Sunlight pierced through the parted curtains, illuminating the floating specks in the oak room.

A journalist named Ms. Lounds typed behind a desk, eyes intense on her laptop. Her tight, red curls glowed like embers under the sun whenever she would stoop over her work, bringing out the rosiness of her cheeks and her small mouth.

Heels clicked from the hallway—a steady, menacing rhythm she'd grown used to—and she took a deep breath, switching to a new tab. An article she'd published this morning.

The footsteps grew closer, and Lounds collected herself, pushing her laptop forward a fraction. When she glanced up, squinting at the sunlight, she met a pair of sharp, half-lidded eyes that tore through her—a gaze that burned her skin with a ferocity that outmatched the sun.

Celine stood at her doorway, the pure black of her outfit making her stand out like a void in the warm-colored room. Her black lips curled into that subtle smirk that made anyone shudder with goosebumps, and she stepped forward, shutting the door behind her with a click. The room coiled with tension at the sound.

"Mrs. Larose," greeted Ms. Lounds, raising her thin brows. "I take it you didn't like my article?"

Celine hummed, and she glanced out the window, squinting at the brightness beaming through it. She crossed the room, heels clicking, and grabbed the curtains, drawing them tight. Any ounce of sunlight cut out, swallowing the room in darkness.

Lounds huffed, her eyes adjusting. Her laptop screen was the only source of light, painting her face a sickly shade.

"It's not enough," said Celine from the window.

Her dress swayed as she turned around, and her eyes pierced right through Ms. Lounds'. The journalist didn't cower at her gaze—didn't give anything away that might indicate fear—but only the unhinged had the gall to find Celine unthreatening. Deep down, Celine knew Lounds was, if anything, intimidated.

The journalist sighed, and she pushed her laptop aside. The light from the screen glanced over the outline of Celine's figure, the rest of her body shrouded in darkness.

"I can't do it," said Lounds, folding her hands over her desk. She turned towards Celine, her blue eyes confident. Intense. "I may stretch the boundaries of my job, Mrs. Larose, but when it comes to Warfstache..." She sucked in a breath through her teeth, brows furrowing, and glanced aside. "It's dangerous."

Her red curls bounced as she shook her head. "I could lose more than my job," she said, gaze flicking onto Celine. "I could lose my life."

Celine hummed, and she ran her fingers along the curtains, the fabric soft to the touch. A sliver of sunlight peeked through, and Celine's eyes glimmered.

"Name your price," she said.

Ms. Lounds gave a tight-lipped smile, and she scrutinized her for a moment, tilting her head at Celine like she was dull.

"I'm... sorry, ma'am, but I don't think you heard me," she said. "I'm not interested."

Celine only smiled.

"I know you've already written the article, Freddie," she breathed, heels clicking as she prowled forward. "And I know you're just dying to get it out there." Her eyes glinted, and she smirked, sidling up to the journalist's desk. She seated herself on the corner of it.

"You've never been one to worry about the consequences of your work," she continued. "Especially after that—oh, what was that killer called... the Ripper? You really stirred the waters with that one. You enjoyed it, too."

Freddie's face hardened, and her jaw clenched. Celine was right. She was one of the only journalists who ever dared to condescend criminals in her articles; to spread lies and rumors about them without thinking about the consequences. She'd accumulated her fame as a writer because she didn't submit to the status quo. Didn't care to sugar coat anything. Because she played the same game as the killers did, got her hands dirty. Treated them like the scum they were.

"You always like pushing yourself..." breathed Celine, snapping her out of her trance. "Don't you?" She leaned forward, and Lounds glanced at her, eyes searching. "Crossing lines, breaking the rules... giving those men a taste of their own medicine."

Celine tilted her head, and she ran her hand along Ms. Lounds' laptop and pushed it towards her.

"Let's make a deal," she said softly, voice poisonous. She held Ms. Lounds gaze and leaned closer, expression menacing under the half-light. When Freddie didn't look away—had a glimmer of interest in her eyes—Celine continued.

"You write articles on Warfstache for me," she breathed, "libel and all... and I'll provide you extensive security."

Celine carefully glanced at the laptop, her every movement slow, calculated, and Freddie followed her gaze, breaths steady.

"You post those articles..." breathed Celine, "and I will keep you safe." She glanced at her through her lashes and tipped her chin up, the air coiling around them. "You'd have your own room, your own escorts... all the privileges of a normal life, without the worry of ever being in danger."

Her lips curled up, and her eyes glinted. "You'd be untouchable," she breathed.

Ms. Lounds wavered, and she gazed at the screen, eyes skimming over one of her most recent articles on Warfstache. Her fingers twitched over her desk—ached to type up a storm, to rile up the mafia boss and get on his nerves... and Celine knew that.

She was offering her the opportunity of a lifetime—her dream. Being able to write about criminals, to affect their reputations and drive them mad with a few slick words without consequence.

She'd always been bold with her stories, but that didn't mean she wasn't careless. She took precaution when she poked at people. Always twisted things just enough to keep her from getting killed. But with Celine's offer, well, it seemed too good to be true. Not having to worry at all or bend things in her favor. Getting to live in luxury.

Untouchable...

The word grew on her the longer she mulled on it.

Celine watched the cogs turning in Freddie's head—began to smirk when she knew the conclusion she'd come to. After a moment's silence, Louds took a deep breath, exhaled, and nodded.

"I want a personal bodyguard for good measure," she said, gazing at Celine. "And then we have a deal."

Celine's eyes went half-lidded, and she rose to her feet, offering her hand.

"It's settled," she said.

Freddie stood, and she shook Celine's hand, shivers running up her spine. Those eyes pierced into her again, burning her skin. When they pulled away, Celine gave a pleased sound and headed for the door.

"Until next time, Ms. Lounds," she said.

———

Wilford huffed, the gun brushing against his lips. His eyes shifted over the living room, deep in thought, before settling over Dark's body once more.

He was still unconscious.

They'd laid his body over one of the couches, his white blazer draped over the cushions. Host perched near him, holding a damp cloth at his forehead, lost in focus.

"Someone's trying to set me up," breathed Wilford, tapping his gun against his moustache. "I mean—hell, it could be anybody! Not even god knows the enemies I've got on my back."

Host pulled the damp cloth from Dark's forehead and huffed, sitting on the floor. He rested against the coffee table and glanced back at Wilford, who hunched over on the couch across him, his elbows resting on his knees.

"We should call the doctor," he said.

Wilford's eyes narrowed, and Host rose his hands to his chest in defense.

"If we can get a sample of Edwards' blood," he reasoned, "we can find out what poison our mystery person used on him. That could narrow them down."

Wilford grumbled under his breath and crossed his arms, sinking into the couch like a moody child. "I'd rather take him to the hospital than meet that freak again," he mumbled.

Host rolled an eye and sighed, turning back to Dark's body. His chest carefully rose and fell, lips parted for breath. Signs he was still alive.

"I know him and his relatives are a bit on the crazy side—"

"I'm crazy," said Wilford, pointing his gun at himself. "Schneep and his—green possy are absolutely feral."

Host huffed through his nose with amusement. "Well, you know he won't talk," he said pointedly. "As unusual as his practices are, he gets the job done."

Wilford frowned, unconvinced.

"We could," said Host, "look for a new car." He rose a brow. "While the doctor tends to Edwards."

Wil took a deep breath, and his gaze flicked onto Host. The glimmer of excitement in his eyes was unmistaken. When it came to cars, Wilford could never refuse.

Host smirked, and he stood up, setting the damp cloth on the coffee table.

"Xilef has some new arrivals in his shop," he said, wiping off his hands. "I'm sure he'd be pleased to see you again."

Wilford hummed, and he glanced at Dark laid on the couch, his eyes lingering on the expanse of his body. He wondered what it'd be like to see what was under all those—

Wilford cleared his throat, and he stood up, sliding his gun into his shoulder holster. He still hadn't gotten his golden revolver back, either, but he knew it wouldn't be an issue. He wasn't that careless. One of his men would be quick enough to grab it before the FBI got a hold of it.

After all, evidence was evidence, and he couldn't risk being careless.

Plus, he'd get his fur coat back. He liked that coat.

"Fine," said Wilford after a while, adjusting the straps of his holster. "But if Xilef doesn't have anything in pink, I'm not interested."

Host smirked, and he sent one last glance at Dark's body before heading towards the door.

"Get ready," he said, "and I'll contact the doctor."

———

A newspaper thudded on Detective Abe's desk, and he jumped, meeting Kjellberg's furious gaze.

"What is this?" Felix seethed, throwing a hand at the papers.

Abe swallowed, and he glanced at the newspaper. When he read the title in bold red letters, he paled.

'Celebration Gone Wrong!' it read. 'SHOOTOUT at CEO Dark Edward's New Estate.'

Ohhhh, shit.

Abe floundered with words, and he glanced up at Kjellberg, back at the paper, back at Kjellberg. His mouth was jelly, his body frozen and blood ice cold.

Officers around them noticed the scene, quieting into hushed murmurs and gossiping glances. When Agent Nelson picked up on the change in the precinct, she glanced around, eyes landing on Abe's desk. And hovering over his shoulder, bleeding with fury, the Director.

Amy wavered, took a moment to collect herself, and forced herself to walk towards them. Officers watched as she passed them, breaths bated. Eager for any signs of weakness.

Felix's gaze snapped onto her, cutting into her like knives. It was then that she noticed the newspaper on the desk.

"Do either of you," he breathed, "want to explain what I'm seeing here?"

Amy's eyes flicked onto Abe's, and he shook his head, eyes wide. Speechless.

Amy opened her mouth, but she was too scared to speak. Didn't trust that her voice would come out right. She cleared her throat, shifting from side to side.

"S-sir, what you're seeing is—" She rubbed her arm. "It was necessary—"

"Necessary?" hissed Felix. "Tell me, Nelson, how is any of this necessary?"

Abe tensed at his desk, and his fists clenched.

"Warfstache was—" Amy floundered for words. "Well, we don't know exactly what happened yet, sir, but Edwards just dropped, and—"

"I gave you a chance last night," said Kjellberg, voice dangerous. He glared at Abe. "It was a simple task, an in and out job—javla—something to gain the precinct's trust again—"

Abe's breathing shallowed, and his face went red, knuckles going white. Amy stared at him wide-eyed, dread rising through her.

One more push, and he'd snap.

"I specifically ordered you two," hissed Felix, "to watch over Edwards. Not get into a FUCKING SHOOTOUT!"

The precinct went silent, all the chatter and noise cutting out. Officers turned around in their seats, eyes wide.

Abe winced, and he bared his teeth, emotion rising in his throat. He glanced up at Amy, and she shook her head—begged him not to make a scene.

Abe took a deep breath, practically shaking with rage, and bowed his head. "Sir—" he breathed. "You also mentioned that if—"

"I don't want to hear it, Detective," Kjellberg hissed. "Even after all your screw ups, you still haven't learned your lesson—"

"Goddamn it!" Abe roared, slamming his fists on the desk. Amy jumped, face paling. "You just don't listen, do you? You won't even let me finish!"

Felix's brows rose.

"His life was in danger!" yelled Abe, shooting out of his seat. A wave of gossip ran over the precinct, but he ignored it. He couldn't keep letting people step all over him. "You weren't there, sir. You didn't see what happened!"

He pointed at the newspaper and glared, face red. "And besides—are you really," he seethed, "going to believe the word of some journalist over your own officers?" He grabbed the paper and shook it, pointing at the name of the writer.

"I mean, for god's sake, sir! This is by Freddie Lounds!" he cried.

The Director's jaw hardened, and he glared, fingers twitching at his sides. The air stretched so thinly that everyone in the precinct held their breaths, terrified for the consequences Abe would face.

No one backtalked the Director.

Felix inhaled a deep, steady breath, the danger practically pouring from him. Abe wavered at the feeling, lashes fluttering, but he didn't back down. Kept his gaze locked on Kjellberg's, standing his ground.

Felix slid the newspaper off the desk and held it tight, the paper crumpling under his grip.

"The both of you," he breathed, glancing between them. "My office. Now."

———

Detective Abe kept his head bowed the whole time, rage simmering under his skin. Amy noticed how he'd visibly tense with every insult and reprimand the Director would send his way; how he'd screw his eyes shut and furrow his brows like it would all go away if he focused hard enough.

The longer the conversation went on, the more that dread twisted into the air, coiling around their throats like a vice.

By the way it was going, things wouldn't end well.

"You not only made things worse for yourself, Detective," Kjellberg was saying, "but for me, too." His sharp blue gaze cut through them like knives. "You've made the precinct look bad. You've made me look bad."

Abe huffed through his nose, fists clenching at his sides. Amy knew how difficult it must've been for him to keep quiet—to refrain from defending himself. Especially when the Director always spoke to him in such a demeaning way.

"Headquarters has already been breathing down my back since your last incident," said Kjellberg, voice low. "But with this..."

He shook his head, and the dread in the room doubled.

"I can't afford anymore screw ups," he said. Abe tensed up, Amy tensed up—and the both of them knew the next words that would come out of the Director's mouth.

"Detective Abe," breathed Kjellberg, motioning him forward. "Put your gun and badge on my desk."

Abe made a choked sound, and he quickly swallowed it down, body straining with the effort. He sent Amy a glance through the corner of his eye, and she sent him a tense expression.

You're fired, is what they knew he'd say next.

Abe took a deep breath, and he walked forward, pinned under Kjellberg's cutting gaze. He slipped his badge out of his pocket, held onto it for a moment longer, his fingers tight over it—and with a breath that pained him to take—he set it onto the desk.

The badge glinted under the half-light—sat there like an omen. The emblem of what he stood for, what he'd dedicated his life to, sitting there before him, yet so far away from his grasp.

Abe slid his gun out of his holster, his breaths wavering—but before he could set the weapon on the desk, a knock pounded through the door.

He and Amy jumped. Kjellberg glared.

"It's open," he called out.

Abe slid his gun back in place and turned around, searching. The door creaked open, and a black-haired woman peeked through, her eyes wide. Her expression only tightened the air in the room.

"Sir, there's..." She glanced between the three of them. "There's a man here demanding to speak with Detective Abe."

"Can it wait, officer?" said Kjellberg, motioning a hand around the room. "We're in the middle of something here."

"He says he has a message," she said, eyes flicking onto Abe's. "From Warfstache. H-he's been shot—"

At that name, Abe shot up with life, and he threw open the door and rushed out. Kjellberg gave a shout of protest, but when Amy raced after her partner, Felix grimaced and followed.

Officers watched as they shot through the precinct, rising with confused chatter. Abe tore through aisles of desks, rooms—until he skidded to a stop at the front of the precinct.

A man glanced up at his arrival, leaning against the front desk for support, pain on his face. A hand clutched his shoulder, red with blood.

Abe's breath hitched. He pointed. Eyes wide.

"You," he said. "Warfstache spoke to you?"

The man grimaced, and he nodded, eyes swimming. "Are you Detective Abe?"

Abe nodded vehemently.

"How great," the man huffed out, baring his teeth in pain. "That... son of a bitch told me to find you."

"Here, here—" Abe pulled a chair from the front desk and rushed around, offering it to the man. "Sit, please. And—"

Abe's eyes flicked down to the man's foot, brows raising.

"He shot you in the foot, too?"

The man eased himself onto the chair and slumped in it, panting for breath. He could only nod.

Amy tore through the room, followed by Kjellberg, and they circled around the front desk, examining the man. The Director noted the state of him.

"He should be taken to a hospital," said Felix, walking forward. Abe narrowed his eyes at him, but the Director didn't notice. He circled around the man's chair and knelt beside him. "What's your name, sir?"

"Mark," the man managed out. "Just—please, hear me out."

Abe waved Felix aside, and with a glare, the Director stepped back, giving them space. Abe searched Mark's face intently, breaths bated.

"Warfstache wants to send a message," he said. "Is that right?"

Mark shifted and nodded, grimacing at the pain lacing up his body. He clutched his shoulder tighter—could still feel the presence of Wilford's fingers digging into the bullet wound, even after they were gone. He huffed.

"He said that—if the FBI try to interfere," he said, "that if—you interfere, then—" Mark's voice trembled, not with sadness or worry, but with rage. "Then he would hurt Mr. Edwards."

He searched Abe's eyes, practically pleading. "He—he kidnapped him," Mark managed out, shaking his head. "Warfstache, he—and then when I tried to save Edwards, I—he just—"

Pain laced through his wounds like it was reminding him of that night. Of his failure. He winced and bowed his head, drawing back.

"It's okay," said Abe, nodding with furrowed brows. "Mark, you're safe here with us. We're going to get you medical and we can talk from there. Alright?"

Mark huffed, and he glanced at Abe, up at the Director, over at Amy. Back at Abe and his intense, searching gaze.

This man would be his hope in getting Dark back, but if anything, he looked just as broken as him.

His chest gave a threatening squeeze.

"I don't... I don't want him to get hurt," said Mark, voice broken. He bowed his head again, hair falling over his eyes. His fingers tightened over his shoulder. "I don't want him to get hurt."

A weight hung over the room, and Abe took a deep breath, exhaling carefully. He gazed at Amy for a moment, who sent him a nod, then turned towards the Director, eyes intense.

He'd been given an opportunity like this the first time he nearly had Wilford pinned. A chance to finally catch him—a light through the darkness. But he wouldn't be tricked like last time. He was smarter now, albeit more stubborn—but with his drive and experience and the knowledge of how duplicitous Warfstache could be—he had a better idea of how to go about his imprisonment.

Abe exhaled, gaze never wavering from the Director's. The air went tight between them.

"This is our chance, sir," said Abe, voice careful. "Warfstache may be able to pay off police to ignore all the eyewitnesses at that party, but he can't hide this."

He motioned a glance at Mark—emphasizing at his wounded shoulder and foot and the drops of blood smeared across the precinct floor—and rose his brows at the Director. The answer was obvious. If he said no, he was clearly the one at fault here.

Felix took a deep breath, and after a long, tense moment, he nodded, expression serious.

"Get your badge, Detective," he said quietly, tipping his head at him. He glanced at Agent Nelson, back at Abe, and the three of them shared glances, on edge.

"I think it's time we open up this case again."

...

The tension rises... Hannibal fans, how was the cameo...? 😏

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

Love, Vic xoxo