When Dark woke up the next morning, Wilford wasn't in the room.

    There was evidence he was there, though. Sunlight streamed through the glass doors, glinting against empty whiskey bottles and lowballs on the bar table. Dark's eyes trailed over the room, noting the pillows strewn across the floor like they'd been thrown.

    Something shifted over his shoulders, and Dark gazed down at himself, finding a blanket over his figure. His chest thrummed with both guilt and admiration as he sat up, hand brushing the fabric.

    Wilford must have put it on him when he was sleeping.

    Dark smiled for a moment, but the feeling was short-lived. Last night was a constant, nagging memory in the back of his head—a reminder of what he'd said, what he'd done.

    'Is that all this is between us?' rang Wilford's voice in his head, full of pain. 'Just business?'

    Dark shut his eyes and sighed, a hand over his face.

    'Yes,' came his reply, like he was reliving the moment, reliving that hurt.

    But it had to be done, he told himself. He couldn't let himself get too close, couldn't let himself fall to such emotion.

    Dark felt his mind start to argue against itself, and he stood up, making his way to the barside table. Even though it was midday, he decided he would drown those thoughts out with alcohol.

    Shelves were carved into the wall, glistening with an array of liquors. He narrowed his eyes at the wine—wondered briefly if it would poison him—and decided, if it did, that's what he needed right now.

    Dark grabbed a bottle and poured himself a wine glass to the brim, emotion stirring in his chest. He downed it in a few gulps. Filled another, drank it. He took his time with the third glass, grateful to feel a buzz rising in the back of his skull.

    He brought the glass with him as he walked around the room, getting himself ready. For what, he didn't know, but he felt the need to look somewhat presentable. He figured if Wilford saw him in this state, it would contradict what he said last night.

    Idiot, he told himself, Fucking idiot, but the thought was too quiet to bother with.

    Dark readied himself in the bathroom, noting his sunken eyes, the mess of hair over his lashes. His black robe slid down his shoulder, and he scoffed, both amused and disappointed in himself. With his state in the mirror, and the wine glass in his hand, he looked like a wreck.

    If only Wil could see you now, jeered a voice in his head.

    Dark ran the shower and washed himself up, closing his eyes against the steady stream. He ran his hands over his hair, his face. His fingers slid down to the stitches at his waist, which were still prominent.

    The moment he thought of Wilford, he huffed, pain in his chest. He remembered the night he'd been shot like it was yesterday. Wilford, who refused to leave his side. Wilford, who took care of him when he needed it.

    Guilt rose in his throat, and Dark stepped out of the shower and reached for the glass of wine before the towel.

    To be honest, he never came to terms with what he felt for Wilford. He found the mafia boss intimidating, of course. He found him attractive, of course. And he wouldn't be lying if he said he wanted a room alone with him, a night alone with him, to see how far they'd go.

    He figured it was just lust, an energy sparked by bodies too long apart; an adult curiosity for Wilford's position, his status, his power.

    He just hadn't expected to—

    Water dripped from Dark's hair to his lashes, and his eyes snapped onto his own in the mirror. The glass was foggy from the shower heat, blurring his image. His heart skipped a beat.

    He hadn't expected to like him.

    Dark reached for the wine glass again and drank, tipping his head back to finish it off.

    He was going to regret drinking this much later, he knew that, but he had to keep these thoughts away. He couldn't let himself get any closer to Wilford, not when it did this to him. Not when it scared the shit out of him.

    Dark dried himself off, his hair still damp, and wrapped the towel around his waist. Cool air clung to his skin when he left the bathroom, and he considered the closet, finding an all-black suit.

    Courtesy of McLoughlin, said the tag around the hanger.

    He set the suit on the bed, and just as he slid on the dress pants, he heard a commotion in the hall. A steady stream of light laughter came from outside the room, like crystal bubbles in champagne.

    "God, you're great!" laughed a woman, her voice muffled.

    And that unmistakable slur, that low tone that Dark swooned for: "Oh, you're speaking for yourself, dear."

    A remark dripping with flirtation. Dark burned with heat when he imagined Wilford's face as he said that.   

    He's with a girl, sneered some looser side of him, let free under the alcohol. He really let you go, didn't he?

    Dark's jaw clenched.

    No one has a hard time letting you go.

    Dark turned back to the suit on the bed, shaking himself out of it. His hair lay in a damp mess over his eyes.

    He was just sliding on his dress shirt when the door swung open, and the laughter doubled. Dark stilled, eyes flicking over. The moment he met eyes with Wilford, the laughter faded slowly.

    A woman had an arm around Wil's shoulders, still smiling wide.

    Jealousy burned through Dark like fire.

    "Oh," said Wilford, straightening himself. "You're awake."

    Dark ran his eyes down Wil's figure with a glare, jaw tightening.

    He enjoyed himself last night, sneered his thoughts. He looks like he'd been thoroughly fucked.

    He did. Wilford's shirt hung loose on him, the V-neck dipping past his collarbones, into his muscular chest. And his hair, all ruffled and up in his eyes.

    That could've been you, came his thoughts again.

    "You made a mess," said Dark, not bothering to button up his shirt. He enjoyed the way Wilford looked at him—his eyes lingering on his body, cheeks blushing a hue, before quickly snapping out of it.

    "They'll clean it up," said Wilford, waving a hand. He pulled the woman into his side, and Dark sucked in a breath, brow twitching when he smiled at her like that.

    "I was just getting my little doll here a drink," slurred Wilford, all light and bubbles around her. His eyes flicked onto the businessman. "That alright with you, sweetheart?"

He rose a brow at Dark, eyes challenging. Ruthless. He felt that same energy from last night—the side of Wil that others warned him about. The look made him scoff, and he went back to dressing himself, buttoning his black shirt.

"Go ahead," he said. "There's not much left, anyway; it seems you went a little loose last night."

Now felt like a good time to drive the knife.

"I didn't think you'd get so upset," said Dark, and he wished he would shut up again, but this was good, he told himself. This kept him away from Wilford, kept him from getting too close. "I thought you'd get over it by now."

Dark grabbed a black tie from the closet, and when he looked at Wilford, there was fury behind that bubbly charade he'd put on. The businessman tipped his head and slid the tie around his neck, considering the other. Wilford's eyes lingered on Dark's hands around the tie, and he liked to imagine that the mafia boss could strangle him with just this—this tie.

The idea excited him.

But Wilford had a barb of his own, and it only reminded Dark of why he'd been so drawn to the man.

"Red wine; the strongest, too," said Wilford, picking up the wine bottle Dark had nearly finished off. "At least I was drinking last night." An amused huff. "In the morning, that's just sad."

Dark tucked his shirt into his pants and slid a belt through the loops. He glanced at the woman, who stood at the corner of the bar table, watching them idly. He caught a glimpse of interest in her eyes, partially hidden by shaggy, chocolate-brown bangs.

"Sorry," Dark said to her, catching her attention. "I didn't get your name."

Blue eyes. A sly-slipped smile. This woman was stunning, and when Wilford pulled her in close, she looked like the perfect side-piece for him.

"Vanessa," said the woman, resting her head against Wil's shoulder. She winked at Dark. "Mr. Edwards, right? It's nice to meet you in person."

Dark rose a brow at Wilford, and Vanessa snickered. No one was supposed to know they were in the hotel.

"Don't worry," she said, her voice like amber. "Your secret's safe with me."

Wilford reached for another bottle of whiskey, and Vanessa grabbed her own, leaning over the counter. She beamed pearly-white teeth.

"Turns out," said Wilford, grinning at her, "Vanessa's staying in the room across from ours." He tipped his bottle at her, and she clinked them together with a giggle. "Isn't she a delight?"

Dark scoffed under his breath, sending them a sour smile. He pulled his tie around his throat and adjusted it.

"I didn't take you the type for rebounds," was all Dark said.

Wil huffed, eyes sharp. "I guess you really don't know me then, Mr. Edwards."

Dark smirked, pulling on a suit jacket. "Back to formalities, are we?" he mused.

    He brushed back his hair, walked up to Wil, right up in his space, and snatched the wine bottle from the table. Wilford met his gaze evenly.

    "I don't know," said Wil, taking a step closer to him. "Are we, Mr. Edwards?"

    Dark scoffed, the hurt a stab in his chest, and he poured the rest of the bottle into a wine glass. Wilford turned towards Vanessa with a lopsided smile.

    "Why don't we hurry along?" he slurred. "Leave this old man."

    Vanessa chuckled, and Wilford grinned at Dark, the smile meant to hurt, to mock. Dark's eye twitched, and he glared.

    "Have fun," he spat. "Warfstache."

    Hurt flashed in Wil's eyes, but it was quickly hidden by a smirk.

    "Oh, we will," he said. "Have fun alone with that glass."

    Alone. The word stabbed through him.

    The couple turned away, out of the hotel room, and as he heard Vanessa's and Wilford's light laughter, he felt his eyes sting.

    He deserved this, he told himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. He did this to himself, made sure it would be like this, but why did it hurt so much? He was keeping himself at a distance—to keep himself from getting hurt, to keep himself from hurting Wilford. This was for the better, this was how it should be.

    Dark's throat tightened, and he swallowed hard.

    So why did it hurt so much?

———

Why did it hurt so much? thought Blank, tilting his head.

    Darkness hung at his back like a blanket, the streetlights showing only the contours of his face, the glint of his eyes. He leaned his weight forward, felt resistance under his shoe—relished the nails digging into his legs, the feet scuffing, the muffled screams.

    Kjellberg struggled under him, tears in his eyes. His hair splayed in the wet concrete, skull grinding as he shook his head.

    Blank grinded his heel into Felix's mouth. Wished he could feel the heat of his blood on his skin.

    You think this is pain, thought Blank, kneeling down, kneeling all his weight into Felix. He didn't pull out his gun, didn't reach for any weapon—he used his bare hands.

    Blank lifted his foot and knelt down. Dug his knee into Kjellberg's throat, face deadpan, eyes piercing, watching, emotionless.

    I will show you pain.

    Felix gasped for breath, choking on his blood. He hacked and spit, blood spraying his face, Blank's suit. He struggled under the other—pounded at his leg, tried kicking out—but he was helplessly, utterly pinned.

    "You're—" Felix spit out blood, gasping for breath. "You're going to regret this." His nails slid down Blank's leg. "Killing me—" He choked. Spit. "—will have the entire FBI on your case."

    Blank said nothing. He never did say anything. He noticed that words meant nothing; just noise to fill the silence; just noise to delay the inevitable. Every word, if spoken, was a piece moved on a chess board, each one an advance, a way to gain the upperhand.

    But Blank had no business talking to dead men.

    Blank curled his fingers in Kjellberg's hair and forced his head back, face up in his. The Director bared bloody teeth at him.

    "Mark Fischbach," said Blank, knee digging into his throat. Felix gasped for breath, the fight strong in his eyes.

    "I don't know wh-o you're talking about," he spat, blood splattering Blank's face.

    Blank closed his eyes and carefully inhaled... then exhaled. When he opened them again, an uneasy wave of calm fell over him, his eyes half-lidded, expression deadpan. Felix noticed the change, shifting under him; he struggled for breath, searching his face through the darkness.

    Carefully, Blank trailed his hand over Felix's face and rested his thumbs over the Director's eyes. He tipped his head at him. Now was the time for words.

    "I will tear your eyes out."

    Felix thrashed away, head jerking, and Blank grabbed his face, pinning it to the street. Kjellberg screamed and cried, but even if someone found them, Blank would kill them before they could do anything.

    "Fischbach," repeated Blank, voice quiet. He dug his thumb into Kjellberg's brow. If he thrashed, Blank's finger would slip right into his eye.

    The Director breathed hard, throat clogged with blood, his airway blocked by Blank's knee at his throat.

    His sight, or Fischbach's life?

    He bared his teeth at Blank and said nothing.

    So be it. 

He didn't understand who Blank was—and why exactly he wanted Mark—but he figured he was someone who worked for Warfstache. And he wouldn't let himself be an accomplice to the mob boss' kidnappings, whether by force or not.

Blank's eyes narrowed, and he plunged his thumb deep into Felix's eye, meeting squelch and hot and blood and—

Felix screamed, thrashing with a newfound energy. Blank shoved his finger in deeper, glaring.

I will show you pain.

A steady rhythm clicked from the alleyway—something loud, crisp, clear—and Blank glanced aside, keeping Felix pinned down. His cries of agony filled the street, but they didn't drown out that noise.

Click, click... click. A pair of red heels emerged from the shadows, parted into strong legs, wide hips... Then a voice.

"You know, I don't see why Celine likes you," said a woman, and when she stopped beneath the half-light, Wilma stared at Blank, her eyes full of disdain. "You're messy."

Blank considered her, pulling his hand away from Felix's face. His sobs were endless, his hands clawing at his face. Legs thrashing, blood rushing down his face.

"And quiet," said Wilma, crossing her arms. "It'd help if you spoke to the person you're interrogating. I mean, you're ruthless. And that's saying something. If this guy actually knew what you wanted, or what we're working for—"

"Are you done?" asked Blank, his voice a low drawl. He rose a steady brow at her, the only glimpse of emotion he'd shown that day, and Wilma huffed.

"Move," she said, shooing him aside.

Blank considered her a moment, weighed the possibilities, and after a long silence, he pushed off Felix's body. The Director was too far in shock to scrabble to his feet.

Wilma stepped over Felix's body and pouted at the sight. She glared at Blank. "If this gets my dress dirty, I swear..."

Blank just stared at her, deadpan, waiting for her next move.

Wilma rested her foot against Felix's forehead, letting her heel hover inches above the man's damaged eye. She sent him a pointed look.

"You're Kjellberg, right? The Director of the FBI?"

He didn't say anything, trembling.

"Well, I'm Wilma. And while I hate to introduce my old self, I think you'd like to hear this." She smiled at him. "Wilma Warfstache."

Felix's eye widened, the other a twitching, bloody socket.

"Now, I say that," said Wilma, putting a finger to her lips, "but I don't work for him. I never did really, not after he left me." She pressed Kjellberg's head down, heel getting closer to his bloody eye. "You see, Director Kjellberg," she said, "I want my brother dead."

Felix's brows furrowed, his chest heaving. Blank watched idly, hands in his pockets.

"You'd be doing us a favor," she said, "if you tell us where this Mark guy is." She flashed her teeth in a wolfish smile. "You tell us, and we'll let you free. Hell, we'll even hand Warfstache right to you. Sound good?"

It was an obvious lie—Wilma was going to keep Wilford for herself, make her feel the hurt he put her through—but it was enough to make the light behind Felix's eyes shift.

"I'd," managed Felix, "rather die."

Wilma hummed, looking over Kjellberg's person.

"Blank," she said. "Where's his phone?"

Blank bent over and grabbed Felix's phone out of his pocket. It had a few cracks from when he struggled, but it was still usable.

Wilma turned it about in her fingers, smiling. She lifted her foot and bent over—only to get Felix's face ID. The phone clicked with recognition despite his lost eye and opened up everything to them.

Wilma's chest stirred with excitement, and she dug her heel into Felix's torn eye. He lit up with screams.

Blank looked over Wilma's shoulder.

"What was that detective's name again?" said Wilma, scrolling through endless contacts. "I think we should send him a message."

Blank glanced at Wilma through the corner of his eye, silent for a moment. He was... impressed.

He glanced at the phone, pointed, and Wilma began to text Detective Abe.

"I need Fischbach at the precinct," she said aloud, typing with a smile on her face. Felix squirmed under her heel. "My office. ASAP."

A pause, three dots showing on the screen, and a reply.

Abe: Just Fischbach, sir?

Wilma smiled, glanced at Blank, and sent:

Director: Just Fischbach.

Wilma tampered with the settings and took the passcode away from the phone, giving them unlimited access to the device. She handed it to Blank, turned back to Felix, and with a sadistic gleam in her eye, she shifted her foot to Kjellberg's untouched eye and drove her heel through.

———

Mark, Abe, and Amy were in Deja's hospital room for a second interview when they received the text.

    Abe looked at the others with confusion, phone suddenly heavy in his head. The request seemed odd... out of the blue.

    'Just Fischbach,' read the single reply in his messages.

    Mark stirred in his chair. "What could he want from me?"

    Amy shrugged. "Well, it's not really legal for you to be working with us..."

    "Maybe he's offering you a job," chimed Deja. "You've been helping on Warfstache's case, after all."

    "Speaking of," said Abe, steepling his hands over his mouth. "Even if Warfstache didn't kidnap Mr. Edwards, that doesn't keep him from all the other crimes he's committed. This doesn't stop us from pursuing him."

    "Didn't you say that was impossible?" said Amy. "This kidnapping was our one chance for us to actually catch him. He's paid off everyone else to keep quiet about everything he's done..."

    "Well," said Deja, and everyone turned towards her. "You could use the media to your advantage." She rose a brow. "The public still thinks Warfstache kidnapped Mr. Edwards. Keep pursuing him on that charge, and when you have him..."

    Mark nodded, turning to Abe. "Once we have him in cuffs, it's over," he said. "We just have to find a way to lure him out."

    Abe's phone chimed again, and he opened his messages. Another one, from Kjellberg:

        Director: Did you not hear me, Lincoln?

    Something wrong rose in Abe's throat, and he clutched his phone, glaring at the screen. Something seemed off. Really, really off. It was way past work hours—nearly midnight—and while everyone at the precinct knew the Director liked to work late, he never called officers into his office unless it was really important.

    But what was so important that only Fischbach had to know?

    Abe glanced at Mark. "Have you ever spoken to Director Kjellberg?" he asked.

    "Only once," said Mark, shaking his head. "When I came to the precinct after Warfstache shot me."

    Abe nodded, running a hand over his mouth. He stood.

    "Sorry to cut this short, Madam Dumont," he said. "Our Director wants Fischbach at the precinct."

    Deja nodded with a smile. "Good evening, you three." She looked at Mark, her eyes flashing kindly. "Stay strong, Mark. You'll get Mr. Edwards back soon enough."

    Mark blushed, and he nodded, standing with the others.

    "See you later, Madam Dumont," said Mark, and the three of them left the room, left the hospital, and drove off to the precinct, drove right into the trap.

    Abe, still unnerved, decided they would go in with Mark despite the Director's orders.

    He had to be sure.

...

Happy (Belated) New Years! How was your holiday? Any Resolutions/Goals for 2022?

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day/night <3

Love, Vic xoxo