Wilford slammed the car door shut, unable to help but replay what had just happened between him and Dark. The fight in his eyes, lit up when Wilford tried to stop him from leaving—the fight that grew so bright it flared like hatred.

    'Why would you care if I died?' rang his words in his head, full of emotion.

    Wilford's jaw tightened, and his heart ached, mouth full of lead. The words cut into him a second time, and Dark's voice rang in his head again:

    'Goodbye, Wilford.'

Why did those words sound final?

    His chest panged.

    Like he'd never see him again?

    The male valet peeled away from their car, standing at his podium by the hotel entrance. Jim was about to drive away when Host looked over his shoulder, finding Wilford's tense frame—and the absent seat beside him. His brows furrowed, an uneasy feeling growing in his chest.

    "Where's Edwards?" asked Host.

    Wilford swallowed hard, trying to find the energy to speak. He didn't answer the question—just gave a tight nod.

    "Drive, Jim."

    Jim met Host's eye, and they lingered a moment, exchanging glances. Wilford refused to meet their eyes.

    "Uh—" Jim muttered. "Boss, are you sure?" He glanced at the hotel entrance. "I mean, if Dark's still in th—"

    "Dark left," said Wilford firmly. "And he's not coming back."

    Jim's eyes widened, and Host drew back in surprise. The words hung in the air, heavy, and after a while, Wilford ran a hand over his mouth with frustration.

    "Will you please drive?" he said, glaring out the window.

    Jim swallowed, glanced once more at Host, and nodded. "'Course," he said tightly, driving off and away from the Continental, away from Dark—wherever he was.

    Once they were on the road for a while, Jim dared to speak up. His eyes nervously darted to the rearview mirror, finding Wilford's body still tense, his eyes still glaring out the window.

    "So, ahm..." Jim cleared his throat, ignoring the warning glance from Host. "Why did Dark leave?"

    Wilford's glare deepened, and Jim was about to drop it right then and there when the mafia boss spat out a response.

    "It's Celine," he said, hands curling into fists. "She kidnapped that goddamn bodyguard of his, and now Dark's after him."

    Both Jim and Host stilled.

    "What?" they said together.

    A silence stung the car, and Wilford sighed, burying his face in his hand. His fingers dug into the sides of his skull, nearly shaking. He needed a smoke.

    "I don't know how she did it," he breathed. "That Mark kid is the perfect bait, and Dark—stupid Dark—" He fumbled for his pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "He took it, just like nothing."

    Host was about to ask something, but Wilford spoke over him, knowing exactly what he was going to say.

    "I tried to convince him," said Wil, shoving a cigarette in his mouth. "I know I could've forced him into the car, but..." He lit his cigarette and sucked on smoke. "It was his choice."

    Jim swallowed, fingers flexing on the wheel. "Well... what do we do now?" he muttered. "I thought we needed him to prove you were framed."

    Wilford exhaled, smoke curling from his lips. He rubbed his hands together to try and expel the energy building up in his chest.

    "We wait," he said. "Until we get a lead on Celine, that's all we can do right now."

    He understood what Dark meant now; understood his frustration, his worry for his friend, when he said: 'I can either stay with you and wait around or save my friend's life.'

And while it was true—all they could do right now was wait—Dark didn't realize that was part of being in the mafia. Patience, above all, kept you above water. Patience gave you space to think, to plan, to put everything into action. And while Wilford was known for jumping into things, loose like a cannon, he knew when to wait when the time afforded it. Now was one of those times.

    He only wished Dark understood.

    Host shifted in the passenger seat, and he exhaled, eye narrowing in thought. The city lights flitted over his face, and he glanced at Jim, then at Wilford. He frowned softly.

"Unless..." he muttered, wavering the silence in the car.

    Jim glanced at him, listening, and Wilford's eyes flicked up with interest. When the man didn't continue, he waved his cigarette at him.

    "Well, go on," he slurred.

    Host shifted in his seat, and he reached in his coat pocket, pulling out a phone with a red case. He held it up for the others to see, and city lights filtered over it, glancing over its black, reflective surface.

    Freddie's phone.

    Host waved it lightly. "We could play Celine's own game," he said carefully, meeting their eyes, "and lure her out with a voice that she used to control."

———

Out of nothing came pain.

    Pain blazed Amy's shoulder, and she came to with a gasp, eyes flying open to find darkness. Her mind dragged, caught between waking up and the feeling of pain, stuffing her senses with cotton.

    She stared up at the precinct ceiling, lashes fluttering. Dregs of soft, sick light slit through the windows, and her eyes rolled along with her head to the floor, where she caught sight of Director Kjellberg's office door wide open.

    Her heart gave a drag, and the fog in her head snuffed out like a candle, replaced by a startling sense of urgency.

    Gunshots echoed in her head. Screams—hers, Abe's, Mark's. She remembered a shadowy figure, black eyes. Her hands, closing around her gun and aiming. Abe, diving for cover behind a cubicle.

    Abe.

    Amy sat up, and she gasped, overcome by a wave of vertigo. She closed her eyes and grimaced, clutching her shoulder, which revolted the touch. When she tore her hand away, it came back coated with blood that glistened black in the darkness.

    Her fingers shook. She didn't try to look at her shoulder. Could feel warm blood still oozing out of her wounds.

    "Lincoln?" she called out, voice wavering. She clutched her waist for something to hold onto and looked around, her body aching as it twisted. "Lincoln?"

    Amy swallowed down dread, and with a cry of pain, she hobbled to her feet. It hurt to stand, and when she stepped forward, her knee buckled with the strain, and blood splattered to the floor. She glanced down and found her thigh soaked red.

    "Shit," Amy cursed, stumbling to the side. She clutched onto a cubicle for support and looked around, squinting through dizziness and darkness. "Detective? Detective, are you alright!"

    Her voice echoed in the precinct, and when she didn't receive an answer, her breaths picked up, mind starting to race. Memory filled her vision.

    Mark.

    Amy glanced at the Director's door and felt her stomach drop.

    It really was a trap.

    "Abe," called Amy this time, limping forward. She could have sworn she heard rustling. "Abe, please answer me. Abe!"

    A struggling breath.

    Amy gasped, and she passed a cubicle and stumbled into the next. Her eyes landed on Abe's body, on the floor, and all the hope drained from her gaze, replaced by a horrid, sickening dread.

    "Abe..."

    Amy's skin chilled, and she fell to her knees, crawling towards him. The detective was on his back, one hand loosely over his abdomen. With his white shirt, Amy could see the damage clearly.

    Her throat closed up.

    Beneath his ribs, along his abdomen. There was so much blood that she couldn't see the entry wounds. So much blood his shirt was practically red.

    Abe inhaled a shallow breath, glazed eyes steady on the ceiling. Amy shakily grabbed his hand, and his eyes lazily slid onto hers.

    "Abe," said Amy, wondering if he could hear her, or if he was too far damaged. "Abe, I'm... I'm going to get you help. Okay?"

    She scrambled for her phone, wincing at the pain lacing in her shoulder. Her fingers shakily grabbed her device, and as she punched in 911, and the phone rang, Abe's hand flexed around hers.

    Her eyes flicked onto him, and he was smiling, just barely, in the way people who knew they were going to die smiled. It made her heart skip a beat.

    "Abe... it's okay. It's okay, we're going to be okay."

    "S..." Abe struggled with the words, his brows knitting. "Solve this."

    Amy clutched his hand, and the operator on the phone answered. She jumped.

    "Y-yes!" she answered, mind frayed. "I-I need medical immediately. L.A. Precinct—man down, man down—"

    "Amy."

    Amy's eyes found his again, and this time, the glaze in Abe's eyes glittered ever so slightly.

    "I'm..." His eyes welled with tears. "I'm proud of you."

    Amy's breath caught, and she searched his face, tearing up herself. She shook her head. "D-don't say that," she said, voice shaking. "You're gonna be alright, Abe. Help is on the way. You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be..."

    Abe's eyes slowly slipped closed, and Amy's heart raced, body full of dread.

    "Abe?"

    She squeezed his hand.

    "Abe?"

    Shook him, gently. "Abe." Then harder. "Abe." Again, shaking him. "Abe." Crying now, shaking him. "Abe, goddamn it, answer me."

    The world slowed, sirens filling the air in a bubble of noise. Red and blue lights painted the inside of the precinct, and even as paramedics peeled Amy away from Abe, she still said his name, like a chant. A prayer. Said his name as they loaded him onto a stretcher and rushed them towards the ambulances. Said it when the cold chilled her bloody wounds.

    EMTs checked Abe's pulse, and as they exchanged looks, Amy was loaded into a separate ambulance before she could see the blanket draped over his body.

———

Dark huffed, pushing through the night-busy sidewalks of L.A.

    He pulled his coat collar up, trying to hide his face from the public eye. He knew he was being reckless—knew what crazy stories would spark like fire if someone knew he was out and about. After nearly a month of being presumed "kidnapped," he walked the streets like it was nothing. Definitely not a good look on him.

    Dark realized then, as he walked through the crowds, that he could never return to his normal life. At least, not to the way it once was.

    Things were different, now. Too different. And it made him uncomfortable.

    In the business world, Dark had everything—status, money, power.

    Here, he had nothing.

    As much as he didn't want to admit it, Wilford was right. Dark had no idea about the mafia boss' world. He had no idea where to go, let alone start looking for Mark. He knew nothing about Celine—only knew that she was dangerously clever, was hellbent on killing him, and had Mark.

    Dark could feel time ticking down, down, down, and his pulse raced, impatient.

    He needed help.

    His first thought was Wilford, but he shook his head, trying to erase the image of him from his head. No. The last person he could confront was Wil.

    Dark pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts, heart sinking with each name that passed. All these contacts, all these numbers, and he didn't feel like he could trust any of them.

    That's the price to pay, came his thoughts, of being alone.

    Because you wanted distance right?

    Dark clutched his phone.

    Because you didn't want to get hurt.

    Dark's eyes landed on Deja's contact, and he stilled, pace slowing on the sidewalk. He glanced around—noticed he was in a quieter part of town (if that existed in the city)—and pressed call.

    He'd nearly forgotten about Deja Dumont. Ever since the ambush, when Wilford refused to turn back to the mansion, he'd presumed her... dead. He felt a pang of guilt, then. Wondered that, if she were still alive, if she hated him for leaving her.

    The call picked up. Dark sucked in a breath, and he held the phone to his ear,  half-expecting Celine's voice. But with a surge of relief, Deja's voice greeted him.

    "Dark," said Deja. "You're alright."

    Dark exhaled, pausing mid-walk to rest against a building. The night air chilled him.

    "Madam Dumont," breathed Dark. "I thought you were..."

    "Dead?" said Deja. "Nearly. I'm in the hospital." There was a moment of silence, and Deja made a soft noise of amusement. "You know, I find it ironic you called," she said. "I was just speaking with Mark about you."

    Dark's lashes fluttered with surprise, and his pulse quickened. "You were?"

    "That and two FBI agents," said Deja. "Did you know he's working with them? They were trying to rescue you from Warfstache, but I cleared all that up to them. Celine framing him, and all. They still don't believe it, but they just need some time."

    Dark's brows furrowed, and he shook his head, trying to still the emotion in his voice. "Madam, when did you speak with Mark?"

    "I'd say four, five hours ago," she said, and Dark caught the suspicion growing in her voice. "Why? Is something wrong?"

    Dark's fingers flexed over the phone, and he took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to calm the nerves that simmered under his skin. He started walking down the street again—both to dispel his energy and look for Mark.

    "You worked with Celine for a while," said Dark. "If she... took anyone, do you have any idea where she'd hide them?"

    "Mr. Edwards..." breathed Deja. "This isn't about Mark, is it?"

    Dark swallowed, and with a sigh, he gave in. "I need your help, Madam Dumont," he admitted. "She..." He huffed. "She has Mark."

    A stunned silence met the line.

    "You're with Warfstache, right?" she breathed after a while. "I may have worked with Celine, but even her methods were too smart for me to figure out. Warfstache would know what to do. I'm sure he's... dealt with this kind of thing before." She huffed. "As long as you're with him, everything should be okay."

    Dark's chest tightened with emotion. Instead of answering, he simply said, "Thank you, Madam Dumont. Get some rest, okay?"

    "Good luck, Mr. Edwards," said Deja firmly. "If there's anyone who can get Mark back, it's you two."

    You two... Dark brushed the comment aside.

    "Goodnight, Dumont," said the businessman, and he hung up, feeling more empty than he had before the call.

    'As long as you're with him,' echoed Deja's voice in his head, 'everything should be okay.'

    Dark scoffed and kept walking, scouring alleyways and the insides of stores.

    As long as you're with him. Please. As long as he was with Wilford, all they did was wait around like sitting ducks.

    The ambush flashed in his head, and he recalled Wilford pulling him out to safety, having Jim drive them out of the mess. He recalled Wilford, standing at his side when Schneepelstein stitched him up, even when he felt like shit, making sure he was alright.

    He swatted the images away. It was too late to rethink his choice.

    Right now, he had to find Mark before anything worse happened to him.

———

Tires crunched against asphalt as the car rolled up to the front of a ratty motel, the smell of rot thick in the night air. The neon green sign flickered on the brink of death, casting the street in a sickly glow.

    Jim parked away from the window's line of sight and opened the car door.

    "I'll be quick," he said.

    Host nodded in the passenger side and glanced over his shoulder through the darkness. Wilford sat in the back, his body tense, eyes glaring out the window. He'd been like that for the entire drive, deliberately quiet. It was the first time Host had even seen Wil so quiet, and for so long.

    Jim came back with a set of keys and shut the door, peeling away to a section of rooms. Doors stood out all around them, lit by flickering, bug-ridden lights. The car parked in front of the door numbered 8831.

    "Alright," said Jim, shutting the car off. "We're here."

    Jim got out of the car, jangling the keys in his hand. Host went to follow, but when he realized Wilford hadn't even moved, he stilled, glancing over his shoulder. The mafia boss was still lost in thought out the window with a hand over his moustache.

    Jim called for them, shaking the keys, and Host waved a hand. The driver frowned and shook his head, unlocking the door and stepping into the room. Once the door shut, Wilford's eyes flicked over to the wood, then at Host, finding him staring.

    The mafia boss huffed through his nose and glanced aside, finding more interest in a sputtering light far off. "What d'you want?" he slurred, voice a low grumble.

    Host gave him a look and shifted in his seat. "When we first went to the Continental, you and Dark were getting along. And then in the span of two days..." he said, trying to catch Wilford's eyes. The man persisted, eyes out the window, and Host sighed. "Wilford, I've known you since we were kids. Something's wrong." He searched Wilford's posture. "What happened?"

    Wilford wavered, and he frowned, his posture slacking. He turned his head towards Host, but he didn't look at him, eyes on the car floor.

    "It's..." He grimaced, sucked in a breath, and groaned, leaning forward to rub his face. "It's all... stupid, really. I think this is all... my fault."

    Host scoffed. "With a spoiled man like Edwards, any minor inconvenience could—"

    "I kissed him," Wilford blurted out.

    Host stilled, and his brows rose, eye widening. The words cut through the thickness in the air, heavy on them like a blanket.

    "You... what?"

    Wilford chided himself and looked away. "It was the—stupid... fucking doctor," he cursed. "He got to my head, and I—"

    "And Edwards, how did he..."

    The sentence trailed off, hanging in the air, but Wilford knew what he was asking.

    How did he react?

    Wilford lingered a moment, brows furrowed in thought. He glanced at the motel door, at Host, at the insides of the car. After a long pause, he sighed and leaned back in his seat, glancing aside.

    "We were on the balcony," he started softly, and Host leaned forward to hear him better. "I asked if I could... y'know—" He waved his hands "—and he said yes." His face heated at the memory, but the pang in his heart reminded him that it meant nothing. "I mean—one thing led to another, and suddenly I was..."

    He vaguely motioned his hands, trying not to give too much information. "And he was..." His face reddened. "We were starting to get more serious, and then suddenly, he just—freaked out."

    Host hummed. "He did get shot nearly two weeks ago."

"That's not it," Wilford sighed, running a hand through his hair. "He... wanted..." His face contorted as he tried finding the words. "We—" He groaned, hitting his head against the headrest.

"It's like..." he mumbled, "the moment he realized how close we were, he didn't want to have anything to do with me."

    Host nodded, eye narrowed. "I think it has less to do with you," he said, "and more to do with him."

    Wilford laughed sourly. "I came on strong," he said. "I admit that, I'm not that stupid."

    "Maybe Mr. Edwards is intimidated."

    Wilford huffed through his nose with amusement, and he shook his head. "I don't know..." He rested his elbow against the car window. "I guess everything finally got to him, and after that night, when Celine answered Mark's phone... it was enough to make him snap."

    He sighed, closing his eyes.

    "I don't think he's coming back, Host," said Wilford softly, and the mafia boss sounded genuinely concerned—the most that Host had seen him show for another person. "I... don't think he realizes how dangerous it is for him to be alone."

    Wilford's fingers flexed, aching for another cigarette, and Host sighed softly.

    "Look..." said Host gently. "I know it may be hard to hear, but... if he doesn't come back, he doesn't." He gazed at Wilford, who still didn't meet his gaze. "But if he does... then you know he's here by choice. He's in, for good."

    Wilford's lips quirked in a half-smile, almost enlightened by the thought of Dark coming back. Not just for his help, but for him. The moment went as quickly as it came, and his face fell.

    "If he ends up finding Mark..." said Wilford. "Celine's going to kill him." He shook his head. "I don't know if I can save him in time."

    Host shifted in his seat. "Why do you care so much for Dark Edwards? That you would put your own life on the line?"

    Wilford glanced over, and his eyes met Host's for the first time. Energy threaded the air.

    "Because," said Wilford, "I care for him. And I..." His brows furrowed, and he nodded to himself. "I have feelings for him."

...

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

Love, Vic xoxo