Chapter Text
The sun is coaxing up from its shy spot in the sky, spilling pale gold through the windows. The morning is fresh, carrying the crispness of early fall. Leaves drift lazily from branches, colors of persimmon and mint green and faded yellow coating the ground in various layers of crunchy, flakey foliage.
And Chase Hollow is currently about to strangle his cousin.
“Dorkin!” Chase yells from downstairs, “Stop reading your trashy romance novels and hurry up! We’re going to be late.”
He hears Deacon before he sees him, an annoyed grumble coming from atop the stairs before his cousin decides to grace him with his presence, hurriedly walking down the steps. Chase folds his arms, tapping one irritated foot against the floor as he stares expectantly at the man.
“Maybe,” Deacon starts, in that annoyed, reprimanding tone, lips drawn down in scorn, “If someone didn’t turn off my alarm for me, we would have been on time.”
“Who only has one alarm to wake them up? That has to be insane!”
Deacon’s eyes narrow, “You turned it off!”
“It was so early and so loud!”
Deacon opens his mouth, before rolling his eyes and sighing, grabbing a piece of bread from the fridge and slotting it into the toaster. Chase pours milk into his bowl of cinnamon toast crunch, watching the flakey bits of cereals swirl between the stream of white liquid, ignoring Deacon’s muttering about having so much sugar in the morning.
It’s an important day today.
The police force has finally, through grit teeth and the unmistakable air of being defeated, asked the Hollow Detective Agency for help with their most high-profile case: The Ex Libris case.
A group of thieves that seemingly appeared out of nowhere, who call themselves Ex Libris —which Chase thinks is kind of pretentious but, whatever— and have been stealing high-class paintings from various areas. He’s only heard about these from the scattered reports that had made their way to the news. A constant string of thefts, each one leaving the police more and more humiliated. And now, they finally relented and asked for their help.
Chase had just been waiting to be asked, and when he got the official email request over the weekend he had jumped up from his computer and woken a snoring Deacon up at three-am, squealing in joy. He’s been following the case closely, even since their first heist that was only about four weeks ago, at an elusive, private event hosted by some millionaire. He doesn’t know the details yet, because the police are being absolutely annoying and asking him to come to the building because sending these classified case files digitally is apparently far too ‘risky.’
Frankly, Chase just suspects they’re irritated and jealous because they know Chase could solve this case far faster than they could. Always trying to make things harder for him, ever since that time when he managed to solve that occult case without their help which caused a lot of grumbling from citizens about the competency of the police. Grandpa Ralph had ridden that high for a week, and he fondly remembers the slap on his back as his grandpa had hugged him, full of glee and smugness.
Chase can’t wait to see the look on their faces when they arrive at the police department, pointing out all the things they’ve missed, prompting him to rush Deacon even faster, still chewing his toast when Chase grabs him out of the house.
“—Jeez, Chase! We still have time before the meeting starts!” Deacon yelps, as Chase shoves him out of his house, a smile plastered on his face.
Deacon stumbles onto the porch, Chase following, a jumbly sort of air surrounding him as he grins. The crunch of leaves under his shoes follow them through the street, as they get to the car, morning air biting at their extremities. Deacon shoves his hands into the warm shelter of his coat, shivering slightly.
“C’mon, Dorkin, we gotta show those stupid cops how it's done!”
Deacon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, the chill already nipping at his ears. It’s going to be a long day.
The department is bustling, much busier than usual, various police officers going back and forth. Employees shuffle around desks, arms piled with folders. Somewhere in the distance, Chase notices a flock of printers, spitting out a constant pattern of pages. The entire building vibrants from movement, a frantic pulse of paperwork and motion.
Chase hardly makes it a couple steps in, before colliding into someone, almost dying a death of a thousand papercuts from all the paper the man is holding.
“Whoa—!”
The man is carrying an absurd amount of loose paper, stacked so high Chase can’t even see the guys face. The impact sends a tremor through the stack, as it wobbles dangerously. Chase holds his breath.
The man mutters, and Chase winces at the dejection so present in his voice, “Oh no.”
The top half of the papers explode, sliding off and scattering in every direction, one even smacks Chase in the face.
Apologies slip out of Chase’s mouth, as he kneels down to try and grab them all, sliding across the slippery floor. The man, whose face he feels too ashamed to face, groans, before bending down to grab sheets on his side.
“Seriously Chase? We’re going to be late because of you.” Deacon comments, unhelpfully, staring at Chase with frustration.
As he grabs the last couple of sheets into a stack that’s a lot messier than he’d like, handing it to the man without looking because he’s too busy glaring at Deacon. Deacon rolls his eyes, and starts walking away.
Chase rushes after his cousin, scrambling up after collecting the last couple sheets and putting it on top of the messy stack of papers he’s made, turning his head to the side and yelling out one more, “Sorry about that! I gotta go!” He doesn’t wait for a response.
The man looks down at the pile of papers in his hands, noticing how half of them are upside down, much out of order. He sighs.
They shuffle into another part of the department, and it’s even chaotic.
Officers and interns alike, all shuffling around with dead eyes and eyebags big enough to hold cartons of milk, papers furiously being signed and the sunlight shines through tall windows thickly on stacks of files that are all so freshly done and continuously being added to, the dust hasn’t even had time to settle.
“Sheeeeesh! They’re working these guys off the roof!” Chase whistles, dryly.
Deacon nods, wincing in pity at the definitely-legally-pushing-it labour occurring, chewing slowly on his toast until suddenly his eyes brighten and he starts waving his other hand in the air.
Chase follows his line of sight, and sees the tall silhouette of one out of the three police officers he actually likes: Goldie.
Goldie, senior police officer and one of their best friends since high school, smiles at the sight of them and immediately makes it over, strides confidently and cheerily as usual, but Chase can see a hint of exhaustion in his steps.
“Hello friends! I was looking forward to your presence,” Goldie says, clapping Deacon firmly on the back with his hands. Deacon starts choking on his toast.
“Right back at you!” Chase pauses, and lowers his voice, leaning in close to Goldie, gesturing around the area, “Is all this about the, uh, Ex libris case?”
Goldie’s smile tightens slightly, and Chase leans in a little more to hear Goldie’s response over the sound of Deacon coughing,
Which, he didn’t have to do, he realizes far too late, because Goldie has no sense of a whisper. Or an inside voice.
“Well, Chase! You’re completely right, these thieves have gotten us completely swamped!” Goldie tells them, loudly, and Chase stiffens as various officers turn around at the sound of Goldie’s voice, all matter-of-fact, “These guys are quite skilled. We are in the utmost need of your help.”
More people turn around, recognizing Chase and Deacon, and the air gets thick with distaste.
Deacon finally decides to contribute to the conversation, voice raspy, “Yes, we got the email,” he coughs again, clearing his throat, “Where is the meeting?”
“I’ll lead you right to it!” Goldie suggests, and Deacon thanks him, as they follow Goldie up the elevator onto the fourth floor, opening to a regular office, all gray and full of busy cubicles. Chase winces as the elevator door slides open, because in the corner of the office an officer gets reprimanded by their boss, something about a missing report. The air is tight with tension, the type that makes everyone a little more on edge.
His attention is dragged back to Goldie, who guides them into a spacious room.
In the middle, lies a table made up of rich dark oak, surrounded by chairs occupied by various senior officers and high standing police officers. A projector hums quietly in the front of the room, and the sound of small talk lags in the room. Chase ignores the dirty looks him and Deacon get, looking around for someone.
And then he spots her.
Silver, in the corner of the room, discusses something that seems of great importance to another officer, who upon closer look, he realizes is Bronze. Silver notices Chase and gives him a modest wave and a bright smile. Chase meanders his way over to her, leaving Deacon to talk with the other officers in an attempt to get more information.
Silver immediately goes in for a hug, which catches Chase a little off guard but he laughs into her shoulder as he wraps his arms around her, her long silvery hair brushing against his cheek.
“Chase! I’ve missed you,” Silver says, a smile tugging her lips, as they break apart.
“Me too, Sil. I can’t wait to work on this with you!” Chase whispers, and then, turning to Bronze, “Hey Bronze, how are you man?”
Bronze shrugs, toothpick still in his mouth, green eyes glazed over in boredom. Chase nods at him, understanding exactly what he means, turning back to Silver, who’s beaming at him with a bright smile. The juxtaposition of the two makes him snort.
“We should throw a party after we crack this case,” Chase suggests, confidently. Silber’s smile dims a little.
She looks away, laughing weakly as her smile dims, “Ah, Chase, this one’s a bit of a difficult case.”
Chase rolls his eyes, “Don’t worry Sil, you’ve got the Hollow—” he points at himself with his thumb, “—Detective Agency with you! We’ll have these guys behind bars by, like, yesterday.”
Silver nods with a hopeful smile, but Chase can see her weary eyes dotted in trepidation, the indent of a crease between her brows. Before he can comfort her with his self-assured words, the squeal of a mic ripples throughout the room, commanding everyone’s attention to a tall, intimidating woman, standing in front of a projection screen. Chase gulps as he makes eye contact with her, her sharp eyes slipping over him like he's insignificant.
Diane Forenski. The leader of the task force, and Grandpa’s number one enemy. She’s the main reason for the antagonism between the Hollow Detective Agency and the police force, or rather, her and grandpa, who have had years of rivalry when it comes to solving crimes, both of them always butting heads and refusing to compromise over each other's methods. In fact, their rivalry even extends to Sunday bake sales (Chase doesn’t even understand how the bake sales got involved). Truly, grandpa’s most formidable opponent.
The whole room quiets, waiting for her to start. In the corner of his eye, Chase sees Deacon stand up impossibly straighter. He holds back his snort.
“...I’m sure you all know why I’ve gathered you here, this morning, so I see no point in dwelling in greetings,” She clicks the remote in her hands, and the projection screen opens to a picture of a painting, the screen light illuminating half her face in a splash of colors.
The painting is a splash of unstructured colors, forming a scene of a black figure hidden in a crowd. Every other figure has detailing on their face, noses long and straight or short and wide, skins painted in a variety of tones. Certain degrees of detail everywhere, except on this figure, who remains unidentified, unknown. And that's about how far Chase’s analytical skills goes in regards to painting analysis, because he never was really good with this type of thing. That's more of Deacon’s role, if anything.
“This painting was stolen around three weeks ago, and prior to that, another painting was stolen two weeks earlier—” and she skips to the last painting, which is an array of various colors seemingly depicting an early sunrise, “—it seems, we have an art thief on our hands.”
She looks around, as if waiting if anybody has something to say. It’s still pin silent.
“Unfortunately, it seems we’re dealing with an…organization of sorts,” she clicks to the next slide, which shows the words Ex libris drawn in spray paint, where the painting should be placed. Chase notices a little note taped in the middle of the spray paint, words illegible in the pixelated projection.
“We’ve had little luck on investigation, as this organization seems well organized, confident and experienced. We have reason to believe that these thieves won’t stop anytime soon.”
Somewhere in the room, an officer coughs.
Suddenly, Chase has made eye contact with her again, and he awkwardly smiles. She sighs.
“This brings me to my final announcement. We’re also,” Diane pauses, and Chase can see her left eye twitch before she continues, “...Partnering with the Hollow Detective Agency for this…as they’ve proven to be of great…skill through past assignments.”
With that, the task force suddenly erupts in a minor explosion of voices.
“What? C’mon, you can’t be serious!”
“Seriously— We’re working with them?”
Chase glances at Silver, who reassurely smiles at him, as if saying I’m on your side . Deacon is awkwardly laughing, and Chase hears him say a small introduction to the officers next to him. He takes a deep breath, remembering that in the end, once he solves this case, the police might finally treat the H.D.A with the respect they deserve. He can handle this.
He clears his throat, and the whole room snaps their eyes to him, “Thank you, ma’am…I look forward to working with all of you!”
Diane Forenski stares at him with a gaze that tells him she knows he’s lying.
A couple of officers, the newer ones, he thinks, nod at him and look somewhat confused at the negative reaction. The majority of them just stay silent, their gazes saying all they can’t within the respectful confines of this room.
Diane Forenski clears her throat once again, quieting the room, and flicking to the next slide that details task force groups and their roles. Chase scans the slide to find his group, fully expecting it to just be him, Bronze, Silver, Deacon,— because those are the only officers here that won’t kick a fuss about being assigned to him — but frowning as he sees an unfamiliar name in their group.
Nox.
Who the hell is Nox?
Deacon seems to be wondering the same thing, and they make eye contact across the room. He looks at Silver and Bronze for some sort of clarification, but Silver seems a little surprised as well and Bronze…well Bronze stares at him with a sort of unreadable expression before shrugging.
Chase drags his attention back to what Diane is saying, and figures he’ll meet this mysterious ‘Nox’ soon enough, if they’re assigned together.
“We’ve recruited him as a trainee,” Diane Forenski tells him, after Chase painstakingly builds up enough confidence to go up to her and inquire, following the presentation.
Now he’s a little confused, “If he’s a trainee, shouldn’t he be, like, doing normal work? With the other officers?”
Diane glances toward her watch, as if Chase is nagging her, and Chase bites the inside of his cheek as he waits for a response.
“...Look, Detective Hollow,” and the way she says the words, it's as if she was chewing on something sour, “We’re already doing a lot by taking you on with us…us officers are far too busy to babysit some kid doing investigative work.”
“Okay, but—”
“We appreciate your efforts.”
And with that, she walks away. Chase stares at silhouette as she disappears into the elevators. She didn’t even answer his main question, but he supposes there's no point in inquiry, if that’s the response he’ll get.
Maybe he will try and help his Grandpa at the next Sunday bake sale.
He sighs, turning around to face Bronze and Silver, the latter staring at him apologetically. Deacon is still wandering somewhere in the room, talking to various officers, scribbling lines into his notebook.
“Sooooo, what’s with this Nox dude? Where is he, even?” Chase tries to look around for anybody that looks like their name is Nox. No one here looks like that name belongs to them. Although, admittedly, Chase doesn’t know what a ‘Nox’ should look like.
Bronze and Silver briefly glance at each other, and Chase really does not like that expression they both shared, like a shared secret code.
Chase points between them, eyebrows raising in suspicion, “You guys just did…a thing. What was that about?”
“We did not,” Silver says, the lie tugging an awkward smile onto her lips.
Bronze stays tactfully silent.
Chase’s eyes narrow, “You like, absolutely-totally did.”
Before Chase can question them more, he hears the door to their floor burst open, glass door slamming against the wooden walls, and he turns around to see which officer seemingly woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. A stranger stands in the doorway, pale skin illuminated by the white, overhead lights hanging above the staircase behind them.
Any funny joke he could have said dies before it could have even been, because the man standing in the doorway is, to be frank, the hottest dude he’s seen in his many, many years of living.
In the corner of his peripheral, Silver leans into his ear, hands cupped like telling a secret, whispering a quiet, “That’s Nox.”
Dark raven, tousled locks and dusky azure eyes that shine like sapphire search the room, before finally landing on Chase, and Chase knows he really should look away because it’s definitely odd the way he hasn’t lifted his eyes yet from him, but then Nox starts walking over to him. Briskly, each step elegant, the soft, crisp ruffle of his coat swaying as he strides toward them.
He distantly hears Bronze chuckle, and whisper something along the lines of “Atleast this’ll be fun to watch” to Silver.
Nox stops right in front of them, and at first, he doesn’t even acknowledge Chase. He nods at Silver and Bronze, a silent greeting, before finally his eyes slide over to Chase, who immediately clears his throat and puts a hand out.
“Hi,” he starts, a little out of breath, “I’m Detective Hollow—From the H.D.A.”
A moment of silence passes, and the man simply stares at Chase’s hand, one eyebrow elegantly arched in skepticism. Chase wonders how long he’s supposed to hold his hand out until it gets awkward.
Maybe he’s unaware of what it stands for? Maybe this Nox guy doesn’t know what a handshake is? Chase fumbles to explain,“It, uh, stands for Hollow Detect—,”
“I’m aware” Nox interrupts tonelessly, voice low and deep, still staring at Chase’s hand like it offends him personally.
Suddenly, Chase realizes there's something…oddly familiar about Nox’s voice, but he can’t quite place it…
Where have I heard that?
When another beat passes, and Nox doesn’t shake his hand, Chase slowly drops it to his side, a little confused. Did he do something to his guy? He searches his mind for people he’s wronged lately.
Perhaps this guy’s related to that one grandma he tried helping out and accidentally got her cat stuck in a tree. He glances at Nox again. Maybe he’s that grandma’s grandson. They don’t look all that alike though…
Chase darts his eyes to Silver, who’s currently looking between the two of them, eyes darting back and forth in confusion. She coughs, causing Nox to turn his attention to her.
“Ah, we were waiting for you, Nox. Is there a reason why you didn’t show up to the meeting?”
Nox’s beautiful face twists into a scowl, and he scoffs. Chase’s eye twitches because there's no way someone should look that attractive with such an expression.
“Some fool wasn’t watching where they were going while I was holding the paperwork for the chief—” and Chase stills…because he suddenly recognizes exactly where he’s heard this voice before, “—Basically ran into me and made a mess of everything.”
Silver gasps,“Oh my! Are you alright?”
In the corner of Chase’s eye, he sees Nox glance toward him, and Chase pointedly does not look at Nox. The floor of the police department is actually quite interesting, and Chase’s eyes follow a dried stain of coffee that looks a little bit like a mouse.
He’s finally recognized that voice, and exactly where he heard it.
“...Yes, no thanks to that little idiot,” Nox’s voice tightens around the word little, “I had to reorganize everything again, after he just ran off, like a petty thief.”
Bronze, who has spent the entire conversation looking at Chase with an unreadable expression, removes the toothpick from his mouth, commenting flatly,
“Wow. What an asshole.”
Silver nods, sympathetic.
Chase makes a mental note to not let Bronze raid his pantry the next time he comes over.
Overcome with the urge to change the topic, Chase laughs, the sound coming out garbled and far too forced, “Well– That’s, unfortunate…haha…I bet the guy was, just in a rush, you shouldn’t be too hard on him—” He swallows at how Nox’s eyes narrow in cold annoyance, “—Anyway, I guess it’s just us and Deacon on the case right now…anyone have any ideas on where to start?”
Bronze once again, removes his toothpick from his mouth. Chase listens with a focus that is born from the awkwardness of a swift topic change. His eyes are almost pleading, as he looks at Bronze, desperate to move past the previous topic of conversation.
“Some dude stealing paintings keeps escaping…perhaps…we should…,” He pauses, as if lost in some deep, tantalizing thought. Chase truly just needs something that he can latch onto, a lead that he can follow. Anything will work, and he knows Bronze, despite how lazy the man may be at times, is an incredibly observant and intelligent officer.
Bronze glances at Chase once more, as if assessing something, before continuing.
“...Maybe we should stop letting him escape?”
Chase groans.
Silent halls mask forsaken tales,
Dusk lingers under the museum veils,
Fog trails along the antique past,
The ancient halls revives olden names,
Inky rooms remain unblemished by time,
Muted shadows gather beneath the moon,
Hidden paintings a cause for their arrival,
The older rooms keep secrets under their breast,
Whispers in the amber frames coaxing from the prior,
Something new awaits beyond the aureate doors,
Ancient old galleries guarding treasurable plunders.
Count each step, from its inception
Each stride one beyond the last
The thief had left a note on his last heist. It was a poem, handwritten, curled, cursive font. The dark ink was obnoxiously elegant, and Chase almost laughed at how cliche that was. It looked like something that belonged pressed between the pages of an antique book. Felt like a children's storybook, a thief that leaves poems at their crime scenes.
He wasn’t laughing an hour later, hunched over the desk with Deacon while the other three looked through investigative notes. Afternoon light spilled through the tall windows of the office they’d been given, and the only sound he could hear was the scratch of paper and click of typing. The occasional murmur from Silver, who seemed to be writing something down fervently alongside Bronze flicking through notes with Nox.
He’d read this poem so many damn times, the words were starting to lose their meaning.
It’s an obvious taunt, that points toward the next heist being at some sort of museum. Which isn’t helpful, because they have so many of those here, and not nearly enough resources to guard each museum. At first Chase thought perhaps the first letters of each word spell out something, but when he tried doing that, nothing made sense. A thief wouldn’t probably use an obvious code like that, but it was worth a try.
He even tried the last letters, hell, he even copied every line onto a separate piece of paper and tried arranging them in various ways so many times, Deacon threatened to throw his notebook out the window. He drags his hands through his hair, squinting at the words as if they’ll suddenly make sense if he stares long enough.
“I mean— It’s a little too showy, no? If you want to write sonnet’s, maybe, like, go be an english teacher, instead of making it everyone's problem.” Chase remarks, hands waving in an air of frustration, and Deacon huffs an annoyed breath, eyes shifting from the poem to Chase.
“You’re seriously complaining about more evidence?”
Chase clicks his tongue, pointing accusingly at the sheet of paper gripped in his hands, “No, I’m complaining because it’s stupid and just sounds like a wanna-be phantom thief!”
From the desks, a dry voice scoffs, and Chase turns his head to see Nox, arms crossed and irritation pulsing through his narrowed eyes, “Perhaps instead of whining about how you and freckles can’t understand basic english, you should actually do your job.”
“Who are you calling freckles?!” Deacon snapped, gaze flicking to Nox with an air of irritation.
Nox glances at Deacon from the side of his eyes, “You, who else?”
“Why don’t you come over here and try and help, Nox?” Chase says, rolling his eyes. This guy has been relentless in showing his distaste for Chase. It’s a little impressive and Chase wouldn’t have let it get to him if it wasn’t for the infuriating smugness that radiated off the man. Something about it made him grit his teeth every time the man spoke.
Like now.
Nox raises an eyebrow, “You want my help?”
Chades nods, “Sure.”
“Detective Hollow—,” Nox starts, voice drawling, sarcastic, “—needs help from a mere trainee for the basic task of literacy? Shocking.”
Irritation flares in Chase’s chest. He takes a deep breath, the words coming out clipped and short, “Just come look at the stupid poem.”
Nox stands where he is, as if thinking it over. Nevertheless, he walks over, chair scraping against the floor, putting his hands out. Chase stares at them for a moment.
“Pass me the note, please.” Nox says, after a moment of Chase just staring at him, shaking his hands again, mouth twisted in annoyance.
Chase grabs the note, placed in a small evidence bag, dropping it into Nox’s hands. He studies it for a moment, contemplative, eyes flitting over the lines as his expression becomes unreadable. He’s muttering something under his breath, and after a couple seconds, Chase realizes Nox is sounding out the poem, as if checking something, quiet puffs of concentration and eyebrows creased, azure eyes narrow in focus. Chase realizes he’s been staring at Nox’s face and quickly tears his gaze away. He looks back at Deacon, and is met with a very disappointed stare.
Finally, Nox turns to face him, “It’s not a sonnet.”
Chase stares, perplexed, “What?”
“You called it a sonnet. It’s not.”
Chase blinks, “...That’s your…help?”
After handing the paper back to Deacon, Nox turns around, heading back to the desk, sighing as if their entire conversation is a waste of his time. Chase, after the words in his head start flowing properly to his mouth again, scoffs in bewilderment.
“You came all the way over here to correct my poem terminology?.”
Nox hums in agreement. Chase’s eye twitches, and he looks toward Deacon, who shrugs at him.
“Thanks for nothing,” Chase mutters under his breath.
Silver suddenly looks up from the papers she’s reading, cutting through the strained tension.
“Guys,” Silver began, “I think I found something.” Her one is splayed flat on an array of sheets, and Chase can see scrawls of circled dates and underlined words.
He tears his gaze from Nox, excited, “What’cha find?”
Silver hesitantly slides a piece of paper across the desk, and Chase walks over to look at it, a little confused. He looks up at Silver again, eyebrow raised in question.
She points a finger at the dates listed of each heist, the line listed in chronological order. Chase stares, trying to figure out any sort of connection, because to him these are just random dates. At first, he assumed they were striking around every week, but that was disproven after the most recent heist.
August 12, August 19, August 28
He looks at the dates, trying to search for some sort of pattern, wracking his brain through every sequence of numbers that could exist using these numbers or even the distance between them and…
“Zilch. Nothing. Nada. Sorry Sil, you’re gonna have to help me out a little bit.” He rubs his forehead with the front of his palm.
Silver helpfully perks up, “It’s— they’re striking based on the moon cycle.”
Chase follows the path of her finger, as she points toward each date, “The twelfth was a new moon, the ninth was the first quarter and the twenty-eighth was a full moon— that's why the poem says ’Muted shadows gather beneath the moon’.” She stares at him with glee.
“Holy shit, you’re right,” he blurts out, a grin tugging on his lips, practically grabbing her shoulders.
“Thats—that’s actually clever,” Deacon comments.
And Chase can’t help but snort, because of course a thief who leaves complicated, prose-y poems at his crime scenes, is also going to make sure every date aligns with some stupid sequence. Nox, from his corner of the desk, stiffens slightly, and Chase wonders if the man's annoyed he wasn’t the first to figure it out.
Bronze stops leaning against the bookshelf to take a look, “That’s fancy.”
“Which means they’ll be striking on the 4th! In four days from now— Silver you’re a genius!!” Deacon exclaims, hurriedly noting it down in his sketchbook
Chase high-fives her, “Awesome job, Sil! I knew you could do it.”
Even Bronze, usually unreadable, has a ghost of his smile tugging on his lips, and the air burns bright with hope, infecting everyone with a newfound sense of motivation.
Well, almost everyone.
“We…still don’t know where they’re going to target,” Nox says, all clipped, face unreadable, equivalent to a bucket of water that rains on their short-lived parade.
The room quiets as Chase glances over at Nox, sitting impassively, arms crossed.
“Negative Nox," Chase mutters under his breath. Nox’s eyes flit toward him, glaring, mouth opening to spit some stupid retort before Deacon suddenly interrupts.
“...Perhaps we should call it a day, how about lunch?” Deacon cuts in, before either of them can start bickering, and Silver nods along. Bronze shrugs. Nox says nothing, already getting up to leave, hands swiftly reaching for his coat on the stand. Chase bites down his desire to ask if he’s joining them, because he’s embarrassed himself enough today when it comes to Nox. Silver, bless her heart, sees the look Chase is sporting, and decides to do it herself.
“Are you not joining us, Nox?” Silver asks, as Nox opens the door, slipping on his long, black coat.
“No,” he replies, not even turning back as the door shuts with a soft click.
Chase looks toward Deacon, and the look on his cousin’s face indicates that he’s also very much thinking the same thing.
“Who pissed in his cereal,” Chase grumbles, crossing his arms.
Bronze shares a look with Silver, who shakes her head as if he’s communicated some outlandish idea through weird mind telepathy, and Chase watches the interaction through, waiting for either of them to say anything. They don’t. Silver smiles at him reassuringly, when she turns her head back to him,
“So. Lunch?”
They’ve gone to some milkshake place that looks like the color pink has been violently thrown up over it, the name vibrant and spelled in neon, slotted a few minutes behind the police department building. Golden hour glistens, a yellow dappling sheen across the store that sits patiently under the cover of various trees, and a soft cool breeze dances and twirls in the air, finding itself home in the uncovered shelter of Chase’s ears, reddening. Deacon opens the door, and a gentle bell jingles, alerting the owners of their arrival.
The inside is even pinker, somehow. Hot pink booths, a mirror shoved inside them, with menus with looping, playful font and drink names like chocolicious and sunset strawberry. A kind man beckons them over to an empty booth, and they make their way to it, shrugging off scarfs and hats.
It’s only a couple seconds after they get seated, with Deacon taking the seat next to Chase, while Silver and Bronze sit together across from them, that Bronze quickly flips through the menu.
“If they don’t have a peanut butter shake on here…I’m leaving,” Bronze mutters, eyes glazed with desperation, which slowly become wider in ache as he seemingly doesn’t find it.
Silver glances over, before pointing an elegant finger at the bottom of the menu, “There.”
Bronze sighs, shoulders loosening in relief, “Thank you, Silver.”
Deacon raises a brow as he glances over the menu, “Haven’t you ever considered expanding your tastes, Bronze?”
Bronze looks at him like he’s personally very offended, “When you find true love, you’re supposed to stop looking at others.”
Deacon cocks his head, eyes narrowed, astonished, “We’re literally talking about milkshakes.”
“There’s like, a bajillion other flavours,” Chase adds, scanning the menu. His attention snags onto a sweet potato shake, and he tries to imagine how that would taste, wincing at the assault of imaginative flavors on his tongue.
Bronze shakes his head, solemn, as if the idea of trying anything else would be hurtful.
Chase laughs, and the conversations give way to silent contemplation about what milkshake they’re each ordering. He slumps backward, the cool, plastic lush of the booth sighing against his weight. His fingers trail the edge of the laminated menu, and the smell of vanilla and sugar wafts through the air, alongside the beat of old pop music.
After a couple seconds, he zones out, thinking of his day so far…and when his mind inevitably wanders to Nox, of his clipped words and glares and sarcastic, biting words, he doesn’t even realize he’s sighed until Silver glances up from her menu to stare at him, questioning. He ponders for a moment, but in the end he can’t help it, the irritation flaring through his chest in a way that makes it incredibly easy to just complain.
“That Nox guy is a real piece of work,” he declares.
Deacon lets out a breath, annoyed and in agreement. “Tell me about it.”
“He’s just a little…shy,” Silver supplies, tilting her head.
“Really? I wasn’t aware that shy and real-freaking-jerk were synonymous these days.” Chase scoffs, crossing his arms.
“He’ll warm up to you, I’m sure, Chase.”
“I— I don’t need him to warm up to me—” he straightens up, shifting in his seat, “—as long as we can just work on this case like…normal coworkers.”
Bronze, like the traitor he is, tilts his head, as if innocently confused, “Looks like to me you wanted to be more than ‘normal coworkers’ when you first saw him.”
Chase’s cheeks warm, and they’ve been in this place far too long for him to blame it on left-over wind, “Thats—I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You stared at the guy the whole time we were walking to the evidence room,” Deacon pipes in, and Chase glares at him.
“I was not staring.”
Silver taps her nails against the plastic of the table, arching a brow, “You walked into a chair.”
“I had—I had a lot of things I was doing and thinking! Y’know, multitasking.” Chase throws his hands up in defense.
Bronze nods solemnly, “With your eyes.”
He’s saved from further sputtering explanations when their server walks over to ask their order. When he leaves, Chase turns back to Bronze, eyes not quite making contact.
“Okay, look—” he starts. Bronze’s expression glazes over in boredom, toothpick dangling in his mouth, as if whatever Chase has to say is a senseless excuse.
Deacon groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Please don’t make me sit here and listen to—”
“—just because I think he’s hot does not mean I want anything to do with him! Like, he was hot before he opened his mouth.”
Silver giggles, “You were basically drooling when you first saw him.”
“C’mon Sil!”
Deacon interrupts, nose scrunched in disgust, “Lets not talk about this, please.”
Chase grumbles, slumping back in his seat, gazing in exasperation at the three pairs of eyes staring at him, a spectrum of boredom to revulsion to teasing. Before he can even attempt to defend himself again, the waiter brings their drinks, and then they're all too busy staring at their sugary, frosted shakes and baskets of fries (that Bronze claims for himself, much to Deacon’s disagreement) to care about bullying Chase again.
Bronze stares with a sort of dazed-love expression at his peanut butter cup milkshake (Chase has never seen Bronze stare at anyone or anything else more warmly than his peanut butter treats), and Silver takes a sip of her lotus, biscoff-caramel shake, brown caramel syrup slathered over it, a sound of content escaping her lips. Deacon uses a napkin to wipe a small drop of vanilla dripping down the side of his milkshake glass, before taking a measured sip, and Chase rolls his eyes at the boring flavour, before taking a large slurp of his mango shake, that feels like heaven as it goes down his throat, cold and refreshing.
After a few moments of silence, Deacon hums, as if thinking something through.
“Maybe the poem isn’t for taunting. Maybe it means…something. Like a warning for where they’ll strike next.”
Chase glances over toward his cousin, lips pursed in thought, taking a small sip of his shake, “That would be…who warns the police before committing a crime?”
Silver hums, head tilted, “Maybe someone who knows they won’t get caught?”
Chase huffs, “So instead of just the regular thieves, we’ve got arrogant, self-obsessed thieves to hunt down.”
Deacon continues, “They’ve evaded the police twice so far, I’d be pretty confident too.”
“Well,” Chase starts, straightening his posture, “Lets see how far they get when I’m on the case.”
“I think they’re toying with us,” Deacon suggests, eyes hardening.
“Right,” Chase scoffs, rolling his eyes after a big sip of his shake, “I think you’ve been reading too many mystery books, Dorkin.”
Deacon flicks his eyes at Chase, opening his mouth with a retort when Silver puts a hand up, shaking her head softly,
“Enough with the work talk…how have you two been?” Silver asks, hand reaching out to softly hold Chase’s, and he can’t help but smile, because he’s missed this. After everyone had gotten busy in their respective jobs, Chase hardly had the time to meet with them and just talk. Every conversation regarding plans had dwindled more so into conversations about when everyone was actually free, none of the holidays ever lining up.
Deacon launches into a spiel about his parents complaining about the practicality of being a detective as a lifelong job, and Bronze twirls his straw in his milkshake, occasionally humming a mhm and a right every so often, stealing fries when Deacon is too distracted to notice. Chase turns to look at Silver, tilting his head and looking at her expectantly. She immediately perks up, as if she’s been waiting to talk about this.
“I’ve been working more on fashion lately,” she begins, eyes bright with passion, “I—my new roommate, Violet, works as a costume designer…she’s—” Silver closes her eyes for a second, as if searching for the correct word, “She’s amazing.”
Chase nods, listening, and Silver takes that as a sign to continue, vacant hand waving in fervor as she gushes, “You don’t get it, Chase! She made an entire gown out of thrifted curtains!”
He blinks, “Curtains?”
“Yes!”
“...Like living room curtains?”
Silver nods, and Chase huffs, letting out a sound of disbelief, “I can barely make toast.”
“I know right! And it was gorgeous!—Like something a queen would wear.”
“She sounds…impressive,” Chase comments, unable to think of a better word. Silver nods regardless, and with her hand so warm, holding Chase’s, he can’t help but smile, as she continues.
“It’s like— she’ll bring home scraps of random things, and make them into these stunning pieces. She’s always seeing the usefulness of things, it's…incredible.”
Chase looks at her for a moment, before suddenly turning serious, eyes raising to meet hers, dramatically putting a hand on his chest, “Silver…”
“Yes?” She responds, nodding her head humorously.
“If she ever needs someone devastatingly handsome—”
Deacon, who had been quietly listening to the conversation for a couple minutes, snorts in disagreement,
“—and incredibly charming to be a model for her…I’d be honored.”
Deacon scoffs, “You wouldn’t be able to walk down a runway without tripping over your own feet.”
“That’s so not true!”
Bronze looks up, brushing flecks of stolen fry salt on his fingers off, “Remember that chair?”
Chase huffs, “I thought we moved past that!”
After a couple minutes of Chase and his cousin arguing over Chase’s run-way potential (in which Chase obviously wins because Deacon’s just jealous), Bronze tries to sneak one too many fries, which gets him and Deacon bickering about how he’s stolen too many fries.
“You’ve been hogging them!”
“I have no idea what you mean,” Bronze says defensively, the picture of innocence.
“I literally watched you take them?” Deacon states, incredulously.
Bronze frowns slightly, “That’s creepy.”
The conversation bleeds into background noise, and Chase leans back and shares an amused smile with Silver.
“You’d make a wonderful model, Chase,” she affirms, over the lull of Deacon and Bronze’s argument, all serious and supportive, because of course she would be. She’s been Chase’s best friend for years.
Chase chuckles, nodding in jest. Silver’s expression suddenly turns a smidge more serious, smile softening. Chase arches a brow, questioning.
“...How,” she starts, her smile turning sympathetic, words weaved with silk and softness, “How has your mom been?”
Chase glances away, eyes trailing the smooth, plastic table they sit at. Absent-mindedly, he notices a small dent in the middle of it, and he looks at that as he answers, the hand that's holding Silver’s tightening ever-so-slightly.
“She,” and he clears his throat when the word tumbles out, jagged and sharp, “She, ah, she’s…she’s doing alright. Could be better. But…alright.”
Silver nods, thumb brushing against Chase’s knuckles in a soothing manner. She doesn’t press, just stares at him reassuringly. A familiar heat wells up in the corner of Chase’s eyes, and he uses his non-occupied hand to grab his shake and take a long, stalling sip, scrunching his eyes shut for a moment, willing the tears away. He notices Deacon’s concerned gaze from the corner of his eyes when he opens them, but he doesn’t meet it.
Silver mentions something about her new apartment, about how Violet had accidentally dyed half their clothes purple, and the conversation swiftly picks up into a much more lighthearted conversation. Chase lets out a breath of relief, twirling the straw in his shake as the night dissolves into a swirl of reminiscing and joy, any previous worry dissipated into the tiny crevices of his ribs.
He’d come in early that day, dawn barely breaking into the sky, sending sheens of light that glistened on the glass in their office. The city beyond the glass was still stirring from its nightly slumber.
And right now, he’d been staring at the copy he’d printed of the poem for an hour, words highlighted and scribbled in the margins, sleeves pushed up and back hunched over the words. Because the whole night, he’d been thinking about what Deacon said, about there being a clue.
Unfortunately, he never was quite good enough at English class. He looks toward his sheet of scribbled notes, scrawls and circled words with doodles in the margin after he had quit in frustration. He’d gotten nowhere, and he was supposed to report back to Forenski in a bit. Knowing her, she’d probably also complain that a when without an exact where is useless.
He rips the page of notes from his notebook, flipping to a blank slate. He slumps back in his chair, the pen being lazily held in his fingertips. With his other hand, he throws his ripped page into a nearby trashcan.
It goes through the air in a swift arc, before hitting the side of the trashcan and bouncing into the corner of the room. He stares at the crumpled ball on the floor in defeat, before turning back to his new page, beginning to write.
They’re going to strike at a museum next, during the last quarter phase of the moon, he scribbles down because that much he’s sure of. Old and full of paintings? A museum is the only place that fits.
But which one? There were far too many.
There’s something odd about the last two lines, Chase realizes. The first part of the poem details the where, but the last two lines seem entirely removed from the first stanza.
Count each step, from its inception
Each stride one beyond the last
It does look like a hint. A hint that Chase just cannot figure out, and he groans in frustration, dropping the notebook on the desk and leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, till the abstract shapes that dance and dart around in the darkness of his eyes slip into plain obscurity..
Think
In the corner of the room, he hears the squeal of a door opening, and the slip of a coat being hung onto the coat rack.
Who could possibly be here this early?
He spins his chair around, and has to keep himself from groaning in annoyance.
“Good morning,” he says instead.
Nox meets his gaze with indifference, adjusting his watch, before a quiet sigh escapes his lips, “Good morning.” Nox reaches into his black, leather messenger bag, bringing out a thick, black notebook, before sitting down at a desk, quietly working. Barely even a glance in Chase’s direction.
Chase thinks back to that moment when they first met— in which Nox had imprinted that moment in his head with full disdain and Chase hadn’t even realized yet the consequences of his clumsiness, a small pang of guilt shooting through his spurnful feelings for the man— and decides that he should, for the sake of the team, try and fix that. Nox technically had done nothing wrong.
“Uh, Nox?” He starts.
Nox, slowly, as if he was debating in his mind whether to ignore him or not, meets his gaze, pen pausing from its path along the paper.
“Look,” Chase offers an awkward smile, “I’m sorry about messing up your paperwork thing– I should have looked where I was going.”
Nox stares at him for a moment, expression unreadable, before he carefully nods his head, “Alright.”
Silence. Nox turns back to his notebook, gaze already scanning the pages.
“So— are we like, good?” Chase asks, hesitant, after a couple moments of nothing.
“Mhm.” Nox replies, not sparing him a glance.
“Like, actually good?”
Nox exhales a long breath, “Yes, Chase.”
“Oooooookay….Cool. Cool.”
Chase nods to no one in particular, a strained smile pulling at his lips, before turning his chair around and going back to work. He’s not sure if Nox is going to treat him normally from now on, but there’s no point in asking because talking to the man is like pulling teeth. He shifts his attention back on his scrawled notes, staring at them for just a moment before he sighs dramatically. From behind him, the scratch of a pen stills for just a moment.
“...You’re still looking at the poem?” Nox asks, something unreadable in his tone.
It takes Chase a moment to realize Nox is talking to him.
He grumbles, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands, “Yes, I know there’s something I’m missing. There’s something odd about the last two lines.”
Nox doesn’t say anything to that, but the push of a chair scraping against the floor and footsteps that come closer and closer, till Chase looks up and sees Nox standing beside him, arms crossed, gaze lowered at the copied poem on Chase’s desk.
Nox leans down, hand using the back of Chase’s chair as support, eyes flitting through the mess of Chase’s annotations and highlights.
Chase tries very hard to not stare, but it's difficult when Nox’s face is right next to him and Chase can count every individual eyelash. How can such an asshole look so good.
“Maybe you’re reading too much into it,” Nox comments, finally, lips bunched to the side.
Chase frowns, “You think so? Dorkin was convinced that there was some…other clue in here.”
Nox hums, before standing straight up and moving back to his desk, “There’s no point in wasting such time on if there’s a clue in the poem. If…Silver was correct, we only have three days to prepare.”
There’s something odd in the way Nox says it, far too stoic, far too sure.
“So?” Chase questions.
“So, maybe figuring out whether this poem has a clue is far less important than preparing for the next heist,” Nox states, sitting down at his desk.
Chase lets out a heavy exhale, deflated, pushing away his notebook, “Yeah…yeah maybe you’re right.”
Nox hums, “I know.”
He narrows his eyes at Nox, commenting weakly, “Don’t sound so smug about it.”
Ignoring Nox’s haughty look, Chase laments on if he should give up, and decides that perhaps he should report to Forenski now. Rip the bandaid off.
Might as well, get it over with.
“C’mon Nox,” Chase beckons, already getting up, stomach full of dread, “We should go report this to the chief.”
Nox raises a brow, staying seated, “Why do I have to attend?”
“Because maybe if you’re there she won’t chew me out as much.”
Nox doesn’t make a single move to stand, gaze staring down at his paperwork in contemplation, “I see no reason for me to join.”
Chase rolls his eyes, walking to the front of Nox’s desk, “You’re also a trainee under me.”
Nox’s eyebrow lift in a wordless why?
“She needs to see you actually being involved.”
Nox sighs, shuffling his papers into a neat, single stack. He gives a short, clipped nod, and triumph soars through Chase as they make their way out the office.
He clicks the button to the elevator, the doors sliding open and entering until he realizes Nox still stands outside, unmoving. The doors start to slide close, and he reaches a hand out to stop them, raising a brow.
“You going to…come in?” Chase asks, a little confused.
Nox shakes his head, “I’ll take the stairs.” And then he turns around, heading toward the door to the stairs.
Chase looks up in the elevator, where it states which floor they’re on currently. Number six. There’s no way this guy is willingly choosing to go down six flights of steps.
“We’re on floor six, Nox!” He yells out, toward Nox’s retreating figure.
“I’m well aware.”
“That's an unnecessary amount of cardio!”
Nox doesn’t stop, already at the door, “You’re welcome to take the elevator.”
He’s insane, and Chase scoffs as Nox opens the door to the staircase. There’s no way Chase is going to join him either, because that sounds torturous. There’s no way riding with Chase is that terrible, right? Terrible enough to go down six flights of stairs?
Chase stares at the empty spot where Nox stood for a moment, trying to make a decision, before sighing and heading out to follow him.
“I thought we were getting along,” he grumbles quietly, under his breath, as he pushes open the door to the stairs. Nox, who was halfway down the first set of stairs, turns around to glance at him, eyes widening in surprise. The bright, white light hanging overhead shines directly into Chase’s eyes, making him wince.
“What happened to this being an ‘unnecessary amount of cardio’?” Nox comments, mocking.
He decides to ignore that, quickly walking down the steps,“C’mon…let's hurry up, she’s probably waiting.”
Nox doesn’t move for a moment, before slowly nodding and following him downward.
The stairwell is excessively bright, fluorescent glow of the bulbs humming overhead. Each of their steps echo against the concrete walls, a dull slap against the hard floor.
On the third flight of stairs, Chase is beginning to regret his decision deeply, muttering, “Is this revenge for making you join me?”
“You joined me,” Nox tuts, without missing a beat.
Chase clutches at the railing, “Don’t get technical with me.”
After nearly tripping on the fourth flight of stairs, he starts to whine, breathing getting increasingly difficult.
“Wh-who—” he has to pause to catch his breath, because the last time he exercised was like…well he doesn’t even remember (Highschool gym class, maybe?), “—chooses these steps over the well-comfortable, well-lit, well-working elevator.”
Nox snorts, glancing over his shoulder, and Chase notices how infuriatingly not-out-of-breath Nox is, “How are you supposed to catch any thief with this sort of stamina?”
He shoots a glare at Nox’s back, “I have many talents.”
“Such as?”
“My incredible intelligence.” Chase tries to say it more confidently, but it's difficult to sound confident when you have to talk between short breaths, haggard and weary.
Nox huffs a breath of disbelief, “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Chase doesn’t respond to that, too busy trying not to trip, following the pathway of the steps. After another flight of stairs, something calls to the forefront of his mind.
Yesterday, he remembered that Nox had appeared from the door of the staircase. He’d been too…busy to notice that at the moment.
“You…you also came through the staircase, yesterday,” he states.
“Mhm,” Nox hums.
“Do you do this everyday?” Chase asks, eyes widening.
Nox shrugs. “Yes.”
Chase’s mouth falls open in astonishment, “Thats— you must be a masochist, dude.”
Nox glances back at Chase, who sports a sheen of sweat on his forehead, chest rising fast with exertion, and then decides not to say anything, a gleeful grin appearing on his face instead. Chase glares.
They reach the end of the fifth flight of stairs, and Chase sighs in relief at the sight of the door beneath them, just one last flight of stairs to go. His knee’s hurt, legs sluggish and leaden, breath coming out in short puffs.
Just one step after the other, Chase thinks to himself, counting down each step before he reaches sweet, sweet respite. He focuses on each step of the dwindling staircase, counting each one that leads closer to the door.
One step
Two steps
Three steps
And then, just as they reach the end of the flight of stairs, the last line of the poem shoots itself through the forefront of his mind, displacing every thought until it rings in Chase’s mind like the jingle of a bell, like the sound of a bubble popping. Sharp, cold clarity that unfurls like an explosion.
Each stride one beyond the last
He looks down at the stairs beneath his feet, then back up as he gasps, the loud noise echoing through the cemented staircase, “Nox.”
Nox turns around, startled, “What?”
“Its—It’s like a staircase.,” he whispers, a pin dropping into the silence.
“What?” Nox repeats, even more confused, an expression anchored in slight concern.
Chase points at the stairs, hands gesturing wildly, “It’s like a staircase."
Nox stares at him, even more bewildered as Chase immediately turns around and starts running back to the office, footsteps scabbling across the cemented stairs in a hurry.
“H-Hey!” Nox yells, but when Chase doesn’t stop, he groans and follows.
Chase takes two steps at a time, adrenaline coursing through his veins, rushing to replace any exhaustion he previously had. As if the more time he takes the more the lucidity that vibrates violently in his mind will fizzle away, into dust. He slams open the door to the fifth floor, racing inside the office, to his desk, searching for his copy of the poem, Nox closely behind.
Where is it
“W-what,” Nox breathes, and Chase would have felt a spark of satisfaction at the fatigue in his voice if he wasn’t rummaging around his desk, searching, a fire coursing through his veins, “What are you doing?”
Ignoring him, Chase finally finds his copy of the poem, grabbing his pen. He frantically writes with his pen, circling and the puzzle finally clicks.
Silent halls mask forsaken tales,
Dusk lingers under the museum veils,
Fog trails along the antique past,
The ancient halls revives olden names,
Inky rooms remain unblemished by time,
Muted shadows gather beneath the moon,
Hidden paintings a cause for their arrival,
The older rooms keep secrets under their breast,
Whispers in the amber frames coaxing from the prior,
Something new awaits beyond the aureate doors,
Ancient old galleries guarding treasurable plunders.
Sugar spring
Chase stares wordlessly, gripping the paper in his fingertips. Nox gawks at the paper with him, his eyes widening in surprise.
Neither of them speak, before Chase, his voice hoarse in disbelief, “The—They’re targeting the Sugar Spring museum next.”
And then Chase turns to Nox, hands sliding to grip his arms, staring into his blue, icy eyes with honeyed mirth, positively shaking, “You were supposed to read it like a staircase, Nox— One step after the other!”
Chase pauses, before a bright smile takes over his lips, “I—I never would have figured it out if it wasn’t for you!”
Nox stiffens, staring dumbly at Chase, blue eyes like an empty riverbed.
“...Really?” Nox says, tonelessly.
“Yes—you took the stairs.”
If Chase hadn't taken the stairs…he would have taken the elevator, and gone to divulge that he practically knew nothing to the chief, gritting his teeth while he got lectured.
Something unreadable flicks through Nox’s gaze, jaw tightening, but Chase is far too busy in the light of his own success to see the shadows that take over Nox’s features.
“A...ah…you’re…welcome?” Nox mumbles, still processing the whole situation, blinking down at Chase.
“We have to tell Forenski this!” Chase exclaims, already rushing to the door, not bothering to see if Nox is following, “I can’t wait to see the look on her face!”
The door swings shut with a harsh click and Nox is left alone in his thoughts, the room silent in its cramped embrace.
He hears Chase, in the distance, pull the door to the staircase open, the heavy step of his racing pace growing farther and farther.
Nox slides his fingertips through his hair, the snag of knots grounding him, as he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.
Chase’s excited voice echoes in his head, looping like a vinyl player, like the needle scratching and pausing as the disc circles.
I never would have figured it out if it wasn’t for you!
He gulps, swallowing the pang of dread that claws at his throat, eyes drifting to the door Chase had just ran out of,
”...Fuck.”
Violet is going to kill him.