A spec of blood had splashed Tristan's glasses. It irritated him in all the minutes or hours -- it was hard to tell which -- that passed since they left Seth's manor, yet for some odd reason he'd let it be, his hands stiff at his sides and refusing to respond to his instructions. From the cramped police car to the interrogation room, he'd stared blankly at that red dot as if the universe revolved around it and still it remained.

There were no answers written within it, in the end. Now a slightly more comfortable wooden chair dug into his back, he let himself retrieve his handkerchief from his breast pocket and removed the glasses. The world blurred around him to match the bustle and noise that swum in and out of focus. All that remained sharp was the oblong window through each lens, blotted only by blood.

Somehow, he found himself staring at it again, mind trapped in an endless, marathonic circle.

He'd discarded his bloodied gloves by the time the police arrived, though there was little he could do to wipe away the stains on his knees. The five of them had been ushered into cars and watched with dagger-like stares, cloaked in an oppressive silence, though the engines rumbled on unconcerned. It was difficult to breathe in that kind of silence. His lungs had been wrapped in an array of taut elastic bands all through the journey, and the effect had hardly diminished once they reached the station for individual questioning.

The woman tasked with dealing with Tristan hadn't liked him. He knew that as soon as he walked through the door and found her eyes on him, accusatory, annoyed. He supposed the late hour might have some effect, though he didn't do anything to please her with his answers.

"If I had killed Seth Dawson," he'd said, right before she chose to proclaim their session over, "I wouldn't have done it with my own gun, nor would I be sitting here right now. That would be terrible planning on my part."

No-one seemed particularly willing to believe that, but he wasn't in handcuffs yet.

A distant ache tapped at the centre of his forehead, a reminder that his glasses were still in his hands. Catching his sigh between his teeth, he scrubbed the blood away and returned them to his face, repocketing the handkerchief. He had a good case to argue, and so there should be nothing really to fear. The mystery lay with his companions, the other four fools slouched into chairs alongside him.

Quinn's intake of breath pulled him to that present. "So," the artist began, rolling the word around on their tongue. "Dare I ask, does anyone... remember anything about the evening?"

"Of course I do," Kordyn said. She was seated on Quinn's other side, fiddling with the end of one of her tight braids. Her chin jerked in Tristan's direction. "We discovered his gun. And then a few hours later, someone is murdered with it." Venom splashed her words and grated between her teeth. Tristan averted his eyes from her, feeling as if a razor blade lodged in the side of his head.

"After that," Quinn pressed.

On Tristan's left, Otto's chair creaked as he turned. "They're right. I still can't remember how I ended up in a first floor bedroom, but I know I woke up there."

That tale matched Tristan's eerily well, and from Quinn's eager nod, he guessed they'd had a similar experience. He looked past them to Kordyn and saw her lips were pinched. She shook her head after a moment and shrugged. "Perhaps we had a little too much wine."

Tristan hummed, sifting through his stack of thoughts. His gaze swept the other way, beyond Otto. "Except Constance. She didn't have any."

Constance shrunk in on herself, flinching away from the mention of her name. Her auburn hair fell like a curtain over her face. "I... I woke up when I heard the gunshot," she said quietly.

"While the rest of us took longer to wake up." Otto nodded. "That would make sense. But..." He laughed lowly. "I've been drunk plenty of times before and I've never felt quite like this."

Leaning back, Tristan glanced between him and Quinn. "The wine was drugged."

Otto's eyes widened. "How do you know?"

"You're feeling the effects wear off now, aren't you?"

His thoughtful expression hinted he was. Quinn murmured something in agreement, but Tristan kept his eyes on Otto. "If you drink so much, have you ever had a hangover from a night as blank as that wear off so quickly?"

"No," Otto said, frowning, then sighed. His gaze flicked up to capture Tristan in a somewhat wry glance. "You're an odd fellow."

Odd. If he had a penny for every time that word was used to describe him, he might've been rich enough to buy the rights to it. As it was, the world didn't work that way, so he only shrugged.

He was saved from having to conjure a response regardless. The woman who'd asked him questions before now strode over to him, features set in just the same scowl as before. If anything, it had deepened. Chief Inspector Halley, he recalled.

"Well." She swept them all up in a serrated stare, arms folded neatly, police badge perched atop her wrist where her uniform creased. She sighed through her nose. "Your stories match up. We have no reason not to believe it, so you'll be glad to hear that we'll be making no arrests tonight."

Despite the confidence Tristan had convinced himself he held, relief still whistled through him, easing some of the tension in his shoulders. He felt the others relax in a similar way. Quinn even grinned, making a pointed show of elbowing him to show him the gleeful twinkle in their green-blue eyes.

"However," Halley continued, stressing the word harshly enough to command their attention, "in our view, this does not mean any of you are innocent. We must presume you are until we gather evidence, but we will be watching each of you during the investigation to follow. As it stands, you five are the best leads we have, and therefore our only suspects."

Those words were icier. They hung rigid in the air, scrawling out the game's terms, plotting the pages of the story about to unfold. Tristan propped his chin up with a fist and scanned over them with little surprise.

Quinn's gaze dropped, the spark fading. On his other side, Otto stilled as if steeling himself before a flinch.

With a heavy sigh, Halley dragged a hand over her face, her professionalism chipping at the edges. "You must be tired," she announced after a moment. "Go home. Rest." Her shadowed eyes grew narrow. "Tread carefully."

The others offered a series of subdued nods and murmured thanks, chairs creaking as they rose, all painfully slow and trance-like. Tristan didn't have time to act as if this was a shock; they should've known as soon as they saw the body that it would play out this way. He jolted to his feet and strode forward to catch Halley's arm before she could turn away.

She jumped, whirling to cast him a sharp glance. He stared back evenly. "Could I have my revolver back?"

Jaw tightening, she folded her arms. "Sir, your gun was used to commit a murder. It is a key piece of official police evidence."

Tristan bit down on his tongue, gaze slipping to the side as annoyance simmered in his chest. His fingers flexed in a disjointed, soundless rhythm that pushed at only air. "I'd like it back."

"It's a no." She glowered. "And your insistence is not helping your case, Mr Young. Go home. It will be returned to you in due course."

The instinct to curl his hands into fists itched through him, but he resisted, trying to see past the discontented twisting in his gut. The feeling of eyes drifting his way had awakened a distant buzzing in his ears. He did need to leave. "Don't clean it," he said shortly, then spun on his heel, marching swiftly enough to catch up to the other four as they filed out of the station.

The cool night air felt intensely freeing compared to the stuffiness of inside. It flowed over him in waves of relief, settling the brief swirl of a storm and soothing the remnants of his headache. Halting on the pavement, he closed his eyes for a moment, letting the breeze wash over him and soak into his skin. It was surprising how quickly exhaustion's heavy sheets draped over him, thick and aching. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last night that had been as eventful and as filled with people as this one had been.

"You alright?"

He cracked open his eyes to see Otto peering at him, a nearby streetlight illuminating his bronze skin and that strange gentle, sympathetic gleam in his eyes. Tristan tugged himself away from it. "Fine."

Otto hesitated, then gave his shoulder a hard pat, though he retracted quickly when Tristan winced. "Rest up," he said, as if that kind of advice was anything more than common sense. At least his attention was shifting wider to focus on the rest of the group. "Is everyone going to be alright getting home?"

No-one truly responded with a yes, but there were no complaints. At this time of night, it wasn't like they could do anything but walk, and Moorwell wasn't a large town. Still, Constance rubbed nervously at her arm, and Otto took this as an apparent invitation to offer to escort her, which she accepted with only a small degree of hesitance. Given the boxer's earlier aggression regarding the gun and the murder, this contradictory softness rankled with Tristan. It didn't look like a mask, but it easily could be. It was easy to mask ill intent with kindness when people these days were so desperate for the stuff.

With a shake of his head, he turned away, surveying the murky silhouettes of terrace houses and the starless patchwork sky above. He didn't manage a single step before Quinn's voice rang through the quiet street.

"You guys all got the same call as me, right?"

Frost seemed to rim Tristan's boots, freezing him in place. He wished he had the ability to prick his ears in order to pick out every tiny intonation in the question.

"It wasn't Seth who called," they pressed. "It was some woman. Do you think she's the one who--"

"It's the police's business," Kordyn almost raced to say. "Not ours."

Tristan looked over his shoulder at her. She was toying with one of her braids again, nimbly retying it, focused on the dull glint of its golden end rather than them.

"We shouldn't speculate," Otto chipped in from beside her, his nod as firm as his gaze.

The barest frown creased Quinn's expression. "But you do know what I'm talking about, right? All that stuff she said about--"

"I said it's not our business," Kordyn grated out, head snapping up as she glared. "And no, I don't know what you're talking about. All I know is that I'm tired and I'm going home."

She was already striding off before she'd finished, head held high and heels clicking. Otto slid a protective arm around Constance's shoulders. His lips were pressed in a thin line. "I'm sure whatever you heard will be properly looked into by the police. Goodnight, Quinn."

The two of them walked off in the opposite direction, soon swallowed by the night. Unwilling to stick around any longer, Tristan cast a futile glance left and right, and then hurried across the empty road. His jacket fluttered with the edge of a breeze, and he folded his arms to wrap it tighter around his middle.

He was only just stepping onto the pavement on the opposite side when a burst of pink and purple, muted by the dark as the dyes were, assaulted the corner of his eye. "You don't agree with them, do you, Tristan? That it's not our business?"

Grimacing at Quinn's closeness, he veered sharply right. They followed, snapping at his heels like a yapping dog.

"You're very rude, you know."

"Your insistence in following me is arguably ruder than my choice to ignore you."

He quickened his pace, but they kept up with ease. They prodded his shoulder. "Come on. Don't leave me alone in this. I know you had that call."

"I doubt you know anything about me," he murmured, staring straight at the path ahead.

In a flurry of agile footsteps, Quinn raced out in front of him, forcing him to skid to a stop. The unwanted pause itched at the soles of his feet, but they only grinned. "Do you really want to play that game?" Their smile thinned out into something purposeful, knowing. "Playing a game. Now, that sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

His inner jacket pocket pushed at his chest with unnatural weight at the reminder. The words' echo was just as heavy amongst his thoughts. He watched Quinn for a moment, taking in their vibrant attire, their ever-expressive motion. The light shimmering in their eyes. It still all felt like too much.

He let out a harsh sigh, rocking back on his heels. "Yes, I did receive the phone call you're talking about. Please stop pestering me."

He made to step around them, but they moved to block his path, still smiling away. He gritted his teeth.

"You're a detective." Their words were framed like a question but didn't carry enough uncertainty to provide the lift of one. They raised an eyebrow at him like it was somehow funny.

He drummed his fingers on his jacket. "Private detective."

"Same thing," Quinn said with a flick of their hand, though it wasn't. "Either way, you're going to be investigating all this."

"Of course."

"Let me help."

He peered at them over the top of his glasses. "No."

They edged closer, whisper dampened conspiratorially. "Ah, come on. Do you not want a partner?"

"I don't." Spying his opportunity, he leapt back onto the road and back again, accelerating to a determined march as soon as he'd navigated around the barrier Quinn created.

Of course, they stubbornly remain undeterred, somehow half a step in front of him before he could dodge again. They rolled their eyes. "I see, you're one of those overdramatic 'I work alone' types." The mocking dip in their voice's pitch was accompanied by air quotes. Swivelling to walk backwards in front of him, they flashed another grin. "I get it. Well, if you need me--"

"I won't."

"Do give me a call." They drifted back onto the road, smacking Tristan's arm as they passed, before crossing without a glance either way. "See you around!" came the final shout, tossed over their shoulder before they finally left him alone.

He shook his head and kept walking, glad to be able to breathe freely, though his veins still hummed with annoyance. Choosing to work alone didn't stem from drama; on the contrary, Tristan saw no use for drama. Alone was logical. It made sense. Tonight had only proven the trouble that people could cause.

It only occurred to him several minutes later that Quinn hadn't given him their number.

Chapter Wordcount: 2513

Total Wordcount: 9311 (8000th word was bolded)

And thus, we have established our murder case! Can you tell I'm improvising this book more than I should be--

Quinn is fun though. They're fast becoming my favourite.

- Pup