The air was surprisingly cold. Tristan curled his fingers into his jacket and wrapped it over his torso, knees pulled up to his middle. Hard springs dug into his shoulder. An ache sprawled into his temples, burrowing deeper the more aware he became of it. He winced.

He couldn't recall when he'd fallen asleep, nor why exactly it was so cold. Or why his head hurt so much. But the dark behind his eyelids was soft and warm, cotton wool which blunted the drill lodged in his skull, and he shifted again, trying to settle back into it. The sharp ringing in his ears dragged him back out.

Then it hit him.

Someone was screaming.

If not for the way his heart thrummed, he might've rolled over and covered his ears until the noise faded, determined as he was to shut the world out. But the rapids of a river coursed through him, and an itch awoke in his fingers. It was curiosity and it wasn't, and it compelled him to open his eyes, to listen.

His headache didn't seem to agree. He sat up with a hiss, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead to ease the throbbing. It didn't help that his surroundings blurred to meaningless shapes, muffled further still by the blanket darkness, forcing him to squint just to ensure he hadn't fallen into some bottomless, imaginary void. He felt blindly to the side until his fingers brushed over hard plastic and a rush of relief anchored him. He shakily pushed his glasses into position and the room sharpened.

He could now make out the faint outlines of long, decorated curtains, fluttering undrawn either side of a window's dim glow, one lit in dusty silver by some distant streetlight. The papery beams it cast were all he had to guide him. He rose, slowly, feeling oddly out of focus even with his glasses. The echo of dizziness flitted in and out, not enough to make the ground rock but still invoking something unsteady in the air. His headache seemed to float away for the moment before crashing down with double the force.

The scream belonged to a girl, and it was nearby. He whirled, vaulted over the couch he'd been laid on, and skidded through the open doorway.

The sound cut off, but heavy, rattling breathing still shivered panic though the darkness.

A few seconds of fumbling located the light switch. He flicked it and went blind all over again, though only a few blinks calmed the way the brightness seared his eyes and brought the room back into focus. Crystal in the shape of clambering flowers, a luminous bulb sprouting from the middle of each one, spilled from the ceiling like vines. They burned in the glare of spotlights, shining all the brighter as they fell upon the ghostly form of the girl standing stiff and taut in the corner of the room.

White clothes, trembling hands. Constance.

She gasped as the light fell upon her, throwing a hand up to shield her eyes, then spun around. The hand lowered, slowly, as their gazes met. Her whitened face was streaked with tears. Breathing still audibly irregular, she stumbled back, nearly tripping over herself, shoulders glueing themselves to the wall behind as she cringed away.

The ripple of questions that spiralled through Tristan's mind smoothed over quickly. The answer lay at her feet, painted in crimson.

Blood.

It crept outward agonisingly slowly in a dark pool, staining a rumpled white tuxedo, a black tie. As if an invisible thread coiled around Tristan's feet and tugged, he drifted closer, the whine in his ears growing in volume with every step. A kind of heaviness, like an extra bone, sat atop his chest. His legs moved through the thick syrup of a dream.

Yet the blood was real: a metallic taste lingered in the air, clouded within the musty, sour odour of death. The urge to recoil flitted through his mind and was cast away again. He merely swallowed carefully and stopped, less than a pace away, gaze prowling in search of detail.

Glassy brown eyes, staring at nothing. The blank echo of surprise laid over the top. Jet-black hair tousled out of shape, never to be combed again.

There was no doubting it. Seth Dawson was dead.

A choked whimper tickled Tristan's ear, and his focus snapped to Constance. "Did you do this?"

She shook her head rapidly, biting down on her lip as her face scrunched to make way for more tears. Her lips opened and closed, the word no just barely riding her uneven exhale. She clapped both hands over her mouth, trembling under the weight of a silent sob, her tears spilling in oceanic waves.

Between her curled fingers, her silver cross flashed. Purity among the blackness of death, perhaps. Tristan frowned.

"Hey! Constance?"

Heavy footsteps suddenly thundered upon his thoughts, racing to his ears as if the sound had been delayed in arriving. The shout reached him late, too. By the time he turned, both Quinn and Otto were standing in the nearer doorway, stunned and rooted in place.

"Holy shizzle-frackers," Quinn breathed.

Otto -- the one who'd shouted originally -- broke from his trance far quicker. He stepped forward, glare aglow in the electric light. "I had a feeling there was something off about you."

"He was dead before I got here," Tristan muttered dismissively, hardly caring what the man chose to think or do. There were more important details to focus on than the clamour of people and emotions chipping away from all directions. Scanning Seth's body once more, he began searching through his pockets.

"Is that true?" Otto asked Constance. Aggression snapped at his words like a barely-restrained hound, disbelief thicker than blood in his voice.

In Tristan's periphery, she gave only a short nod in response, still crying silently.

The thick, sturdy leather of a glove caught between Tristan's fingers. He retrieved it from his jacket's inner pocket, followed by the second of the pair, pulling them on with swift ease. He got down on his knees and grabbed a fistful of Seth's bloodstained tuxedo.

Otto's firm hand landed on his shoulder and wrenched it back. Annoyed, Tristan twisted with the action, casting him a quizzical glance. "What?"

Otto continued to glare. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Checking his wounds." Tristan shrugged. "Maybe there's a chance we can save him." Shirking aside, he flexed his fingers and began working on Seth's lowermost shirt button. He knew the last part was a lie; far too much blood stained the plush carpet, and it was clear that the boy's chest was still, but he figured it would at least get Otto off his back. He did seem the compassionate type.

A doubtful hum rumbled in the boxer's throat, but his next argument carried the desired hesitance. "You shouldn't be touching him."

Tristan lifted a hand to wave it. "That's what the gloves are for." He popped open a second button, then a third. His fingers grew warm as his gloves dipped into the puddle of blood.

A gasp dove into his awareness. He pushed his glasses up with his unstained wrist and flicked his gaze to follow the sound. In the opposite doorway to Quinn, Kordyn had appeared, her braids frayed from sleep and dress covered with a long grey coat. The dark skin on her cheeks gained an ashen appearance, stony to suit the statue she became. It was odd to Tristan how every one of them seemed to instinctively freeze. Staying in one spot didn't change what they saw.

Behind him, Otto sighed, shifting in the corner of his eye before backing away. "I'm going to call the police."

Tristan listened to his footsteps carry him away to the other side of the room, aware of when Otto began to speak, though he let the voice fade to the back of his mind as he continued his work. Another button allowed him to peel back the soaked shirt and gain a view of the wound spread in a gaping scarlet starburst across Seth's abdomen. A bullet wound, wide enough to have been shot from close by and gushing with blood. It must've hit an artery.

Leaning forward, he undid Seth's limp tie, absentmindedly pressing two fingers to the side of his neck, though he was well prepared for the clammy nothingness that greeted him. There was only one wound, but that shot had done the job. Whoever killed Seth had been precise; not clean in the slightest, but deadly precise. If anything, dirty, haphazard skill was more unpredictable. It unnerved Tristan.

Someone clicked their fingers in front of his face. He flinched, puzzled for a moment before Quinn caught his eye.

They pointed. "You're kneeling in blood."

"Oh." Tristan glanced down and realised they were right. He shifted back with a sigh. "That's unfortunate."

Kordyn's heels clacked nearby. He tossed her a glance to see that her arms were folded, her lips pursed in disgust. "Is there something wrong with you?"

Calmly, he got to his feet, dusting his hands -- though he realised a moment later that all dusting did was smear the blood more evenly across his fingers. "I've been told I can be antisocial," he murmured, examining them. "Does this count?"

She drew in a sharp breath and looked away, face still decidedly drained of colour. Her eyes squeezed shut. "Dear god." She shivered, arms wrapping tighter. "What a night."

"Tristan," Quinn murmured, just the barest traces of fear in their tone. They skimmed his shoulder with shaking fingertips. "Isn't that your gun?"

Tristan twitched at the touch, and again at the words, a probing needle formed of ice cutting the breath from his throat. His hand pounced upon the spot at his belt, sweeping aside his jacket to get to the holster.

Empty. For the first time, his heart skipped a beat.

Just beyond the pool of blood, Seth's opposite side to where Constance stood and weeped, was his precious Colt revolver. It took everything in him to do the so-called sensible, human thing: to stay where he was, feet rooted to the floor, and let his gun lie there. It had been kept pristine for years, and now a red spatter marred its silver surface. He swallowed hard.

"So it is." And things had just gotten a fair bit more interesting.

"You said it wasn't loaded," Quinn murmured. Their eyes flicked to him, shining colourful and wary. In the bright, unnatural light, their pink hair stood out all the more, washed-out strikes of purple seeming to glow like froth topping ocean waves.

He refused to meet their gaze. "It wasn't."

Kordyn scoffed. "Liar."

"Any one of us could be lying," Tristan remarked. "That's the game."

Neither of them had anything to say to that, but his holster did.

As his finger dug deeper, absentmindedly prodding at the emptiness within, paper crinkled. He withdrew immediately, stepping back and folding in his shoulders as he peeled off his right glove. He spun on his heel, pacing aimlessly towards Otto's side of the room, though too meandering to get there.

The paper caught between his fore and middle fingers, and he drew it out sharply, hurrying to smooth out its crinkles so that it opened fully. It carried a slight tan-yellow touch, not entirely white, though crimson blood soaked through where he'd touched it. Accidental as it might be, the decor looked purposeful.

Congratulations, Mr Young, the paper read, in scratchy, biro scrawl. The game is now yours. Master its rules until you can play it better than they can.

He folded it up and tucked it in an inside pocket. Interesting indeed. Flat as he kept his expression, his heart refused to slow.

Otto ended his call with a beep and turned to address them, face grim. "Police are on their way."

"Now we wait?" Quinn asked.

Tristan fingered the slight bulge in his jacket, thumb tracing up and down its creases, his thoughts a murky soup deep and dark with potential. "Now we wait," he agreed.

There was an electric humming in the air, the kind that simmered right before lightning struck. A warning whisper before a storm.

Chapter Wordcount: 2005

Total Wordcount: 6798

So, we finally reached our murder! And now the fun begins. RIP Seth, so suspicious that he had to die to shift some heat to the others.

Also hope you spotted our ONC prompt hanging out there :D I actually quoted it instead of being vague and metaphorical. Be proud of me.

- Pup