Chapter Text
It’s past seven by the time Sousi gets off work.
Up the elevator that creaks as it rises, down the dingy corridor where easy conversations, dogs barking and the drone of news reporters seep through the paper-thin walls. Nonetheless, it’s accompanied by a cacophony of rich smells: rice just done cooking, a savoury dish of beef, stir-fried vegetables. And despite everything else, Sousi knows he’s home.
Standing at the door to his apartment, a chirpy, exaggerated voice reaches his ears—some cartoon put on for his daughter, no doubt. In fact, she’s probably been long ushered to the dinner table. Seated there, across from his wife, just waiting for him to come home. A smile tugs at his face, joy willing his fingers to twist the key in the lock faster. When he opens the door, a greeting is long prepared on his lips.
It dies on the tip of his tongue.
A cartoon plays on the television. A set dinner table greets him. His wife and daughter are already in their seats.
Standing behind them are two men in suits.
They have their hands on either side of his family’s shoulders, like iron cuffs to weld them in place. A third sits beside his wife, an arm swung over the chair to peer at him, dark gaze like knives through his soul. The fourth, the final one, sits at the table’s head.
It’s a man dressed in all black, the left side of his face wrapped in black bandages and a patch. He’s leaned back against the chair, nearly slouching, legs spread. Even then, it’s hard to conceal his imposing form—a tower of a person. His singular eye, gleaming with a predatory glint, moves slowly to fixate on Sousi.
“Rerir.” He speaks the name like a fishbone stuck in his throat. It is not a greeting. Rather, it slips from his mouth, from his mind, like a terrible realisation. A horrific understanding.
The cartoon blares on.
Sousi finds himself frozen, hand still on the knob, the door half-closed behind him. There’s still time for him to bolt, to take the emergency stairs and phone his colleagues fast as he can. That he wasn’t safe, they were onto him, they found his family. But to flee meant leaving his family behind. And with these people, it would be a fate worse than death.
As if in confirmation, one of the men brushes against his jacket. A bulky gun holster slips into view. The knob rattles as a tremble makes its way through Sousi’s fingers.
“Sousi,” Rerir acknowledges. His voice is deep, cold like ice down the back of Sousi’s shirt. “I think a talk is long overdue.”
Sousi doesn’t answer immediately, no. His hand on the doorknob tightens, and he works the length of his lip with his teeth. His wife shoots him a pleading glance, mouth pursed into a thin line.
Holding his gaze, Rerir raises a brow. “Well?”
Sousi takes a shakey breath. He pins a smile to his face, using all his might to ensure it doesn’t slip into a wince. The door shuts with a soft thump. The familiar click of a lock turning feels like a seal on his fate.
“Of course. Let’s go somewhere more private.” He gestures towards the study.
While Sousi finds his spot in the middle of the carpeted floor most comfortable, Rerir once again takes to the chair behind the desk like a throne. Propping his feet against the desk, he reaches a gloved hand into his coat to unearth a stack of stiff papers. One by one, he leafs through them, drinking in whatever’s featured on each surface.
Five minutes pass, and Rerir hasn’t said a word.
Sousi gulps, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. His age seems to be catching up to him, cramps finding their way into his leg muscles far too quickly. But he can’t complain, neither was he willing to take a seat. Not when this demon of a man is still before him. Not when he can’t predict what Rerir will do next—
Rerir lets out a hum.
It’s gruff enough for Sousi to startle, back going ramrod straight, the aches in his joints long forgotten. Slowly, Rerir pulls the first sheet from the pile. Placing it on the table, he turns it to face Sousi, before giving it a gentle tap. He doesn’t wait for Sousi to respond. He merely fishes the next one from the pile, repeating the action. Again, again, again, until a row of coloured papers, shining glossy in the light, have been laid on the table. Rerir draws back. He doesn’t stand, he doesn’t speak. He merely meets Sousi’s eyes, and waits.
It seems that’s as much of an invitation Sousi’s going to get. Taking a step closer, he squints at the rectangular pieces. Shapes and colours greet him. And, oh, Sousi realises: they’re not paper.
They’re photographs.
Photographs of a blue-haired youth, taken at various angles. Some closeups, some further away, all in detail vivid enough to capture his features—his whitened hair-tips right down to his pale yellow eyes. Sousi’s eyes widen, breath hitching in his throat.
No. He must be mistaken. It can’t be. He blinks rapidly, wiping at his eyes, as if what he sees is merely a ghostly sheen that can be done away with. But the youth remains within the pictures, engraved in paper by ink.
They’re all photographs… of Flins.
Of Flins sipping coffee in a cafe, Flins at the counter of a bar, Flins in the park, Flins alone at a bus stop in the middle of the night, Flins mid-conversation with Varka at their bureau’s very parking lot.
“Tell me about him.” From Rerir’s mouth, it’s a statement—a demand—more than anything else.
Sousi can’t find the words to say. He doesn’t know where to start.
“Thi—this!” He stutters, reaching for a picture to take a closer look.
His hand is swatted away.
“Careful,” Rerir warns, eye narrowing.
It takes Sousi all his willpower to keep his tongue moving. “Fl—He’s just a kid! He’s barely even a man. And he’s a civilian—a student—he has nothing to do with what you’re doing. Leave him out of this.”
“Think twice before you fucking order me again.” Rerir leans forward, something flashing to life in his eye at the mention of ‘Fl’. Flins. A far more enticing bait than serving Sousi threats, it seemed. “Last I checked, he’s twenty-five. Twenty-five and joining the Lightkeeper Bureau once he graduates.”
“Who—wh—” Who told you? How did you know? Sousi swallows the questions before they emerge from his traitorous lips in full. He already knows their answers: someone’s told Rerir. Someone among Sousi’s men. But that’s the least of his concern, not when there’s a bigger fish in the pan. Not when the fish is charred and lathered in oil, and about to catch fire. Instead he asks, voice small and trembling, much like a mouse, “What could you possibly want from him?”
Rerir holds his stare, unblinking.
He says, once more, “Tell me about him.”
The air is stagnant, thick. It floods Soui’s nose and mouth and lungs, clogging his airways from the inside, pressing against its linings in an almost painful fashion. And the pause that follows is like nails hammered into his throat. He finds he can barely manage a swallow.
Rerir adds, “or should I ask your wife and kid instead?”
“He has nothing to do with you,” Sousi insists in a whisper.
A heartbeat.
Two, three.
Then, Rerir straightens. He gathers the photographs gently of the table, brushing them into an orderly stack before sliding them back into his coat. “Fine.”
In Sousi’s ears, the words were like the first shovel of dirt thrown over an open grave.
“Have it your way.”
#
A blast of warm air greets Flins as he steps into the Lightkeeper Bureau.
It’s not unwelcome, exactly—the January chill still clings to the air just as how early morning snow still latches to the pavements, unwilling to depart just yet. Though the weather keeps his fingertips numb and his nose running, Flins finds he doesn’t mind. He just hopes the sudden heat won’t cause his flowers to droop. Instinctively, he tightens his group on the bouquet of white chrysanthemums. He went to great lengths to get them, and it’d be a shame if they wilted before he reached the cemetery.
He smiles at the officers he passes, exchanging a few niceties those who recall his name. Those he doesn’t recognise give him curious glances. White flowers, blue hair in a knot, yellow eyes—Flins supposes his own appearance is eyecatching. And quite strange, considering the sea of brown and black hair here.
They let him pass the front desk, into the staff only section without a bat of their eyes. It’s easy to shimmy past the maze of desks, of officers on phone calls and sternly interrogating delinquents. Along the way, he catches bits and pieces, tidbits of information: someone’s grandmother going missing, teens taking questionable substances, a fight in broad daylight. On any other day, he would’ve stopped to take a listen, perhaps teased the poor kids who got caught. Now, it blows through his head like a breeze. All his attention lies on the far side of the room. There, lies a shut door.
It’s accompanied by a window with its shutters pulled down. Vague shadows flit within the gaps; the only sign the room is occupied. Occupied is good, but he can only hope the person inside isn’t too busye to acknowledge him.
When Flins gets close enough, he peers through the frosted door window. A white silhouette is hunched over the desk, flitting through what he can only assume is paperwork. Paperwork, more paperwork—it must be endless, considering everything that’s happened within the month. Letting out a soft sigh, Flins knocks twice before letting himself in.
The office is well-lit, bulb warm and inviting against the grey and white of the outside world. Indeed, Varka is slaving over his desk, brows pulled taut, lips thin as he sorts out folder after folder.
“Give me a moment. Actually, have you gotten those—”
Eyes blue as the sky meet his, and widen.
“Good day, Captain,” Flins greets.
Varka’s still dressed in black; black dress shirt, black slacks, black boots he much prefers to the dress shoes the deskbound officers here wear. A jacket is haphazardly thrown over one of the guest chairs, thick and bulky compared to the slim coats Flins likes. But it looks good on Varka, so who is he to complain?
“Flins! Didn’t expect to see you here today. Don’t mind the mess.” Varka scrambles to get his room in order. He sweeps his many mugs of coffee to the side, and plucks the occasional can of redbull out to chuck into the trashcan. He then swivels in his chair, using a leg to push a wheeled whiteboard behind a projection screen. And upon the table, he’s quick to move on to shuffling the many papers across his desk back into a yellow file labelled ‘CONFIDENTIAL.’
Flins doesn’t miss the way the board is full of pinned pictures, connected with red strings and words like ‘PROOF’ and ‘UNKNOWN’ and ‘???’ scrawled hastily in marker. Neither does he miss the flash of white hair on a photo ID paperclipped to a document’s top right. He knows enough not to ask about it. Even during his internship at the bureau, Varka’s made it a point not to let him get into anything too dangerous.
“You can suffer with the rest of us after you’ve signed your employment contract,” was what he said, and Sousi agreed. He was right to insist, of course, despite Flins’s protests—because Sousi is dead.
Punished for all the crimes he fought to prevent.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No, no. It’s just the usual stuff. Old Sousi kept his room pretty tidy. One of these days, I’ll have to pour him a drink.” Stacking the last of the files, Varka finally turns towards him. There’s a grin on his face, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What can I do for you?”
Flins can imagine it’s quite difficult to smile when the cost of your promotion is your superior’s death. The evidence of this is distinct across Varka’s undereyes; the bags there are swollen, almost purple. Flins wonders how many hours he slept last night. Or perhaps, if he’d slept these past few days at all. Hand hovering over Varka’s cheek, Flins brushes his thumbs over those dark circles.
“You look tired,” he observes. “Apologies… that I couldn’t make it to the funeral. My sincere condolences.”
Under his touch, Varka’s eyelids tremble, and do the corners of his lips. “It’s just work, don’t worry about it. And Sousi would’ve wanted you to focus on your exams, anyways. We can’t have our newest criminologist held back a year, can we?”
Flins smiles again, though it’s much easier than the ones he’s given prior. He pulls away from Varka in order to hold the bouquet steady once more.
“I’m going down to pay my respects. Would you like me to leave anything for you?”
“How are you getting there?”
“By bus. I’ll walk the rest of the way.” Flins shrugs. In times like these, one ought to savour the weather and take a nice stroll. After being cooped up in the library for two months, he deserves to have that, at least.
…Not to say a car ride doesn’t sound nice.
“You still don’t have a car? What if you run into trouble?” Varka frowns.
“People get robbed with or without a car, it doesn’t make much of a difference. Though… I did take a fall down the stairs the other day, and my ankle’s still bruised. It might take a little longer, but it’s no worries.”
Not to say he didn’t want one. A car ride sounded really nice, actually.
Rolling his eyes, Varka gives a sigh. “I’ll give you a ride.”
“Are you sure? Your shift isn’t over, it would be troublesome.”
“I know what you’re doing, Flins. I’m giving you the damn ride. Now get out of here and wait for me in the parking lot.” Varka shoo’s him out with a sweep of his hand, clicking his tongue good naturedly. “We’re due for a catch up, anyways.”
Flins laughs as he shows himself out, before pulling the office door shut. “That, we are.”
#
Despite everything, the ride is mostly silent.
There’s not much to say about Flins’s life over the past few months; nothing other than spending the majority of his days hunched over a laptop, trawling through shittily scanned PDFs of articles over a decade old, contemplating pulling his hair out over the baffling way the Nod-Krai and Snezhnayan Penal Codes were written. Barely eating enough, barely sleeping enough. Perhaps in that regard, he and Varka aren’t so different.
Varka tells him about his fishing expeditions in return. How he’s tried ice-fishing recently, and how the sea life of Nod-Krai, a coastal town, is so different compared to the mild-mannered fresh-water species back in Mondstadt.
“Why do they have armour?” Varka asked, exasperated. “And why do they have pointy teeth? Why do they have sharp noses? What do they need all that for?”
“Such is the charm of the local wildlife,” Flins remarked. Nature has its own kind of beauty, after all.
That was it.
Elbow on the door’s ledge, Flins gazes out the window, watching the dull houses go by. His heart hammers to the click of Varka’s turn signal. He doesn’t know how long the silence lasts, or how long he shifts his crossed legs from one side to the other. Varka clears his throat. And Flins takes it as a sign to ask:
“How is the investigation going?” The words unsaid linger in the air.
How is the investigation into Sousi’s death?
Varka’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. He flexes his fingers, pretending to be unphased, but Flins notices the lingering tension. It’s present in the joints of each digit, the way he clenches his jaw. Flins looks away, intending to give him some privacy. But as much as Varka likes to pretend nothing is wrong when he’s with Flins, the subject had to be breached sooner or later. Better to rip the bandaid off now so the wound has time to breathe.
Varka ponders the question for a moment more.
“Things are quiet,” comes his curt reply. “I wish I could say it’s a good thing but—there’s a saying in Mondstadt: the wind stills when a storm is coming. Something’s about to happen, I just know it. Sousi did too. He got too close to the truth, and now he’s dead.” His voice cracks on the final word. “He was found lying at the bottom of a bridge… and it was ruled a suicide. That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever bloody heard. And they wouldn’t even let us see the body. Can you believe that?” Varka’s whisper is taut and shaking like a string pulled too thin.
Flin shakes his head. “Preposterous.”
Though he didn’t know the man as well as Varka, it was clear Sousi was a lively, humorous soul. He was nurturing to his subordinates and a family man at heart. For him to take his own life, leave so much behind—it was far too unlike him. This had to be a cover up. Nothing else would make sense. For the coroner’s office to lie so blatantly on paper about his cause of death, someone very high up must be paying them big bucks, or blackmailing them. Someone very high up, very hidden… and very dangerous.
Flins clutches the flowers closer to his chest. He has to be careful not to crush them.
“You should’ve stayed in Sneznhaya. It would’ve been better for you there. The pay too, I’m sure,” Varka chuckles bitterly.
“The wrongs that must be set right are precisely in Nod-Krai, not Snezhnaya. And if I hadn’t come here, we wouldn’t have met, would we?” Flins pats him on the cheek lightly. “Now stop clenching your jaw. You’re going to crack all your teeth.”
It shocks Varka enough for him to startle, before letting out a huff of amusement. Taking a hold of Flins’s hand, he returns it to its rightful place on the bouquet.
“I suppose you’re right.”
#
They come to a stop at the cemetery’s entrance. The front gates are painted black, its iron bars wrought into curls to bring a simple kind of elegance to the entrance. Above it, in an arc, looms the words: FINAL NIGHT CEMETERY.
From the way Varka’s lips remain a thin line, it’s obvious he’s not too keen on leaving the car, much less stepping foot in the place. Nonetheless, he turns the car keys, pocketing them with one hand as he reaches for his seatbuckle with the other.
“I can manage,” Flins says, holding him by the shoulder.
Varka’s brows furrow. “Are you sure? I can show you the way.”
“No need, I’ll be fine on my own.” Flins doesn’t mind. He doesn’t expect Varka to follow either. After all, he’s probably seen enough of it for the both of them.
When Varka relaxes back into the car seat and gives him a nod, Flins takes it as his cue to leave.
He approaches the gates, worn but still well-oiled, and they give nary a creak as he pushes them open. Final Night Cemetery occupied a small section of the land just on Nasha Town’s edge. The bustle of the inner city is absent here. No cars or motorbikes growling, no shrill ring of pedestrian crossings—only the faraway sound of seagulls and waves crashing against algae-slick rock. In the air lingers not smoke and cold, but instead the airy brine of the ocean; the breeze a tad bit warmer than what he expected. Some would describe it as a fortress of woe that, fortunately, doesn’t receive much foot traffic, but to Flins it’s none of that. It is tranquil, free from the rush of urban life. A place where the world truly pauses to give one that extra bit of time.
The graves are aligned alphabetically, so he has a rough idea of where Sousi’s is. If he can’t find it, he’s sure the groundskeeper will be helpful enough. Flins follows the pavement deeper into the cemetery. Though he’d argue it was no longer a pavement, but moreso pieces of rubble held together by dirt and roots and the stubborn cling of weeds. Perhaps the roads are in need of some maintenance. That isn’t what he’s here to take note of, though. He scans his eyes across the tombstones, counting the number of alphabets up to “P”. Good. He should reach his destination in just a few columns.
Something catches his eye.
A few rows across from him where a wider road is situated, a black car idles. It’s nothing unusual, and nothing he should be surprised about, honestly. The most obvious explanation is a family has come to mourn someone departed. It can’t be expected that he’s the only one here. People pass away all the time. People come and go to visit and clean the grave, mourn and move on. He shouldn’t be surprised. And yet, there are no people dressed in black standing around a grave. There is no movement. There is only the car, its tinted windows, and nothing else.
Flins hums in confusion, dedicating the car one last glance before turning away. Ignoring how, still, no one appears from the vehicle, then ignoring the pinpricks of a gaze on his neck. He holds the flowers ever so tighter.
He ought to stop overthinking. Nothing’s going to happen in broad daylight. Who gets robbed in a graveyard, anyway?
Flins continues down the path, gluing his gaze to the tombstones, refusing to let it roam too close to the still-parked car. Attempting to commit every name to memory becomes his most successful distraction. He mutters them under his breach, sending them a silent prayer. Pekkani, Pulonia, Rikas, Risto, Sarin, Sigurd—Sousi. His steps slow to a halt.
He’s here.
The gravestone is plain, but polished to perfection. Even with the earlier bout of snow and whatever elements the night wind kicked up, not a speck of dirt could be seen on the engravings: ‘A family man. Cherished by many’. He reads it once, twice, before brushing a leaf gently from the stone’s top. It was a brittle thing, but made barely a sigh as it landed in the soil underfoot. There, the dirt was still humped and bare of grass, yet to flatten out.
Like an arrow to the heart, it hits Flins all at once.
He’ll never talk to Sousi again. Not in the bureau, not at after-work drinks—his treat, he would always say. No more nagging for Flins to go home on time, or chiding Varka for picking on Flins. A man there, then gone, and now settled under six feet of dirt. It could happen to Varka, it could happen to Flins’s friends. It could happen to himself.
How funny, the way the world works.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, caught in his thoughts. Not until something wet lands on the bridge of his nose. He frowns, wiping at the moisture. In front of him, the tombstone grows darker. The sun has yet to set over the horizon. Instead, he finds it replaced with an array of grey clouds, dense enough to blot out most of the natural light.
Ah, it’s raining.
In the distance, thunder rumbles in agreement.
Somehow, it soothes him. The downpour drowns out all noise, leaving him with only his thoughts and the steady beat of his heart. But he knows it’s best not to dally. He doesn’t want Varka caught in a storm, after all. In weather such as this, it could quickly turn to hail, and he’s far from enthusiastic about that option. Laying the chrysanthemum bouquet by the stones feet, he says a final prayer in his heart, a wish for Sousi to have a peaceful afterlife. A moment more of this calmness, dedicated to the boss he almost had. Then, he turns to leave.
Yet when he takes a step back, his back collides with something. He turns around, a confused noise leaving his lips. Strange. There was never a barrier behind him, was there—oh.
To put it more aptly, he collided with someone.
For all the height Flins has, this man still looms over him, quiet as a phantom and dressed in all black. He’s pale-skinned, paler hair curling to a length just around his neck, and a slitted fuschia eye that seems to pierce his soul. The other, Flins can’t see; it’s hidden behind layers of dark-coloured bandages. Their gazes meet, and the stranger stares back.
Flins takes a moment to gather his bearings off the floor. “My apologies, I—”
That’s when he realises the rain has stopped. Or, well, it hasn’t stopped. The sky is still grey, droplets crashing to the ground around him, them, but the pressure of the water’s drone has been lifted.
Ah, the man has an umbrella in hand, large enough to shield them both.
“Thank you. I should’ve checked the weather report today, It must’ve slipped my mind, and…”
The man reaches forward. When a finger traces his cheekbone, Flins suppresses a shiver at the touch of leather in the rain. It wouldn’t be a very nice reaction, especially to someone who’s lent him some shelter. The stranger doesn’t pinch his cheek, nor grab his jaw. He merely slips a lock of water-slick hair behind Flins’s ear, nothing more than that.
“...My condolences, to whoever you’re visiting,” Flins finally finishes his sentence, albeit with a tad bit of hesitance.
As if deaf to whatever Flins has said, the stranger does not respond. Throughout their little interaction, the man’s scalding stare hasn’t left him for a second. Neither has it changed in any way. It was akin to staring through a one-way mirror… strange and disarming, to say the least.
“I’ll get going first. Farewell then.” Best to leave, before this became any more uncomfortable. Giving a final wave, Flins sidesteps away from him.
What he doesn’t expect though, is the stranger to grab his wrist.
He yanks Flins close once more, back under the width of the umbrella. In the early spring chill, heat exudes from the man’s body like a radiator, hot enough for Flins to feel it through his gloves. Flins’s eyes widen. Perhaps it’s due to his naturally lower temperature, but nonetheless, it’s uncomfortably warm: a flame roars just underneath the stranger’s skin. Something tickles his gut; a centipede scuttling along its length, desperate claws scraping at his flesh. It’s anxiety. Alarm. The unnerving flutter rises to his throat, seeps through his pores to make the hairs on his arms, his nape stand on end. This man is bad news. He needs to leave, right now—
Then the pale-haired man finally speaks.
“You look even better up close.” His eye roams Flins’s face, gaze like a scalpel digging into supple flesh.
Flins shuts his jaw with a click. The man’s voice is like gravel, rumbling through the air, trembling within the confines of Flins’s lungs, the ventricles of his heart. It’s deep, he likely smokes, and Flins doesn’t need to be a genius to understand why alarm bells are going off in his head. He attempts to take another step back.
The stranger tightens his grip on Flins’s wrist. “Cat got your tongue? You were so chatty earlier, too.”
“Let go of me.” He tries to keep the panic out of his voice, but Flins doubts he does it well. His words come out minced, tense like a bowstring ready to snap. And like a shark to blood, he’s sure this man senses it. He’s sure this man can smell fear.
The stranger narrows his eye. Around them, the rain falls harder.
Flins wrenches his arm away. Of course, it doesn’t work. He’s left to claw at iron-wrought fingers, thrash against an unrelenting hold. The soles of his boots skid against the ground. Underfoot, the soil churns with water to turn into mud. Yet his assailant doesn’t budge an inch. Instead, he pulls Flins in another direction, away from the main gate.
“Stop being difficult,” the stranger growls.
The words drift past Flins’s ears. Digging his heels into the ground, he whirls around, looking for another soul, any one. Surely someone has to be nearby. The groundskeeper? That black car he passed earlier? Where are they?
There is no one in sight. Flins strains his eyes, squinting towards the entrance of the cemetery. He can’t stop his breaths from coming out in almost-gasps, his heart from pattering faster, faster in his chest. If Varka is still parked there, he could possibly see—Flins could possibly catch his eye—
“Don’t bother looking for that blond mongrel. He’s long fucked off to moons knows where.”
That isn’t true. Varka was waiting for him just outside. He said he would. Varka wouldn’t lie. Flins clenches his jaw.
In a last ditch effort to free himself, he clenches his fist, and swings it towards the stranger’s face with all his might. Their difference in stature makes it harder, but nothing Flins can’t handle. He asked Varka to teach him some self defense for a reason, after all.
But the man catches his hand like it’s nothing. He squeezes it hard enough for Flins’s knuckles to crack in his grip, and Flins can’t help the wince that creeps over his face.
“You’re making a scene.”
With that, the stranger shoves him back. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t expect it, perhaps the sheer force of the push stuns him beyond a quick recovery, but Flins trips over his feet. He falls to the ground, the sickening squelch of mud seeping into his coat, dampening his hair, echoing in his ears. When the crackle of paper follows, Flins can’t help but turn his unwavering attention away from the man hovering above him.
Beneath his elbow, a few crushed petals peek out. His breath hitches in his throat.
The bouquet.
He’s trampled it.
The horror washes over Flins like a changing tide, slow and creeping, inevitable. He came here to pay his respects, and ended up fighting over Sousi’s grave instead. How utterly disrespectful of him.
“Now look what you’ve done. Fucked up a perfectly good bouquet, tested my patience. I hope you’re proud of yourself. This would’ve been easier—”
The heel of a dress shoe comes down hard on his hand. Flins hisses, the pain fierce enough to wrench his attention away from the ruined chrysanthemums. As the stranger mercilessly grinds his foot further into his knuckles, bolts of agony run up the length of his arm. He tugs at the slacks that decorate the man’s leg. The stranger shakes off his hand like a speck of dirt before raising his leg. Flins tenses his muscles, bracing for another strike.
“—if you listened from the very start.”
He’s hit in the temple by the stranger’s heavy shoe. His vision goes black.