Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even steel had limits. A cleaver could chip on bone, its edge grinding down through sheer repetition—hack after hack, a trial of persistence that showed no mercy to blade or wielder. Sooner or later, every tool dulled, no matter how well-forged.

Medkit’s body echoed that truth. His joints throbbed with every swing, each one a protest against the labour he forced upon them. The Latex gloves dressed over his hands were no defence against the blisters festering beneath, nor could they ease the fire crawling up his back. Each motion was a pendulum swing of pain.

The cleaver lodged deep, refusing to give. He planted his feet, muscles straining, and wrenched it free with a wet tear of flesh. Breath hissed from between his teeth, a frustrated exhale that fogged the air before him. Tilting the hilt, he brought the weapon close to the low light, his eyes narrowing. His thumb traced the edge through the barrier of latex, catching on the ridges that betrayed its wear. Imperfections, tiny but damning, that mocked him with every stroke.

He took no pride in the work. Pride required care, and care meant time—something he wanted nothing to do with. Every divot in the blade, every stubborn angle of bone, added seconds to a task he wished ended before it began. But there was nothing to be done about it. The edge was dull, his body exhausted, and the work demanded finishing. So he kept going.

A sharp crack echoed as he levered the blade between brittle seams of bone, twisting until they splintered apart. One more pull, and the joint gave way with a snap. He moved without hesitation, discarding the divided pieces into the waiting bin. They landed with a muffled thud atop a growing heap, the pile shifting and settling as if it were his grotesque harvest.

Medkit stared at the red mass, his stomach knotting tighter the longer his gaze lingered. The fog in his head thinned into something sharper, something crueller. Dread pressed heavily across his shoulders, and he tried—futilely—to shrug it off.

He reached for the spray bottle, the acrid bite of soap and bleach stinging his nose as he misted the stained counter. Blood smeared beneath the rag, a dark trail that trickled down the wood before dripping to the floor. He wiped it down again, slower this time, and set the rag aside. From the shelf, he took a second bottle and poured it over the surface. It fizzed and hissed against the wood, eating away the last traces until the stains lifted completely, leaving behind only a strong sterile scent.

Against the back wall, the metal drum waited. Its cold shell reflected the dim light like a patient sentinel. Medkit braced himself, hefting the plastic container with a grunt, his arms trembling under the weight. He steadied, then tipped. The mass slid free, slapping wetly against the drum’s hollow interior before settling among the lye coating the bottom.

After scrubbing down the floor, cleansing his tools, and peeling off his blood-soaked gear, Medkit struck a match. The dark room flickered alive with a faint orange glow, shadows stretching along the walls. He ducked beneath the looming metal drum, dropping the flame into a waiting bundle of firewood. It caught with a dry crackle and settled into a steady burn.

His eye drifted until it landed on a coiled green hose slumped against the wall. He tugged it free, the length unspooling in arcs across the floor. Guiding the nozzle into the drum’s mouth, he gripped the faucet tight and twisted. At first, the pipe stuttered, coughing up uneven spurts, but with patience, a smooth pour of water slowly filled the drum.

Medkit bit down on the inside of his cheek as he reached over for a long metal spoon, its cold weight dragging in his grip. Climbing onto a stepladder, he leaned over the barrel’s rim, dipping the spoon into the thick slurry. The water had only begun to blend, and the resistance beneath the surface was jagged. Limbs scraped against the bottom with a muted thud as he stirred, the sound sharp enough to crawl down his spine. He forced himself to press on.

The stench rose with it, ammonia mixed with a copper tang. Bile clawed its way up his throat. Its bitterness lingered at the back of his tongue like a vice.

He watched the fire dance under the drum, keeping a close eye to make sure it wouldn't dim or overpower the rhythm it had. It stayed steady, and with a metal clang of a lid, Medkit sealed the drum. Now, his only job was to wait and clean up after the mess he had made. No trace of him being down here could be left. A routine he had gotten used to.

_

“What. the fuck. Do you MEAN?” Banhammer almost crushed the phone in his hands from frustration, “You can't find the fucking body. Or any evidence at all?! That's your ONE job. Your ONE FUCKING JOB.”

Words spilled from the other side in a rushed manner, “Sir, I can assure you there IS something to work off here. It's almost impossible to clean up every trace of blood-”

“All that will give us is a victim- we've only determined TWO out of who knows how many. And those two have only led to dead ends, that won't solve jack shit,” the detective pinched the top of his nose together, pacing around his office trying not to kick down his own desk. “Just- do what you need to do. Get back here, and we'll discuss any plans for the future.” Before a single word could be exchanged on the other end, Banhammer slammed the receiver down with a sharp click. He let out a weary sigh, his fingers lingering on the cool surface of the desk as his thoughts drifted. His brows furrowed as he struck his foot on the leg of his desk, shouting a curse before taking his jacket from the back of his chair and storming out of the office.

“Banhammer?” Sword's eyes were wide, not expecting the chief to storm out of the room so suddenly. He has almost tripped over the smaller demon. Banhammer glared down at the shorter, heaving a nasally sigh and turning his shoulder to continue walking.

“Did you find anything?” He followed behind, mostly to escape the monotony of work. Whatever Banhammer did was far more interesting than paperwork of ran red lights and speeding tickets.

“Does it look like I did,” the purple demon sneered, looking behind him to add, “and you know how to address me, lieutenant.”

Sword rolled his eyes, struggling to keep up with the angry pace Banhammer had rhythmically begun walking. Without warning, Banhammer veered into a room, and Sword’s face fell as he was met with a sea of towering filing cabinets. Banhammer, however, didn’t seem fazed. He stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the rows of metal drawers. The chief's eyes zipped back and forth in thought. With a sharp click of his tongue, he crouched down and began fiddling with the lock on the bottom cabinet, his fingers working with purpose.

“Why do we even have these,” Sword said, “computer files take up so much less space.” He ran a finger across the metal surface, scrunching his nose when he pulled it back to find it coated in dust. With a flick of his wrist, he brushed it off, then leaned over Banhammer's broad shoulder, curiosity evident in his posture.

"Cause computers are a pain to work with," the larger man grumbled, pulling a file from the drawer and flipping it open. "And they're expensive." He slammed the drawer shut and began rummaging through another, his movements quick and agitated. After flipping through several files, he finally found what he was looking for. With a grunt, he placed the two files on a desk nearby, pulled out the papers, and let out a huff of displeasure. Sword stepped back, bracing himself for another rant from his chief.

“There's nothing, fuck,” reading over the fruitless lines printed on the pages, all of the information displayed is what he already knew. There were no connections, no similar dates, or locations- the only thing that every instance had in common was that an untraceable line would put in an anonymous tip. Banhammer knew that they were connected. He knew it no matter how many times he was told to drop the case. 2 years of missing cases, anonymous tips, planted evidence by whatever killer or organization was behind this- it was taunting him. He was certain that the first trace of blood they found was left there on purpose just so they would take the tips seriously. He clicked his tongue with irritation.

“Chief?” Sword asked, his voice laced with concern. The silence was unnerving. Banhammer had always been someone who thought out loud, much to everyone’s annoyance. But now, the larger man stood still, lost in thought, his mind working in silence. After what felt like an eternity, Banhammer finally shook his head in frustration, slamming the papers back into their folders. He shoved the two documents into Sword's chest.

"C'mon." Sword, not needing any further prompting, took the folders and followed him out to the copier room.

“Yknow you really could use a break,” Sword said quietly, half to himself. "You've been working on this case for... a while now. You're going to give yourself grey hairs staying up all night trying to solve something with no leads."

“Shut it,” Banhammer responded.

“No, I'm serious! A lot of the family agrees with me… I know you don't care for most of them, but still…”

He shot a sharp glare at Sword, signalling for him to drop the topic. Sword obliged, closing his lips as Banhammer gestured toward the copier. He opened the top, revealing the scanner. Sword handed him the two files, and Banhammer took them, carefully flipping through the pages before placing them in the copier. As the machine hummed to life, he waited in silence, his gaze fixed on the device. When the scanner finally beeped, Banhammer pulled the printed pages out, eyes narrowing as he looked at Sword. He handed him the original files with a stiff motion.

"Put these back where they belong," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm expecting someone in my office soon."

Sword’s gaze softened as he shrugged. There was no point in trying to get through to Banhammer when he was like this—stubborn as a mule dying in a ditch, as everyone (Wind Force) liked to say. He slowly walked toward the door, pausing for a moment before speaking up, “Y’know how my birthday is this weekend?” Banhammer only gave him a passing flick of his eye, not entirely sure as to what his cousin was getting at. “Rocket invited me and another friend out to dinner. I was wondering if you'd like to tag along?”

Banhammer was stunned for a moment, not knowing how to take the sudden kindness. After a moment of silence, he simply muttered, “I’ll be busy,” his voice flat, not eager to get any closer to Sword.

"Just text me if you change your mind, okay?" Sword said as he headed for the door. "But I won’t be picking you up last minute!" He wanted to call Banhammer an asshole, but he knew better. A move like that could cost him his job.

The chief glanced at the other walkout, his brow furrowing in confusion. Why would Sword invite him to something? The only explanation that made sense was that his mother had orchestrated it. He couldn’t help but resent Windforce’s relentless focus on family. To Banhammer, family was nothing more than a drain on time and energy- a distraction from what really mattered. His job was his top priority, and everything else seemed like a pointless social obligation.

Banhammer straightened his shoulders, grabbed his papers, and tucked them away into a personal folder. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, rolling his eyes in frustration—it was broken. Taking a deep breath, he took his time to organize all his notes and make sure everything was put back in place and sealed to ensure that no unauthorised eyes could pry into his work.

Just as it was almost time for Banhammer to clock out- the universe decided to deny him the simple pleasure of going home. He heard the back door creak open, followed by the unmistakable sound of two sets of footsteps approaching his office. With a heavy sigh, he begrudgingly rose from his chair. Stepping out of the copier room, he walked into the hallway and met the duo face-to-face at the doorway. He didn't actually expect the investigators to get back in touch with him. The last one who did almost left with a broken leg, something Banhammer was adamant the investigator asked for.

The leader of the pair recoiled in surprise, stumbling back slightly as the imposing figure of Banhammer filled the frame.

“I'm here,” Banhammer said, his eyes narrowing. He started to walk towards his office. He could already tell from their uneasy expressions that both of them were on edge, their apprehension palpable. Banhammer didn’t need to hear their news to know it wouldn’t be good.

Banhammer crossed his arms, his gaze locking onto the two demons before him, frustration tightening his features. He could already feel the excuses brewing in their heads, each one as flimsy as the last. With a sharp grunt and a flick of his head, he motioned for them to follow him to his office. And he, yet again, was trapped by the chains of his own career. He exhaled through his nose, irritation curling in his chest. This job was far too social for his liking.

As they stepped inside, their movements cautious, he shut the door with. The soft click echoed in the small space, and he noticed how the two instinctively huddled closer together.

“So?” Banhammer strode across the room, his boots heavy against the floor as he approached his desk. But he didn’t sit. He doubted this conversation would last long enough to warrant it.

The demons hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances, each silently begging the other to speak first. Finally, one of them swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “We… we identified who the blood belonged to.”

Banhammer arched a brow, waiting for her to offer something of value. She didn’t, as he suspected. Instead, she launched into a rambling tirade about the demon in question—where they had graduated, their job, their parents. Useless details. Banhammer barely heard her over the static of his own disinterest. The information flowed in one ear and straight out the other; his mind simply refused to store what it deemed irrelevant. Another waste of his time.

With every ounce of restrained malice, Banhammer spoke.

"Leave."

The demons hesitated, staring at him in bewilderment. He hadn’t written down a single word of what they’d said. He noticed their hesitation and felt his patience snap. His expression twisted in frustration as he repeated himself:

"Get the fuck out of my office."

He bit back the threat clawing at his tongue—by the gods, if he let it slip, he’d be the one getting reported to the higher-ups.

The two demons didn’t argue. They shuffled toward the door, their movements careful, their voices hushed as they muttered the most respectful goodbyes they could manage. They knew better than to test his temper any further. One wrong move, and Banhammer just might crack.

Banhammer fought the urge to hurl the nearest loose object across the room, his fists clenching at his sides. Instead, he inhaled deeply, forcing himself to focus on something mundane—dinner. What would he make once he got home? It was a trick his momma had drilled into him during his more volatile adolescent years, though he didn’t particularly care to reminisce about that now.

Straightening his posture, he exhaled slowly and reached for the file on his desk. Another breath. Then, without a second thought, he snatched his jacket and headed for the door.

He locked his office behind him, stuffing the keys into his pocket before making his way through the nearly empty building. The silence was suffocating, interrupted only by the distant hum of janitors going about their routine and the occasional shuffle of papers from the few unfortunate souls still tethered to their work.

Outside, his car sat alone in the lot, bathed in the harsh glow of the setting sun. The pavement radiated heat, amplifying the stifling summer air. He trudged toward it, his briefcase wedged tightly between his arm and chest, and unlocked the vehicle with a flick of his wrist. Without ceremony, he tossed his things onto the passenger seat and wasted no time starting the engine.

The drive home stretched on, each mile draining what little energy he had left. The thought of cooking felt exhausting. Maybe takeout. Or maybe he’d just skip dinner altogether. At this point, eating seemed more like a chore than a necessity, no matter how empty his stomach felt.

He pushed open the door to his house, peering into the familiar darkness before flicking on a light. The soft glow spilt into the room, and with it came a wave of comfort that settled the lingering frustration in his chest. Without care, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the couch, his fingers already tugging at the knot of his tie, eager to rid himself of the constricting fabric. The suit followed shortly after, discarded without a second thought.

The kitchen didn’t get so much as a glance. He had no interest in food, not right now. Instead, he moved with purpose, his feet carrying him straight to his workspace. It was a mess.

Papers stacked in precarious piles, scattered notes, scribbled-over whiteboards, and overstuffed filing cabinets that barely shut—an impenetrable disaster to anyone but him. A sane person might mistake his workings for the ramblings of a lunatic or the aftermath of a drunken binge. But to Banhammer, it was precisely how he needed it to be.

He clicked his tongue in irritation, tossing another stack of papers onto his already cluttered desk—more fuel for his research. His laptop groaned awake as he flipped it open, the fan whirring while countless tabs from nights prior sluggishly loaded in.

Banhammer leaned forward, his eyes scanning the disjointed pieces before him. Every document, every photograph, every shred of evidence was part of a puzzle. A maddening, incoherent puzzle where nothing fit quite right. Leads had to be forced together, stitched with speculation and stubborn persistence. But he was used to that. He was determined.

Hours slipped through his fingers like sand, time sucking away at whatever willpower he had left. Eventually, the dull knives of exhaustion dragged across his throat, forcing him to acknowledge his limits.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing at his face before pushing himself up from his chair. His desk remained a battlefield of unfinished thoughts, untouched by the satisfaction of progress.

A glance at the clock.

5:31 AM.

“Huh.”

The realisation barely registered. His body moved on autopilot, carrying him toward his bed with the slow, mindless gait of a man worn thin. He didn’t bother showering. Didn’t brush his teeth. He’d take care of it later—after a nap.

Collapsing onto the mattress, he let his eyes drift shut, his thoughts folding in on themselves like static. The ceiling loomed overhead, an unblinking witness to his surrender. Sleep took him swiftly, indifferent to the fact that his alarm would blare in two short hours.

He was exhausted, he hated work.

He hated this case.

Maybe he should take Sword up on his offer.

Chapter Text

The week dragged on, each day blending into the next, but at long last, the weekend arrived- a small mercy Banhammer clung to.

He lay in bed, absently scrolling through his phone, debating whether he should call Sword last minute and cancel. The thought lingered as he weighed the effort against his dwindling energy. But in the end, the promise of free food won out. Nice free food, at that.

Besides, Sword wasn’t unbearable like the rest of his family or coworkers. He knew how to take a joke, when to stop prying, and—most importantly—how to mind his own damn business at work. Unlike some people.

The thought of being trapped in his study for another night also weighed his mind. it tempted him every time he walked past the door, he couldn't put it down. The thought alone made him cringe.

With a reluctant sigh, Banhammer forced himself out of bed. Most of his day was spent lounging, indulging in the rare luxury of doing absolutely nothing. No work phone buzzing, no cases demanding his attention- he always shut it off during the weekends. It was blissful.

His personal phone, however, wasn’t so merciful.

It buzzed from the coffee table, pulling his attention away from the mindless TV show he wasn’t really watching.

It was from Sword, he was reminding Banhammer to meet them there by 6. Just reading it made something in Banhammer’s core sour, a sudden wave of reluctance washing over him. The simple fact that he was being reminded made him want to ditch the whole thing entirely. He grumbled under his breath; Sword was damn lucky he picked an expensive place.

With little enthusiasm, he typed out a halfhearted "Be there" and sent it off. A moment later, Sword responded with an extra-wide smiley face giving a thumbs-up. Banhammer stared at the emoji, something uneasy settling in his chest. Was he really that excited to have him there? The nagging suspicion that this was all some kind of ploy dug a little deeper.

he managed to will himself into the shower. he tied his hair up with practiced ease, brushed his teeth, and went through the motions of making himself look presentable. a rare effort for a day that didn’t involve work, let alone for anyone but himself. Most of the time, he didn’t bother. He liked to think he looked good in anything. tonight, however, something nagged at him. A small, insistent feeling whispered that it would be wrong to show up looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and landed face first on the ground.

Strange.

He pushed the thought aside, buttoning up a patterned shirt and finishing off with a few spritzes of leather-scented cologne. Without giving himself another moment to overthink, he grabbed his keys and headed out the door.

-

"He's late."

An irritated voice cut through the air from over Medkit’s shoulder. He glanced back, catching the unmistakable scowl on Rocket’s face.

Sword let out a nervous laugh, his fingers flying over his phone as if sheer desperation could summon a response. Regret was written all over him- he was clearly rethinking his decision to invite this cousin Rocket has unsavorily talked about from time to time.

"I told you he wouldn't show up.”

“It's only been 15 minutes… give him some. time, yeah?” Sword defended, though his voice lacked confidence.

Rocket rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Our reservation is in 15. I say it's his loss at this point." He sneered, crossing his arms. "You're too forgiving, Sword."

Medkit couldn't help but nod in silent agreement. He was getting tired of standing around, of aimlessly watching people pass by. his back had started to go sore, his age showing, and the summer heat was making him regret his choice of a turtleneck. His mind drifted to the restaurant's plush booths, the promise of a real meal within reach. Nice food. Actual, proper, nice food.

He'd never tell Sword, but he practically survived off of instant noodles, rice, eggs, and microwavable vegetables- cheap, filling, but mind-numbingly repetitive- the idea of something different felt almost unreal. He just wanted to sit down, order something he couldn’t normally afford, and eat without thinking. The thought made a slight grin spread on his cheeks.

Heavy thuds echoed from the distance. Medkit watched as Rocket’s expression twisted- first into mild shock, then into unmistakable disapproval. He groaned, clenching his robotic arm aggressively, while Sword, in stark contrast, lit up like a damn lantern.

"‘M’ here," a deep voice huffed.

Medkit turned just in time to see a towering, broad-shouldered infernal step into view. He was interesting, to say the least. His outfit wasn’t bad, at least not by normal standards, but it definitely wasn’t what Medkit had expected. Then again, nothing about him was what Medkit had expected. His face was unshaven, his hair quite literally a mane. Medkit looked closer and saw that a few of his buttons didn't even line up. for someone coming from a respectable family like Swords, all he could say was that it was unexpected.

“you're late, asshat,” Rocket scoffed at the other.

The taller lazily flipped him off in response, clearly unfazed. The tension between them was obvious- they were two people who tolerated each other just enough to exist in the same space.

But what caught Medkit off guard was the way Banhammer was looking at him.

Not just a passing glance, but an assessing stare, sharp and unreadable. He was sizing him up, trying to get a read on him, and Medkit felt an unfamiliar shift in his gut. It wasn’t easy to put him on edge- he had seen enough to be unfazed by most people. But something about Banhammer made him uneasy.

Before he could dwell on it, Sword clapped a hand on Medkit’s arm, his usual energy cutting through the tension.

"Banhammer, this is my good friend, Medkit," he beamed before turning to the doctor. "Medkit, this is my infamous cousin, Banhammer!"

Banhammer adjusted his jaw, raising an eyebrow as he gave Medkit a once-over.

"Y’know, this is just a dinner," he remarked, the lazy amusement in his tone making it clear exactly what he was referring to. Medkit might have overdressed, but he always felt nice going out. Plus, Sword loved seeing Medkit wear clothes he'd gifted him over the years. Banhammer's smirk widened. "Way to outshine the birthday boy—nice one there."

For the briefest moment, Medkit swore he saw Sword’s expression twitch in irritation.

Ah.

Now, he understood why Rocket had that look whenever Sword mentioned Banhammer.

"You sure know how to make a first impression," Medkit shot back, refusing to let Banhammer’s snark go unanswered.

"Damn right!" Banhammer shoved his hands into his pockets, sounding far too pleased with himself.

Sword, still grinning, tugged at Medkit’s arm, steering him forward. It was clear both he and Rocket were eager to get inside- anything to escape the stifling heat. Medkit fell into step beside them, while Banhammer lagged slightly behind, offering little to their conversation. His presence loomed, quiet but watchful, his sharp gaze flicking between them as they made their way to their table.

Once seated, the arrangement became painfully clear: Sword and Rocket took their spots across from each other, leaving Medkit directly in front of Banhammer. Fantastic. Medkit exhaled through his nose, staring at the purple brute across from him. What a sight for sore eyes.

Banhammer looked just as unimpressed with the seating arrangement as Medkit felt. He cast a glance at Sword, his expression unreadable, before shifting his focus back to the table.

A waiter arrived, setting down glasses of water for each of them before asking for their drink orders. Along with it came a basket of freshly baked bread and a small dish of butter, the scent of warm dough immediately catching Medkit’s attention. Sword really went all out for this. He picked up a menu, curiosity piqued. Did Sword always celebrate his birthday like this? He had mentioned that Venomshank would be covering the bill—a generous treat, apparently—but still, Medkit couldn’t help but hesitate as his eyes landed on a particularly decadent steak. Forty-eight bux? A small bubble of unease began to form in his chest. Even if he wasn’t paying, the price made his fingers twitch with hesitation.

"How’s the case going?" Rocket suddenly threw the question at Banhammer, his voice casual, but Medkit didn’t miss the sharp, mocking tone behind it. Sword visibly grimaced. Banhammer, on the other hand, scowled, something about the question striking a nerve.

"None of your fuckin’ business."

"Case?" Medkit chimed in, curiosity piqued.

Banhammer’s glare snapped to him instantly, sharp and unyielding. "I said it’s none of your business."

Sword, ever the mediator, sighed and cut in. "Just an old case most of us dropped," he explained, ignoring the heated look Banhammer sent his way. "Murders without bodies or evidence—freaky shit, if you ask me. Ban refuses to give it up, though. It’s basically his thing now."

Medkit felt his stomach drop. The words barely settled before a wave of realisation crashed over him. A whiplash of emotions churned in his chest as a distant memory clawed its way to the front of his mind—Broker, chatting animatedly about some detective poking around their case. At the time, Medkit had brushed it off, confident in his own work and even more confident that Broker, despite his eccentricity, knew better than to let anything slip. The so-called detective had been nothing more than a phantom to him. A name with no face. A ghost chasing scraps of nothing.

And yet… here he was. Banhammer was that detective. And he was barely a yard away from him. A taunting, invisible danger rang in Medkit’s ears, buzzing like static. He suddenly felt sick, his appetite vanishing as dread settled like lead in his stomach. He had already been pushing his luck. first by getting close to Sword, a cop, and now by sitting at the same table as the only person still determined enough to care about the very illegal stunts he was involved in.

Medkit took a slow sip of water, hoping to drown the bitter taste creeping up his throat. He forced a casual shrug, aiming to deflate the tension.

"Sounds like something from the occult," he mused, feigning indifference. "Or just gang activity. If they were murdered, it was probably for a reason."

Banhammer flinched. For a second, it looked like he was about to snap, his muscles coiling with restrained anger. His jaw tightened, his grip on his glass firm enough that Medkit almost expected it to crack.

"It doesn’t matter," Banhammer bit out, voice low and dangerously steady. "Murder is still murder."

Medkit hummed in response, deliberately shifting his focus to the steaming plates of food being placed in front of them. The rich aroma wrapped around him like a lifeline, an excuse to abandon the topic entirely. Sword, being the saviour he was, read him like a book and switched to asking about his job hunting was going.

He had recently been accepted to begin teaching biotechnology at a university. Which was very much needed as his funds were quickly dwindling. He was ecstatic to be a professor, even if the subject wasn't exactly what he wanted to teach.

The words were barely out of his mouth before Sword practically exploded with excitement. His utensils clattered onto his plate as he leaned forward, his entire face lighting up.

"No way! That’s amazing!"

The sheer energy radiating from him was almost too much, even for Rocket, who recoiled slightly at the display. He let out a short chuckle, fingers idly twisting the handle of his steak knife. The metal felt cool against his skin, grounding. But even as he tried to focus on the conversation, he felt it: that weight, the piercing sensation of being watched. Banhammer’s stare hadn’t wavered.

Medkit kept his expression neutral, but his grip on the knife tightened just slightly. He didn’t like being studied, especially not by someone like him. It made his skin itch and sent warning signals blaring at the back of his mind. He forced himself to take another bite of food, feigning ease. No need to let on that the detective’s gaze was starting to worm under his skin.

"Didn't take ya for having smarts," Banhammer remarked, shoving a bite of his burger into his mouth.

Rocket scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Can you not be a dick for two seconds?"

"It's fine. I didn’t take him to have any either," Medkit quipped, glancing up at Banhammer.

To his surprise, the detective’s lips curled into a wide, amused grin. A moment later, he burst into laughter—loud and unrestrained, sending a few stray bits of half-chewed food flying from his mouth. Medkit instinctively leaned back, grimacing as he tried to avoid the spray.

"I get that a lot!" Banhammer boomed, completely unbothered.

Medkit simply nodded, half-tuning out as the conversation carried on. At the very least, the mood had lightened. Even Banhammer seemed to be enjoying himself, and if that meant Sword was happy, Medkit wasn’t about to stir up more pointless bickering He just really wished the detective would swallow his damn food before opening his mouth.

-

Sword had insisted on hitting a bar after dinner, and after some relentless persistence—begging, really—Banhammer had begrudgingly agreed. Medkit had to admit, if nothing else, the detective at least cared about his cousin. That was one redeeming quality.

A few drinks too many, and somehow, Medkit, Rocket, and Sword had ended up crammed into the back of Banhammer’s car. How they’d convinced him to be their chauffeur for the night was beyond him—probably Sword’s nagging—but in his current state, he was in no position to question it. Medkit blinked sluggishly, his head lolling slightly as he took in his surroundings. The car felt too warm, his limbs weighed down not just by the alcohol coursing through his system but also by Sword’s arm draped lazily over him. The younger demon had all but leaned across Medkit’s lap, animatedly chatting with Rocket, who looked equally flushed from the night’s indulgences.

“You’re a terrible singer, Kit!” Rocket cackled, his laughter cutting through the drowsy haze. He was, of course, referring to the tragic karaoke attempt Sword had roped them into earlier. The only reason he’d agreed to that humiliation was because it was Sword’s birthday, and he looked way too sad for a grown man when he rejected the idea for the first time.

"You weren’t much better," Medkit chuckled, sinking deeper into the seat as exhaustion slowly crept over him. The warmth of the car, the lingering buzz of alcohol—it was all lulling him into a haze. His gaze flickered up to the rearview mirror, catching Banhammer’s eyes on him for just a moment.

He frowned, meeting the detective’s stare with an unexpected glare of his own. Banhammer didn’t hold it for long; he quickly shifted his focus back to the road. Medkit exhaled, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips.

“You should drop Medkit off first. His place is closer,” Sword yawned, stretching as much as the cramped space would allow.

“Mhm,” Banhammer muttered, sounding as unenthusiastic as ever. He just wanted this night to be over. “What’s his address?”

The question jolted Medkit fully awake. The last thing he needed was Banhammer knowing where he lived. A silent alarm rang through his mind, cutting through the sluggish fog of his drunken thoughts.

“Ah, actually—Sword, do you mind if I crash at your place tonight?” The idea was hasty, thrown together in an instant, but it made the most sense. Anything to avoid handing Banhammer that information.

Sword, just as intoxicated, barely gave it a second thought before nodding. “Yeah, sure,” he slurred, waving a dismissive hand.

Banhammer merely grunted. “Makes it easier on me.” He knew where Sword’s apartment was. He’d only been there a handful of times, mostly for work-related reasons. Adjusting his GPS, he set them on a new route, turning the radio up just enough to drown out the group’s drunken laughter.

By the time they finally arrived, Banhammer wasted no time practically kicking the three of them out. Sword, ignoring his cousin’s grumbling, yanked him into a tight hug, forcing the reluctant farewell. When Sword let go after a very long embrace, Banhammer barely spared Rocket or Medkit a glance before slamming the car door shut and driving off without another word.

“He was… interesting,” Medkit muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His nerves were finally settling now that Banhammer was miles away. The detective hadn’t suspected anything- he was pretty sure. That was good. Hopefully, he’d never have to see him again. The thought nagged at him, though. If Banhammer got too close, if he kept circling, Medkit might have to put some distance between himself and Sword. He hated the idea, but even being friends with someone close to the detective was too much of a risk.

“He’s an asshole,” Rocket chimed in. “That’s all he is. Pisses me off.”

Sword, half-draped over Rocket’s shoulders, let out a lazy laugh, dragging his feet along the pavement. “You guys are kinda similar. I think that’s why you don’t get along.”

Rocket scoffed. “He doesn’t get along with anyone, Sword.”

“We get along,” Sword argued, albeit a little sluggishly. “Most of the time.”

Rocket hummed, shifting his grip and looping an arm around Sword’s shoulder to keep him steady. “You keep telling yourself that, dude.”

Medkit chuckled as he helped the two up to the third floor, where Sword’s apartment was tucked away. Sword fumbled with his keys, dropping them once—twice—before finally managing to unlock the door and shove it open.

The moment they were inside, Medkit beelined for the couch, sinking onto it with a relieved sigh. His legs felt like lead; standing any longer wasn’t an option. The urge to pull out a cigarette gnawed at him, but he pushed it down. Sword hated when he smoked, especially inside. Instead, he let his gaze drift toward Rocket and Sword, watching as Rocket, barely able to stand straight himself, forced Sword to drink a glass of water. Their movements were clumsy, their laughter loose and unfiltered. Medkit’s eyes grew heavy, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

For once, there was nothing to worry about. No stress, no paranoia, just a quiet moment of peace. Sword had a way of giving him those moments, and for that, Medkit was grateful.

He let out a hearty sigh, the night unraveling into a hazy, drunken blur.

Chapter Text

One call was all it took to ruin Medkit’s day.

One minute, he was buried in work emails; the next, he was being summoned by his two least favourite people on earth—The Broker and Scythe. Unfortunately for him, “later” wasn’t an option. Everything else had to be put on hold.

Frustration simmered beneath Medkit's skin as he pulled up to the designated location. He unbuckled his seatbelt with little care, threw the car into park, and swung the door open with more force than necessary. The moment he stepped out, he slammed it shut- only for it to bounce right back at him.

His jaw clenched.

Gripping the handle with enough force to crack bone, Medkit yanked the door open and tried again. It resisted for the second time. A sharp curse hissed through his teeth as he flung it open fully, only to realise the seatbelt buckle had wedged itself against the frame. The stupid thing had been the culprit all along. With an irritated huff, he snatched the belt, aggressively looping it over the headrest before slamming the door one final time. The old mechanism rattled in protest, but at least it stayed shut.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders before stalking off, trying—and failing—to shake off the lingering annoyance.

He crossed the parking lot with hurried steps, not even looking behind him as he locked his car, and slipped into an alleyway only after making sure no one had seen him. The narrow passage stretched before him, lined with dumpsters and discarded furniture. His gaze flickered between the shadows, searching for the people he’d been forced to meet. A sudden tap on his shoulder made his breath hitch. His body tensed, heart dropping for a split second—until he turned to find a familiar face.

“Heeey, Kit,” The Broker greeted, his grin unsettlingly wide.

“Good lords—” Medkit exhaled sharply, barely restraining the urge to deck the shorter man. “Can you not keep me on edge for two seconds, please?”

“It’s part of the job!” The Broker chirped. He patted both of his shoulders, squeezing them an uncomfortable amount before shoving him forward and skipping off down the alleyway.

Medkit clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes as he followed. This man got on more than just his nerves. He thought about his options but tightened his grip around his suitcase and kept his mouth shut.

They wound through a maze of buildings and empty lots, each turn making it clearer that he’d have no idea how to retrace his steps. He only sighed, knowing better than to try and slip away now.

A bitter feeling settled in Medkit’s chest as the rundown building loomed ahead. A whorehouse. Lavender curtains draped over the windows, shielding the interior from prying eyes. A weathered, off-kilter sign hung near the entrance, a weak attempt at deterring the wrong kind of attention. But what struck Medkit the most was the silence—unnatural, unsettling. It gnawed at him, setting his nerves on edge. The Broker, however, seemed unfazed. He tilted his head back, studying the structure with an almost amused admiration before flashing a grin. Why did they always have him work in the filthiest places?

Still, he stepped inside with careful precision, The Broker close behind.

“Got paid real nice,” The Broker announced without warning, his tone almost amused. “Some prostitute tried to blackmail a politician or something. He came to Scythe with a hefty sum, and she took the easy kill.” Medkit rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose. He wished The Broker would keep details like that to himself. The less he knew, the better. He didn’t care about the people involved; he didn’t want to care. Names, stories, motives… they only made his job harder. Besides, the location alone told him everything he needed to know.

The Broker looked pleased; whether with Scythe, the job, or the money lining their pockets, Medkit wasn’t sure. Either way, it was good news for him. The bigger the payout, the bigger his cut.

Surprisingly, the interior was far more regal than Medkit had anticipated. Vibrant ferns and lush potted plants lined the edges of each room, their leaves glossy and well-tended. Delicate strands of crystal beads swayed gently in the doorways, catching the light in soft glimmers that danced across the walls. Though it wasn’t exactly his personal taste in decor, he couldn’t deny the effort and care behind it. The warm-toned wallpaper—soft golds and earthy reds—complemented the foliage perfectly, wrapping the space in an inviting charm. Although he was sure that was the purpose. A ploy to strain as many pockets as possible.

Beneath his feet, the hardwood floors shone like polished chocolate, so clean they gave the illusion of being untouched by footsteps. It was almost hard to believe this was the same building whose… interesting exterior made Medkit’s stomach twist with disgust.

“The boys’r here!” a chipper voice sang from down the hall.

Scythe rounded the corner, her grin a mirror of The Broker’s. The stark white of her uniform stood out like a sore thumb, pristine despite the fact that she had just killed someone. Her gaze flicked to Medkit, noting the way his expression remained stiff and unimpressed.

“Lighten up a bit, Kit. We caught a big fish today!”

Medkit’s eyes drifted past her, landing on the lifeless body sprawled across the floor. A bullet hole marked the woman’s crown, blood flowering outward in violent splatters, staining the carpet a deeper shade of scarlet than it was already. He cast his gaze back, staring at the matching lipstick Scythe had adorned.

“Easy catch?” he asked dryly.

“You know it.” Scythe placed her hands on her hips, surveying her work like a proud artist admiring a finished painting. “Shame you gotta clean it up,” she added, flashing a sharp-toothed grin. “I haven’t had such a clean kill in a while!”

Medkit only hummed in response, setting his suitcase on the floor and flipping it open with a soft click. He slipped on a pair of gloves, crouching over the body to inspect it. Even through the latex, he could feel the chill of the infernal’s pale skin. His fingers twitched as he pressed them into the hole in her skull, sinking past the ruptured bone and into the mess beneath. Wet, sickening sounds filled the still air. The warmth soon blanketed his fingers, causing Medkit to bite his tongue in order to control his urge to gag.

“We're leaving the body here this time,” The Broker said hastily.

Medkit’s hands stilled, startled by the sudden change in plan, “What?”

“Someone will be here eventually.”

Here he went again—playing this twisted game and bending the rules just enough to amuse himself. Medkit would never understand The Broker. Was he really so bored with life that he’d risk not only himself but Scythe and Medkit, too? The thought flickered through his mind before he shook it off. No, The Broker didn’t care about anyone but himself.

“Speaking of,” Medkit muttered, shifting the conversation as a slick feeling grazed his hand through the gloves. He shifted his fingers a little more, pinching the object that was lodged in the demon’s head. He carefully slid the bullet from the woman’s skull, not daring to break off any more of the skull, and placed it in a bag. “I met that detective you speak so highly of.”

The Broker’s grin twisted into something more sinister. He leaned forward slightly, teetering on the edge as if barely restraining his excitement. Medkit instantly regretted bringing it up. The Broker wasn’t going to let him off the hook without prying for every last detail.

Scythe raised an eyebrow, clearly just as intrigued. She idly toyed with the golden rings wrapped around her fingers, watching as Medkit worked around the body with methodical precision. He never took her for someone who cared much for The Broker’s people games, but maybe this was a new development—or maybe she’d always been interested and had just never bothered to show it. The two were close, after all. If anyone knew what The Broker was up to, it was Scythe.

“You can’t just end’er there!” she suddenly piped up, crouching just above Medkit’s shoulder. Close enough to observe, but not enough to interfere. Her sharp eyes flickered between his hands and the mess of gore his fingers were in.

“Yer’ still in one piece,” she added, grinning. “So, spill it—what happened?”

Medkit hesitated, his grip tightening as he pulled a shard of burnt metal from the woman’s cranium. He turned it over between his fingers, its edges blackened and jagged.

“Apparently, he’s related to a friend of mine,” he muttered, keeping his voice even. “Had dinner with him, and he was invited.” He paused, debating whether to add more but ultimately deciding against it, “That’s all.”

With that, he returned his focus to the corpse, unwilling to feed into the drama The Broker and Scythe so desperately craved.

“You mean that little cop you befriended?”

Medkit stiffened. The Broker was not supposed to know about that.

His grip tightened around the metal shard, its jagged edges biting into the latex of his gloves. He couldn’t react—that was exactly what The Broker wanted. The sharp sting grounded him, giving his mind something to latch onto as he forced himself to loosen his muscles, feigning indifference. Still, a lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of the sweat beading at his brow—sweat he couldn’t wipe away with bloodied hands.

“Yeah…” is all he could get himself to say.

A suffocating fear started to gnaw through him, creeping into his bones like ice. The small thread of comfort he’d allowed himself in Scythe’s presence frayed into nothing. Suddenly, she didn’t feel like an ally—she felt like a threat.

Did they both know about Sword? For how long? Did they know he was keeping it from them—Of course, they did. That was the game, wasn’t it? They always knew more than they let on.

Scythe shifted beside him, and Medkit swore he could feel her breath slither down his neck like a warning, like she was poised to strike if he let something slip.

“Y’know, Kit,” she purred.

Oh Gods.

“That could be very useful for us.”

He always had a knack for getting himself into deeper shit every time he thought he had escaped it.

“Absolutely not,” Medkit muttered, keeping his head low, unwilling to turn around.

Then, suddenly, the realisation struck—blood was trickling down his arm. The sting in his palm sharpened, the pain no longer just background noise. Was that his own blood? It was impossible to tell. Slowly, he unfurled his fingers, staring down at the bullet shard resting in his palm as if it were a blade lodged in his chest.

“I do enough for you,” he said, voice tight. He dropped the shard into the plastic bag with the bullet and sealed it. “We have a deal. I don’t need to do anything more.”

“So mean to us,” The Broker clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. “How do you sleep at night, depriving us of our fun?”

Medkit didn’t answer. Sleeping was difficult for him. His paranoid racked head was always too busy to rest properly. A bead of sweat traced a slow path down his neck, pooling at his shoulders, adding to the growing discomfort clawing at his gut. Would they kill him if he refused? The thought lingered, sinking its teeth deep into his mind. His vision blurred as he stared at the corpse, his focus slipping.

He refused to look at them. Refused to meet The Broker’s knowing grin or Scythe’s expectant gaze. his mind became haunted with the thought of going home, of not feeling safe. he bit his bottom lip, a feeling of urgency gnawing away at him. but at the same time, he was, for once at a loss of what to do.

So he did the only thing he could—he kept working. The ringing in his ears grew louder, drowning out the sound of The Broker and Scythe’s laughter. His hands shook, fear chipping away at his precision, ruining the steady rhythm he prided himself on. Every movement felt wrong, disconnected like he was watching someone else’s hands move instead of his own.

By the time he was finished, it was a disaster; Blood smeared the corpse’s face, thick droplets sinking into the carpet like ink staining paper. His own collar was stained—a careless mistake, something that he never let happen. Medkit exhaled sharply, realising only then that he’d been holding his breath. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs weak beneath him. For a brief, sickening second, he thought he might stumble.

But he managed to keep a cool head. He kept his expression smooth, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his sleeves as if nothing had happened.

Medkit exhaled sharply, "Will that be all?" His voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

Without waiting for an answer, he shoved the bloodied bag into The Broker’s waiting hands, fingers curling tightly around the other man's to ensure he took it. The movement was stiff—he wanted to be done with this.

The Broker’s grin stretched wider, unfazed by the forcefulness. He hummed in amusement, his voice sickly sweet. “Y’know it, Kit!”

Medkit barely spared him a glance, unamused. He stood rigid as Scythe clapped a hand against his back in a display of gratitude, her touch light but invasive all the same.

The world around him felt distant, muted. His head swam, his legs tingled with an eerie numbness. It was hard to stand upright when his legs didn't feel like they belonged on his body. It was far too familiar to him, it ate away at him like a parasite, something he couldn't rid of no matter how hard he tried.

With a tight jaw and an even tighter grip on his own self-control, he muttered a clipped goodbye. The moment he turned away, dread began curling its fingers around his gut.

Medkit barely made it a few blocks before his legs threatened to give out beneath him. He lurched forward, catching himself against the rough brick of a nearby wall, his fingers trembling as they dug into the cold surface. His breath came in shallow gasps, and a sour taste clung to the back of his throat. His stomach coiled in protest, twisting violently as if punishing him for the sheer weight of his nerves.

The bile rising in his chest never came to fruition—there was nothing in him but the remnants of black coffee and a gnawing sense of unease.

Going home tonight was out of the question.

-

A Handful of papers landed on Banhammer’s desk with a dull thud, pulling his attention away from the glowing screen of his computer. He glanced up, his sharp eyes meeting the stoic face of the infernal standing before him.

“Autopsy report,” the officer stated flatly.

“For that prostitute?”

“Yeah.”

There was a brief pause—just long enough for the silence to stretch uncomfortably—before the infernal turned on his heel and walked out. The office door clicked shut behind him, leaving Banhammer alone once more.

He exhaled slowly, barely restraining the grin threatening to creep onto his face. His fingers twitched with anticipation as he adjusted himself in his seat and flipped through the papers. A lead. A real, tangible lead. His first in what felt like forever.

He cracked open the first folder, scanning through the details. Most of it was exactly as expected—confirmed personal data, a gunshot wound to the head, signs of tampering. The bullet was missing. That much he already knew.

But it was the second folder that sent a jolt of excitement through him. Other evidence found on or inside the body. Detectives werent allowed to touch the corpses within a case. And despite how much it irritated Banhammer, he could only nod his head and follow orders.

His pulse quickened as he skimmed through the report: “Found inside the left pocket of her jeans was a slip of yellow notebook paper.”

His breath hitched. Flipping the page, his gaze landed on a small plastic bag stapled to the document. Inside; the note.

A slow, satisfied smile stretched across his face as he carefully pried it open. His hands, steady with anticipation, unfolded the crinkled page.

His jaw nearly hit the desk with how slack it went. His eyes darted across the page, taking in every detail. It read like a client list—perhaps the last person she had seen before her death or the one she was on her way to meet. Notes lined the page in clean handwriting. Mentions of clothing preferences, specific items of interest—intimate, personal details that made his skin prickle on the back of his neck. Banhammer could feel the heat rising to his face as he read.

Then, at the very top, almost overlooked in his initial scan—a phone number.

His hands scrambled across the cluttered desk, knocking over loose paper clips in his frantic search. His fingers finally curled around the cool case of his work phone, gripping it tight as he pulled it into his lap.

Banhammer barely registered the weight of his actions before he was already dialling, his thumb pressing each digit with a practised urgency. The first ring echoed in his ear. His knee bounced wildly under the desk, the anticipation curling around his chest like a vice. Each second stretched unbearably long as he waited.

A low, gravelly voice crackled through the receiver. “Hello?”

Banhammer straightened, his fingers gripping the phone just a little tighter. He had to keep his voice controlled. “This is the BLPD,” he said, then cleared his throat, forcing his tone into something steadier, more authoritative. “I’m calling in regard to an individual involved in an ongoing investigation. I believe you may have had contact with her.”

Silence.

Banhammer’s jaw tensed. If this guy hung up, he’d be calling back—again and again, if necessary. He could feel the hesitation on the other end, the weight of someone deciding whether to engage or run.

Finally, the voice returned, wary and clipped. “What?”

Banhammer didn’t waste time. “Fermion. Thirty years old. You were a client of hers, yes?”

Another pause, longer this time. Banhammer could hear faint rustling of fabric—like someone shifting in place. A telltale sign of nerves. Again, more silence followed. It only made Banhammer more certain that he had called the right number. Buying a prostitute wasn't exactly something noble, and any normal person wouldn't admit to it so easily. But Banhammer was stubborn, any leads he could get his hands on he would.

“Yes,” the voice on the other line came out in a choked gasp. It sounded like Banhammer just dropped the best news in the world to the infernal.

Leaning back in his chair, Banhammer studied the ceiling as he processed the reaction. Clients getting attached to certain girls wasn’t exactly rare—he’d issued more than a few restraining orders over the years because of it. Still, this guy's eagerness sent a prick of unease crawling up his spine.

“You wouldn't mind me asking a few questions would you?”

“Over the phone? This seems highly unprofessional.” the quip took Banhammer aback. Why get snarky now all of a sudden? Not only that, but the sudden awakeness in the other removed the groggy filter over their voice. Suddenly, Banhammer was reaching into his memory to recall where he had heard it before. Whatever his brain was trying to recall was lost to him. The information might not have been important enough for him to keep track of at that time. Even if it wasn't then, he'd like to know now. Knowing something was just out of reach was more than aggravating to the detective.

“Just answer the question,” frustration began to grow in Banhammer again. People were difficult for no reason.

“Do you even have the authority to contact me about this?” the other asked, “I could hang up anytime I wanted.”

A sudden, fleeting moment of panic struck Banahmmer.

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice dropping into something colder. “Meet me at the café on the corner of 10th Street.” Banhammer’s words came out like venom. His desperation was ever present, he was embarrassed at how hard he had to pull on this thread—but an opportunity like this couldn't go wasted.

He didn’t give the man time to protest, “Breakfast? Noon? What works best for you?”

Silence took over the call again.

He sighed, exasperated. “It will be a private meeting.”

Finally, the other answered, “Noon works.”