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goldensugarywaffles · 1 year

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Curiosity Killed the Cat (7)

Hello everyone, I'm back! Sorry for the long wait to those of you that stuck around. I am currently working on getting my bachelor's, I made a crappy short film for class, and I got a job! So much to do so little time...T-T. Your favorite waffle is suffering from burnout lol. I am proud of this chapter, even though it took so long. Hopefully, you guys will like it as well. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! This chapter is far more graphic than the previous ones, and I want to ensure everyone is okay. Sorry for the grammar issues and over usage of words. I'm not the best editor.

WARNINGS: Graphic Violence, Blood, Gun Usage, Stabbing, Implied Death, Inaccurate Depictions of Mental health Issues and Treatment, Possessive Behavior, Stalking, Kidnapping, Implied Abuse.

Taglist: @tito-the-mermaid @hangsang-jh @thedarkwinterrose @juju-227592

@zahraaelamira

The boys’ patience was long gone. Warehouses, apartments, companies, and even secret locations that the police forces didn’t even know about all came up empty. You were nowhere to be found. Even Soohyun didn't know where you were; the elderly woman was so overwhelmed with panic that she surrendered all the information she could, begging the men to find you. Whoever had taken you, had covered their tracks. It was a plan that was clearly years in the making, and Namjoon had no doubt that the mole was behind your sudden disappearance. The seven men were becoming more and more desperate each day. Were you okay? Were you safe? Did you manage to escape? Were you even still alive? The thought of your lifeless body being dumped in a random ditch made Namjoon sick.

None of the men were faring well. The hyungs of the group spent countless nights monitoring any security camera they could get their hands on while the maknaes wandered the streets, sometimes disappearing for days at a time. But they refused to stop searching. You were their angel, their soulmate, their entire world. No one was going to lay a finger on their princess and get away with it.

Currently, the men were combing through the evidence of the kidnapping, hoping they had missed something. Namjoon stares at the empty gas canister for what feels like the hundredth time. Engraved on the side of the can was you're calling card, a bloody rose. It was strange, though. When did you start making sedative gas? Namjoon knew every single product you produced and distributed, but this type of gas was never one of them. Someone was clearly trying to throw them off, and the men hated to admit that it was working.

“Maybe it was someone from the outside? Her kidnapper must have known we were following Y/n’s every move and wanted to send us on a wild goose chase?" Jimin felt like his suggestion was a reach, but he was desperate for any solution. Taehyung nods in agreement; it’s plausible that the mole was nothing more than an extravagant ploy. Yoongi doesn't say anything, but it's clear as day that he disagrees. The evidence they had gathered when discovering the mole was too real. No one would be that thorough if it was supposed to be a simple distraction.

Rubbing his thumb over the lighter he had managed to steal back from you (though it was yours originally), Seokjin merely hums acknowledgment. He couldn't bring himself to care who took you or how they managed to do so. He only hoped that his angel was alright. He had spent many nights combing over the same evidence they were looking at now and had long given up on finding anything new. Jungkook was no better, the youngest currently lying on the eldest lap, your leather jacket held tight in his arms. He had given up on investigating and searching for evidence. Instead, he spent his time looking for you by brute force. He burst into buildings, interrogated anyone he found, and beat the answers out of them.

With a frustrated huff, Namjoon tosses the canister back onto the table. "So, what is it? Was it a mole or not? Because if we can’t even figure that out, we’ll never find Y/n.” The room is silent, the concept of living without you slowly starting to sink in.

“What if it was both?”

All the heads in the room snap to Hoseok. The detective had long ago drunk himself into a stupor, and no one expected him to be much help. Namjoon didn't care, he needed a lead, and Hoseok was a great detective, sober or not. Raising an eyebrow, the commander silently urges Hoseok to keep talking. Slowly lifting his head up, Hoseok forces the words out as best he can and manages to slur only slightly. “Clearly, whoever kidnapped Y/n had to have constant access to her. The only people who’ve had access to her are those who worked for her and us. Maybe someone wanted her behind bars, and one of her underlings was all too willing.”

Seokjin nods, suddenly understanding Hoseok's thoughts. "Y/n may not have produced or used sedative gas, but the police force uses it all the time. They could have gotten some from the police and placed her calling card on it to throw us off.”

“But only her high-level subordinates get the privilege of using her calling cards. Why would anyone so close to Y/n want to betray her? It makes no sense.” Taehyung was ready to dismiss this theory as drunk ramblings from Hoseok and move on.

“Maybe the two rats in question are siblings and have been plotting this for much longer than we thought.” Everyone turns to Yoongi; his theory seemed too far a stretch to make sense. Turning the laptop in front of him around, he presents his findings to the rest of the men.

Patient Name: Donghyun Lee

Symptoms: Obsessive, Violent, with Narcissistic Tendencies

Commitment Reason: Stalking, Threatening, and Kidnapping Y/n L/n (female)

Notes: The patient has become increasingly violent since being taken into custody after removing him from Miss L/n's residence. Stronger treatment methods, including medication, are recommended.

Emergency Contact: Haeun Lee

Relationship to Patient: Sister

An eerie silence settles over the room. None of the men took their eyes off the screen. The puzzle pieces were all starting to fall into place. Soon they'd find you, and you would be safe and sound in their arms.

“I can’t wait to kill that pig.”

__________________________________________________

Six months. It had been six months since you had gone missing, and no one had come for you. You had lost weight, your feet were blistered from the heels, and the chains had rubbed your skin raw. You had stopped talking long ago, knowing your mouth would only get you into more trouble. The only human interaction you had was provided by Haeun and Donghyun. The latter would spend hours upon hours talking to you and his dolls, meticulously cleaning each case like it was his life’s purpose. Haeun, on the other hand, would only stop by to bring you your meals, never speaking. Not that you had much to say to her anyway.

In your moments alone, you had plenty of time to think and reflect. Often wondering what would happen to your syndicate while you were gone or what would have happened if you hadn’t started a syndicate in the first place. Maybe you could have gone to the police and had Donghyun arrested again. Maybe you would have never met Haeun. You probably wouldn’t have met the men on the task force, seeing as how it was only created to take you down. In the dead of night, when you let your thoughts wander, you think about the seven men who claimed they’d never leave you alone (even at your own request). Perhaps your lack of presence has given them time to reflect as well, possibly even overcome their obsession with you. Though deep down you hoped not, you wanted them to still be obsessed with you. No, you needed them to still be obsessed with you. Because if they truly are as madly in love as they claim to be, then maybe there’s a chance they’ll find you. They’re your ticket to freedom. Or maybe you just liked their attention. You shudder at the thought. Get it together, Y/n. You’re only using them to your benefit.

“Doll, I understand that you’re not happy with the current arrangements but honestly, would it kill you to smile?”

You don’t even bother acknowledging Donghyun’s sudden appearance. He no longer scared you like he used to, becoming nothing more than a mild annoyance. The gangly man enters the room with a tray of food, stopping in front of your case. The confusion on your face must have been clear as he continues to speak. “I sent Haeun out for errands. Afterall, we must keep your syndicate running or else people will start to get suspicious. So, it is just you and I for today.”

Fumbling with the keypad, he manages to punch in the code that opens a slot on the case. It was large enough to fit the tray but too small for you to even attempt to escape from (though you did try). Donghyun slides the tray into the slot, presenting you with some indiscernible food that tastes even more unappealing than it looks. You scrunch your face in disgust, and Donghyun chuckles at the expression while placing a fork on the tray. He turned to leave, knowing you preferred to eat alone, and it was the one thing he would allow you.

Wait…he gave me a fork.

Haeun never gave you any utensils to eat with after you tried to stab her in the eyes with chopsticks. She was well aware that whatever you got your hands on immediately became a weapon, and she wasn’t going to give you a second chance to kill her. Donghyun either didn’t know about that incident or didn’t care. You could tell by the look in his eyes that he sometimes truly believed you were a doll.

Gripping the fork in your hand, you cautiously make your move, "Wait, Oppa, don't leave!"

Donghyun whips around so quickly that you flinch. A splotchy blush taints his face, creeping up on his neck and ears. While you hated those moments alone with Donghyun, they did provide you with some benefits.

His weaknesses.

Donghyun immediately rushes back to you, getting himself as close to the glass as he can without smudging the freshly cleaned glass. “Yes doll? What is it? What do you want? Just keep calling me that and I’ll give you anything you want.”

Reaching out your free hand through the slot of the case, you caress Donghyun's face. His skin is rough and oily under your fingertips, and the skin-to-skin contact makes you want to vomit. Slowly you trail your hand down to his chest and grip the collar of his shirt. His breath hitches at the contact.

SLAM!

Fighting against you, Donghyun breaks away from your grip, panting. Blood drips from his nose and mouth. His chest is covered in small punctures and scratches from where you managed to stab him with the fork. Grinning Donghyun spits, the blood hitting a nearby doll case.

Yanking him forward, you slam Donghyun’s face into the glass case while simultaneously stabbing him anywhere you can reach with the fork. Slam. Slam. Slam. Over and over until there’s blood dripping down the case.

“You’re going to pay for that one doll.”

BANG!

With a yelp, Donghyun collapses to the ground clutching his shoulder.

Seven familiar faces barge into the room, and you can’t help but burst into tears. All of the anger, fear, and resentment was too much to handle, and no matter how strong you were, you were bound to break down after all that you had been through.

Seokjin Immediately rushes to your aide while the other six restrain Donghyun. “Y/n thank god you’re alive. Jesus Christ, look at you. What did that sick fuck do to you? I swear I’ll tear him limb from limb.”

You ignore the hypocrisy of Seokjin calling another person sick, choosing to focus on getting out of the case you've been trapped in. "Jin, I can’t deal with your yandere bullshit right now! Get me out of this case. Get me out! Get me out, get me out, get me the fuck out!” Panicking, Jin scans the room for something to break you out with. Stumbling upon a crowbar, he picks it up and runs back to you.

"Stand back, Angel; I don't want you to get hurt," swinging as hard as he can, Seokjin shatters the case. Quickly undoing your chains, he gathers you up in his arms. "Shit, Jin, I can't feel my legs. I can’t feel my legs!” Gently shushing you, Seokjin sits on the floor with you in his lap. He rocks you back and forth, slowly instructing you to breathe to prevent you from having a panic attack.

From your spot on the floor, you watch as the six others beat Donghyun into a bloody pulp. In your panicked state, you didn't realize it, but now you can hear the psychopath's screams and wails. Using Seokjin as support, you push yourself back on your feet. Grabbing the discarded crowbar, you stagger towards Donghyun. Hoseok calls your name, but you don’t hear him focusing on the man in front of you.

“D-d-doll help me,” Donghyun croaks. He reaches a shaky hand toward you as if you were his guardian angel. Raising the crowbar above your head, you steel your resolve, images of the hell he had put you through since the day you locked eyes. Thwack. You bring the crowbar down with full force, adrenaline and rage fueling you. Over and over. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Donghyun screams and cries, but you don’t stop. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. No one was going to save him anyways. Or so you thought.

BANG! BANG!

You don’t feel the first bullet striking you. But by the time the second one hits you’re already falling to the floor. Namjoon catches you calling your name. Your vision is starting to blur but in the distance you see a familiar female figure running away. Groaning you move to chase after her but the searing pain in your abdomen keeps you from moving.

"Angel? Shit, there's so much blood. Angel, focus on me and stay awake okay?” Turning your head, you look at Namjoon, your vision going in and out. There's pressure on your stomach as one of the boys tries to stop your bleeding. You think it's Jimin from the voice, but you can't tell. To your left, you hear the sound of strangled whimpers. Despite the beating he took from you and the boys, he's still alive. How unfortunate, you muse. But you weren’t worried. Whether you died or not, Donghyun's death was certain.

“Y/n look at us. Stay with me princess,” you hear Yoongi’s voice, but you can’t pinpoint where it is coming from.

“Hyung, is she going to be alright?”

“Don’t worry Jungkook. She’ll be alright. She has to be alright,” Hoseok watches as your body slowly starts to shut down. His face gave away no expression, but his heart was pounding in his chest.

“And if she isn’t alright? If she dies?” Taehyung questions the other men angrily. Despite the panic in the air, the other men were far too calm for his tastes.

“Donghyun and Haeun will pay,” Jimin responds, desperately pressing his jacket against your wound.

“And even that will never be enough,” Seokjin adds.

You were fading fast, and at this point, you had resolved that you wouldn't be making it. Pointing a shaking hand at Donghyun, you try to get the boys’ attention. “G-guys, D-Donghyun…s-still alive," your voice is barely a whisper, but all the boys hear it anyway.

"Hush, angel, you need to save your strength. He won't be alive much longer,” Namjoon reassures you, cupping your face so that you focus on him. You nod the best you can, but you still feel it isn’t enough. Gripping the collar of Namjoon's shirt, you whisper your last command.

“Make it hurt.”

Your grip loosens, the hand that was once gripping Namjoon falling to the floor. Your shaky breaths are now quiet. The expression on your face was peaceful, and the men would almost find it endearing if it wasn't for the fact that you were unresponsive to the world around you.

“Y/n. Y/n you need to wake up. Just open your eyes for me, sweetheart. You don't have to talk or do anything you don't want to just open your eyes for me,” Namjoon gently tries to rouse you to no avail. Taehyung drops to his knees next to you shaking your shoulder harshly, "Angel, you need to wake up right now. You need to wake up so I can see those pretty eyes of yours. So, you can glare at us and cuss us out. Just wake up please!”

Yoongi pulls Taehyung away, “Careful Taehyung, you’ll hurt her.”

“You can’t hurt a dead woman.”

The voice is ragged and scratchy, but the malice and insanity it holds is crystal clear. Wheezing, Donghyun sits up, his eyes scanning your body. "Oh, my sweet doll. What have they done to you?”

Jungkook snaps; grabbing the fallen crowbar, he hits Donghyun across the face. Donghyun only laughs in response, pissing off Jungkook more. Again and again, Jungkook beats him until his face is unrecognizable. But it wasn’t enough. For hours the men took turns beating the pathetic excuse of a man while one would sit with your body, whispering reassurances that no one would ever hurt you again. Soon Donghyun's laughs turn into cries when he realizes Haeun isn't coming to save him a second time. His pleas to spare his life went unheard, and the beatings continued. But true to their word to you, they made sure he felt pain unlike any other. They were cruel enough to keep him alive and even give him time to recover. His death was going to be slow and painful.

“You pathetic slug. If you truly loved her, you’d be begging for us to end your life so you could see her in the next life,” Jimin throws a swift kick into Donghyun's stomach, and the man only whimpers in response.

“Not that we’d ever let that happen though. Y/n is ours in this life and the next. She ours for all eternity,” Taehyung taunts from the older officer’s side.

Taehyung’s words must have triggered something in Donghyun as, for the first time in hours, he protests. "No! She was my doll! My precious doll to take care of! And you bastards killed her!” He drags his beaten body toward yours, Hoseok pulling you even closer to his chest. As if he’d let him touch you.

Seokjin slams his foot down on Donghyun's spine, a satisfying crack resounding throughout the room. Crouching down in front of your kidnapper Namjoon slaps him across the face before speaking, “You know what her final wish was? She wanted you to hurt. She wanted your death to be as painful as possible." Donghyun shakes his head vigorously at Namjoon's words. The commander continues anyway, "Now, I'm not a cruel man. If she was still alive right now, you’d be put out of your misery this instant.”

Standing up, Namjoon walks around as if admiring the many dolls Donghyun has collected, "Unfortunately, your sister ruined that for you. Now we’ll drag your death out for as long as we can.”

“Namjoon!”

The commander quickly turns around at the frantic tone in Hoseok’s voice. The detective has his finger pressed against your neck right on your pulse point.

“I have a pulse! Oh my god Joon she’s alive!”

The room immediately springs into action with the boys rushing to get you to the hospital, leaving Donghyun on the floor in a pool of his own blood. He grunts trying to crawl after you. Reaching out his hand, he grips Namjoon's pant leg. "G-give me my doll back, you fucker," his voice is laced with venom, but it wavers.

With a chuckle, Namjoon pulls out his gun and gestures around the room, “I think you have plenty.”

He pulls the trigger without waiting for a response.

BANG!

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sarahblueskyyyy · 5 months

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Lead

Ghost x Reader, Detectives! AU, drama, mystery, short-fic, crime, murder, detail description about blood and crime scene, angst, hurt/comfort, bad ending, thriller. Dead Dove: Do not Eat.

Photo by Cassi Josh on Unsplash

"Let's look at the bright side. We can try to do a thorough analysis one more time and let's see if we can catch the killer faster than he kills his next victim. Right, Riley?" Your grin is wide, smeared with innocence and unbelievable amount of excitement.

Simon sighs and rolls his eyes. Oh, his life.

FPS

Forensic Pathology Services

THIS IS A CONFIDENTIAL REPORT TO THE CORONER AND SHOULD NOT BE DISCLOSED TO A THIRD PARTY WITHOUT HER PERMISSION.

Final Post Mortem Report

Dr. Kate Laswell – Date of Birth: 11.03.75

At approximately 0100 after midnight, 5th August 2023, at the request of Greater Manchester Police, I attended the crime scene of—

His eyes jump and skip the beginning part of the report. He doesn’t need to know the unravelling part of the corpse.

When he finds the information he was searching for, he continues reading, absorbing every single word in it.

SCENE EXAMINATION

The crime scene, for the lack of a better word, was anarchic. It was undoubtedly a torture room.

The body belongs to a woman in her [redacted]. She was tied up in a chair, nails were pulled out from her fingers, and were lined up on top of a desk near the door. Both of her shoulders were dislocated and her right popliteal bone was broken. Judging by the state of the body, she has been dead for at least 2 hours before 0100.

Her partner, who is also a police officer, managed to catch one of the perpetrators, but received a strike on his head as well.

Bloodstaining, contamination on clothing, and contamination on exposed body surfaces.

A white shirt, jeans, and short-heeled shoes. Clothes were intact, except for the damage they’ve taken.

There was bloodstaining on both sides of the sleeves.

There was some bloodstaining on top of her jeans in the right knee area.

Dirt and bloodstain over the ankles and shoes region. Possible cause: running in the mud before finally captured and killed.

Heavy bloodstaining over the neck, cheek, jaw, lips, arms, and hands. It was suspected that the victim received multiple physical abuse to her face and arms using dull weapons such as a hammer.

Lighter bloodstaining over her chest.

Small bloodspots are found on the inner side of her stomach and back—

When someone calls his name, his eyelids flutter. He closes up the paper, then sneers. Whatever. Job has been done. He gets up and answers the calling of his title.

"A 45-year-old woman, known as Larisa Barkov, ex-wife of Roman Barkov. Cause of death, loss of blood; hypovolemic shock. Precise cuttin' in jugular veins, artery, and behind the knee; popliteal veins." Kyle huffs. He traces the outline of the corpse with his eyes, then moves his orbs towards the photos that have been taken before by the forensics.

"Ye must be kiddin' me," Johnny chirped in. He looks as frustrated as the others. "Last mudder looks like a perfectionist did it, noo they role-playin’ as a surgeon?”

Price is pressing his nape. "It's indeed all over the place. What do you think, Simon?"

Simon blinks. He glances at you before he answers the police inspector, calm and unwavering, "Well, the method is different each time. It's hard to believe that these are the work of the same person. But then again, the consistency of the murder timing, the body placement, and the fact that every victim we find used to know each other ...."

You shrug, looking at the body. Poor, poor woman—her pupils are blown; she died in a state of great shock. Probably couldn't believe that this is the way she dies. Her blood was gushing out faster than her brain could comprehend and her heart was pumping empty vessels. As a result; here she is now—mouth gaping, eyes rolled back, and a pool of blood forming a big circle around her. Her body is bloated—all swelling and her face looks like it’s a red balloon, ready to burst. One poke on her eyeball and it probably will.

"Too much of a coincidence, don't ya think?" You mutter.

"You're right," Kyle stands up from his squat position. He trades gaze with his team. "Might have to re-analyze everythin'. Even our profiler is nearly throwing himself out of the window because of this case. Whoever does this; they are clearly familiar with how an investigation works."

"Ye sayin' he's someone like us?"

"There is a possibility," Price fills in Johnny's direct question. "The way the perpetrator purposely messing with us with different murder methods, rearranges the victims’ homes and represent themselves as someone different, yet showin' us that they are one and the same through the connection between the victims ... they're toyin' with us. Someone who knows how we move and think."

"I don't like th' soond ay thes ...."

You give them a soft, hopefully—comforting smile. "Let's look at the bright side. We can try to do a thorough analysis one more time and let's see if we can catch the killer faster than he kills his next victim. Right, Riley?"

Simon rolls his eyeballs to the corners of his eyes; staring at you before he sighs and says, "Let's just pack it up for tonight. I'll make the report and let's see what we can find out in the mornin'."

Price nods silently. His eyes, blue and dark, dabbed with tiredness, looking at the man with black, skull-painted mask. He sighs.

Simon’s gaze is set on every picture and document that are laying on the desk. The take out he ordered; a simple fried noodle from a Chinese restaurant, is ignored and already half-emptied. The brown eyes are scanning through the data with a keen scrutiny of words and numbers and the visuals that are carved into the paper.

These pictures are not usually paired with dinner. But he needed to eat something; his stomach was protesting; emitting various kinds of gurgles. So, he settled for the easiest choice.

You tug the corner of your lips. “Shall we start from the beginning?”

Simon doesn’t answer.

You decide to start anyway. “First victim; Hadir Karim, long lost brother of Commander Farah Karim from Dubai Police Force. In early 2003, Hadir joined the Bratva1 and had been active as a brigadier since then. He was assigned to handle all the organisation’s operations in here, Manchester. He was murdered in his home 2 months ago at precisely 11 P.M. The inside of his home was purposely re-arranged to imitate a torture room; dark, flickering light, scattered and broken furniture, and a single chair where he was tied up and killed with all his nails were ripped off his fingers.”

Simon looks down and shuts his eyes. With his knuckles, he’s pressing the middle point between his eyebrows, trying to crumble down the throbbing in his head that has been bothering him since three months ago.

You shift your attention to the second document. Photos were compiled neatly, a contradiction of what it portrays. Shame. The pretty face of the man in that picture was mauled ruthlessly. “Within a span of two weeks, the next victim was found. Hassan Zyani; the former right-hand man of General Ghorbrani from Iran's Quds Force. After the death of his general, Hassan Zyani joined the Bratva and quickly enthralled the top executives. He climbed rank as the bookkeeper and was tightly connected in terms of work with his direct man; Karim. What a coincidence, right?”

Simon scoffs. “Time of death was 11 P.M., in his own house that has been trashed around to imitate a burglar’s work.”

“Correct,” you nod. Your hips move as your legs take some steps. One, two—until you get closer to the man in the skull mask. “The third victim is Roman Barkov. One of the most trusted men of the Boss. Ranked as the Two-Spies and pleaded loyalty to Vladimir Makarov, Roman Barkov was his Judge, Jury, and Executioner. When there is a mutiny inside the organisation, or when an outsider gets and or sniffs too close to them …,” you float your sentence in the middle of thin air. Giving him a short smile. “… it’s Barkov’s job to pursue the outsider, interrogate them, and kill them. But of course, Hadir Karim and Hassan Zyani played a big part in that game."

Simon scowls at you. However, you pay no heed. His glare is an empty threat, an accessory tied up to his hardened demeanour. At least—you know that’s the case for you.

“With the same time of death, he was found in his house, died by the shock of torture and his nails all were stripped from his fingers, then was lined-up. Judging by the crime scene, his house was untouched by the killer, and it shows us just like how Barkov died; he was a perfectionist.”

Simon lets out a soft hmn.

“And, the newest victim is—”

“—Larissa Barkov,” Simon cuts you off. The hammering pain in his head has not subsided at all. His brown eyes dart at you, irritation seeps into each syllable, “I know this. Your repetition is redundant.”

“Hey, I’m just helping you!” A grin flashes all across your face. Too cheerful for a detective who works in a police force—for an individual who deals with carcasses on a daily basis. “You might miss an important part.”

“Yeah?” Now, his voice is thick with sarcasm. “And what the fuck it might be?”

You hum. “For example … why were all the victims murdered exactly at eleven P.M.? Why does the perpetrator bother rearranging their homes? Was he trying to send a message? If that’s the case, then what kind of message? To whom, for what purpose? Is it revenge, or—is it entirely something else? Why did he kill the ex-wife of the sovietnik3, Roman Barkov? To let him have the taste of losing someone dearly?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

You smile. “You love me the most when I open my mouth—wide and nicely.”

Simon widens his eyes. Eyebrows knitted together and to be perfectly honest—he is not surprised at all. He knows you too well, he has an expectation that the things that are verbalized from your thoughts are either messy, unhinged, or straight up obscene. Sometimes, it’s the concoction of all three.

“In any case, we know why, don’t we—Simon?”

“For God’s sake—"

Knock-knock.

“Simon? You there? Can I come in?”

Price’s voice is muffled a little by the door that stands between him and the room that Simon is occupying right now. The detective takes a deep breath, shoots you a glare, before answering, “Yes. I’m here.”

Price takes the statement as a consent for him to approach Simon. The Inspector grabs the door’s handle, rotates it slightly, and expands an access for him to enter the room. After he goes in, he closes the door with a push using his back.

Price throws a furtive peek towards two boxes of fried noodles. A take-out. One of them is half-eaten, and the other is untouched—sitting compliantly on top of the desk, with wrapped chopsticks on its side and all.

“I thought we are gonna review this in the morning, hm-mnn?” Price delivers a mild and harmless teasing.

Simon tugs the corner of his lips a little. It isn’t obvious under that mask, but—Price can see the way Simon’s eyes are lifted. “Sorry. Can’t help it. Just wanna solve this.”

You snort—trying your best to swallow back your laugh.

“You need to tone it down a little, Simon.” The tone of Price’ sentence is undoubtedly tender. It is not an absolute order nor an ultimatum—just a friendly, sympathetic reminder. “You’ll crash if you keep doing this.”

Simon doesn’t respond. Seeing that, you decide to return the remark on his behalf, “Work is his way to avoid overthinking, Sir. He’ll pipe down once he’s satisfied.”

Price sighs.

“Why are you here, Price?” Simon finally asks. “I’m sure there is something else beside the suggestion to sleep?”

This time—Price breathes out a playful sneer. He raises his right arm—his fingers are anchored to the files he’s been holding. “Your medical assessment.”

“What does it say?”

You’re gazing at them. Pupils are focusing on two men exchanging words and you intertwine your own fingers.

“You might wanna see it yourself. You’ve been ignoring this far too long—enough is enough,” Price tells him firmly. He puts down the document. For a moment, the blue eyes of his are softened, and he squeezes Simon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Simon. I’m not telling you to get it over with, but—be kind to yourself. You might feel you’re fine, but it doesn’t hurt to admit that you’re not.”

Simon feels anger crawling up to his chest, then slowly bleeding to his head. But before it turns into something unretractable, he extinguishes it—calmly, within a heartbeat. His common sense and the cogs of his mind are working clearly and he knows better than to lash out.

“I know,” he utters. “Just … I don’t want to think about it. Working here is far better than—,” he stops.

—than staying at home, with the remnants of her in every part of the house?

Price completes the sentence in his own head, but he doesn’t transform it into a tangible voice. Instead, he takes a few seconds. He knows he needs to weigh every word; he’s walking on a thin line, and he has no choice but to tread carefully. “It wasn’t your fault, son. You did her best—she did too. And for what it’s worth—I believe she wouldn’t want to see you break yourself; for her or even your sake.”

Simon scoffs gently. “Just wanna live up to the expectation, Inspector.”

“Mh-hmn.” Price looks at the investigation board. Photos and information are neatly sticked there. Too precise for his liking. “And who knows, maybe this is their karma. You reap what you sow, right? Probably better for them to die and stop makin’ a mess in this town, or any other one.”

The brown-eyed man counters the half-hearted joke with the same tone, “Probably. Too bad, Price—if someone other than me heard you, you’d have been faced with arraignment real quick.”

Price’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Go home. Or wherever you want to be—but not here. Take a rest. Enjoy your night. ‘Ya hear me?”

Simon relaxes his body, falls his shoulders from its stiff stance before. He smiles and nods. “Crystal. Goodnight, Price.”

“Night, Simon.”

After Price’s withdrawal, silence fills the room once more. The ringing in Simon’s ear, however—remains intact, possibly gets louder in every passing time, echoing in his head.

Your call jerks him out, “Simon. Do you want to continue—or … perhaps go home and take a rest?”

You slant your head a little. Voice meek and sheepish—almost innocent, pristine like a growing child who knows nothing but the small world of her backyard. An extreme switch from the arrogant and witty behaviour you present before. An insane, inconsistent change that makes his head spiral; as if throwing him out of his reality.

However, hearing the geniality in his own ears, Simon sighs. The sharpness in his words erode when he says, “No—I don’t want to continue. Besides, look at the time. We’re almost late.”

You check the clock—hanging obediently at the wall. Ten past twenty. You beam, eyes are sparkling.

Simon’s lips form a simple curve. “Let’s go.”

“Okay!”

His eye is sealed into the crosshair. At the end of that scope, there is a man, pacing back and forth in his place. A skyscraper building, mimics a castle with all its residents inside of it. Well—it might not be a hyperbole to call him a king.

“Aha. Vladimir Makarov himself—Godfather of Bratva, the Boss, the man in charge. What a title.” You sag your body against the short wall. A simple barrier to enunciate there is a void across the roof you’re sitting on. Head straight up ahead. The visual of a night sky is served at your sight.

Simon let the red mark trailing the man’s every footstep.

Makarov is on the phone with someone. His body gesture is erratic and a clear dread can be seen through the way he’s screaming. His nerves are bulging on his neck, sternocleidomastoid muscles are lengthened from the base of his jaw to his clavicula—every time he shrieks to whoever pitiful receiver at the end of that phone call.

His first and foremost man; a security guard of his—Imran Zakhaev, is standing near him.

“You’re not gonna do the usual, Simon?”

“What usual?” His voice is deep and raspy and the question is rhetorical.

“You know,” you alter your body, now facing the same direction he is. “Trash around the house, rearrange it, or—something?”

“No need,” he declares, not so powerful that the world can hear it, but making sure you are able to. “This is just to finish the job.”

You grin. “To banish evil down to its roots, hmn?”

Simon stops the chatter. His eye is fixating on the target. And bless—or curse?—the skill of his that has been honed since the first time he entered this industry; when he pulls the trigger, a silver bullet glides from the barrel, steadfast towards its destination, before accurately piercing the skull of that poor man, rendered him useless in a matter of a second, and his body falls to the floor like a opossums pretend to be dead.

The difference is—he is dead.

Simon launched one more bullet. This time, it ends Imran Zakhaev’s life.

The grin in your lips grows. “Finally satisfied?”

“Humn.” He’s tidying up his rifle, putting it back to its case.

“Should we go back, then?” You stand and stretch your arms up in the air. Your smile persists as usual, sweet and naïve. “Maybe we could buy a gelato on the way home? I really want a salted caramel—oh, and maybe we could try the stracciatella!”

Simon huffs. He zips up the case. He’s still sitting there, taking his breath. Dear whoever God is listening—his head is hurting, and sound won’t crumble no matter how many pills he has gulped down.

“Simon?” You blink, sitting near him. Your hands reach his. He can feel the warmth and it makes his stomach hurl. It makes his chest tightens and he knows it’s a really short countdown until his heart is stopped—either by the headache, or by his own hand.

“Let’s go home?” you offer.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Can’t do it anymore. I’m really—tired.”

“Yes,” you affirm. “That’s why, we go home, take a rest, sleep, and—wake up as usual tomorrow! Okay? You promised Johnny to bring him a sandwich from your favourite place, right?”

You are greeted by silence. Simon sighs and he reaches behind his back—and when you realize it, his fingers already clamped on a small gun.

“Nononono, Simon, aren’t we—doing just well?” You force a smile. A nervous, desperate, laughter is rumbling from the base of your larynx. “It’s finished! It’s finished, right? Please?”

“Stop—fuck.” His chest is up and down, slowly, following the heaviness of his breathing pace. Your voice lingering inside his eardrums, making its way through his head, and the sweetness in it is almost sickening. “Stop talking.”

Your eyes broaden when he lays the muzzle in his temple.

“Si—”

Patient Medical Record

Patient Information: Simon Riley

Date of Birth: 18 April 1989

Address: [redacted]

Height – Weight: 6’2 – 224 lbs

In Case of Emergency: [redacted. The involved party has passed away]

Diagnosis: Non-penetrating TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury)

By Dr. Phillip Graves

As requested by Greater Manchester Police, a thorough medical examination was conducted on Mr. RILEY, Simon, after a case on 5th August 2023. Patient received a hard blow on his frontal lobe. Physically speaking, the blunt trauma on the skull is not severe. However, a neurological and psychological exam are encouraged to provide more information regarding the patient’s motor and sensory skills, test hearing and speech, coordination and balance, changes in mood or behaviour, and mental status. It is not uncommon for patients with TBI experiencing auditory and sensory hallucination.

Warning: Individual with a history of TBI never experience suicidal thoughts, however, there is a high possibility that a PTSD or a recent lost of an important person could increasing the risk for suicidal thoughts and behaviours. Mr. Simon Riley is encouraged to seek medical help.

A/N:

Bratva: Russian Mafia

The hierarchy is basically like this:

1. Boss/Godfather/Pakhan

2. Two Spies/Sovietnik

3. Bookkeeper

4. Brigadier

LMAO this is such a cliche story, I like it. I’ll come back next time with a much lighter story because my brain hurts lololol.

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