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Outside lies a dead body.
Second by second, the rain washes away whatever evidence remains. Squeaky clean, as though blood hadn’t been pooling, gathering, spreading, staining the stone crimson. “We can’t — nobody is allowed to touch him until the police arrive!” his wife yells in a frenzy, stepping in front of those who at least wanted to cover him with a blanket out of respect.
And so the evening progresses — fruitless interrogations, rooms leading to dead ends, even more interrogations, and a wife refusing to utter a single word.
It's midnight already, and Oskar hits a complete dead end. He has no leads, no clues to help him move forward. His feet hurt from exploring the building. He’s hungry and irritated and could really use a moment to rest in his room, without any interruptions, without any murder to solve, without anyone shifting the blame onto him at every convenient opportunity.
He doesn’t bother locking the door. Immediately, he flops onto his back on the bed and takes a long, deep breath. Despite the terrible soundproofing, it’s surprisingly serene. Besides a few muffled voices he can’t make out, there’s only quiet, only the steady rhythm of tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. He feels his eyelids growing heavy. He couldn’t fall asleep now, not like this, not when there’s a killer still on the loose. The esteemed Oskar Rex, murdered in his sleep? That would leave a shameful stain on his legacy far worse than anything else.
Alas, his body is already giving in to a deep sense of relaxation. His limbs grow heavy against the grand bed, every tense muscle slowly unwinding. Before long, he’s drifting toward unconsciousness.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Time stills.
But then, a sudden knock at the door jolts Oskar upright. Any trace of sleep disappears at once. He doesn’t dare say a word, doesn’t dare make a sound. Who knows what could be waiting for him on the other side?
Then another. And one more, softer. Oskar curses under his breath for not having his gun with him. He needs to think fast. What could work as a weapon? He glances to his left — a metal coat rack. Possible, but it would only slow him down. To his right, on the bedside table, rests a lantern. It looks sturdy enough to knock someone out with a single blow, giving him enough time to run past them and mingle back into the crowd.
Everything after that unfolds in a blur. One second he’s on the brink of deciding, the next he’s up and at the door, grabbing the knob, twisting it, lantern gripped above his head. He yanks the door open right as the final knock lands. Oskar is prepared to strike, to expose the killer and show every fool who has doubted him just how wrong their judgment had been. For blaming the Oskar Rex.
But he freezes. His hand remains awkwardly suspended in the air.
The sight in front of him is this: a pair of unimpressed eyes glancing at him, then at his choice of weapon, then back at him.
“Really?”
Anyone else would've been embarrassed. By far, this is the most impulsive thing Oskar has ever done in his life. Alas, Oskar Rex does not feel shame, or show any sign of weakness, or back down. Ever.
So, coolly, as though he hadn’t nearly struck him with a lantern, Oskar says, “Silas. I assumed you were — anyhow, that matters little. What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
Silas crosses his arms over his chest. “Your choice of injury is remarkably consistent, huh? Do you intend to leave everyone you encounter with a throbbing lump upon their head?”
“You are…” Oskar lowers the lantern, clearing his throat. “Still insistent on not letting that go.”
A silent come inside is written plainly in Oskar’s body language. He steps aside, opening the way with a small tilt of his head. And Silas, despite the frown coloring his face, walks right in. The door closes behind them once more, and Oskar remembers to lock it this time. Twice, for added precaution.
Meanwhile, Silas is already making himself at home. He sits in the armchair, but it does little to ease the tension in his body. His muscles remain coiled, and he’s still silently glaring a burning hole through Oskar’s skull.
“Vowed silence beyond two words?” Oskar continues. “Am I supposed to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness?”
“You could,” Silas says, cold and devoid of any emotion his voice would normally carry.
Oskar rolls his eyes. He leans back against the wardrobe, standing directly across from Silas.
“Everyone — including you — was trying to frame me for a murder I did not commit,” Oskar states, like he’s reading from a file. “I was merely doing what I could to prevent that.”
Silas scoffs. “And that warranted defending the very man who struck me unconscious?”
“He works for me. And he made an impulsive decision.” Oskar shrugs. “I believe in employment rights.”
"Impulsive decision. Employment rights. Do you hear yourself?" Silas scoffs again. "Who's to say you didn't give him the order?"
Quicker than he would've liked, Oskar retorts, "I did no such thing."
In hindsight, Oskar understands. Or tries to, at least. There is nothing more ordinary in this world than an employee carrying out orders from their boss. So really, logically, Silas is not wrong for having his doubts.
But Silas should know better. By now, he should’ve realized that whatever Oskar is capable of, Silas has always been exempt from it. That Silas is a rare exception, that Oskar would never have ordered anyone to leave him walking around like this, injured and resembling some miserable, sopping-wet dog, let alone have him tailed.
So, admittedly, a small yet persistent bubble of frustration rises in the back of Oskar’s throat.
Even worse: Silas has gone silent again. He pulls out a cigarette, along with a metal lighter from his pocket. He is still addicted to that thing, Oskar grimaces. Silas's lips — drier, paler than usual — close around the tip.
“I don’t want you stinking up my room — alright.”
Silas is already lighting it, not once breaking eye contact. Oskar taps his fingers along his forearm, tries to focus on the soothing rhythm of it, but it does little.
A petty rebellion. That is what Silas is trying to achieve. He is old and bitter and his paranoia is making him jump to conclusions all by himself. And now he is taking it all out on Oskar.
“You are not going to succeed in angering me with that.” Oskar points at the cigarette. Curls of smoke rise from the middle of the room, thinning as they climb and leaving an ashy trail behind.
“Mm,” Silas hums blankly. He takes a long puff and blows the smoke ahead, directly toward Oskar. "Is that so, Rex."
Taken aback, Oskar straightens. “Rex? Since when are we on a last-name basis?”
“Do you not like it?” Silas exhales another breath of smoke. “Are you going to have me knocked out with a punch to the face this time?”
More smoke gathers between them, hanging thick in the space separating their bodies. Oskar watches it, feels a little sick, and a little bit of something else. He’s always hated the cheap smell of poison filling his lungs without his permission, clinging to his clothes and settling bitterly on his tongue. He never understood the appeal. It is messy, it is addicting. It is everything Oskar avoids.
Yet, at the same time, for Oskar, those are exactly the things Silas is.
The nauseating smell grows sharper as Oskar closes the distance. Silas acts as though this is just another measly night for him, as though Oskar approaching him means absolutely nothing. A crack in that carefully schooled expression is all Oskar wants. For the eyes behind those glasses sitting perfectly on his nose to widen, to betray even the slightest hint of surprise.
That is why, when Oskar finally stops, he’s close — so close that beneath the bitterness of smoke, he catches a trace of Silas’s cologne. Musky, with a hint of wood, warmer than the smoke surrounding them. His legs brush against Silas’s knees.
"Frowning suits you the least, old man," Oskar says. Then follows a light tap in between Silas's brows. It lingers. Warm against cold. "You'll grow a new pair of wrinkles up here."
Silas doesn’t entertain those words. Instead, curtly, with a small motion of his finger, he gives a single command: lean closer.
Curiosity wins out fast. At the same time, a strange sense of anticipation rises in Oskar’s chest. The ever-timid archaeologist is, in a way, ordering Oskar around? He has to see this through, see where it might lead. Perhaps somewhere familiar, to one of the many nights they’ve shared, drunk or sober, or those evenings of impulse spent under the same roof.
See? It is this easy. Some light-hearted teasing, touches that burn — and Silas is already asking for more.
“What is it?” Oskar coos. He leans in, propping himself against the armrests. “What could possibly warrant you knocking on my door in the middle of the night?” And closer still. His nose burns from the bitter smell of ash. “Pray tell, was it instinct?”
It’s as though Silas’s gaze alone is slowly unwrapping him like a piece of candy, peeling away one layer at a time. His cheeks hollow around another inhale, the cigarette between his fingers burned down to a tiny, useless nub.
And not a second later, Oskar’s lungs fill with smoke. It hits him all at once, pouring into his mouth and nostrils, bitter and suffocating, stinging his eyes until they water. His throat burns. Hunched over and coughing, he staggers back.
In between breaths, he manages, “You — ”
Silas stands. Through watery eyes, Oskar thinks he looks noticeably taller tonight, more imposing, more forward than Oskar has ever seen him. Whatever timidity usually softens his presence is nowhere to be found. His posture is rigid, hesitation stripped away. Is this the real Silas? Is this what Silas becomes when he’s angry beyond belief? Which one is the real Silas?
Which one does Oskar like more?
The distance between them lessens yet again. Fingers dig firmly into Oskar’s cheeks, guiding his face upward and leaving him little choice but to look.
Silas’s face — his lips — is only inches away.
“You’re — quite shameless, aren’t you?” Oskar huffs. “Trying to steal a kiss right after blowing smoke in my face, I see.”
Yet it never comes.
“Apologize.”
Oskar stills. “…Excuse me?”
“I want you to apologize on behalf of your employee,” Silas insists.
At his sides, Oskar’s hands curl into tight fists.
“Oskar Rex does not apologize,” he snaps, ugly and raw. “Take it up with Christopher if you so desperately wish to receive compensation for the damage. Although…”
A smirk pulls at Oskar’s mouth, disingenuous and curved all wrong at the edges. Something intentionally unpleasant, meant to sting.
“Silas A.P. Saparata already has a few screws loose, does he not?”
Like a flash of lightning, Silas’s face contorts. There it is. This is what Oskar had wanted, isn’t it? To wipe away that carefully trained calmness, to draw out some emotion, some color from beneath it. It should’ve been another victory in the bag. One of many.
Oskar doesn’t feel satisfied in the slightest.
“You are a conniving bastard, Rex,” Silas spits. His fingers squeeze harder, and harder. There will surely be bruises blooming across Oskar’s cheeks by morning.
When Silas finally lets go, when he brushes past Oskar and heads for the door, the abandoned skin burns, stings, throbs. And dare Oskar admit it — he misses the bitter smoke. Misses having it surround him, overwhelm him from the inside out.
“Come right in next time,” Oskar says calmly, tilting his head. “No need to knock on the door. We are already past the pleasantries.”
A dreadful silence lingers in the air. Silas doesn’t say anything, letting his gaze do the talking — the rising fire, the heat, the anger, all of it. But that is alright. Silas will find his way back to Oskar. Or Oskar will act first and win his pitiful soul back. A bouquet, a lavish dinner at one of Oskar’s many mansions, an evening spent over liquor. This is nothing if not a small setback.
Because, wherever one goes, the other always follows.