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Chapter Text

The morning light filtered softly through the blinds, illuminating the penthouse in pale gold. Andrew stirred first, blinking against the brightness, still tangled against Edgar’s chest. The warmth and closeness of yesterday lingering, leaving a mix of desire, guilt, and a strange comfort in its wake. Edgar shifted under him, stretching, the sharp lines of his face softening slightly in the quiet of the morning. A low, amused hum escaped his lips as he caught sight of Andrew still half-asleep, nestled against him. The gold light caught in his pale lashes, he honestly looked like an angel.

But before either of them could speak, the door to the penthouse opened gently, and Victor stepped inside, folio clutched tightly to his chest. The young assistant looked slightly frazzled, eyes darting between Edgar and Andrew. “Mr. Valden,” Victor began, voice hesitant, “I…you’re late for your meeting with Alice DeRoss.”

Edgar’s eyebrow arched, a cigarette already between his fingers as if it were second nature. “Alice?” he murmured, voice laced with amusement and exasperation. “Oh right, I completely forgot.” He glanced down at Andrew, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Guess it’s time to get up. The real world doesn’t wait for anyone, not even us.” Andrew stirred again, blinking rapidly, mind still foggy from sleep. “Alice? The child star? That Alice?” he questioned, voice husky.

“Yes, that Alice.” Edgar replied, dragging himself up, brushing his hair back, and taking a long drag of his cigarette. “She’s going to be featured in an upcoming film alongside Mike Morton. It’s going to be huge.” Victor cleared his throat, stepping a little closer, folio still clutched to his chest. His voice was calm, measured, but carried a weight that demanded attention. “Mr. Valden,” he said carefully, “you do realize you’re running late for your session. She’s been waiting, and it’s important you maintain your reputation with her and her team. Show up late–especially after yesterday’s incident with Norton–doesn’t reflect well.”

Edgar’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his sharp features. He flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the marble floor, “I appreciate your concern, Victor.” he said slowly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Truly. But I think I can manage my own schedule without a lecture from my timid little assistant.” Victor’s expression remained calm, almost serene in contrast to Edgar’s flare of temper. “I’m just reminding you, sir. You cannot afford to alienate yourself, no matter how confident you feel in your abilities.”

Edgar didn’t say anything, the last thing he wanted to do was argue back and forth with his assistant. Andrew, still curled slightly on the couch, watched the exchange nervously, unsure whether to be amused or horrified by Edgar’s audacity and disregard for people he deems lesser than him. After a moment of awkward silence, Edgar stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray, turning toward Andrew with a glint in his eye.

“Get up,” he said, brushing ash from his sleeve. “You’re coming with me. Might as well see what I actually do for a living instead of skulking in my home all day.” Andrew blinked, startled. “M-Me? To work?”

Victor, interjected softly, “Mr. Valden, perhaps that’s not wise. These meetings are delicate, and bringing an…outsider along might–”

“Victor,” Edgar cut in, voice sharp as glass, “I don’t recall asking for your opinion. He’s coming. End of discussion.” Andrew rose hesitantly, hastily putting his coat on. Victor pressed his lips together, clearly unhappy, but obediently followed as Edgar led them out of the penthouse.

By the time they reached the studio lobby, the air was buzzing with the sound of chattering voices and clicking shoes. Waiting near the front desk was a young girl with perfect golden ringlets, an expensive frilly dress, and a glare sharp enough to slice marble. Alice DeRoss, eight years old, the darling of the tabloids.

She tapped her patent leather shoes against the floor impatiently, swinging her little stuffed doll around with authority. Beside her stood her caretaker, a tall, gaunt man with neatly combed brunette hair and dark circles around his eyes. Orpheus, they called him. His gloved hand rested on Alice’s shoulder, though it seemed more to restrain than comfort.

She perked up the instant she spotted Edgar. “Mr. Valden!” he cried, running forward. “You’re late! I’ve been waiting forever!” Though her words carried a little sting, her wide grin softened them–more impatience than malice. Edgar spread his arms, bowing his head theatrically. “Ah, forgive me, my starlet. You caught me. I’m hopeless without your light to guide me.”

Alice giggled, hiding her face behind her small hands. “You always say funny things. Mama says you’re the most important man in the pictures, but you don’t seem very scary.” Beside her, Orpheus, tall and hollow-eyed, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Alice,” he hissed slightly, “remember your manners.”

“I am being polite,” Alice insisted, though she turned back to Edgar with earnestness. “I practiced the script all morning! You’re going to love them. Can we start right away?” Edgar smiled, though his eyes flickered with exhaustion. “Of course, but first we have to discuss what you’re getting into.” Andrew lingered a step behind, awkward and quiet. Alice noticed him at once, her eyes curious. “Who is that?” she asked, but then her face lit up. “Is that a real life vampire?!”

Edgar let out a sigh as he leaned slightly toward Victor, lowering his voice so only he could hear. “This is going to be a long day. Be a darling and fetch me some blow before I have to wring my own neck.” Victor’s face hardly shifted, save for the faintest twitch of his brow. He gave the smallest of sighs, “Mr. Valden…” he murmured in quiet reproach, but Edgar had already straightened back up, flashing Alice one of his perfected smiles.

Alice was still waiting expectantly, bouncing on her heels. Her eyes flicked again toward Andrew, curiosity sparkling. “This?” Edgar said with a dismissive wave, glancing at Andrew as though he were no more than a piece of furniture. “Nobody important. Don’t trouble yourself over him.” Andrew’s face colored, but before he could form a word, Edgar swept the conversation away. He crouched to Alice’s height, his tone suddenly warm, coaxing. “This film, Alice, is going to be monumental in children’s entertainment,” he said, rising back up pacing slowly as though speaking to a room of investors rather than an eight-year-old. “Not only will you be the heart of the story, but you’ll be sharing the screen with the one and only Mike Morton.” Alice’s eyes widened, a little gasp slipping from her lips. “Mike Morton? THE Mike Morton? He’s…he’s the best acrobat in the world!”

Edgar smiled faintly, pleased by her awe. “Exactly. You’ll be standing beside him, scene for scene. Imagine the posters, the premieres, the headlines: America's beloved darling joins forces with its Hullabaloo’s Brightest Star. The audience will eat it alive.” Alice grinned, bouncing a little in her seat. Andrew, watching from the side, felt his chest tighten–Edgar’s words were intoxicating, a spell spun so easily that even a child fell under its weight.

But Orpheus, who had been quiet and observant until now, finally stepped forward. His calm voice cut through Edgar’s performance like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Mr. Valden,” he said evenly, resting a hand on Alice’s shoulder. “You mustn’t push her too hard. She’s only a child, no matter how brightly you wish her to shine.”

For a moment, Edgar’s smile flickered. “Orpheus,” he said finally, voice edged with disdain. “Stars aren’t born, they’re made. And if she’s going to stand beside somebody as prolific as Mike Morton, then she’d better be ready to burn bright, no matter the cost.” Alice was still beaming, swinging her legs from the lobby couch as if Edgar’s talk had already carried her to the premiere night. Victor, who had been taking notes in his small leather-bound book, finally spoke–his voice level, edged with something firmer than usual. “Mr. Valden,” he said, eyes not leaving the page as his pencil tapped once against the margin, “Mr. Orpheus is right. The schedule you’ve drawn up for Alice is…ambitious, to say the least. Perhaps we ought to consider pacing her work. She is eight years old.”

The air thickened instantly. Edgar’s head turned sharply toward his assistant, a spark of irritation flashing across his face. “Ambitious,” he repeated flatly, “Victor, I don’t pay you to second-guess me. I pay you to listen.” Victor didn’t flinch, though Andrew, sitting awkwardly at the edge of the room, felt the tension crawl down his spine. “With all respect,” Victor replied, finally lifting his eyes, cool and steady, “it’s not my job to indulge you when I see potential harm. If Alice collapses from exhaustion halfway through filming, the schedule falls apart–and so does your production.”

Alice looked between them, her childish smile faltering slightly. Orpheus’s fingers tightened protectively on her shoulder. Edgar let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “My God, Victor. First you try to scold me in front of the boy, and now this?” His gaze flickered to Andrew, then back to Victor. “You’re starting to forget your place.” Victor’s jaw set, though his tone never rose. “Maybe someone needs to remind you of yours.”

The room fell into a hush. Even Alice sensed the gravity now, tugging lightly on Oprheus’s sleeve as if to shrink herself smaller. Andrew shifted uncomfortably, feeling like an intruder caught in something much larger than he understood. Edgar leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You two are unbelievable. A caretaker and an assistant—suddenly you both have authority over me?” Orpheus raised his brows. “At least one of us is thinking about Alice’s well–being, Mr. Valden. She’s not a machine for your cameras.” Edgar rolled his eyes, “I’m not listening to a glorified servant who couldn’t get his novels off the ground. What do you suppose I do? Read her a bedtime story on set? Should we give her milk and cookies between takes?”

Victor cut in dryly, “Frankly, yes. That might be more productive than your usual cocaine breaks.”

Edgar nearly choked, wheeling toward him. “Excuse me?”

“Did I stutter?” Victor replied, tone as ever.

“I wish you did, why don’t you go back to being mute so I don’t have to hear your bitching in my ear Victor.”

“You’d love for me to go back to being your quiet little lapdog wouldn’t you?”

“Gentlemen,” Orpheus interjected, raising his hand slightly. “If the two of you could stop trying to outwit each other for five seconds–”

“Don’t try to parent me, Orpheus!” Edgar snapped. The room filled with sharp words, overlapping barbs, and the rising tension of egos. Andrew, who had been trying to shrink into the armchair as the fire flew between them, suddenly found himself blurting out: “Can I…make a suggestion?” They all froze and turned. Edgar arched a brow, Victor coughed, and Orpheus tilted his head. Andrew’s throat went dry, but he pressed on. “Instead of tearing each other apart… why don’t you just ask Alice what she wants? What she feels about all this?”

Alice, who had been swinging her legs on the couch, perked up instantly, her eyes brightening. “Yeah! That! Why didn’t anyone ask me?” Edgar blinked, caught off guard. For a split second, the fire in his expression softened. He glanced at Andrew, lips curling into a faint, reluctant smile. Victor, meanwhile, exhaled and muttered under his breath, “This guy has got more sense than all of you combined.”

Orpheus leaned toward Alice, finally smiling. “Well then, my dear. What do you want?” Alice sat up tall, grinning ear to ear. “I want to be a star. And I don’t care how much work it takes–I can do it.” Her voice was so certain, so stubborn, that for the first time that day, the room fell into a rare kind of peace.

For a moment, Edgar simply studied Andrew from across the table. He didn’t say anything–just leaned back into his chair, igniting another cigarette, a sly gleam in his eye. But beneath that nonchalance, something stirred: a quiet, reluctant admiration. The boy had a way of slicing through noise without even raising his voice. It was…disarming.
Edgar’s lips twitched, almost into a smile, before he quickly disguised it with a drag of smoke. “Fine,” he said at last, exhaling a cloud into the ceiling. “We’ll do it your way.” Victor looked like he’d just witnessed a miracle. Orpheus gave Andrew a curt nod, as though silently approving. Alice, delighted at having the floor, launched into an animated monologue about how she wanted her character to have a dog, or maybe a sword, or maybe both. The rest of the meeting unraveled more smoothly than anyone expected. Edgar, for once, kept his temper in check. Orpheus made notes without snapping. Victor scribbled details into his planner with his usual quiet efficiency. Alice giggled through half the conversation, brimming with ideas.

And Andrew… he sat quietly, watching it all, realizing he’d somehow managed to steady the great Edgar Valden–even if only for an hour.

When the meeting finally concluded, Orpheus ushered Alice out with a hand on her shoulder, reminding her about etiquette and posture. Victor excused himself to make a call, leaving Edgar and Andrew lingering in the lobby. Edgar stretched, rolled his shoulders, then glanced sidelong at Andrew. There was something unreadable in his stare—half annoyance, half curiosity, and buried deep, something warmer. “You’re full of surprises, Reverend’s son,” Edgar muttered. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Andrew flushed at the words, his ears warming as he shifted uncomfortably under Edgar’s gaze. “I–I didn’t do anything,” he stammered, eyes darting to the floor. “I just… thought maybe it was best to ask Alice what she wanted. That’s all.” Edgar smirked, cigarette perched loosely between his lips as he blew a thin stream of smoke into the lobby air. “Don’t sell yourself short.” He stepped closer, just enough to make Andrew’s breath hitch. “You kept Victor from crying, Orpheus from strangling them both. That’s no small feat.”

Andrew blinked, still trying to decide if Edgar was mocking him or not.

Then Edgar leaned in, lowering his voice like he was letting Andrew in on a secret. “You know… you might just need to retire that grave–keeping gig. I think you’ve got more potential than you realize. Don’t wanna be on the big screen? You could always be behind the scenes. I could use a new assistant as well..”

Andrew’s throat tightened. “W-what do you mean?”

Edgar’s grin turned sly. “It means, Reverend’s son. I could use someone like you. A man who knows how to keep the peace. Someone who listens when no one else does. Maybe it’s time you stop shoveling dirt and start dealing with stars. Makes good money too.” The implication hit Andrew like a stone to the chest. To be a part of Edgar’s world–his circle, his business–it was thrilling as it was terrifying. He felt dizzy at the thought, caught between temptation and the heavy weight of his faith.

Edgar straightened, flicked the last of his cigarette into a tray, and clapped Andrew lightly on the shoulder. “Think about it. I’m not in the habit of repeating offers.” With that, Edgar strode toward the elevator, coat flaring dramatically behind him.

–

The day had long given way to night, the city’s silver glow reflecting in the puddles that spotted the cobblestone streets. Alice skipped lightly ahead of her caretaker, the hem of her pale dress fluttering with each bound. She hummed a fractured tune she’d picked up from the rehearsal after her meeting, her voice thin and sweet against the silence of the secluded alleyway. “Stay close, Alice,” Orpheus said evenly, his hands tucked into the deep pockets of his long coat. His eyes shifted constantly, always searching the shadows. “We should’ve taken main street.”

“But it’s so much more fun this way!” Alice giggled, twirling on her toes like a ballerina before resuming her skipping. “Besides, you’re always worrying. Nothing’s going to happen. You’ll see.” Orpheus frowned, his unease sharpening. The alley was too quiet. The lamps overhead flickered like failing stars, their light just barely reaching the slick bricks that surrounded them. Every echo of Alice’s shoes seemed amplified, as though the darkness itself was listening.

She glanced back at him, beaming. “Mr. Edgar is right, isn’t he? This film is going to make me even more of a big star. Everyone will know me!” She raised her arms as if addressing an invisible audience. “Alice DeRoss! The youngest, most famous actress in the world!”

“Don’t be so quick to dream of fame,” Orpheus replied, his voice tightening as he lengthened his stride to keep closer. “Fame has teeth. It devours faster than you think.” Alice pouted but skipped ahead again, chasing after the sound of her own laughter as it bounced against the narrow walls. She was too young, too naive to notice how the shadows seemed to stretch toward her. Her laughter rang like a bell, pure and untouchable, but it was cut short by a sound–sharp, metallic–clattering from deeper in the alley. She froze mid-step, her head cocking curiously.

“What was that?” she whispered, wide-eyed.

Orpheus’s hand shot out, gripping her shoulder and pulling her back to his side. His voice was low, strained. “Stay behind me.” The alley stretched on, a narrow throat of brick and shadow. Then–another sound. A scrape, deliberate, like steel dragging across stone. Then–without a word, without a warning–a figure burst from the darkness. Tall and wide-shouldered, face hidden under a hat and scarf, the stranger moved like a predator. In a single fluid motion, they swung a gleaming axe, the metal whistling through the air furiously toward Alice and Orpheus.

Alice screamed, jumping back instinctively, and Orpheus fired his revolver. The shot rang out missing the figure as it echoed against the brick walls, but the figure barely flinched. They were relentless, driven by a single, violent intent. Orpheus shoved Alice behind him, swinging his arm to deflect the first brutal strike. The axe came down again, slicing close enough to scrape sparks off the cobblestones. Every motion was precise, merciless.

Orpheus swung his revolver again, but the figure was faster than he anticipated. With a swift, horrifying motion, the axe came down, catching him squarely across the chest. He stumbled, a strangled cry escaping his lips, before collapsing to the cobblestone. Alice shrieked, frozen in terror, clutching his coat. Before she could even move, the stranger lunged again, axe raised high. The blade came down with a brutal precision. Her guttural scream was cut short, echoing through the alleyway as her body crumpled beside Orpheus.

The alley fell silent once more, only the sound of the axe continuously sliced through the bodies could be heard. Shadows seemed to stretch over, swallowing the scene whole. The city lights beyond the alley flickered indifferently, oblivious to the carnage. No one had seen the stranger arrive, no one would see them leave. Their work was complete, their presence nothing more than a whisper in the night air.

The alley, quiet and still under the dim glow of flickering lamps, seemed harmless once more. A few minutes later, a couple wandered down the narrow passage, their laughter echoing softly off the brick walls. “I swear Emil,” Ada said, bumping his shoulder playfully, “if you beat me at card tonight, I’m never letting you live it down.” Emil chuckled, spinning a coin between his fingers. “You’re on. But don’t cry when I win. You know I’m always lucky.”

The joviality of the moment made the alley seem almost magical, a hidden shortcut bathed in yellow light. They rounded a corner together, leaning into each other with easy familiarity, until the glow of the lamps revealed something that froze them both in place. Two butchered bodies lay sprawled across the wet cobblestone, limbs twisted unnaturally, blood glistening in the faint light. Orpheus and Alice–or what remained of them–stared lifelessly up at the night sky, their features etched in final horror.

Ada’s sharp scream cut through the night air like a dagger, shattering the illusion of peace. Emil stumbled back, his coin clattering to the ground as he froze, eyes wide. “Oh my God..” Ada whispered, her hands covering her mouth, trembling violently. “Oh my God, Emil… they’re…they’re–” Emil swallowed hard, his face pale. “We need to get out now and call the police.” Ada’s knees buckled as she backed up, Emil immediately catching her and pulling her toward the exit, but the image of the bodies, and the sound of her own scream, would linger in their minds long after they escaped the alley.

Moments felt like hours as the streets began to come to life with flashing lights and the low hum of urgency. Police cars had cordoned off the area, their sirens now silent but their presence commanding. Reporters clustered at the edges, cameras clicking and microphones thrust forward, hungry for a story. The alley itself had become a cage of yellow tape, glinting under the streetlamps. The bodies lay covered, but their horror had not been hidden from those who had seen them.

Three detectives pushed through the press, their steps purposeful and controlled. Eli Clark led the way, his owl perched on his shoulder. Though blind, his other senses seemed to map the world with uncanny accuracy. Behind him followed Naib Subedar, a shorter man with a serious, no-nonsense expression, and Emma Woods, a young woman whose sharp eyes already took in every detail, noting the positions of the officers, the tape, the shadows.

Eli’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd. “Clear the way. Step back.”

Naib barked orders to the officers, ensuring the perimeter was held. Emma pushed past a cluster of reporters, her notebook already out, jotting down observations with brisk efficiency. Eli paused near the entrance to the alley, lifting a hand as if sensing more than seeing. “Multiple victims,” he murmured. “Same MO as the previous incidents. Timing is consistent. Whoever did this…they aren’t stopping.”

Emma glanced at him sharply. “Do we have witnesses?”

“Two civilians,” Naib said, gesturing toward the young couple, who were huddled together near the police tape, visibly shaking. “They were the first on scene after the incident.”

Eli tilted his head, his lips pressing together. “We need to speak with them immediately. Every detail, every sound they heard..nothing is too small.” The press shouted questions, cameras swiveled, and the city’s pulse seemed to tighten as the detective stepped into the alley, their presence both authoritative and intimidating.

–

Andrew had just settled into his chair, the remnants of his uneasy thoughts from earlier still lingering, when a violent banging shook his apartment door. “What—who is it?!” he called out, heart jumping. The pounding came again, more urgent, desperate. Andrew rushed to the door and swung it open, nearly stumbling back in shock.

Edgar stood there, disheveled and wild-eyed, coat askew and hair mussed, a look of raw panic etched across his face. “Edgar? What—how did you find my address?” Andrew stammered, his mind struggling to piece together. “That doesn’t matter right now!” Edgar snapped, voice tight and ragged. His eyes darted past Andrew, scanning the small apartment as if expecting the danger to follow him inside.

Andrew froze. “W-What’s wrong?”

Edgar’s face twisted with fury and grief, his jaw clenched. “Alice…she’s been murdered.”

Andrew’s stomach dropped. “W-what? How..how?”

Edgar’s shoulders shook violently. “I don’t know all the details yet!” he gasped, tears streaking down his cheeks. “But she’s gone, Andrew! She’s gone!” His voice broke completely, the fury and anguish colliding with grief. He collapsed onto the couch, burying his face into his hands as silent sobs shook him. “I saw it… on the news..,” he sobbed, his voice raw and trembling. “They…they showed her..said they found her in an alley.” He choked, a strangled sound that made Andrew flinch. He then hesitated for a moment, then carefully Andrew lowered himself beside Edgar, his hand found its way to Edgar’s trembling shoulder, giving him a gentle, steady squeeze.

Edgar flinched at first, then buried his face deeper into his hands, letting the sobs spill freely, shaking his small frame. Andrew stayed still, quiet, letting the silence of the apartment be a sanctuary for the grief that had overwhelmed him. “I can’t believe this,” Edgar continued, lifting his tear-streaked face, eyes wide and hollow. “She was alive…just moments ago. How…how could someone hurt a child?” His voice cracked, and he bowed his head, unable to stop sobbing. “I don’t understand how anyone could do something like that. I feel so helpless and stuck.”

“You’re doing the right thing, by crying.” Andrew whispered softly, his voice barely audible over Edgar’s cries. “It's okay to be angry…and sad..and everything at once.” Edgar’s shoulders shuddered violently, and he let out a harsh raw gasp. “She was so..you… she…she had everything ahead of here! I—” His voice broke off again, unable to form the right words. Andrew’s hand remained firm against him, a silent anchor. Slowly, the sobs began to soften, the raw energy of grief lingering but losing its frenzied edge. Edgar’s breathing began to catch in uneven, trembling gasps, and for the first time since he had burst through the door, he allowed himself to lean into Andrew’s shoulder, seeking the quiet support he usually refused.

“I don’t feel safe,” he admitted. “I…I can’t stop thinking that maybe I’m next. Or you… or anyone I care about. This.. this is obviously targeted.”

Andrew’s chest tightened. “Edgar…”

“I;m scared, Andrew,” Edgar continued, his hands gripping his knees as if to study himself. “I’ve spent my life controlling everything–every career, every move, every person—but I can’t control this. I can’t stop whoever did this, and now…now I feel like we’re just lambs being sent to the slaughterhouse.” Andrew’s fingers dug a little deeper into Edgar’s shoulder in silent support. “I’m sure the police will figure everything out soon, who–whoever's doing this won’t get away with it forever.”

Edgar’s shoulders slumped further, “well they need to get the job done faster, before more people get murdered.” Edgar’s voice cracked as the last words left him, his hands trembling faintly in his lap. Andrew hesitated for a moment, his own thoughts pulling in opposite directions–religion, propriety, the gnawing guilt that still lingered from last night. But all of that seemed distant compared to the broken man before him. Without saying anything, Andrew shifted closer, wrapping one arm around Edgar’s shoulders and pulling him firmly against his chest. Edgar didn’t resist–he collapsed into the embrace, clutching weakly at Andrew’s shirt as though holding for dear life.

“Whatever happens out there,” Andrew whispered, his cheek brushing against Edgar’s hair. “You’ll be safe in here.”

Edgar shook his head into Andrew’s chest. “No.. I don’t believe that. Not anymore.”

Andrew tightened his hold, his hand rubbing slow circles along Edgar’s back, almost instinctively. He felt Edgar’s body shudder against him, each breath hitched with quiet sobs he couldn’t stop. It was raw, desperate, and strangely intimate–not born of temptation this time, but of Edgar’s unsaid need to simply be held. “Nobody knows you’re here,” Andrew said, his own voice firmer than he expected. “Nothing will happen.”

After a beat of silence. Edgar let out a shaky breath, his hands loosening their grip on Andrew’s shirt. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he shifted downward until his head rested in Andrew’s lap. His cheek pressed against his thigh and for a moment he just stared blankly at the ceiling, his lashes still damp. “Andrew…I don’t know what it is about you,” he murmured, words low and unguarded. “I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by people who only want pieces of me–my money, my name, the connections I can give them. Even the ones who claim to care… it always feels like there are strings attached. But you–” His voice caught, and he drew in a shaky breath. “You sit here and you don’t ask for anything. You just… let me fall apart. And I can’t tell you how rare that is for me.”

Edgar let out a breath, softer now, his tone almost pleading. “I find you deeply comforting, in a way I can’t make sense of. I feel safer near you than I have in years. It scares me, but it also–” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “It also makes me not want to let go.” Andrew’s hand froze halfway through brushing Edgar’s hair, his throat tightening. A warmth filled him, heavy and sweet, but it came tangled with guilt, with the weight of all the sermons he’d ever heard. Still… he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Instead, his fingers lingered, gently smoothing Edgar’s hair as he whispered, almost hoarse, “I’m glad I can give you that, I suppose.”

Edgar closed his eyes, his face softening in a way Andrew wasn’t sure anyone else in the world had ever seen.

–

The sterile chill of the morgue pressed down like a weight. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, their glow illuminating the metal tables where two covered forms lay still. The smell of antiseptic hung thick in the air, unable to fully mask the underlying copper tang of blood. Eli stood just inside the doorway, his owl perched solemnly on his shoulder, feathers ruffling against the unnatural stillness. His pale unclothed eyes swept the room, then fixed on the man hunched over the table.

Aesop Carl, the autopsy technician, moved with his usual quiet precision. His gloved hands were steady as he noted down his findings, his face unreadable beneath the stark light. Eli’s presence didn’t stir him; the man seemed immune to distraction, as if death itself had long since become a colleague. “What do we have?” Eli’s voice was calm, though low, carrying the weight of grim expectation.

Aesop peeled back the sheet just enough to reveal the battered chest of what once had been Orpheus. His tone remained flat, clinical, but the words themselves carried horror. “Over twenty separate axe wounds across the chest and face. Both victims suffered similar patterns. The blows weren’t just meant to kill–they were meant to disfigure.”

“And the girl..?” Eli asked softly.

Aesop pulled the sheet from the second body. Alice’s small frame was unrecognizable, marred by the same brutal savagery. “The body is hardly identifiable. But dental records confirm it. Alice DeRoss. Age eight.” He set his notes down with a faint metallic scrape against the table. “Butchered beyond belief.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed louder in the silence that followed, as if filling the void where the words failed. Eli lowered his gaze, one hand rising to gently stroke the owl’s feathers. His voice came quieter now, strained with something beneath composure. “An eight-year-old-child.. It takes a particular kind of monster to do this.”

The silence stretched until Aesop tugged the sheet back over Alice’s body, his gloved hands smoothing it down with a detached precision. He scribbled another note, then, without lifting his eyes, muttered in that low, even tone of his: “Two victims, over twenty wounds each,” He clicked his pen shut. “Our killer must have a strong arm. Maybe he should consider carpentry. At least then all that chopping might serve a purpose.”

Eli’s head snapped toward him. “Aesop.” His voice was low, but edged with disapproval.

The silver haired man finally looked up, his face expressionless as ever, though the corner of his mouth twitched–too slight to call a smile, too deliberate to be nothing. “What? It’s either make a joke or drown in the grotesque. You’d be surprised how useful gallows humor is in this line of work.”

Eli’s jaw tightened. He stroked the owl’s feathers slowly, grounding himself. “There’s a difference between humor and cruelty.”

“Perhaps,” Aesop murmured, peeling off his gloves with a snap, “but cruelty is all we have left when confronted with this.” He gestured to the sheeted bodies. “An eight-year-old, torn apart. If I stop and think about it as a child, Mr. Clark, I won’t be able to do my work. Better to think of her as a puzzle.”

“You must understand, I’ve ‘seen’ horrors,” Eli began, voice lower than usual, strained. “Things that would keep most men awake for years. Faces torn apart, families wiped out… and I could always file it away, tuck it in some dark corner and move on. But this–” His unseeing eye flicked to the small body laid out before them, his breath catching. “---this is different.”

Aesop slid a drawer shut, the sound echoing coldly. His pale gaze cut to Eli, sharp, and unreadable. In that dry monotone voice of his, he said, “What’s this? The big, bad, lead detective finally breaking?”

Eli didn’t fire back. His jaw flexed, his lips parted, but no sarcasm came. Instead, he turned slightly, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes as though to ground himself. When he spoke again, his voice wavered with an emotion he rarely let anyone hear. “When you’ve got a wife waiting at home..when you know there’s a child–your child–who hasn’t even taken their first breath yet..these aren’t just cases anymore. They’re warnings. Every lifeless face I see, I picture hers. Every torn body, every disfigured woman falling victim to men, I wonder if it’ll be hers I find in the dirt one day.”

Eli’s words settled into the room like smoke, thick and suffocating. For a moment, neither man spoke. The buzzing of the overhead light seemed louder than ever, filling the silence that Eli’s confession had carved out. Finally, Eli’s voice broke through, softer now, carrying a tremor before its usual steadiness. “Aesop,” he said, eyes narrowing on the pale young man. “Tell me… how would you feel if one day you walked in here and it was Victor on this table? Butchered like them. Torn apart until he wasn’t even recognizable.”

The question struck harder than he expected. Aesop froze, his hand hovering above a tray of instruments. For once, he had no quick retort, no cold joke lined up to deflect the weight of it. His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening as his composure wavered ever so slightly. He didn’t answer right away. His mind–always so clinical, so removed–tripped over itself, conjuring a vision he hadn’t allowed before. Victor’s body, lifeless, marred beyond repair. His voice, gone forever. The thought lingered like a knife twisting in his chest.

“I…” Aesop finally said, his voice low, brittle. He shifted his gaze away, down at the sterile floor. “I suppose I’d understand what you mean.” For the first time since Eli had known him, Aesop looked less like an autopsy technician dissecting the world and more like a man wrestling with it. His gloved hand curled slowly into a fist against the counter, the tension sharp and unspoken. Eli nodded once, letting the silence carry the rest. “That’s all I’m saying,” he muttered, almost to himself. Brook Rose ruffled her feathers, as though punctuating the end of the exchange. The morgue returned to its stillness, but it wasn’t the same silence anymore—it was heavier, more personal.