Within two days, news of the Director's hospitalization flooded the precinct.

    For the first time in years, the office was alive.

    Officers paced the rows, phones screamed and clacked. Voices overlapped one another in shouts and theories, questions and concerns. Corkboards and whiteboards filled up the corners of the precinct, papers flying and passed to and fro.

    And there stood Agent Nelson in the middle of it all, where Detective Abe should've been.

    And everyone—people they'd worked with for years, in a way grown up with—looked up at her with eager eyes that all said: What's our next move?

    People who once ridiculed Detective Abe for pursuing the Warfstache case. Who once mocked him. People who treated him like nothing but a stain on an invaluable shirt, a thing on the side of the street to laugh at.

    Amy Nelson had always wanted to be a detective—was working towards it by working with Detective Abe—but not like this. Standing here, when it should be Abe standing here, felt wrong.

    Amy sucked in a breath, and she imaged Abe's hand on her shoulder, coaxing her forward. She thought of what he told her, moments before he died.

    "Solve this."

    "Alright, everyone," said Amy, addressing the roomful of officers. "Let's get started."

    She would stop at nothing to fulfill Abe's last wish.

———

Words were fire. One lick, and not only does it burn a person, it consumes their entire being, their surroundings, their livelihood.

    When Celine stared at Tattlecrime.com's newest article on her laptop, the fire burned so brightly within her that it took her a moment to catch her breath.

    'WARFSTACHE challenged by CELINE LAROSE: Mastermind of Crime? Or Widowed Lunatic?'

    How infuriating, thought Celine, closing her eyes, that they use such means against her.

    She knew instantly that it was Wilford's doing, but it wasn't that that annoyed her. It was the articles that followed after, in light of Tattlecrime's, that infested like an illness.

    She browsed the web with her jaw set tight, headlines filling her vision.

    Titles from, 'New Developments on Warfstache Case,' to, 'Celine Larose Scandal,' to 'The Blasphemy that is CEO Dark Edward's Kidnapping.' Regurgitations of the original article, spread and fanned out; creating new rumors, new scandals, new perspectives.

    Oh, Celine had always admired the kind of reach Freddie Lounds had on the press. Admired the journalist for her talents, her Machiavellian approach, her utter disregard for ethics in the pursuit of opportunity and truth (or gossip). But now, those qualities came back to burn her, and soon enough, Wilma came through her door without knocking, brown curls flying about her face.

    "Is this going to get in the way of things?" she demanded, pointing at her phone.

    Celine looked up slowly from her laptop, eyes sliding onto Wilma's figure. The corners of her black lips quirked up, unable to form a smile out of sheer anger.

    "No," she said curtly. "Things will continue to run smoothly."

    "People are starting to wake up," said Wilma. "The FBI will start going after you—us—instead of Wilford. We need them to find my brother!"

    "Mr. Edwards will take care of that," said Celine.

    "What?" demanded Wilma. "The billionaire's working with us, now? Since when?"

    "Lower your voice, Wilma," said Celine with half-lidded eyes, "and listen to yourself." She rose a brow at her. "Why would I work with the man I want to kill?"

    Wilma scoffed. "You seem to work in—" she gestured her hands "—mysterious ways."

    "Blank says Mr. Edwards will come crawling back to Warfstache in no time," Celine said smoothly. "I gave him a phone he had no choice but to take. It's tracking his location as we speak."

    "Even the stupidest person would take out the tracker," said Wilma indignantly.

    "You underestimate me, Miss Barnum," said Celine, her eyes flashing. "Mr. Edwards knows it quite clearly. If he makes any move to hide his location, or remove the tracker like you said—" She leaned forward. "Then I will kill Mark, slowly, and let the whole world watch as he dies."

    Wilma gave her a long, hard look, and Celine simply dismissed her with a hand.

    "The articles mean nothing," she said absently. "One way or another, Wilma, we will get what we want. It just takes patience."

———

Patience paid off.

    Dark woke up to his phone bursting with notifications—messages from associates and business partners asking if the rumors were true; if he was still alive; if he was back on his feet.

    His brows furrowed, and he grabbed his phone, his chest thrumming with a feeling he couldn't place. Then the device started to vibrate in his hand, lighting up with Deja Dumont's nametag.

    He slid to answer, held the phone to his ear, and sat up in bed.

    "Hello?"

    "Mr. Edwards." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Who's idea was it?"

Confusion consumed Dark, and he rubbed the back of his head. "What?"

"The article," said Dumont. "To be honest, it unsettles me that you used Freddie Lounds' page, but... I'm glad you're finally getting back at Celine. It's about time you get your life back again."   

"I don't... understand," said Dark, swinging his legs out of bed. "Article on... Tattlecrime?"   

Tattlecrime.com, the website—or more so the journalist—that had cursed him and Wilford to this whole mess. Just saying the name made his skin tingle with revolt.

    "Oh," came Dumont's reply. "I figured you'd know about it. Shouldn't Warfstache have discussed it with you and his... that guy with the eyepatch?"

    Dark sighed, falling back on the bed. As much as he wanted to get back to Wilford, hearing his name the moment he woke up annoyed him. He had done things on his own before, made an empire on his own. So why was it now that people expected he always be tied to the mafia boss?

    "Madam Dumont," said Dark honestly, "I'm not with Wilford anymore. I left two nights ago."

    A silence poisoned the line.

    "What?"

    "What about this article?" Dark asked.

    "Mr. Edwards, I may not know the mafia," she said, "but it's dangerous for you to be out there alone—"

    "I can protect myself," said Dark. "Now. The article?" he pressed.

    A sigh came through the line, and eventually, Deja dropped the subject of Wilford and answered him.

    "Go to Tattlecrime," said Dumont, "and read the most recent article on there. I have a feeling you'll like what you see."

    "Will I really?"

    "Yes, actually," said Dumont. "Take it as a step closer to getting your business back."

    Dark's lashes fluttered, and he sat up, heart beating with hope.

    "Trust me," said Dumont. "Even if people still believe this 'kidnapping' was some business ploy, we need you. My company, Dumox, and countless others are suffering without you."

"Thank you, Madam Dumont. I'll get back to you."

    He hung up, searched Tattlecrime.com on his phone, and pulled up the recent article. The title burst at him in big red letters, and his brows rose the more he read.

    Dumont was right, he thought, skimming the page. This nearly cleared up everything.

    When he called Dumont again, and they discussed the article, he left her with a simple permission:

    "If someone asks for me," he said, "tell them everything in this article is true." Celine framing Warfstache, Celine pulling all the strings. "And when this is all over, things will be up and running again."

    When he ended the call, he went back to the article, clicked on the Contact Me tab, and copied the phone number provided.

    And called Freddie Lounds' phone.

———

Freddie Lounds' phone rang for the hundredth time that day.

    "Christ," Wilford cursed, stuffing his face under the blankets. "Can't you silence that phone, Jim? I'm trying to sleep here."

    "Sorry, sorry!" said Jim. "It's just—things are looking good, really good—"

    Wilford sat up and glared through squinted eyes, his hair a mess. "Gimme that."

    "I'll silence it, okay—"

    "You little—"

    Wilford stumbled over, tangled in covers, and reached for the phone in Jim's hands, swatting at him. Jim protested, leaning away, but Wilford caught the phone in his hand and plopped back down into bed, blowing his hair out of his eyes.

    Jim pouted on the other bed, crossing his arms. Then they both realized the phone had suddenly gone quiet.

    "Hello?" came a voice through the speaker.

    Wilford jumped, and he glared at Jim like he was the one to blame for it. The mafia boss must have accidentally pressed answer when he'd pried the phone away.

    "Wil?" came the voice again, and Wilford stilled, recognizing it this time. Jim gasped and sat at the edge of the bed, and Host came out of the bathroom, freshly showered. He noted the other two's posture and stepped quietly closer, leaning in along with Jim.

    "Dark," Wilford said after a while, blinking. "I... didn't expect to hear from you."

Dark sighed, and he stood up, pacing his room.

    "I didn't think you'd answer."

    His heart rate picked up, and his stomach fluttered, body reacting the way it always did around Wilford.

    "About what I said at the Continental..." Dark started. "I..." He wanted to say more—explain to Wilford why he pushed him away, why he was so terrified of getting close to him—but it wasn't the time for that, so all he said was, "I'm sorry."

    Wilford let out a steady breath through the line, and Dark continued.

    "I'm worried about Mark," he said honestly. "And, as much as I want to save him now..." He exhaled. "You were right. I should have waited. With you."

    "I could understand that," said Wilford. "But what I couldn't understand was when you—"

    "Can we talk? In person?" said Dark.

    A moment passed between them before Wilford answered.

    "Of course," he said. "I'm at—"

    "It has to be somewhere public," said Dark. "Somewhere with a lot of people." Before Wilford could protest, he emphasized, "I'm being tracked."

———

Amy sat down for the rest of the day, powering through with pain medication and the thought of keeping Abe proud. Countless times, officers had offered to take over and give her a break, but she refused. She may have weaseled out of the hospital early, weak from recovery, but she wasn't about to let that stop their progress.

    As much as her efforts were good-hearted, and making headway, that didn't stop the few officers that still rebelled against what Detective Abe once stood for.

    "We don't have a Director, anymore," argued someone loudly, earning mumbles of praise. "Someone with experience needs to take charge!"

    The jab was clearly sent at Amy, who had taken all leadership through today's advances. She huffed, and officers watched as she glared at a group of unruly officers a few cubicles away.

    "Detective Abe was head of this case," she called out, chest hurting just to say his name aloud. "Since I worked alongside him, I take his place." She glanced around at those who stared at her. "I know the Director's not here. And I'm not trying to take his responsibilities. But we should be focusing on what matters, which is solving this thing."

    The group of unruly officers grumbled amongst each other.

    "Women," one of them said. And then along the lines of, "Bad leaders."

    Amy's pulse ticked, and other women in the precinct bristled. One of them, Agent Rios, gently tapped Amy's uninjured shoulder. Her black hair framed her dark face.

    "I'll take care of them," she said to Amy, eyes narrowed. "Focus on the ones that actually care."

    Amy felt a surge of relief, and she exhaled, smiling at the woman. "Thanks," she said.

    Rios nodded, and she stormed towards the unruly group, loading up a flurry of insults in English and Spanish. Amy watched a moment longer before turning back to the group in front of her, which she'd divided into teams.

    "Alright," she said, catching their attention. "Remember, this is a hostage situation. Mark Fischbach—Dark Edwards' bodyguard—is being used as bait. We have to approach everything from here with caution. One wrong move, and he could get hurt."

    The officers before her nodded.

    "Teams Alex, Brisk, and Sanchez," said Amy, with as much confidence as she could muster, "your goal is to find out Warfstache's location. All I know is that he's still in L.A."

    The officers nodded, and Amy sucked in a breath, urging herself to keep going. She really didn't know how Abe did it, but then again—he didn't. He didn't have to deal with officers leaping in their seats to help him. He didn't have to deal with arguments, or officers rebelling against his orders. Because he worked alone, shunned from the others. Made into an outcast, a laughing stock for pursuing something he'd believed in.

    She only wished he could be here now. Would he be happy to see the support? Upset? Afraid, maybe?

    "How many of you," said Amy, "read the article that came out this morning?"

    "On Tattlecrime.com?" chimed Agent Stuart, lifting a hand.

    "It's nonsense," argued Officer Ben. "That site is for wackos looking for a crime fix. And the journalist who created the site—"

    "Generally," said Amy, cutting over them, "I'd agree with you, officer. But this time, I have evidence that this morning's article is true." She shifted her gaze over the countless officers. "Those of you who haven't read it, yet—read it. It has valuable, and factual, information."

    "It contradicts everything I've heard on the news," said Agent Stuart again. "Warfstache kidnapped Edwards because of a territory dispute—"

    "That was what we believed at first," said Amy. "But it really is a frame job. Speaking of..." She nodded. "Teams Odetta and Liv—you'll be in charge of Celine Larose. She's impossible to track unless she wants to be found, so it's going to be a waiting game for you."

    She sucked in a deep breath and sighed. "If we do this right," she said, "we'll get to the bottom of this. And we'll solve this case once and for all."

For Abe's sake.

———

As the officers worked tirelessly in the precinct, and Wilford decided on a place to meet Dark, night began to fall on the city.

    Lights came to life, people blotted the streets fresh out of work, and high, high up, far from the bustle of the city and shrouded in shadows, was a room reserved for a single person.

    Darkness clung to the sides of the building, and from the height of the skyscraper, the city lights outside the glass wall didn't reach its bowels. But there, in the middle, sat a figure hunched in a metal chair, his chest bound with rope, wrists tied behind him, ankles pinned to the legs of the chair.

    Hair curtained his dirty face, and at the steady tap, tap, tap of footsteps, he looked up, breath racking in his chest. Dread consumed every fiber of his being until he felt sick; until his heart pounded so painfully in his throat he was sure he'd throw up.

    Plastic tarp rustled beneath those footsteps, left behind from construction. Then the click of heels over concrete, growing closer. Louder.

    The light of a phone screen flicked on, and he watched as the rectangular shape neared, highlighting an ill-fitting suit, pale skin, and the hollows of eyes that were too dark.

    "Good evening, Mark," said Blank, standing before the bodyguard. He looked down at him with that emotionless, deadpan expression, but the darkness of his eyes glittered with a feral excitement.

    Blank lifted the phone, pointed the lens at Mark, and pressed record.

    "Celine wants to give Dark another surprise."

...

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

Love, Vic xoxo