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In the warm glow of his desk lamp, Tristan immersed himself in his files, letting the gentle murmur of the pen on paper set the rhythm for his concentration. Alone at home that evening, Lauren was out for the night, probably hunting down the Phantom Scythe with her mysterious partner, causing deep concern for her uncle. The crackling of the fire in the fireplace created a soothing atmosphere, but suddenly, the shrill ring of the phone shattered that tranquility. A shiver of apprehension ran down Tristan's spine; he had a bad feeling. As he answered, a slight tension gripped his fingers. A memory surfaced, a late-night call that had informed him of the loss of his brother and Rachel. He quickly pushed that thought away to focus on the voice resonating through the receiver. A voice he recognized without difficulty; the person calling wasn't doing it for pleasure, and it certainly wasn't to ask how he was doing.
"Chief, it's Captain Hermann. We need you at the morgue. There's been an incident," announced the police captain in a grave and unfriendly tone. Tristan tensed, feeling his jaw clench. Firstly, because the other man's ancestral animosity bothered him, and secondly, because it didn't bode well.
Swallowing hard, a knot forming in his throat, Tristan, since becoming the police chief, wasn't usually summoned to the morgue in the middle of the night. The only reason justifying such a request would be if the victim were either Lauren or Dakan. This realization chilled his blood. "What happened, Captain ?" he asked, anxiety piercing his voice as he tried to maintain control over his emotions and not jump to the worst scenarios he could imagine.
"We found a body, sir. A young woman. We believe it's Detective Sinclair. We need you for identification," the captain declared coldly. If Tristan weren't so shaken by the news, he might have detected something in the other man's voice that eluded him.
A heavy silence hung between them. Tristan felt his heart race, a cold shiver running through his body. Lauren, his beloved niece, their goddaughter, whom they considered their own daughter. Panic rose in him as he gathered what little calm remained to respond, "I'm on my way."
Hanging up the phone with more force than necessary, Tristan struggled to keep his composure. Grabbing his jacket on the way out, he rushed from his house, the crisp night air biting at his cheeks. Pausing for a moment to consider driving or walking, he chose the latter. In his state, he was more likely to end up crashing into a wall or harming innocent people on the road. He started walking, trying to maintain control of his emotions, walking while calming his breath. But soon, he lost his footing; his pace quickened, his breathing followed suit. He began to run, his thoughts chaotic; there must be a mistake, there had to be. Lauren was fine. It couldn't be Lauren. She had to be somewhere safe. Lauren was alive. She couldn't be dead.
The journey to the morgue felt endless as he sprinted as fast as he could, slipping several times on snow and ice, narrowly avoiding falling and breaking his neck. Someone should have told him he needed to go to the morgue, but alive. Every passing moment intensified his worry. All his thoughts were focused on Lauren, praying that she was alive. That it wasn't her, that it was a terrible mistake. That Hermann was playing a terrible prank worthy of a schoolyard. He crossed paths with people on the way, all staring at him in astonishment—who wouldn't ? A man in his forties, the police chief, running as if the devil were after him. Tristan didn't stop for a moment; he felt his heart pounding against his ribs, his lungs protesting the effort, his legs burning, his entire body expressing its discontent with this frenzied race. But he didn't care; he had to know. He had to know if it was Lauren or not.
He continued his sprint, unsure when he had last run like this; probably back when he was in the patrol unit. His legs became increasingly weak; he doubled his efforts. He had only a few hundred meters left before reaching the morgue, before knowing, before learning the truth. He only slowed his pace when he finally saw the building looming ahead. He tried to catch his breath while covering the last meters that separated him from the truth. Once there, he pushed open the entrance door without waiting; the characteristic smell of the morgue seeped into his nostrils, the sterile odor of the place tainted with oppressive sadness, adding to his discomfort.
Captain Hermann awaited him at the entrance, his demeanor as pleasant as a prison door. Tristan wasted no time catching his breath; he signaled the policeman to lead him to the body. He followed the captain to the room where the body lay.
The morgue corridors seemed to stretch infinitely for Tristan, each step echoing as a somber reminder of the uncertainty in the air. He followed Hermann, his heart pounding with anxiety and fragile hope. The flickering, pallid neon lights above accentuated the coldness and impersonality of the place.
Every turn, every metallic door they passed through, tightened the grip on Tristan's chest a bit more. His mind was tormented by visions of horror, anticipating the moment when he would discover Lauren's body. The idea that it was her, that she lay there, silent and cold, was an unbearable thought.
The distant, muffled sounds of the morgue, the clinking of metal carts, the subdued murmurs of the staff, all contributed to creating a sinister atmosphere. Tristan wished time would slow down, even stop, to delay the moment of truth. But he continued advancing towards the revelation.
His mind was a storm of contradictory thoughts, between the hope that he was wrong, that Lauren was safe somewhere, and the terror of confirming the unthinkable. He wondered if he could face the unspeakable, see the face of death reflected in the features of his beloved niece.
Each breath was a struggle, each exhale a temporary release from the anxiety weighing on him. The footsteps of the two police officers resonated in the oppressive silence, punctuated by the muffled beating of his own heart. He felt like a dreamer trapped in a nightmare, condemned to move towards the unknown, towards a truth he feared to discover.
In front of the cold door of their destination, Tristan felt his stomach knot. He hesitated for a moment, a final pause before the inevitable. The hand on the handle was a fragile connection between the reality of loss and the ardent desire that it was just a nightmare, a mistake.
The door opened, revealing the cold interior of the room. The antiseptic smell infiltrated his nostrils, a mixture of chemicals and sadness. Hermann headed towards one of the beds where a doctor waited, and Tristan followed, his heart racing wildly.
A sheet covered the corpse, and as long as he didn't see his niece's face, Tristan still hoped it was a mistake, that Lauren was alive somewhere, anywhere but here. That she wasn't here, not under that sheet. He refused to acknowledge that the figure lying on the autopsy table matched that of his niece. No, he refused to see the truth as long as he could deny it.
The forensic doctor waited for the signal before lifting the fabric. Tristan nodded to proceed. His hopes dissipated like ink in water, leaving only emptiness as he saw Lauren, lying peacefully; he felt a crushing weight descend upon him. The young woman's face was serene, but her body bore the cruel marks of the violence that had taken her. Signs of strangulation on her neck testified to the horror of her final moments, and her body also bore multiple stab wounds. The morgue staff had cleaned the blood that stained Lauren's pale skin, but her uncle could easily imagine what she had endured before succumbing to her injuries. He had seen far too many corpses with such injuries in his career to know. He knew how much Lauren must have suffered before death embraced her. Tristan's eyes filled with tears, his erratic breathing betraying his inner distress.
"My God..." he murmured, his voice broken by emotion. He approached Lauren's body slowly, his trembling hand gently brushing her cold, lifeless cheek. "Lauren..."
Captain Hermann, despite harboring a persistent resentment towards Tristan, gave him a moment, standing back, respectful of the palpable pain emanating from his superior. "We will do everything in our power to solve this case, sir," he said solemnly. Perhaps he was rid of a Sinclair, especially one that irritated him, but he wouldn't let a murderer of a police officer get away.
After what felt like an eternity, Tristan nodded, still gazing at his niece's face. He turned away finally, allowing the investigators and doctors to continue their work, and left the morgue with heavy steps.
After ensuring that Lauren would be treated with dignity and dealing with paperwork, Tristan felt his emotions completely overwhelm him once outside. Leaning against the wall, away from prying eyes, he let tears flow freely down his cheeks. He looked up at the sky, seemingly crying as well; the rain seeping into the depths of his being, he felt his body shivering, but he couldn't sense the cold creeping into his bones. He removed his glasses; he couldn't see anything due to the rain, or perhaps it was because of his tears ? The weight of loss and guilt seemed insurmountable. But now he had to face another heart-wrenching task: breaking the terrible news to Dakan.
He couldn't bring himself to move away from the wall to perform his duty. Instead, his legs gave way beneath him, sliding down the wall, unable to stand any longer under the weight of his emotions. Once on the ground, he sat in the rain, the ground gradually becoming covered in water. His clothes were already completely soaked, but he felt nothing. Nothing but the emptiness of losing Lauren, of failure, guilt, and sadness. He stared at an indeterminate point in front of him, reflecting on how events could have taken such a turn. He should have prevented Lauren from becoming Lune, reasoned with her as soon as he suspected, kept her safe. But, on the other hand, he knew that despite all his efforts, he could never have stopped Lauren from chasing her ghosts, tracking those criminals. He had failed much earlier; he knew from the beginning that he wouldn't be a good guardian for Lauren. That he was incapable, that he would never measure up to Alexander and Rachel. In the end, all those nobles who said two gay men couldn't raise a young girl were right. With Dakan, they thought Lauren would be safer living with him. The proof that it wasn't so, he had failed, and Lauren was now dead. All because of his incompetence as a guardian, as a godfather, as an uncle. He sighed before closing his eyes and looking up at the sky, letting the rain reach him, mixing the water with his tears. He wished so much he could go back, prevent Lauren from dying, protect her, sacrifice himself in her place.
Tristan continued to wallow for a few minutes before forcing his frozen skeleton to move. He pushed himself up, feeling soreness gripping his muscles, but he didn't mind. He had to go to Dakan; he had to tell him the terrible news. He put his glasses back on; he would need to see clearly, stop hiding from the truth. He started walking, the rain still falling as if in a deluge. Tristan walked through the streets, not paying attention to his surroundings, in automatic mode. His thoughts were boiling as he headed to the royal palace, where the darkness of the night was punctuated by the soft lights from the windows. During the journey, Tristan felt his heart tighten at the thought of announcing the painful news to the man he loved.
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Tristan's heavy steps echoed in the palace corridors as he headed towards Dakan's office. He left behind a trail of water dripping from his clothes; the guards let him pass without issue, knowing him from the many times he had visited the palace, whether professionally or just personally. He finally stood in front of Dakan's office door. The massive wooden door seemed almost like a challenge, a passage to a moment he dreaded. He pushed the door cautiously, revealing the warm and familiar interior of Dakan's office. The sight of his companion, bent over his files, quickened his heart.
Dakan looked up with a tired expression toward the newcomer, ready to rebuff the intruder, entering without knocking, with a well-placed retort, but genuine surprise quickly passed over his face when he recognized his visitor. "Tristan," he said with a voice mixed with astonishment and affection. "I didn't expect to see you here."
Tristan's heart squeezed at Dakan's warm smile as he struggled to contain his overflowing emotions. Dakan's face reflected his unconditional love, his ability to be a refuge in any circumstance. But Tristan's eyes, reddened by tears, betrayed the pain he carried.
"I... Dakan, we need to talk," he managed to articulate, his voice hoarse with grief.
Dakan's joyful expression immediately faded, replaced by deep concern. "My love, what's wrong ?" he asked gently, getting up from his chair, leaving his papers, and circling his desk to get closer to his lover, who still stood in front of the door. Dakan noticed his lover's wet clothes and red eyes, quickly understanding that something was wrong. But he knew not to push Tristan; he needed time to say what was troubling him.
Tristan felt his throat tighten as words jumbled in his head. He took a deep breath, his eyes lost in Dakan's, seeking the comfort and support he knew he would always find in his gaze.
"It's... it's Lauren," he finally murmured, the words coming out of his mouth with difficulty. "They found her. She... she's... she's dead."
Dakan seemed to receive a stab in the heart. His eyes clouded with deep sadness, a terrible understanding taking shape. "Oh my God, Tristan," he sighed, moving even closer. He instinctively reached out his arms, and Tristan rushed into the warm embrace of his lover.
The tears he had tried to hold back flooded his cheeks, his shoulders shaken by sobs. Dakan held him tightly, offering the silent comfort he knew so well. He didn't care that his own clothes were becoming wet from contact with the completely soaked ones. Only one thing mattered to him: comforting his man. "I'm sorry, Tristan. So sorry," he whispered, his own voice filled with genuine pain, his tears freely flowing down his cheeks as he buried his face in his partner's hair.
Tristan remained nestled against Dakan, letting his emotions burst without restraint. They were two broken souls, united in the sadness of a heart-wrenching loss. Time seemed to stretch as they stood there, mutually supporting each other in their grief. Words were unnecessary; the shared feelings between them transcended the need for speech.
Lauren's violent death left them filled with sadness and guilt. And as they supported each other, the palace office was filled with an atmosphere heavy with sadness and love, witnessing the depth of their emotion.
After crying for a long time, entwined in each other's arms, still standing in the room, Tristan and Dakan were exhausted, their emotions raw, like open wounds. Tears had left salty marks on their cheeks, and the bittersweet memories of Lauren seemed to swirl around them, filling the room with deep sorrow.
Dakan gently removed his partner's glasses before delicately wiping away the tears streaming down Tristan's cheeks, the distress in his eyes testifying to the pain he shared. Dakan knew they had to get up even though their only desire was to stay there and just cry, to let themselves be consumed by the grief of losing their little Ren, to abandon everything. Dakan knew Tristan would need help to recover; they couldn't stay in this state for too long, or they wouldn't be able to get up. Dakan took it upon himself, for the sake of the one he loved. "Tristan, my love, we need to move forward," he murmured, his voice both gentle and concerned.
Tristan sniffled, nodding weakly. "I know, but... how can we... go on when she..." His voice broke, unable to finish his sentence, leaving his words hanging in the emotionally charged air.
Dakan ran his thumb gently across Tristan's cheek with infinite tenderness. "We can't stay here, in this constant pain. Lauren... she would have wanted us to stay strong. For her, for us. To keep fighting, to stop the Phantom Scythe, to prevent more unnecessary deaths."
Tristan lifted his eyes, his gaze lost in Dakan's. The shared pain in that look was a poignant reminder of the life they had lost. "I should have protected her, Dakan. She meant so much to us. I failed to keep my promise to Alexander. I failed," he murmured, sobs threatening to take over.
Dakan tightened his embrace, the warmth of his body offering a semblance of comfort despite their wet clothes. "It's not your fault, Tristan. We couldn't just lock Lauren up at home. We would have given everything to protect her, even our own lives."
Dakan's words were infused with shared sadness, a burden they both carried. Tristan buried his face in Dakan's neck, seeking refuge in his arms. "I felt her so close, Dakan. So close..."
Dakan gently stroked Tristan's back, his calm and steady breath a soothing presence. "I know, my love. But she will always remain in our hearts. We won't forget her, just like we do with Alexander and Rachel. We'll keep moving forward for them, and for us."
After a moment, Dakan gently straightened up, taking Tristan's hands. "Come with me, Tristan. Let's go to bed. We need it."
Tristan nodded, letting himself be led by Dakan as they left the room. They walked slowly through the palace corridors, the sadness enveloping them seeming to leave a tangible imprint behind them like footprints in the snow.
Once in Dakan's room, they both collapsed on the bed, their emotions on the surface. They didn't even bother to undress, staying in their wet clothes. Dakan wrapped Tristan in his arms while the latter clung to his partner, tears resuming their flow as they let themselves be overwhelmed by their mutual grief. Pangs of pain mingled with the happy memories of Lauren, creating a complex mosaic of emotions.
The sobs were like a catharsis, a release of everything they had kept buried within themselves for years. They let go, in the safety of their embrace, shielded from prying eyes, letting the grief express itself, their tears mixing on the sheets. The night was calm outside, the rain gently resonating against the windows, while inside the room, their sorrow found an echo, strengthening their bond in their shared despair.
Sleep eventually enveloped them, cradling them in a dream troubled by memories, regrets, and unfulfilled wishes. Their love for Lauren had brought them together in their sorrow, and as they fell asleep, they knew that their journey through grief was far from over.
Entwined with each other, Tristan and Dakan seemed to both support and meld into one another. The beats of their hearts, although echoing the pain that overwhelmed them, appeared to weave an indestructible bond between them. The tears they had shed left damp traces on their faces, and their steady breaths were the only music filling the room.
However, as time passed, Tristan felt a fire ignite within him. A fire fueled by the anger simmering in him in the face of the unbearable injustice of the situation. He tightened his embrace around Dakan; the grip of his arms, though not painful, testified to the frustration and rage devouring him from within.
"Dakan," he murmured with a voice strained by sobs, his fingers involuntarily tightening on his companion's back.
Dakan lowered his head gently, his eyes meeting Tristan's, burning with rage, and he understood without a word being spoken. The expression in his lover's eyes was eloquent enough for Dakan to know what tormented his soul, what was going on in his partner's mind. The last time he had seen that look was when they learned that Sandman was alive and had murdered Alexander and Rachel. Tristan was so angry that he had almost run to the tower to deal with that murderer and make him regret daring to touch their family. Dakan had managed to reason with him with Lauren's help, preventing Tristan from becoming a murderer himself.
"My love, I know you're angry, that you want justice to be served," Dakan said in a calm voice, but tinged with concern. "But you can't embark on this quest for revenge without thinking about the consequences."
Tristan's anger was boiling, threatening to overwhelm his reason. "Dakan, she was our goddaughter ! They took her life brutally, ruthlessly. I can't just stand by and do nothing. We have to avenge her !"
Dakan gently cupped the sides of Tristan's face in his hands, forcing their gaze to lock. "I understand your pain, my love, but vengeance will only prolong the suffering. I don't want to lose you too."
The mention of losing Tristan echoed in his heart. The reality of what they had could also be lost haunted him, and he realized that Dakan was just as afraid of losing him as he had been afraid of losing Lauren.
Tristan exhaled slowly, feeling some of the sharpness of his anger dissipate. The pressure of Dakan's hands on his cheek was an anchor, a tether pulling him back to the reality of their love. "You're right, Dakan. I don't want to lose you either. But we can't let those responsible for her death get away with it."
Dakan lifted his eyes, a determined glint in his gaze. "We will find a way to ensure justice is served, Tristan. But we must act carefully, thoughtfully. I don't want to lose you over this."
Tristan let out a sigh, his body slowly relaxing. "I promise you, Dakan. I won't let my anger consume me. We'll do this together, in a way that would honor Lauren."
Dakan nodded gently, a sad smile playing on his lips. They were both shattered by this loss, but they were also bound by their love and determination to find a way to confront the horror that had invaded their lives. Entwined with each other, they found fragile comfort in their mutual commitment, seeking a way to turn their grief into action while preserving what they had left of the most precious thing: their love. The tears they shed in this intimate moment were tinged with sorrow, guilt, and a hint of anger, seasoned with a touch of longing for justice and vengeance.