It only occurred to Tristan once he and Constance had exited the law building's basement that, technically, the two of them could be considered to presently be on the run from the police. It didn't bother him a huge amount -- he was only working to fulfil Halley's deal in his own way -- but even so, he accepted Constance's ushering onto the quieter, backstreet alleys that snaked behind the university's campus. She was a thread pulled taut, a petrified hare peeking around each corner. Her split-second smiles came paper-thin and just as fragile.

"Thank you for helping me," she said softly as they paced a suburban street. By now, they'd successfully slipped the net without any accusatory eyes, but her quivering tension was far from fading. It seemed almost permanent. "I mean it, really. You didn't have to. I know I don't deserve--"

"It's not about deserve," Tristan said. Perhaps a little more harshly than he'd intended, for she flinched. How exhausting must it be to be so jerky and sensitive? "Primarily, I am doing my job. I don't concern myself with so-called right and wrong. You're just a person."

She opened her mouth, and then closed it, her smile warming. Her gaze avoided his as she tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "So, how are we going to find Raphael?"

He'd been pondering that question in circles with every step. "Where would a person like him spend his days?" he mused. "With his brother would make sense. They seem to be very close."

"So we find Otto?" She spoke the concept shyly, tentatively, and for once Tristan couldn't find fault in it. An unsettling frost scaled the length of his spine and spiked at his knuckles at the thought of speaking to that man again. Their last conversation's end had a dark presence in his mind.

He cupped his chin in his hand, pace slowing, and studied the clouds in the sky. "Perhaps we--"

"Actually, I have a plan."

Tristan jumped. Constance cried out, shrinking into his side, though it seemed foolish on both their accounts as the owner of the intruding voice became clear. One hand resting on a house's wall, head tilted almost sideways and messy indigo hair dangling, Quinn threw them a lopsided grin. The new, darker purple dye applied to their locks framed their face like strips of colourful midnight.

"Hi, by the way," they added, then lifted their head and clapped a hand over their heart in mock drama. "Damn, Tristan, is she your new partner? Have I been replaced?"

"She's with me for safety," Tristan said and folded his arms. "Though so far she's been more helpful than you were."

Righting herself at his side, Constance scratched at the back of her neck, face turned aside and lips pinching in silence. Fear continued to cradle her even now.

Quinn tutted, raising their eyebrows. "If you're going to be like that, maybe I'll just leave you to struggle alone."

A beat of silence passed. He stared back at them, waiting.

He counted maybe ten seconds before Quinn spoke again, blowing out a long, exasperated breath as if they'd been forced to make noise. "Fine." They twirled around and fell into step between Tristan and Constance, urging them both to resume walking. "I know of this funky nightclub slash casino place. Ace Of Clubs, it's called. All kinds of shady people hang around in there."

"And?" Tristan pressed.

"And I'd bet my left foot Otto has connections with those shady people. Doesn't it fit?"

He hummed, nodding his agreement, much as reluctance simmered in his veins at the tacky feeling of admitting Quinn was right. Knowledge had been a haunting silhouette in Otto's eyes when he'd held Tristan's gun that night; there was no doubt he was familiar with the weapon, much as he wished to distance himself from it. He'd wanted Tristan to get rid of it, but didn't that imply Otto had a past he might still be escaping?

It's alright if you need help. I might know what you're going through.

If you need help. Not just guarded, not fearing for himself. Protective. There was someone he wanted to save.

"He has more than vague connections." Tristan increased his pace. "That club is where we'll find Raphael."

•┈┈┈••✦♧✦••┈┈┈•

To call the street Ace Of Clubs sat upon neglected would be a kind understatement. In honesty, it felt less like neglect and more like purposeful destruction. The chipped bare-brick walls were slathered in arching strokes of graffiti, a wide array of purples and reds that spelled out phrases Tristan could barely even read. The cracked slate paving underfoot was so uneven it was painful to walk on. Though the sun was a while still from setting, there was a grim shadow that hung overhead, one that made the garish black-edged crimson of the casino's neon sign stand out like a car's headlights on full beam.

"How did you know about this place?" Constance asked Quinn, voice hushed and hunched form shivering. The afternoon sunshine was starting to fade into an evening of scattered clouds.

Quinn shrugged. "I people-watch, don't I?" They flicked their wrist at the sooty blackout windows of the casino's double doors. "This place has a great atmosphere. I love sketching 'Clubs regulars. Real tragic cases." They gasped, then elbowed Tristan's side. "Hey, I'm surprised you don't hang out here, Triscuit. You sure you've never heard of it?"

Holding in a sigh behind his clenched teeth, Tristan didn't let himself linger to argue. He rolled his shoulders, strode forward, and shoved open the nearest door.

The noise was so intense it was like a blow to the head. An electric beat thrummed through air like heated syrup, vibrating through the sticky carpet and grinding his eardrums. Jarring voices slid in underneath, pockmarked with laughter. Tension pulling at him with scratchy strings, he forced himself to look beyond the flickering red lights and to the interior itself.

A bar dominated the leftmost corner, an old TV screen hung above it and a raucous crowd gathered on stools with bottles in hand. Glints of unswept broken glass caught the light like bloodstains as they cowered at the bar's base. There were chairs set out sparsely, though the rest of the cramped space was dedicated to tables laid in red cloth and dice and cards; the gambling games, where people watched one another with blank, twitching smiles, plastic chips hoarded as if they were stolen diamonds.

One in particular caught Tristan's eye. A circular table with only four men gathered by it, one of which was currently collecting in a set of decorated playing cards from the other players. Poker, if he had to guess.

He continued surveying the room until he clocked the counter at the far end where chips could be collected. "We split up," he said to Quinn who'd arrived beside him. "You two ask around by the bar."

Constance inhaled shakily from behind. "Tristan--"

Her whisper faded very quickly into the noise and he soon forgot it. He bought a small number of chips from the counter, careful not to give his name to the worker hovering there, and made straight for the poker table with them in hand. There was an easy gap for him to slip into opposite the dealer.

Eyes gravitated towards him, the dealer pausing partway through laying out the cards. Not allowing himself to be fazed, Tristan let his handful of chips spill out onto his corner of the table and gave a short, firm nod. "Deal me in."

The dealer examined him for a moment longer, frown clear but unreadable, before he shrugged and placed two cards down in front of Tristan. He took care in picking them up and scanned over each one before setting them face down again. Two games at once. He could feel the thrill returning, a steady buzz at his fingertips.

The player to his left placed a stack of three chips into the centre of the table. Tristan took his time in copying, carefully plucking chips from his own pile, glancing from them to each of the other men. The two to his right were deep in a muttered interchange of words, low and buried beneath the pulsing music. He slid the chips in to join the pile and kept his attention on them. "Have any of you seen a Raphael Ratliff in here?"

The conversation ended the moment he spoke the name. The man furthest from him, beside the dealer, snapped hard, gleaming eyes his way and folded his arms on the table, leaning at a sharp angle as his toes slid backward. "Who's asking?"

Everything about him was casual, but his eyes and his voice gave him away, that hardness like a fleck of pressurised diamond. Dark-coffee skin -- darker than Otto's -- simultaneously highlighted the bitter shadow hung low over his face and hid the dark circles carved under his eyes. He cocked his head sideways, his mess of black curls stuck out at all conceivable angles.

"A friend of his brother's," Tristan settled on, gauging for a response.

Raphael's lip curled, but not before a flash of emotion shot through his gaze. It was his turn to place his bet, and he hurried to turn his focus on that, curls shook out to half-conceal his face. "Didn't think my brother had friends."

"I'd assume he does, based on my experience of him, but I don't. Hello, Raphael."

The lanky boy standing between them jabbed a bony elbow at Tristan's shoulder, almost succeeding in levering him away from the table. He glowered from behind his cards. "You here to play or are you here to make us all feel uncomfortable?"

"Play," Tristan said, staring back evenly, somehow grateful now for the way the casino's noise drowned out his hastened heartbeat. "Of course. The latter is just a side effect of my company."

Sneering, the boy prepared to say something likely a little harsher, but Raphael cut in with a wave of his hand. "Let him stay for one round." He cast Tristan a dubious glance that swerved hard into cockiness, challenge's candlelit flame lighting in his gaze. "If he wins, he can stay longer."

Tristan's smile rose without warning. It surprised him, so much that he missed the moment to reply, not that it mattered. Blank as he was trying to be, it was likely written all over his face how eager he was to take that challenge. This present game he liked. It had rules, patterns, a structure, and he knew them far better than he knew people's quirks.

The dealer had just finished laying out three cards: ace of diamonds, nine of hearts, jack of hearts. Tristan rechecked his cards and drummed his fingers on the table, frowning a little. Raphael shot him a pointed glance, corners of his mouth poked up in a grin, and tossed another chip into the middle of the table. "Raise."

The other two were quick to follow suit. Tristan picked up a chip from his meagre pile and rolled it between his finger and thumb, contemplating, before he placed it neatly atop his three-tiered stack from before. The player to his left sniggered.

The next card was a jack of diamonds, and it produced a hiss sharp with annoyance from the lanky boy. "I fold," he grumbled, then slammed his cards down onto the table and pushed them away with a huff. Tristan raised an eyebrow at him, plucked another chip from his pile and added it to his stack.

"Raise."

More cackling laughter sounded from his left. The player was watching him with rough, blatant amusement. "Now you remember you're supposed to bluff, huh?"

"I'll meet that," Raphael said, flashing a smaller, more short-lived grin of his own. He flicked the chip like he was flipping a coin, smugness like leaking glitter when it landed in the table's centre with a light tink. He rested his elbows on the table, cards drooping almost uncaringly in his grip. "You're already more fun than my brother, friend."

"Last card?" the dealer asked. They all nodded.

With practised fingers, he laid down a ten of diamonds.

A few thoughtful seconds slid by before Raphael flicked two more chips into the middle. His eyes didn't leave Tristan, waiting, anticipating.

He responded with three chips, just as wordlessly. He'd almost run out already.

The leftmost player snorted in disbelief and set down his cards, nudging them towards the dealer. "Fold," he said, then rested his chin in his palm, contentedly settling into his new position as observer. Only Tristan and Raphael remained.

Raphael paused, then shrugged and dropped a final chip into the middle. He tapped his cards against the table. "Well? What've you got?"

"You first," Tristan offered.

The lanky boy coughed. "I sense a loser."

Tristan pointedly ignored him, fingertips running along the edges of his cards, once again flat against the table. The noise, the air's stuffiness, the thick, choking smells: they all seemed to fade into the background, joining in taking backseats to the game. He inclined his head to Raphael in prompt.

Raphael swept his curls back and smiled. "Alright." With a flourish, he flicked his cards onto the table, giving the rest ample time to take in what they were before he folded his arms and stated it. "Full house." Boyish confidence flowed from him like a colourful robe. Tristan couldn't help but wonder what made Otto so dedicated to protecting a boy who had that much unfounded confidence.

Without letting him bathe in his self-imposed glory for too long, Tristan turned over his cards, taking them each by the corner and flipping them with little flair, though delight thrummed in his stomach all the same. "Royal flush."

"What? No, that's--" Raphael pushed past his friend to lean over the cards, as if getting his face closer to them would change what they were. He snapped upright after a long moment. Accusatory anger screwed his nose, though it relaxed before he could get any words out, parting to make way for an impressed glint.

"Beginner's luck," his friend scoffed.

Raphael's smile crept back to his face. "Maybe." He lifted a finger in beckoning, accompanying the gesture with a jerk of his head that aimed for the back of the room. He shot the dealer a cursory glance. "Deal the next round without us."

Someone might've had a protest, but Tristan pushed away from the table before he could hear it, side-by-side with Raphael. He was shorter than his brother, too, making them fairly equal in height. In many ways, Raphael could be considered Otto's shadow; maybe not in the way he carried himself, but in the eyes, the facial features, the places that leaked through his cocky mask.

He hopped onto a stool at the very end of the bar and leaned so that he sprawled halfway across the counter, face tipped as he surveyed Tristan. "So, what's your deal?"

Tristan rested his own elbow on the bar, though chose to remain standing. Clamouring voices made it even harder to hear in this spot than it had been before, and so he found himself straining -- though at least Raphael's lazy-river voice wasn't difficult to pick out. "Have you ever spoken to a girl named Sally Fletcher?"

Raphael's grin turned crooked. "This is about a girl?"

"A girl who may be a murderer, yes. I'm a detective, Raphael."

The boy snorted, then stopped abruptly, head lifting and eyes widening as if it had taken him a second to realise Tristan was serious. His hand, previously splayed harmlessly atop the bar, curled into a loose fist. "Police?"

"No. Private." He held Raphael's gaze -- greener than his brother's, more blue of a dark ocean than the summer sky. "This could have nothing to do with you if you tell me what I need to know. Have you met with Sally?"

"Never heard of her."

"You're sure?"

"Sure. I remember girls. We don't get many in here." His brow furrowed, and then he scooted forward, voice lowering. "Hold on. Does she have yellow hair? And glasses?"

Excitement spiked in Tristan's gut. "She does."

"Then I saw her. This morning, actually. Never said a word to me, but..." He swivelled and jabbed a thumb back the way they'd come, at the poker dealer. "She talked to him. Only for a minute, maybe, before he had her kicked out."

"Kicked out for what?" Tristan pressed.

Raphael shrugged. "Don't know. But 'Clubs management seemed really uneasy about it. Like they'd been threatened or something." He turned again, looking over his shoulder at the bar, and hummed lowly. "That one came in with you, right?"

His finger waved at Constance and Quinn, the former watching her feet shift as she hugged her chest while the latter had their arms folded on the counter, deep in an enigmatic conversation with the barkeeper. Indigo hair hung even more messily than usual in Quinn's face.

It was unclear which Raphael meant, but suspicion's pattering touch hitched his voice. "Constance?" Tristan guessed, feeling a strange incline of fear twinge somewhere deep. Was he suddenly afraid he'd be proved right all along, that Constance was the girl he was looking for? Why? His fingers slid over the bar as he peered to get a better look at her, heart beating louder than it should.

Raphael moved sideways, blocking his view of her as he glanced back and to. Wariness screwed his frown. "Yeah? I don't know. I mean the one with--"

The door flung open, slamming against the black-painted windows, and they both whirled to face it. Just in time to see the source of the first gunshot.

Chapter Wordcount: 2885

Total Wordcount: 31287

I decided fairly early on that the song Casino by Azari should be this book's theme song and of course that meant I needed my cast to go to an actual casino for the vibes. It suits Tristan. I look forward to properly expanding the scene in future but for now here it is :D

Also!! Meet Raphael. He's kinda funny.

 - Pup