Later that night, Wilford and Vanessa sat on the bed in her hotel room, splurging on chocolates and whiskey.

"That wasn't very nice," said Vanessa, sucking on a chocolate strawberry. "He looked upset."

Wilford waved a hand and leaned back against the headboard, sucking chocolate off his fingers. "I know," he said. "I couldn't help it, though..." He frowned. "He really hurt my feelings, Vanessa."

The woman gently smiled, and she grabbed a strawberry, holding it to Wilford's lips. He opened his mouth, and she grinned as she fed him.

"You know," said Vanessa, shifting so she sat next to Wilford, "I learned it the hard way. It takes more energy getting back at someone then just letting them be." She rested her head against his shoulder. "Kindness disarms people. You should've talked it out."

Wilford swallowed his bite and playfully grinned at Vanessa, raising a brow at her. She met his eyes. "You forgot who you're talking to," he teased.

"Right," laughed Vanessa, patting his chest and sitting up. "A scary, psycho killer mob boss who's totally... not eating chocolate with a girl he just met." She tipped a piece of caramel at him. "And," she added, "don't forget to mention... he's definitely not a softie who got his feelings hurt."

Wilford scoffed with amusement, glancing aside.

"You're gonna talk to your boyfriend, though," said Vanessa. "Right?"

"I told you already," said Wilford with a smile. "He's not my boyfriend."

"Oh, sorry," said Vanessa, waving her chocolate. "Your husband."

Wilford blushed, suddenly remembering the rings Dark wore. And how his ring finger was always so barrenly empty. He averted his eyes.

"He's not..."

"Okay, that might be too far," teased Vanessa. "He's too hot to be husband material."

Wilford gave her a look and laughed. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Hey, love," she said with a dramatic shrug. "I may be lesbian, but Mr. Edwards is a really—" She made dreamy eyes, "—really hot man." She clutched her shirt and dramatically swooned, hand over her forehead. "Did you see him when we walked in, Wilford? Wet hair, half dressed... I just know you wanted a piece of those chiseled abs—"

"Okay, enough!" Wilford laughed, throwing a piece of chocolate at her.

Vanessa giggled, and she grabbed the piece of chocolate and popped it in her mouth. A comfortable silence fell over them, and they smiled at each other, enjoying the company.

Despite what Wilford led Dark to believe, he and Vanessa didn't do anything last night. Once Dark fell asleep, Wilford drank and drank, craved for something more than whiskey after the third bottle, and stumbled out of the room, in search of something to soothe his aching heart. He couldn't stand to be in the same room as the businessman—felt a pang everytime he looked over at him; wanted a repeat, a way to fix things.

Did he regret kissing Dark? Absolutely not.

Did he think he ruined things? Yes.

Did he think it was all his fault? Painstakingly, yes.

Wilford and Vanessa met at the bar on the first floor, hunched over drinks. Wilford, reckless and emotional and drunk, approached her first. They were both in the dumps, looking for a distraction. One thing led to another, Vanessa was leading Wilford to her room, and the moment they hit the bed, lit by alcohol and emotion, the fire between them faltered.

And then Wilford stopped, and Vanessa stilled, and together, they lay on the hotel bed, still in their clothes.

"I'm... sorry," said Wilford, pulling back, the taste of her still on his lips. "This doesn't... feel right."

Wilford sat up, deflated. Vanessa propped herself on an elbow and carefully examined the look on his face, reminded of herself.

"No, it's fine," said Vanessa, searching his gaze. "I agree."

Wilford looked at her.

"I'm gay," she admitted.

Wilford's brows rose, and his lips softly parted. Before he could scramble for a response, Vanessa gently waved a hand.

"I wasn't leading you on, I promise," she said. "I just... needed to clear my mind off things. You seemed nice."

Wilford wearily smiled. "You too." He huffed and averted his eyes. "I guess we're in the same boat."

"Yeah?" Vanessa sat up, and they faced each other. She sent him a curious look, urging him to continue. Wilford, with nothing better to do, gave in with a sigh. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way she looked at him, kind and open.

"My..." He didn't really know what to call Dark—didn't have a name for what they had. "Partner and I," he said after a while, "got in a fight."

"Girlfriend?"

"No, not exactly," said Wilford. "He's... sending mixed signals."

"Huh. You're gay, too?"

"Pan," said Wilford.

Vanessa tipped her head, humming softly. "Want another drink?" she offered. "Surprisingly, I didn't drink the whole shelf here."

Wilford laughed. "I think I've had enough alcohol for tonight."

Vanessa's eyes glinted, and she smirked. "Strawberries, then? They're chocolate covered." She opened a drawer at the nightstand and pulled out a box, shaking it. "I definitely didn't swipe them from the lobby."

Wilford smiled, his chest stirring with a bittersweet feeling. He was still broken over what Dark had said to him; wondered tirelessly what he'd done to cause such a reaction, to make the businessman so repulsed by him.

Vanessa set the chocolates between them and clapped her hands, snapping Wil out of his thoughts.

"Come on!" she said. "Let's forget about our partners for one night and enjoy ourselves."

Wilford returned to the present and looked at Vanessa—at her smile, the cheerful way she held herself. He said suddenly, "I'm leaving tonight."

Vanessa munched on another strawberry. "Okay?" she said with a light laugh. "You say it so dramatically."

"I just thought you'd know."

Vanessa considered him a moment, then stood, heading to the door. She opened it. "Well, if this is your last night here," she said, "I say you make it up to your boyfriend."

"He started the fight," he grumbled, though it was half-hearted.

Vanessa sent him a playful look. "C'mon. You two literally have the craziest chemistry. And I was just standing next to you two for a few minutes."

Wilford couldn't help but blush at that, but there was a twist in his stomach.

"I'm not ready," he said.

"I dunno," she said, letting the door shut with a shrug. "He might need a knight in shining armor right now, Wilford. He was drinking a lot." She sent him a look. "He could do something reckless."

Wilford huffed. "We all cope differently," he said, but he was already making his way towards the door. He turned towards Vanessa and sent her a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Vanessa. Good luck with your girlfriend."

Vanessa pat the mafia boss on the arm. "Same to you. Night."

Wilford opened the door, sent Vanessa one last look, and left the room. But instead of going straight to his and Dark's room, he went to Host and Jim's. He figured they should get ready to leave now, while it was night out.

He would talk it out with Dark later, he told himself. Listen to Vanessa's advice later.

But that was a lie.

And a devastating mistake.

———

Blank cocked his gun, the sound clicking through the precinct. It was dark, lit only by the moonlight through the windows, and empty—save for him and someone else.

    "How'd you do it?" asked Wilma, sitting at the edge of a desk.

    Blank sent her a sidelong glance, raising a brow.

    "Kjellberg," said Wilma, feet swinging. "How'd you know he had something to do with the bodyguard?"

    Blank's expression soured, and he turned back to his gun, checking it.

"Patterns," he said.

    "Come on," she said, shoulders slumping. "Can't you talk to me in, like, more than one word at a time?"

    Blank sent her a cold, calculated stare, and Wilma rolled her eyes, unaffected by its intensity.

    "I'm just trying to figure it out, you know?" she said, waving her hands. "You got his file, you knew what he did and all that... but how'd you know where he went?" She shrugged, her brown curls bouncing. "I just think it's interesting, what you do. I may not get you, but you're good. Scarily good."

    Blank's eyes glinted at that, but he didn't say anything.

    "Are you really not going to talk to me?" pressed Wilma, pouting.

    Blank pulled out his phone and tapped through it. He stowed it away. "Celine will be here soon," he said, glancing around the room.

    Without another word, he headed to the Director's office and clicked on the light, rummaging through his belongings. Wilma huffed, following him, her blood-stained heels clicking on the floor.

    "Do we really have to do this, though?" said Wilma, glancing around the dimly-lit room. "I mean, I know the Director's still... alive, but this seems a little... extra."

    Blank's eye twitched, but as much as he wanted to glare at her, he kept his cool. There was no use wasting his anger on banter.

    Blank walked out of the office, went to the desk Wilma was sitting on, and dragged Felix's body from under it, still warm, still very alive, but deeply unconscious. Both his eyes were gone, reduced to dark, bloody sockets.

    He pushed past Wilma and hoisted Kjellberg's body into his chair, keeping the back of it facing the door. From Wilma's point of view, it looked like the Director was still conscious, sitting upright like it was a normal night. She cringed.

    "This is just creepy."

    Another pair of heels clicked from afar, and a voice, lifted and elegant, cut through the precinct.

    "Is it done?" asked Celine.

    Wilma turned around, and she met eyes with Larose, something fluttering in her chest. The hitwoman looked different tonight—dressed in all black to perfection, as always—but a new energy followed her, charged and menacing. Her eyes glinted with opportunity. With eagerness.

    "The detective got my texts," said Wilma, stepping aside to let Celine in the office. "Mark should be on his way."

    "I wouldn't be so sure," hummed Celine, eyes sweeping across the room. "Detective Abe hasn't been updating me lately. He's gotten suspicious."

    Blank kept Felix's head up with a hand, the other holding his gun. He glanced at her.

    "The plan?"

    Celine's eyes glinted, and her lips curled, her smile sharp, cutting. She pushed apart the slit in her dress and slid out her gun, clicking off the safety.

    "I doubt we'll find Mark alone," she said. "The moment you see those other two, subdue them." She rose her brows. "And while I'd rather kill them, make sure to keep them alive. They're still after Warfstache, and I need them to relay the message."

    Blank nodded, and Wilma exhaled. "What do I do?" she asked.

    Celine turned towards her, and she smiled, eyes piercing.

"Together, Wilma," she said smoothly, "we'll take Mark." She leaned closer, ran a finger along Wilma's jaw, and tipped her chin up. "And you'll be one step closer to killing your brother."

———

The police car was silent, the darkness interrupted by the city lights filtering through the windows.

Abe's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, a steely look on his face. He still couldn't shake that feeling—that something was off; that something was different about the Director. It was that gut feeling, the kind he couldn't deny, even if there wasn't any evidence to back his claims.

Another text, when they'd left the hospital.

        Director: Tell me when you're on the way.

    Abe wouldn't, of course. He stopped texting Kjellberg right then and there, coming up with his own plan. Amy sat still in the passenger seat, watching the buildings flit by. Mark stirred in the back, unnerved by Abe's demeanour, the tension in the air.

    "What if... the Director gets mad?" said Mark faintly. "He said he just wanted to see me. If you guys come in, you'll—"

    "Don't you understand how fishy that sounds?" said Abe, glancing at Mark through the rearview mirror. "We're a team, Fischbach. If Kjellberg has something to say, he says it to all of us."

    "Well—you have a point."

    "It's okay, Fischbach," said Amy gently, glancing over her shoulder. He met her eyes, calming a bit under her gaze. "The worst that'll happen is him yelling at us."

    The car slowed near the precinct, a building made up of sleek steel walls and beams. Abe narrowed his eyes at it, turning slowly into the parking lot.

    There were no other cars.

    It's nothing, he told himself, looking around as he shut the car off. He probably parked in the back.

    As much as he tried to shake it off, he couldn't let go of that feeling. Suddenly, the gun at his hip felt heavier.

    The three got out of the car, and as they shut the doors, the noise echoed through the lot, bouncing off the cold walls.

    "Mark," said Abe softly. "You have your gun on you, right?"

    He glanced back at Mark, meeting his eyes. The bodyguard's brows rose, face highlighted by the streetlights lining the parking lot.

    "Yeah," he said. "I always do."

    Amy glanced at Abe over the top of the car, sharing a nod. With that, they walked across the parking lot, each step bringing them closer to the entrance, closer to that sinking feeling.

    And then they went inside.

    None of the lights were on, the cubicles and desks highlighted by the streetlights outside the windows. They did a sweep of the floor, looking around, until they reached the Director's office.

    Behind those fogged windows, was the only light in the precinct.

    Abe met Amy's eyes, then Mark's, a hand on his gun. He nodded towards the door.

    "Ready?" he said.

    Mark carefully nodded. "If this isn't what you think it is..."

    "We have every right to be suspicious," said Abe quietly. "He'll understand."

    Mark took a deep breath, stepped forward, and opened the door.

———

The hotel door swung open, and Host rose a brow at Wilford, who stood before him.

    "We're leaving," said the mafia boss. "Is Jim awake?"

    "It's midnight," said Host, brushing his hair over to hide his missing eye. He didn't wear his eyepatch. "I figured Sean would let us stay another night."

    "I've already made a bit of an impression on the place," said Wilford tiredly. "We need to keep moving."

    Host kept a hand over his missing eye, a rare sight of insecurity. He glanced over and called out: "Jim! Get up. We're leaving."

    A voice groaned within the room, and Wilford softly smiled. Host kept his head turned a fraction, and the mafia boss tapped his friend on the shoulder.

    "Hey," he said softly, catching his attention. "You've got nothing to hide."

    Host returned the smile, just a fraction. He tipped his head towards the other rooms.

    "Where's Edwards?" he said.

    Wilford didn't answer.

    "I'll be downstairs waiting," he said, ignoring Host's stare, as he walked away. Ignoring Vanessa's advice, as he walked away from Dark.

    Ignoring the gnawing feeling at his back that said he should do something.

———

The door creaked open, and Mark saw Director Kjellberg sitting in his office, the back of the chair facing him. He cleared his throat.

    "Director?" he muttered, stepping closer, stepping further inside. "You said you wanted to see me?"

    Abe and Amy hung at the doorway like shadows, hands on their guns, tension in their limbs. Amy glanced behind her, every so often, when she swore she saw movement. Abe kept his eyes trained on the Director, on the things in his office.

    None of this felt right.

    Mark stepped forward, up to the desk, and reached forward.

    None of this felt right.

    He tapped on the chair, said the Director's name again... and when the chair twisted around, creaking slightly, Kjellberg's head lolled to the side, staring with no eyes, staring with sockets, so dark and deep, that Mark stumbled back and screamed.

    The shadows sprung to life.

    Celine slammed the door shut. Locked it. Abe and Amy yelled and pounded on the door, yelled Mark's name, yelled and yelled—and then—gunshots.

    Mark whirled around, and the moment he registered Celine's presence, she swung her gun across his face, stunning him.

    He stumbled back, vision crowding. Stumbled back, not into the floor, but into a pair of arms. A body, pulling him in. Hands, holding a rag, shoving it over his mouth, his nose. Sedating him.

    "Sshhh," sang Wilma's voice in his ear, swimming in his head. "Just go to sleep, Mark... go to sleep."

    Mark's hands flew up, and he kicked, and he struggled, but the light was dying fast, the fight in his bones was sinking, and before he knew it, his vision swam, his limbs failed him, and all he heard were the screams, Abe and Amy's screams, the gunshots, the slam of bodies.

    "No," he managed, voice muffled by the rag. His eyelids drooped—body gave one last thrash. He could feel his body sagging, his knees on the floor.

    Celine stood over him, the image of her swimming, blurry, but the shine in her eyes terrifying.

    And then, with a final gasp, sucking in the chemicals from the rag, Mark plunged into darkness.

...

Hehehe... my evil plan... >:)) What are your thoughts?

I have a couple updates:

- College started up for me again, so beware! Updates might drag here and there again, but I'm hoping to keep up. My goal is to complete this story by the time January 2022 is over ;)

- I'm doing the Ray Bradbury Challenge (aka the 52 Week Short Story Challenge). You write one short story/oneshot every week, for 52 weeks. It's an all-year challenge, and if you'd like to join me, please do! I need all the writing buddies we can get :))

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

Love, Vic xoxo