I wipe the ticklish blood off my cheeks and give her a smile. It seems to scare her even more. Maybe because she can sense what's going to happen now, how it's going to finish. She tries to talk but no loud sound escapes her, just a slight gurgling that manages to pass her damages windpipe. But I know what she wants to say. She wants me to stop. She wants to talk. She wants to scream. She wants to escape.

I grab her jaw and move my mouth silently so she can see it: 'you're not going to escape.'
Her skin turns sheet-white and she shakes her head frantically, tears still streaming out her face.

I smile.

My right hand strengthens its hold on the knife, my other hand still on her jaw, and I tip her head back so her neck in completely made-bare. I press the sharp edge against her neck and slowly press it, rupturing the milky skin and allowing red liquid to flow freely. The warm blood runs through my fingers, painting them in a red colour.

She tries to shakes me off, her limbs shaking, her head trying to break free, but she can't. Like I couldn't.

A shiver runs through me.

I scream as I violently slash her neck, fully opening it. I stab at her body, the blood sprinkling all over, covering the walls and the floors of a red carpet. I continue until the emptiness I crave for comes again. I then drop the knife that falls to the wooden floor with a small, barely audible sound. I tip my head back, feeling the cold air on my soaking face and waiting for the frantic pounding of my heart to calm down.

I stand up, placing the knife carefully in my bag and giving the corpse a last blank gaze before exciting the room. I burn the bloody clothes in the old fireplace and put on some new ones after having splashing water on my sticky skin. I keep the glue on my finger pads though—so not to worry about possible fingerprints. I don't bother taking care of the body: It's a whore's house, nobody will come for a long time, at least not until the smell bleeds outside. Smell. It smells like blood in the room. When I step out the door and onto the street, it's the wet scent of winter that greets me. I take a deep breath.

"Mister," says a young voice.

Annoyance comes to me at the familiar voice. I glance down to see the usual eight years old boy that never seems to be one step away from me. Except when I'm killing.

"Leave me alone," I say but there's no real animosity in my tone: I know he won't listen to a word I pronounce.

He ignores my demand—as usual—and asks his usual question.

"Why kill?"

I just sigh at his question and start walking away. Away from my deed. Away from his tiresome question. I walk down the streets until they shrink and transform into one wild path that curves down the hill. When the sun comes everyday to chase the shadows away, I have a clear view of the city's centre below. I even have one now, thanks to the street lamps, though it's less clear. So pretty, so shiny, so fake. The buildings always seem to be desperately reaching out to the sky. But the sky won't ever reach for them. They're doomed to stay in this depression, surrounded by taller hills. I'm on the Red Light district hill. At this time of day, nobody's up here, too tired or already gone. The sun still hasn't risen.

'Tomorrow is a new day'.

But tomorrow's the same as yesterday.

I shake my head, exhausted by my own thoughts.

I feel a small hand grab my sleeve and glance down to see the boy's wide green eyes.

"Aren't you scared?", I suddenly blurt out.

He cocks his head.

I clench my teeth.

"I'm a murderer.", I tell him, looking straight in his eyes.

He doesn't blink and cocks his head on the other side.

"I could kill you.", I say.

He suddenly smiles.

"Mister is kind."

I explode in laughter, shoulders shaking.

"Kind you say? So kindness means murder for you?", I reply

"...no. Mummy said it's bad to kill."

I flinch and snatch my sleeve back.

"Then, go see your mummy and leave me alone.", I snap, my tone dripping in venom.

He frowns and I sigh, already regretting my outburst.

"But mummy's gone."

I scowl at him.

"I see. Well, go find her."

"Mummy said I should never go even if she went away."

So his mummy abandoned him.

I smirk.

They all leave, one way or the other.

"Leave me alone," I say before swiftly turning away from the view of this wretched city.

I jog down the moss covered stairs that lead the centre of the city. The stairs are old, jagged lines running down their cobble steps, and little plants peeking in between the stone. It would be a jungly path if not for the people trampling it up and down. There's nobody here now but when the heavy curtain of darkness starts to comes down, you can see lovers run up, wrapped in each others arms, or just rich folk looking to relieve their lust. The latter is the most frequent happening. This path does lead to a Red Light district and rare are the people here who know of love. You can't call them lovers.

It takes about half and hour to arrive at the centre.

I finally enter my home with a small yawn. It's a simple home, with a simple design. I've lived here since father found me.

I lived somewhere else before.

I lived with mama before.

I scowl.

I'm alone now.

She's dead.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"Hello?"

Tap.

Tap.

I waited.

A tremble.

Knife glinting.

I gripped it.

Tap.

Tap.

It stopped in front of the door.

"Hello?"

Door open.

A stab.

Blood.

A silent scream.

Fear.

Shock.

Relief.

She's dead.

And I'm the one who killed her.

I place my long coat on the wooden coat hanger, before moving away. I pause and go back to the coat. Just to make sure. I sweep my eyes over it and sigh in relief when I don't see any dark spots. It's normal there isn't since I took it off before my deed... but you can never be too sure. I yawn but blink my eyes open to stay awake.

Before sleeping, I have something to do. Something I always do after a kill. I walk down the empty corridor and open a room. The room is small, bare, dark. Like my childhood 'room' was. There's no window here though and the only light is from the candle I take. I light it. The flickering halo shows a table in the centre of the room. I open my duffel bag and pull the knife out. It's still coated in blood. I carefully take it before placing it on the table, with the other knifes.

23 knifes.

23 times I killed mama.

I know only the first one was mama but... she died too quickly. Way too quickly. Killing other whores like mama...it helps. It feels...I don't know how to explain it. It doesn't feel good, it feels more. I'm repaying every slap, every word, every gift. It offers me relief.

I was twelve when I killed mama.

Thirteen when I decided one wasn't enough.

Thirteen and a half when I decided two wasn't enough.

And at the age of 21, I've killed 23 whores.

I'm not proud. I know it's 'bad'. But I need—want to do this.

It's revenge, I guess.

Even if it's only in my head.

I flinch when I hear a ringing sound echo in the empty house.

The phone.

I walk to the living room, a short way since it's just next to the Room. The living room also wears a simple design. All the rooms in this house have a simple design. I take the phone from its stand and press it to my ear.

"John Ray here," I say.

"Hey detective!" says an energetic and familiar voice. "We've got a lead."

I clench my fists.

"It's three in the morn," I say.

"I know, I know! Sorry man. But the city's worried about the stream of murders. They've told us to follow all leads as quickly as possible."

"It's three in the morning," I repeat. "It's good that we have a lead but nobody's gonna be awake now. It's public comfort, we can't bother them this early."

"Public confort! Ha! That damn place would be open all day if there wasn't a lockdown," interrupts another voice, dripping in sarcasm.

"Shut up, you fucker!" shouts Jack to the voice before coming back to me. "The lead comes from a prostitute..." he explains, voice trembling in hardly contained anger. "And you know what the city thinks about them..."

As hardly human.

"I see.", I exhale. "I'll be right there," I hang up, not waiting for a reply from him.

I wipe my hair away from my face. It seems I'm in for a sleepless night again. I enter my bathroom and drag a stool from a corner. I step and reach up to open the cupboard. I rummage in it before finding what I'm looking for. I turn the bottle open and shake it, a couple of white pills falling out. I toss them in my mouth before swallowing a mouthful of water and swallowing. I scowl. The taste is goddamn awful. But I can already feel energy fill my exhausted brain and body, making the bitter taste fade to the background.

When I exit the front door, I take my coat and my scarf. I slip my arms in the coat and roll the scarf around my neck as I walk. I put my hands in my pockets.

The boy is still there, shivering in the cold air. When I pass by him, he starts following.

The city is still silent at this time of night. The cold air of winter slaps my face and I tighten my scarf.

I hear a small laugh behind me. I glance back and see the boy, playing with his breath. He makes smoke appear by blowing before slapping it away.

I put my attention back on the road and turn left. I cross the sidewalk and arrive in front of the police station. It's the only thing that's open now, to the police officers's greatest remorse.

I open the door and nod a hello to the exhausted-looking officer that's surveilling the place.

"Jack's in the office," says Henry.

"Okay, thanks," I reply, quickly heading to the dresser.

I dress myself in my uniform before going to the office. I open the wooden door and enter the usually clean place. One of our comrades is a clean freak. He overworks everyday to clean the place perfectly—he doesn't trust the cleaners.

Today the place is a mess.

And that says a lot about how exhausting the murder spree is for the police.

Since the murders concern whores the City usually wouldn't care but...23 is a lot. Panic settled in the city centre—where the rich live—and the City was obliged to take action. You never know. 'That' murderer could go after a rich lady. The City hasn't wasted resources to protect the Red Light District but has to protect rich ladies who already have personal guards. And that says a lot about a whore's place in society.

"John!" exclaims Jack, relief clear in his face.

His sparkly eyes are sunken with fatigue and he's hardly washed up, hair spiking everywhere.

"Let's go!" he exclaims, grabbing me and heaving me after him.

"JACK!" screams a voice.

It's Karl, the clean freak. He throws a brush at Jack.

"You're not going everywhere without brushing your hair!"

"Who are you?! My mama?" scowls Jack, kicking the brush away.

I clench my fists.

"Mama?"

Silence.

A laugh.

"Let's have a fun game"

Fear.

"Run, my boy, run."

Panic.

"John?"

I flinch, my breath hitching, and stare at Garry's round face. I rub my face.

"I didn't sleep enough..."

I scratch at my elbow, suddenly uncomfortable in my tight clothes. Too classy. A black suit tightly buttoned up to my chin, black trousers, shiny shoes. A holster is attached to my waist, the gun ready to be taken out. The worst is the hat, a heavy and uncomfortable thing.

Jack and Karl are still arguing, the former trying to escape the latter's perfectionism. Garry sighs as he looks at the familiar scene.

"What's the lead?" I ask him.

He scratches his chin, looking bored as he shrugs.

"It's from a whore. Probably some nonsense again."

We've had whores call us at least ten time with far-fetched ideas on who the killer is. There was someone who said her neighbour was the killer because on the night of the murders he wasn't home—and it was revealed he was at the bar, like every single night for a damned long time. Then there was this old hag, she said it was a demon because she saw a shadow near of the murder sites and when she turned the corner it was gone and blood was pooling underneath the half open door. The idea was quickly dismissed. Demons, and what else? Ghosts?

None of the whores that called us or we called upon revealed anything of interest.

Which is normal since none of them were even awake when the murders happened. And none have ever suspected me.

I was eleven at the first murder, who would suspect a child? Especially since they don't know the first whore to be killed was mama. And they don't know what she did.

"John!" exclaims Jack, his head intruding the one meter perimeter around me.

"What?" I ask.

"We're not going until five at least right?" he says.

What?

"Then why did you call me here?" I scowl. "And where the heck are you dragging me to?" I add when he grabs me and pulls me out of the office.

"I need a drink! We're going to get a drink!" he cheers, one hand in the air.

"You need sleep! We should get some sleep!" I retort.

"And take off that uniform!" says Jack, ignoring my interruption.

"I just put it on!"

He ignores me and throws me into the changing room. I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. I get undressed and pull on my white shirt and black trousers. I slip on my long coat and adjust the collar. When I'm done, I walk out not bothering to glance at the mirror.

I don't like mirrors.

Crack.

"Look! That's you!"

Swollen.

Disgusting.

"You're so pretty!"

Laughing.

"Let's play! I have a gift for you."

Fear.

I don't like it.

I slap my cheeks.

"John?" exclaims Jack.

"Just thinking," I say. "that no bar will be open at this time of night."

"I know. We're going to my house."

I scowl.

"Mum will be so happy to see you," he adds.

I clench and unclench my fists.

I don't like his house. Too warm.

"We should really concentrate on the case," I say. "You said the City wanted this to be finished as quickly as possible."

"Don't be such a killjoy," he pouts. "A few drink, that's all."

"Don't be such a moron!" snaps Karl, appearing behind Jack, to the latter's horror. "You'll get a drink later. You have to go to the red light District now."

Do I have to put back my uniform?

"Just stay in casual clothes," says Garry, having guessed my thought. "They're just whores. They won't suspect us. You don't have to bother showing you're a police officer."

"Take your damn badges at least!" says Karl. "You never know what could happen."

I nod, showing the badge I hid in a pocket. I always have it on. At least when I'm not a murderer.

"Good. Now go," continues Karl, staring intently at Jack.

Jack finally sighs, knowing fully well he wouldn't win this fight.

We go, greeting Henry on our way out. I shiver at the cold air, and stuff my hands in my coat.

"That boy's still following you?" asks Jack, having noticed the boy.

I shrug, not responding.

"You should adopt him," he says after a moment of silent walking. "Or at least send him to an orphanage."

"It's not my problem," I reply.

Jack frowns and rummages in his pockets. He turns around and kneels in front of the boy. The boy just stares at him. Jack takes the boy's hand and drops a candy in.

"Here!" he smiles.

The boy peers at the candy then at me. As if asking for authorisation.

Jack muffles a laugh, getting back up. He sweeps his pants before putting an arm around my shoulder.

"Never mind what I said. You should just adopt him. I don't think he'll accept going to an orphanage," he gives an exaggerated sigh. "Just what did you do to win him over?"

"I didn't win him over," I reply with a scowl.

Jack laughs again and puts his hands in his pockets again. He takes out a cigar and a lighter. He lights his cigar, dragging a big breath. He exhales heavy smoke.

"Did you steal that from Karl?" I ask, looking at the brand.

It's the brand Karl usually smokes.

Jack just answers with a grin and another puff.

We pass the house I live in and head up the hill. The one I walked down almost half an hour ago. There's no sound and even Jack feels forced to stay silence. It seems as if nothing should ever break this silence. I shortly close my eyes, still walking and feeling the cool air on my face.

"Fuck!" shouts out Jack when a owl hoots.

I startle and stare at him. He glances around before rubbing his arms when a shiver shakes him.

"Fucking path is as fucking creepy as ever," he swears.

"Scaredy cat," I answer.

He blows smoke in my face and I start to cough my lungs out, tears in my eyes and hands flailing around in an attempt to chase the fumes away.

"Bastard! What did you do that for?!" I exclaim, my vision still blurry.

"That's what you get for insulting me," Jack sticks his tongue out at me.

He drops his spent out cigar on the ground and grinds it under his heel. The wind chases the remaining smoke downhill, and I can breath again—though the bitter taste of cigar still remains.

"Do you think we'll get a real lead today?" asks Jack, wanting to kick the silence out.

"I hope."

I doubt.

"Just wondering but...when does this boy sleep?" asks Jack, glancing at the boy still trudging behind us.

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Do you at least let him in your house?"

I sigh, irritation starting to get to me.

"Why would I? He's got nothing to do with me!"

Jack stares at me in shock.

"Wait. You just leave him out in the cold?"

"If that bothers you, take him yourself."

"You damn bastard."

I kick a stone out of my way, fed up with both the boy and Jack.

"I'm not gonna let a random brat enter the place I live in," I snarl.

Jack clicks his tongue at me.

He stops in his stride and shrugs off his coat. He crouches to be on the kid's level and puts the cloak around the boy's shoulders. He pats his head, ruffling the boy's dark hair.

"If you want a warm place you can follow me. This heartless prick will never change him mind," he says kindly, adding venom when he mentions me.

The boy stares at him before shaking his head and causing a sighs to escape Jack's lips. The boy tries to shrug off the coat but Jack forces the coat on.

"You can keep it. It's a gift."

Thump.

"It's a gift!"

Hurt.

Scared.

I growl, shaking my head, and put my attention back on Jack and the kid. He gives the boy a big smile but only get silence as a reply.

"We have to move.", I say, cutting through the 'heartwarming' moment.

Jack glares at me but knows I'm right and gets up.

"I'm mad at you," he states, looking away from me.

I exhale and gaze up at the night sky. You can't see any stars, only clouds and smoke. Maybe it's going to rain today. I sigh yet again. That would be just my luck.

"I hate long walks!" wines Jack after a couple minutes of blessed silence.

How is he older than me?!

"It's only a half an hour walk," I say.

"That's a lot!" he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and leaning on me.

"Aren't you supposed to be angry at me?" I say, extracting myself from his hold.

"I am! You're a heartless beast to let a poor boy out in the cold," he points at me in an accusing manner. "But I'd be punishing myself too if I stay silent and bored. And I haven't done anything wrong. Don't worry! I'll make sure you pay for your heartlessness," he grins, putting a hand over his chest.

"Are you sure you didn't drink?" I have to ask.

He hits my arm, earning himself a pained shout on my part.

"Bastard," he says.

A clutter of houses finally surround us and we find ourselves in the Red District. It must be around 4 in the morning now and the bars and the whores are going to wake soon.

"Where did the whore with the lead live?", I ask, having stopped walking.

"Don't say whore it's rude," says Jack before searching in his pockets.

I roll my eyes at him. Him and his politeness.

After a diligent search, he triumphantly holds up a paper.

"It says 32 Washer Road."

I frown.

Washer Road was where I was earlier.

We make our way through the city, looking for the street and the lead. We find ourselves in front of a familiar door.

Damn it.

My right hand ruffles my hair and a sigh escapes me.

I guess the murder will be discovered earlier than I thought.

Jack knocks on the door. Nobody replies for some time and he knocks again. He frowns at me when there's still no answer.

"You think they can't hear me?"

I shrug at him.

I think they're dead.

He waits for some time before rolling his hands into a fist and banging against the door.

"Hello? This is the police!" shouts Jack.

The house stays silent and he clenches his teeth.

"Please open the door or we'll be under the obligation to enter by force!" he says, still banging against the door.

There's still no response.

"We're going to have to break down the door," he tells me, upset.

I give him a nod and we press a shoulder against the door. We take a step away from the door before slamming into it. It only takes one try for the rotten wood to crack and shatter under our weight. I swipe the pieces of wood off my coat as Jack steps in first.

"Hello?" he calls out.

"Maybe the lead isn't here. They might be whoring somewhere," I say.

Jack frowns.

"Maybe...", he says, not appearing convinced.

He hesitates, glancing at the broken door, before giving me a shake of his head.

"We should still take a look. What if she's not feeling well or something?"

I bob my head, internally annoyed.

"Hello?" he calls out, walking deeper into the house. "This is the police. You said you had information to tell us? Hello?"

A coppery scent starts filling the atmosphere. Jack realises what that means and starts running. He hardly pauses in front of the door before throwing it open.

"Fuck," he spits out.

I don't have to see it; I can already picture it vividly in my mind.

A cold corpse, warm blood, dry tears, wide slashes, still violence.

"Fuck," repeats Jack, steadying himself on the doorframe.

His body is shaking.

"You can't be a police officer without seeing blood," I say.

"I'm not scared.", he bites out. "I'm so, so, angry."

The rotten wood under his hand creaks.

"I swear I'm going to find the fucker who did this and put them where they belong."

There's rage in his voice. Rage against the 'injustice'. Rage against the merciless violence.

"Maybe the killer has a reason?"

I bite my lip as soon as the words are out.

I just keep saying unnecessary things today.

"Never mind," I say, rubbing my forehead. "I'm tired toda—"

"I'm sure they do."

I blink in surprise. Jack looks at me, pain and rage mingling in his eyes.

"But still...this is murder!", shouts Jack, rawness in his voice. "These people had lives, futures. And it was stolen from them."

I bite my lip.

"They had families! How will their mother feel when they realise their child is dead?!"

A chilling wind blows in the room. I pull on my scarf, tightening it around my neck.

"'Sad', I guess," I reply, cold.

There's a moment of silent stares before Jack turns his back on me. He takes off his hat and presses it to his chest. He closes his eyes and bows his head to the body.

"I hope you the best."

A 'good' person. I guess that's what you would call Jack.

When he's done, he breathes in deeply and exhales.

"Okay. I'm calm now," he turns his back on the corpses to look at me. "Let's do our job."

I nod and we walk out of the lifeless house.

Jack scratches the back of his neck, probably wondering what to do. Fortunately for him, there's a club next door. It's currently closed but we just need the owner to let us in.

"Hello!" knocks Jack.

Silence stays for a while before the clatter of fast footsteps breaks it. The door gets swinged open violently.

"Hey you damn fuckers. The place is closed, psychos. Can't you read?! Go run back to your fucking hole!"

"Excuse me," says Jack with calmness. "We would like the borrow your phone."

The guy's face twists in a enraged expression.

"Get some fucking cash to buy your own fucking phone. Little fuckers.", he spits on us.

I grimace.

"It's for an investigation," says Jack, still polite to this pig.

"Have some fun somewhere else!" the pig tries to slam the door in our faces but I put a foot forward, blocking the door.

I take the badge out of my pocket and show it to the guy.

"Police," I say. "We'd like to use your phone. This could be counted as an obstruction to justice so please comply."

The man stares at the badge, then at me, then at Jack. He does a 180.

"I'm awfully sorry to have bothered you.", he says, rubbing his hands together as a fake smile lights his face. "I didn't expect visitors this early."

"We'd like to use your phone.", I repeat.

"Yes of course. Please come in."

He obediently lets us come in, leaving the door ajar as he follows after us. He turns the light on, a dim and reddish glow. The place has the usual feel of a red light district bar, with the smell of alcohol still present in the air, as is the smell of other things. The ceiling is stained with dark spots, an effect of the excessive smoking that happens in these places. I've never liked smoking. It just seems a useless thing to like, even thought everyone enjoys it so much. I glance around. There's a jukebox in a corner, the splash of colour contrasting with the dark wood of the walls. On the walls, neon signs and posters can be seen, showing or saying sex, drugs or alcohol related things. The worst poster in my opinion is the one pasted next to the bar. It's...anyway. Doesn't matter. Behind the bar, there are shelves with various kinds of alcohol lined up. In front, there are rows of stools. Scattered all over the place, there are booths. It's the usual red light district bar.

And the bartender is the usual double-faced bastard.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks, the smile never leaving his face.

It's illegal to buy drinks at this hour.

"No. We want your phone," I say.

"Of course," he says, barely hiding his disappointment as he motions for us to follow him.

We cross the large room and go behind the bar. There's a phone in a corner.

Jack takes it off its hook and dials in the number of our chief—the clean freak. When he's done, he presses his ear against the receiver. It takes a couple moments for a response, causing Jack to nibble his nails. Jack's face suddenly brightens up and I know Karl replied.

"We have a problem. The..." he trails off, staring at the bartender.

He shoots me a look, pointing his shin to the obstacle. I return a nod and place a hand on the bartender's arm.

"Leave."

Jack frowns at my harsh attitude and I raise an eyebrow at him. He shrugs, giving up to concentrate on his call again.

"Just one second chief."

I pressure the bartender's arm and a bothered laugh quickly escapes him.

"O-ok. I'm going to...organise my bottles."

He scurries away. I watch him go before turning to Jack, a smile lighting my face. He returns a suspicious look.

"I'm going to take a breath outside," I tell Jack, gladly taking this opportunity to escape.

"H-hey!"

I pay him no heed, already running outside. The cold breath fills my lungs as I press my back against the wall of the bar. I shuffle my foot on the concrete ground.

Did I leave anything that could link the murder to me?

I don't think I did.

I put on special clothes. I bought the clothes under another identity. I burned them after I used them.

I used gloves and added glue on my finger pads. They're shouldn't be any fingerprints.

I live alone, nobody should know I wasn't home.

Did I answer the phone too quickly? Should I have sounded more tired? I don't think I looked like someone who was asleep.

It's fine.

They know I have insomnia. If they ask I'll just tell them I was worried about the murders.

The knifes.

That's the only thing.

The knifes.

But I can't throw them away.

I can't.

They're my knifes.

Nobody should try to search my house.

Nobody would suspect me.

Nobody knows—

I feel a tug on my jacket.

I look down at the boy.

The boy.

He knows.

He's a risk.

...should I kill him?

I'm a murderer anyway.

One more won't do a thing.

I imagine wrapping my hand around the boy's neck.

A fragile neck.

He stares at me.

Green eyes.

Not blue.

Nausea starts to fill me.

Not scared.

Not mama.

I drop the hand that was already reaching out and turn my gaze away from him. He tugs my sleeve again and I glare at him.

"What?!"

He stretches his closed fist in front of him, in front of me, before slowly unrolling his finger.
There's a glow in his hand. The glow is bright, casting shadows on the ground and lighting up the boy's face.

A firefly.

I stare at the sparkling thing as it starts its flight, swimming through the thick night. It goes farther and higher, blending in with the stars had there been any.

It's glowing.

It's so bright, so pretty.

"John?" comes mama's voice.

I startle and look back.

"Do you like it?"

A smile.

Soft.

I hesitate.

I nod.

Mama goes in the field.

She's pretty.

The glow is pretty.

It's beautiful.

Mama reaches out to the glow.

The glow isn't afraid.

She curls her hand around it.

She squeezes.

Crunch.

A smile.

Blood.

No glow.

Blood.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

She walks to me.

She forces my hands open and drops it.

"Isn't it pretty?"

Blood.

A smile.

Drip.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the memory out.

"Isn't it pretty?" says the boy.

"Isn't it pretty?"

A smile.

A smile.

"It's disgusting," I snap.

He cocks his head.

"Stay away from me," I bite out, pushing him back.

He stumbles back and regains his balance before frowning at me.

"Stay. Away. From. Me," I say again. "I don't want to see you. Go find your mummy. Go to Jack. Just stay away from me."

"No."

"What?", I snarl.

"I said no," he scowls. "I don't wanna."

"Do you wanna die?!" I hiss.

He doesn't reply, a glare in his gaze. I wrap my hands around his neck for real this time.

"I just have to press a bit for your neck to go snap," I give him a smile, knowing my eyes doesn't mirror my expression. "Is that what you want?"

"John!" calls Jack from inside the bar.

I startle, my hands going limp.

"Coming!" I shout back, pushing strands of hair away from my eyes.

I open the heavy door and enter without sparing a single last glance to the boy.

Jack is sitting on one of the stools in front of the bar, legs crossed. His head in held up by his hands, his elbows on the table. He glances at me and sighs.

"What did Karl say?" I ask, dragging a stool from under the bar.

I sit down on the uncomfortable metal thing, obliged to move a couple times to get in a cosy position.

"He said they're coming. We have to wait."

"Why are you sighing then?", I ask, confusions marring me.

"Because there is so much alcohol and we can't even drink some!" he wines, suddenly putting his head in his arms. "It's awful!" he exclaims, banging his fist on the bar counter.

I give him a less-than-impressed look.

He raises his head and glances back at the door.

"We should go now I think."

"Why? You don't want to have to stare at alcohol for who knows how much time?"

He playfully punches me in the gut.

"Shut up detective."

I frown, annoyed by the nickname.

Jack has this need to nickname everything. Everything. His police badge is called Edward. Karl's name is CM—short for Cleaning Maid, I think. I'm detective for some reason. Even my tie has a name; Jarol. Don't ask me why, I have no clue.

I drag a hand across my face in fatigue before swiftly turning around and getting out of that bar, Jack following me.

I don't know where the bartender/owner is, but I know he's sure to be glad we're finally gone. He's going to be so disappointed when the fleet of policeman arrive.

I sit crosslegged on the step of the victim's house. Jack gives me a look and I just shrug, causing him to exhale. It seems he's too uncomfortable to be next to the entrance. He stays standing, leaning on the walls. He suddenly sneezes. A curse escapes him.

"It's cold dammit! If only there was snow..."

I raise an eyebrow at him.

"That would only come in the way of our investigation.", I say.

He sticks his tongue out at me.

"You're no fun.", he states before staring at the dark sky. "It doesn't matter. Because snow is pretty."

He stretches a hand to the sky, as if to try and touch something.

"It's all glittery and sparkly. It's a gift in cold times."

I flinch.

A gift.

I don't like gifts.

Gifts hurt.

I shake my thoughts away.

They don't anymore.

But my brain can't throw learnt instincts away that easily.

"Isn't that right boy?", smiles Jack, focusing past me.

I glance to my right, the boy entering my field of vision. A scowl twists my face and I quickly turn my attention elsewhere.

Does he want to die?!

Why is he still here?!

Why can't he just leave me alone?!

The boy doesn't peep a word to Jack, causing the latter to sigh.

"Does he ever speak?" he asks me.

"How should I know?!" I snap, my temper only leashed with a frayed rope.

"Wow man. Calm down," he says, raising his hands

I glare at him.

"You had a bad night," he remarks.

I rub my temples, a headache starting its growth in my head.

"What a observant remark! You should get a medal," I say, my voice dripping in a sarcasm that quickly gets replaced by wrath as I spread open my arms to motion at the surroundings. "It's still night! And I'm awake, next to a murder site, incessantly pestered by a brat and a guy who's hobby is drinking."

"It's not my hobby!" he says, faking deep hurt. "Drinks are a necessary part of my life!"

"Of course, of course.", I roll my eyes. "Just say you're an addict."

His face shadow over and I turn my head away. He doesn't find anything to say and we stay in silence.

I rub my icky-feeling eyes and a yawn escapes me.

I'm exhausted.

The meds seem to be working for now: I haven't fainted. But it doesn't help with mental fatigue. The annoyed feeling in my chest dissipates and I sigh, guilty. I shouldn't have snapped like that. It was unfair for Jack. Especially since I know how sensitive to addicts he is.

"I...I didn't mean that. Sorry.", I finally say, after what seems like hours.

"Ha. It's fine.", he grins.

He gives a light punch to my shoulder.

It's not.

Everybody at the police station knows his father was an addict. A Marijuana addict, when that drug was still legal. I heard he was a kind person, but the war had made him crave for comfort, and the comfort he found ended up deadly. He died in an traffic accident while high on drugs. The accident is also the reason for the huge scar that's traced on Jack's arm. At least that's the rumours. Jack never speaks of it, but it's obvious 'drugs' and 'addict' are words that should never be spoken in front of him.

"Hey!" calls out a familiar voice.

I get snatched out of my thoughts and see the culprit: Karl with his clean face and neat garments.

Jack sends him a wave of the hand before helping me up.

A couple other guys are with him.

"It's infuriating you can't drive a car up that fucking slope," snarls Karl, straightening his tie.

"It's exhausting to have to come up here every time a whore gets themselves killed," complains Garry.

Jack scowls at Garry.

"'Gets themselves killed'?! You think they wanted to?!" snaps Jack.

"If they found themselves another job they wouldn't have the risk," shrugs Garry, rolling his eyes. "Going out that late at night and bringing a stranger home? They're begging to get murdered."

"You think they have a choice?!", says Jack, rage lighting his figure. "Most prostitutes have to sell their bodies to be able to eat and live another day!"

"Yeah, yeah," says Garry. "And you're an expert on whores. If they had brains they would know there's always another choice."

"Not always, you pig-faced bastard."

"Pig-faced?! That's rich coming from a—" Garry doesn't get to finish as a smashing sound resounds.

The two fighters startle and stare at Karl that punched the wall, causing the fragile structure to slightly crack.

"Shut up you bastards. There's been a murder. I don't want any unsightly fighting."

Jack and Garry both seem to have something to say about the 'unsightly' part but refrain from commenting, bowing their heads in acknowledgement.

"All right," says Karl before turning to me. "You go interrogate the neighbours with Jack and Simon."

I nod and see Jack and Simon do the same. Simon gives me a smile and I raise an eyebrow.

Simon is a violent person, having no hesitation to bully witnesses just to reveal the truth. His slim face and shiny smile don't show off his bloody nature.

I guess he's a bit like me in that way. Nobody would suspect us with first glances.

The difference is that he's violent for justice and I kill for myself.

He's the better person between the two of us.

We don't wait for Karl to distribute the rest of the roles and already walk down the street .

"Should we interrogate the club owner first?" I ask, pausing in front of the said-club.

Simon raises an eyebrow in question while Jack nods.

"We had to go to the bar to make a call," explains Jack to Simon as I knock on the same door as before.

The bartender opens his door. With caution this time, probably not wanting to repeat his previous mistake. A startled look shows on his face when he sees us.

"W-what can I do for you again good sirs?" he says.

"This is an investigation.", says Simon.

"What?" says the bartender, his face twitching. "I didn't go over the lockdown. And we don't sell—"

"Not because of that.", I interrupt. "There's been a murder in your neighbourhood."

His face goes blank.

"What? Who?!" he exclaims, something resembling worry appearing on his face.

Well, would you look at it that. The 'ruffian' guy has a caring side to him.

"The whore next door," says Simon, pushing the ruffian aside and entering.

"Camille?", blurts out the barman as he follows us in.

We end up in the same bar as before. Before we can say another word, the grating sound of a rusty door opening is heard and a woman steps in from where I guess is their living space. She's probably the bartender's wife with dark grey hair held up in a messy bun and droopy eyes. The woman notices us and a startled look crosses her face before she glares at us, not hiding her aversion.

"What are fucking cops doing here?!"

"Gee. Thanks for the warm welcome," mutters Simon behind me, voice low so they don't hear.

What did you expect? People of the Red Light District don't hold cops in their heart.

...Actually, nobody does.

"Marie!" exclaims the bartender, before glancing at us with a worried expression. "I'm sorry. She must feeling under the weather today."

"Under the weather my foot," snarls Marie, being in a confrontational mood. "What do you need?" she snaps at us.

"We're here concerning the murder of the person next door," says patiently Jack.

I don't where he gets his patience. I really want to punch that woman. And I think Simon is on the same wavelength.

"Murder?" parrots Marie, all enmity gone and replaced by shock.

"Was it Camille?" asks us the bartender.

"If Camille is the person in the rundown house next door, then yes," I say.

"She has long black hair," adds Jack, having had a look at her corpse. "And has a small physique."

The bartender and Marie exchange a glance. Marie scoffs, hand rolled into a fist.

"I told her not to call the damn police. That was asking to get murdered!"

Simon shoots a look at Jack that then redirects it to me.

"Do you know what information she wanted to tell the police?", I ask.

Marie glares at me and responds begrudgingly.

"She knew who the murderer was."

"Oh. I see. And would you happen to know too?" I ask, uninterested.

Like I've mentioned before, a lot of whores thought they knew the murderer's identity. And not one actually did. This time won't be any different.

She doesn't answer, turning away to get herself a glass. She then heads to the bar, grabbing a bottle and pouring some brandy. She swallows it before slamming the cup on the bar.

"Miss..." says Jack.

I frown at his expression. Why does he seem to be expecting something?

I look at Simon to see the same feeling on his face, though more muted. I'm confused. Why do they seem to think this might be an actual lead?

...oh. The whore was murdered just after calling the police. They must be thinking the murderer might've killed her to silence her.

"I don't know anything," finally replies Marie, staring back at us.

"Marie..." trails off the bartender.

"Miss...!" says Jack.

"And you didn't hear this from me," she continues as she grabs a stool and sits on it, legs crossed.

Jack gives a relieved sigh and the bartender swipes the cold sweat on his brow. He must've been scared of an altercation between the police and Marie.

"I'm going to talk about what happened to make Camille think he was the murderer, first," she announces before taking a deep breath.

"Around 30 years ago, a friend of mine—who had disappeared but that's another story— came back with her 10 years old child. She unfortunately died not long after. Plague you see. Anyway, we raised the child as our own. The whole neighbourhood adored that cute girl. She was such a bright and cheerful kid, you couldn't not like her. When she was 15, she had to start taking work. We ain't rich and we wouldn't live forever. She managed to get by with what she got thanks to her customers. It isn't a fun job especially for someone her age but it brings money. Things got more complicated when she came home pregnant."

Marie clicks her tongue, irritated at her memory. She grabs another glass of brandy, chugging it down.

I don't understand what that story got to do with our case. Jack and Simone feel the same way, glancing at each other and at me.

"Be patient!", snaps Marie, slamming a fist on the table as she sees our dubious looks. "Y'a gotta set an atmosphere."

"Just get to the point m'am.", says Simone.

"Nah. Y'a gonna listen to the end."

I'm pretty sure she's lengthening her story just to annoy us.

"So, as I said, she came home pregnant. Said she'd gotten a rich customer who loved her and bla bla bla.", she rolls her eyes. "We all know where that's heading. She went into labour and delivered a healthy baby. But she said she wanted to show the kid to the father. She went there, disappeared for one week or so and came back in tears. Said the bastard had taken her son. She was absolutely crushed. Got sick, couldn't properly work, etc. She even went to that bastards house a couple times to get her son back, but it never worked. Around ten years later, she got a message from the bastard saying that if he wanted to talk to her. She went and disappeared for nine months approximately. Came back with another kid. Her kid. She'd been forced onto. That's the one thing that the bastard did right in my opinion. Her gave her a reason to live. She'd tried to kill herself you see. It's a miracle she lasted ten years. Anyway, the second kid grew up with us. Three years later, she bursted into our house, positively glowing. The bastard had said that he was going to let her see her kid. I told her not to get her hopes up, that it was probably a trap of some kind but she wouldn't listen. She looked like a little kid. So excited to see her child... She spent a lot of money to buy a gift and went, leaving her second child in our care. She never came back. She was discovered dead the next day."

So that person was one of the victims?

"She was the first victim."

...what?

That's not possible. The first victim was mama.

And mama was not that person.

Maybe she means the person I killed after my one year break.

"Do you have a photograph?" asks Simone, his finger tapping against his leg.

He does that when his 'detective senses tingle'. Which means he thinks he found a lead.

Marie nods, putting a hand in the inner pocket of her jacket. She take a small square and hands it to Simon. He studies it intently before looking up and giving a nod.

"It's definitely one of the victims."

Jack gestures to Simon and the latter passes the photograph over. Jack also scrutinises it before staring at me.

"You wanna see?"

I don't really need to see it. I won't recognise the victim. But I nod anyway, reaching out to grab the photograph.

My breath stutters and my heart seems stop.

"Are you having fun?"

A laugh.

"I definitely am."

Drip.

"I have a surprise for you, darlin'"

Drip.

A scream.

Death.

I stare at the dead body.

She's dead.

I gaze at the photograph in a daze.

I have to keep my hands from trembling.

It's...mama.

But it can't be.

It makes no sense.

Something's wrong.

Mama.

Mama.

"John?" asks Jack. "You okay?"

I snap out of my shock, heart pounding.

"I...I'm fine," I say, not being able to muster a smile.

Jack doesn't seem convinced but I ignore his look and put my attention back on the photograph.

I study the person in the photograph.

I need to find something.

Blue eyes, dark hair.

Something.

Something must not be right.

Thin lips, wide eyes, curved eyebrow—

There!

There's no beauty mark next to the hairline.

It's not mama.

For sure.

It's not mama.

"Are you sure that's the same person?" I ask, looking back up.

"It sure looks like it," says Simon, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm pretty sure," replies Jack, still with a worried frown on.

"Why did you tell us that story?" says Simon, turning back to Marie and the bartender.

Marie shrugs.

"For sympathy. I ain't gonna lie."

Simon frowns, looking ready to snap.

"It's a very interesting story," smiles politely Jack, always the peacemaker. "But we are here because your neighbour claimed to know something about the murders. And it seems you also know. Could you please tell us?"

"Damn. You lot are always in such a hurry," she shrugs. "But I ain't finished. Now it's time for the second story."

Another one?

"This happened after. The was a lass that lived right round the corner. She lived there all her life, and her mother too, and their grandmother before. Father died at the war though but that's yet another story. She was quite the beauty, having customers even in the higher spheres. She made a decent living with her customers. She never really talked about her customers, very rare in these parts. There are only blabbermouths around here," she chugs another glass of alcohol.

That's the pot calling the kettle black.

"So, as I said, she was quite an interesting person. One day she—before that, you need to know that she does not take alcohol well. Anyway, she drank too much and talked too much. She mentioned the name of that fucking bastard, saying he'd given her a fortune. I warned her to stay away. But she never listens. She was found dead."

Simon's fingers are tapping furiously against his lap and his eyes are gleaming.

"This happened again 9 times. And all of those girls knew that bastard."

I blink.

Wow. That's one hell of a coincidence. Almost to much to be a coincidence. And I'm sure that's what Jack and Simon are thinking.

"The name?"

"Edmond Chase."

My eyes widen by a fraction.

Seriously?

My father?

I fidget.

That's a lot of coincidences.

Too much.

My father had an affair with a lot of whores that I later murdered.

I know for sure Edmond didn't kill those whores but...

The police doesn't.

It seems he's the one who's going to take the blame for my murders.

Coincidences can be cruel.