still found him ridiculous. Rumor already began to kick up around the office that the Detective was losing his mind again, and he was dragging the Director down with him.

Abe turned to his corkboard and ran a hand along his stubble, scrutinizing the pictures pasted across the surface. There were candid photos of Dark and Wilford, their legal profiles, photos of firearms and evidence, and a detailed map of L.A. Pins and red string connected the mess of photos.

Abe shook his head. "It doesn't make sense," he said under his breath.

He turned around and gazed at Mark, his brows furrowed. "From what you've told me about Mr. Edward's personality, this whole... kidnapping seems less and less practical. Even if Warfstache threatened your boss' life, he wouldn't do shit!"

Amy hummed, not looking up from her work. "Nothing makes sense with Warfstache," she said. "Kidnapping someone takes a lot of bigger-picture planning, and he isn't capable of that." She glanced up, eyes flicking between the other two. "Which means—and I hate to say this in front of you, Fischbach—that he's done this for his own, sick enjoyment."

Mark stared down at his lap, his features drowning in worry.

"He's not that stupid, though," argued Abe. "He knows how much attention a hit like this would've made. I mean, look at Freddie Lounds. She's been going crazy lately."

Amy leaned back in her seat and hummed, brows furrowed in thought. "Lounds is one of the reasons you fell so hard last time," she said quietly. Abe frowned at that, and Amy quickly continued. "What I'm saying is—last time you tried catching Warfstache, she seemed to be on his side." She gazed at him pointedly. "Now, she's trying to hurt him."

Abe stilled at that, mulling the realization over in his head. He glanced over at Mark, who was still lost in his own world of emotions; his negativity was spreading all over the place.

"You, Fischbach," said Abe, snapping him out of his trance. The bodyguard glanced up. "Do you have any ideas?"

Mark sighed, and he ran a hand over his face, leaning back in his seat. "No," he said, shrugging his unwounded shoulder. "I'm starting to think this is all too complicated." He glanced at Amy, then at Abe, shaking his head. "I mean, criminals live in their own world, Detective. How are we supposed to know anything they do? There's too much for us to try and discern by ourselves."

That seemed to make something click in Abe's head. He lingered for a moment, then his eyes lit up, lips parting.

"Not if we think like them," he said. Mark sent him a look of confusion, and Abe began to pace with energy.

"We haven't gotten any leads because we've been looking at this from a legal perspective," said Abe, his voice rising with excitement. "But if we—no, if we find someone who knows that world, then we can find out how to get Edwards back. And, catch Warfstache once and for all."

Amy stirred in her seat, and she carefully stood up, considering Abe for a long moment.

"You're not saying we should... hire someone," she said. "A criminal."

Abe exhaled. "It's been done before," he said. "God forbid the rats in the crime world, but if one of them hates Warfstache enough, they'll give us something."

Amy grimaced, putting her hands on her hips. "I don't know about this," she said. "This is starting to sound like your old self, Detective. It's... risky."

Abe stilled in his spot, and he went quiet, the whir of the building filling up the pause. He glanced at Mark, then at Amy, and carefully exhaled. A tension twisted in the air.

"Come with me," he said, rubbing his hands together. "I have to show you something."

———

By the time Wilford left his room, Dark had already mapped out a vague idea of the mansion's layout. It was a bit unnecessary, but he could never be too careful.

As time had passed, he still hadn't felt threatened. He began to feel less and less kidnapped, as well. A normal captor wouldn't let their hostage loose, and—when Dark tried the doors—they weren't locked. He had all the freedom to walk out whenever he pleased, and everytime he'd meet one of Wilford's men or women, they'd send him nods or ignore him completely. Like he was one of them, in a way.

Dark spent the rest of his time waiting in the garage, which was nearly the size of a warehouse. An array of classic cars lined the walls, and Dark wandered, ghosting his fingers over the vehicles he passed. They were all some shade of pink, cleaned and finished to perfection. Dark found himself softly smiling as he examined Wilford's collection, almost with admiration.

A man who took care of his cars was a good man to be with.

Dark quickly caught himself and pushed the thought aside, focusing on the click of heels against the concrete, instead. But everytime he would pass another one of Wilford's cars, his mind would wander onto him.

They'd only known each other for a few days, and yet Dark felt something so intense with him, something he'd never felt before. Not with his first lover, not even with his faint crush on Mark. Perhaps it was the mafia boss' charm, or his energy... or that he was an outright psychotic bastard. Maybe Dark enjoyed that—maybe he was crazy, too.

Years of isolating himself from real connections had really done a number on him.

A door creaked behind him, and then keys jangled. Dark stopped by one of the cars and glanced over his shoulder, meeting eyes with Wilford at the doorway. His stomach gave a sharp pull at the sight of him.

Oh... came his thoughts, everything else in him going numb. Wilford looked... stunning.

"I thought you left," slurred Wilford with a smirk. The keys jangled as he swung them around a finger, and he walked forward, hips swaying. Dark did his best not to glance down—tried to keep his gaze on Wilford's—but his eyes flicked down, nonetheless, giving the mafia boss a once-over.

He wore a flowy, light-pink suit, but he wore nothing under the blazer, revealing the expanse of his chest and the jewelry that glittered against his collarbones. A belt cinched his outfit at the waist, and his pants hung off his hips. His heels clicked as he stopped in front of Dark, raising a brow at his transfixed state.

"Like what you see?" he teased, putting a hand on his hip. Dark brought a hand up to his lips and cleared his throat, trying to will away the heat rising to his face.

"You look... nice," said Dark, meeting Wilford's eyes. A spark ran between them at the contact, and Dark carefully inhaled, motioning his gaze towards the array of pink-hued cars. Anything to wave Wilford's burning attention off him. "I see you're a collector."

"Hm, yes," said Wilford, swinging the keys again. He pointed it at one of the cars, pressed the button, and the 1957 Studebaker's headlights flashed with a honk. Dark glanced over his shoulder at it. "This is my newest baby."

Wilford smiled at Dark through half-lidded eyes, and he brushed past him, making sure his shoulder made contact with his. Dark sharply inhaled and watched him go for a moment, unable to help but spare a glance down—

"Come on," said Wilford, glancing over his shoulder. Dark's eyes flicked back up. "I made reservations."

———

Detective Abe led the others towards his desk, where he sat and turned his computer on.

Mark and Agent Nelson stood behind him, eyes searching. A tense silence fell over them as Abe clicked through files and links, and after a few mumbling curses, he brought up Wilford's case file. His headshot glowed bright on the screen, along with his list of information—the basics, like hair and eye color, height, birthdate; and then his countless felonies.

"It was a bit of a stretch," said Abe, "but after calling in a few favors, I found something you won't believe."

Mark rose a brow, confused, and when he shared a glance with Amy, she mirrored his expression.

"We already know about Warfstache's case file," said Nelson, resting a hand on the back of Abe's chair. "What else could we have missed?"

Abe lifted a finger, eyes intense over the screen, and then he exited Warfstache's file and clicked the one right next to it.

One with the same last name.

He took a deep breath and held it, and the other two couldn't help but follow after him, the tension coiling through them.

The second case file appeared, and the headshot of an ample woman showed on the screen. Her brown hair was pulled up into a messy bun, a few curly strands framing the sides of her face, and the green of her eyes pierced through the screen. A faint stubble lined her jaw, blending in with the specks of freckles across her face.

Abe carefully exhaled. "You see this?" he breathed, eyes transfixed on the file.

Mark ran his eyes over the screen, and Amy leaned forward, squinting. Her brows furrowed at the name, something uneasy coiling in her chest.

"Wilma... Warfstache?" she said. She shook her head, and she managed a chuckle, but the sound was hollow. She glanced at Mark—met his eyes a brief moment—before glancing at Abe. "Is this supposed to be a joke?"

"Yeah," Mark chimed, crossing his arms. "We studied Warfstache at my academy. They always described him as an only-child."

"Well, you studied wrong," said Abe, motioning towards the screen. "You have any idea how much work it took to uncover this file? It was hidden. It was supposed to be erased from the system, but changes must've not gone through properly."

Amy took a deep breath, and she rested a hand on her hip. "What is it you're saying right now, Detective?" she said, glancing at him.

Abe leaned back in his seat, and he exhaled, staring at the case file. The glow of the screen painted all their faces a sickly hue, which thickened the tension in the office. Mark and Amy waited with bated breaths.

"What I'm saying," said Abe, and his face paled a degree, like he didn't want to say it aloud, "is that Wilford has a sister."

...

HEY YOU THERE, Wilma Barnum is @GordonFreemanKinnie / @crabymcppinchclaws 's character!!! They have graciously allowed me to put her in the story and I, a great Wilma simp, am honored 😌

Please check out their works if you haven't already!! And their Instagram as well hehe; if I haven't made y'all simp for Wilma by the end of this story then I have failed 😩😂

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

Love, Vic xoxo