Slowly, painfully slowly did you push the door open. A crack of light fell from the illuminated corridor into the darkened room.

With bated breath you waited behind the door. Maybe someone would respond to you obviously being there.

Silence.

Nothing but silence.

Relieved, you exhaled, pooped your head into the room to take a look around and then dared to enter.

Everything was dark. Almost spooky.

The curtains seemed unchanged, pulled shut, only letting minimal light into the room.

Silver rays of the moon crawled across the floor. The shimmer felt cold, not as fascinating as they did back when you had been a child watching the stars with your mother.

It was more like a gentle touch of death. Soothing yet so very gut wrenching.

"Michael..?", only hesitantly did you dare to approach the bed.

His face was so pale, so old. Almost like a mask.

With your lips pressed into a thin line you took a step closer. Now you stood right next to his head, barely far enough away to put another person between the to of you.

Your eyes burned.

The beating of your heart made it feel like someone stabbed a knife into your chest.

You wanted it to stop. You wanted to take one last deep breath and then drown everything with the void of sweet, sweet nothing.

"Michael.", your lips already trembled.

Even though you didn't know for sure yet you could feel that something was wrong. Like a feeling of confirmation. It was like a sixth sense. Just like you had felt back when your mother hadn't shown up like she had promised.

Your finger were shaking as you reached out, but stopped right before the tips could brush his ashy skin.

You knew what had happened.

But you also wanted to make sure.

Perhaps this was just a bad dream, a nightmare like no other. Perhaps your brain was just playing tricks on you, tried to convince you that life could get so much worse.

But in the end you knew like everybody else that nothing could be as cruel as reality.

As you finally dared to close the last bit of difference between your fingers and his cheek, a sob escaped you. Forcing back tears, you lowered yourself to your knees to be able to grab his face with both hands.

He was as cold as ice.

No, not ice.

As cold as a corpse. Michael was dead.

"No...", you could hardly breathe as you held him in your arms, so calm, so peaceful. "Why... don't leave me... don't!"

He had left this world without even knowing it. All he did was sleep. And he'd never wake up again.

He'd never open his eyes again, gift you that soft, grandfatherly smile of his, pat your back and tell you that everything would be alright.

"What am I going to do now?", you asked, tears drawing burning lines down your face. "What am I going to do without you, Michael?"

Curling in pain, you pulled his face to your chest to give him the tightest hug you had ever given anyone and softly sobbed.

Whoever had done this didn't even allow you to voice all the pain that made your heart bleed in that moment. You couldn't cry out loud. You were unable to break down and scream in agony.

They weren't supposed to know where you were.

If they had managed to kill an old, defenceless man, they wouldn't stop at someone far younger. Someone who'd be able to resist with force.

Tears rolled down your cheeks, over the bridge of your nose, falling all the way down from the tip onto the pillow on which Michael had breathed his last breath.

With blurred vision you noticed that the marks of colourful saliva now showed more clearly. It wasn't all that noticeable, like a splash of paint, but clear enough to realise that this wasn't supposed to be found on a pillow.

It even smelled a little.

All of a sudden, cold anger burned up inside the pit of your stomach. With your lips pressed into a thin line you let two fingers stroke over the stain and raised them to your nose.

Slightly salty. A hint of sour. But also this stench of chemicals.

Strangely enough, you believed to know what it was. But you needed someone to confirm your thoughts. Otherwise you could ask to be checked into a mental hospital.

Without hesitation, you pulled out your phone. Your fingers dialled the number as if it were a prayer.

For a short moment it rang.

"All these late night calls. You're getting me worried, suga.", Phillip answered.

You didn't pay any attention to him. All you could think about was the suspicion that nestled in the back of your mind.

"Phillip.", your voice was as cold as ice, not giving away a hint about what was just happening. "I need you to answer me a question."

He hesitated.

"Sure?"

"What smells salty, yet acidic with a very strong scent of chemicals?"

Taken aback, he failed to answer right away. And even though his face could be seen it was clear that he frowned in a concerned manner.

"You sound like you already know.", he suddenly said.

"I need you to tell me."

"You make me worry."

"Phillip. Answer my question."

He sighed.

"If I had to guess... Zyanid."

"Thank you.", and with these words you hung up.

Gently, you placed Michael back on the bed, made sure that his head lay comfortably in the pillow and pulled the blanket back up. But this time you didn't tuck him in. You covered his entire body.

Your eyes wandered to the bedside table. Dried tears made your every face movement feel sticky.

There was a card waiting. It was obvious that it was just for you. Otherwise it wouldn't have made sense to place it right where you were unable to miss it.

With a deep breath, you picked it up.

"Meet me in your fathers office.", the beautifully written letters spelled. "I've got a lot to tell you."

The handwriting was familiar to you.