Content Warning: Self-harm.113Please respect copyright.PENANAEKPY4tBASa
Adrian and Julian made their way to their parked car outside the orphanage, where the faint echoes of boys reciting lessons in their classrooms lingered in the air. Adrian cast a glance back at the imposing structure, a faint smile touching his lips. Julian, leaning against the hood of the Crow, crossed his arms, an air of solemnity about him. As Adrian moved towards the car, he couldn't help but be puzzled by Julian's demeanor and asked, "So, are we headed to Whispers Street?" He noticed that Julian wasn't budging and inquired, "Is everything all right, kid?"
"You promised me, Mr. Belinsky," Julian responded without looking at Adrian. "You said there would be no more secrets between us."
Adrian was taken aback by Julian's words. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't know, or you don't want to admit that you know?" Julian retorted sharply.
"What's gotten into you, Julian? Just tell me straight, don't beat around the bush," Adrian said, irritation creeping into his voice.
"Why did you ask me to leave the room back there? Remember, this is our investigation, not yours alone," Julian pointed out.
"It was a private matter I needed to discuss with her," Adrian replied, briefly looking down.
"A 'private matter,' you say," Julian stretched his words thoughtfully. "A private matter concerning Lady Zorkin's correspondence with Jeremy Alder. How is that private? Tell me, Detective, I'm genuinely curious."
"I used it as collateral to gain information from her," Adrian deflected.
"What information? She gave us all the information we needed!" Julian pressed on.
"It's none of your business, kid. Back off or get in the car; we have a murder to solve," Adrian retorted, his patience wearing thin.
"You know, Detective, sometimes I wonder if you're not in this to solve cases and catch criminals," Julian mused, his tone contemplative. "You're in this for yourself, fighting a losing battle to salvage your old sense of pride. You want to prove something, either to the department or perhaps just to Chief Lobakin, that your way of solving cases still works." Julian stepped closer to Adrian, leaning in. "But your way is over, and you don't need to seek a conspiracy in every murder. Like Mr. Orlin said, 'retirement is breathing down your neck already,' and you're struggling to accept it."
Adrian's face turned pale before flushing crimson, his eyes blazing with fury, much to Julian's surprise. "Take that back, kid."
Julian took a step back and replied solemnly, "I like you, Detective, I really do. But if you're on a crusade to prove something to the department, and you're willing to risk being charged with tampering with vital evidence, then you'll have to embark on that crusade alone."
Adrian, still seething with anger, calmly instructed, "Step away from the car." His eerie calmness contradicted his visible fury.
Julian quietly complied, moving away from the car. He watched as Adrian got in and slammed the door shut, starting the engine with tires screeching before speeding off into the quiet, empty streets.
-
Adrian returned to his apartment, frustration gnawing at him. A series of swift, angry actions unfolded as he entered - he kicked a wall bearing the scars of countless prior blows, and then carelessly discarded his hat and jacket onto the floor. Marching towards the refrigerator, he wrenched its door open, causing glass bottles within to jingle and clink in protest. His gaze fell upon the beer bottles, drawing a contemptuous eye-roll from him. With a resounding slam, he shut the fridge and redirected his steps toward a bookshelf in the living room. Grasping a chair, he positioned it in front of the shelf, then climbed onto it, stretching to reach the topmost shelf. Dust swirled as he retrieved a neglected bottle of Velerionsky. As his fingers brushed the bottle's surface, an irksome tingle crept into his ears, adding further drops of bitterness to the pool of anger festering within him. Descending from the chair, he found his way to the kitchen, drew a glass from a sink teeming with unwashed dishes, and gave it a hasty rinse before filling it halfway with whiskey.
Sinking onto the couch in the living room, Adrian held the glass and bottle in his hands. He set the bottle down on the floor's carpet and lit a cigarette, exhaling with an audible sigh of relief. The specters of pain and sorrow loomed in his thoughts, but he didn't seek to evade them. Instead, he embraced them, inviting his past to a melancholic ballroom dance. The room gradually filled with cigarette smoke, accompanying his growing sense of isolation. With each plume of smoke he exhaled, it felt as though a piece of his soul was departing - his last companion, unable to bear the torment. Adrian extinguished his cigarette, fixing his gaze on a lamp by the couch. Its lightbulb flickered weakly, battling to maintain its glow, akin to his own faltering resolve. He saw it as his lifeline, a feeble beacon in the dark, reassuring him that, as long as it endured, he wouldn't surrender. But he questioned whether the fight was even worth it. Retrieving his new black police revolver, he contemplated it, maneuvering it in his hand while pointing it at the smudged mirror opposite the couch. In its reflection, he saw himself, along with the wavering light from the lamp. A sudden impulse led him to press the gun's barrel against his temple, and he let out a cry, consuming a glass of whiskey in a single, desperate gulp. He pulled back the hammer and closed his eyes, still sensing the pulsating light through his eyelids.
Then, an unexpected change occurred - the light ceased its erratic dance and stabilized. Adrian, reluctantly, opened his eyes in astonishment. His gaze shifted to a faded photo on the wall, one of him holding a baby. Setting the gun aside, he wore a strange, enigmatic smile. A ringing telephone broke the apartment's tense atmosphere, its alien, almost otherworldly, sound intruding into his personal turmoil. Adrian didn't rush to answer it. Instead, he slowly replenished his glass with more drink, then ambled unhurriedly toward the telephone, picking it up with a weary sigh.
"Yes."
"Is this Detective Belinsky?" A woman's voice resonated through the phone.
Adrian, grappling with his clouded thoughts, couldn't quite place the voice in his current state. "Who the hell is this, and how did you get this number?"
"You gave it to me! It's Artemia, remember? Your 'sister' from the bar in the Eastern slums? The one who saved you from certain death at the hands of the Viper Valley gangsters?" Artemia's voice carried a subtle undertone of annoyance.
Adrian struggled to recall the details but opted to play along. "Alright, and what do you need?"
"I need your help," urgency dripped from Artemia's voice. "Where can we meet?"
"Meet?"
"Are you okay, Adrian?" Artemia sensed the unease in his voice.
"I'm not okay, and I can't pick you up right now because I've had a few," Adrian's eyes darted toward the gun resting on his couch. "I can't meet you at this moment, Artemia, I'm sorry."
"You owe me one, Adrian, remember? I wouldn't call if this were something trivial. I don't need you to pick me up; I'll find a cab. Just tell me your address."
Adrian withdrew the phone from his ear, briefly contemplating hanging up, but then thought better of it. He provided his address and set the phone down, embarking on the daunting task of attempting to bring some semblance of order to his chaotic surroundings.
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