《The Tarot Card Killer》 Chapter One - The Fool London, November 1st 2150 The apartment was quiet, except for the steady drip of a broken tap, each drop a reminder of everything falling apart, a constant, rhythmic drum inside his skull, that he could not escape as he lay on his apartment¡¯s sagging sofa. He pulled his coat over his head, burying himself in its stale darkness, hoping for the sleep that would not come. The scent of real whiskey, not that synthetic stuff drifted through the air as it tempted him back to the kitchen, a temptation so strong that it was only a matter of time before it drove him to his feet. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, its chime a discordant clash in the oppressive silence. He pulled his coat more tightly around him, wishing the noise would stop, but the door slid open with a groan. He listened to the footsteps enter the apartment, which came closer to him. Suddenly his coat was abruptly yanked away to reveal his sister standing over him, with a look of stern disapproval. He knew what was coming; they had been through this many times over the past year, and he regretted ever giving her access to his home. ¡°Well,¡± she said, in that unmistakable tone only a big sister could master, a blend of worry, accusation, and reluctant relief. Michael did not respond. Instead, he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he thought about the bottle left in the kitchen. With a groan of frustration, she went to the apartment window. She left the lights off and waved her hand, causing the glass to shift from an opaque, ice-like texture that barely allowed any light inside to a transparent pane. The room was suddenly bathed in the flow of the London skyline, where towering skyscrapers reached hundreds of feet into the air, adorned with neon banners and glowing monitors displaying advertisements and local businesses. The abrupt shift in light overwhelmed Michael¡¯s alcohol-addled brain, making his headache feel like an explosion inside his skull. He collapsed to the floor, struggling to shield his eyes. Michael slowly got to his feet, avoiding his sister¡¯s eyes as she disappeared into the kitchen. He knew her routine by heart now, the way she would open the cabinets with too much force, the tight clink of glass against the sink. He hated it, hated her for it sometimes, but the shame always outweighed the anger. ¡°Have you taken your pills,¡± she accused, standing by the kitchen door, though the answer was already written in the untouched bottle on the table. She leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable excuse. Michael scanned the room, his gaze fell on the small, silver dispenser within arm¡¯s reach mocking him with its presence. He had not taken them because they never worked, never kept the black dog at bay, he preferred to deal with the creeping anxiety with whiskey, so he could have peace for a few hours. ¡°Every time I come here¡­ you just,¡± she stopped, catching herself before the words spilled out. The edge in her voice softened, but only for a moment. ¡°It feels like I¡¯m just talking to a wall. I don¡¯t know why I bother.¡± He heard her voice break from the kitchen, and the splash of liquid, the familiar gurgle of whiskey poured down the drain. A surge of guilt threatened to take him over, like a tide pulling him under, as she came almost every day trying to help him and he threw it in her face, pushing her further away. He wanted to tell her to stop, to yank the bottle out of her hands and drown out the pain he felt. But his limbs felt heavy, paralyzed by the guilt that sat like a stone in his gut. Suddenly, the monitor on the wall flickered to life pulling his attention. An incoming message. His sister''s silence from the kitchen let him know she had not heard, he was about to wait for her, but took this as an opportunity. Before she could reappear and resume her scolding, the face of a police officer filled the screen. ¡°What is it?¡± Michael asked, squinting at the unfamiliar face. The officer looked young, his cheeks freshly shaved, a neat buzz cut barely covering his scalp. A rookie, Michael thought. ¡°Can I come in, sir?¡± The officer¡¯s voice was polite, but unusually disciplined for a rookie. Michael hesitated, feeling the weight of his sister¡¯s stare from the kitchen doorway. She stood there, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. Her expression made it clear she would rather the officer did not interrupt the scolding. ¡°Enter,¡± Michael said, his voice thick with reluctance. The door unlocked with a soft click and opened. The officer stepped inside, and the moment Michael laid eyes on him, his mind went to work, processing information like a machine, absorbing every detail. He was tall, much taller than Michael, strongly built, with muscle definition that was obvious even beneath his uniform. Not an ordinary rookie after all, Michael thought. Despite the officer¡¯s youth, there was something in his eyes, something hardened by experience. A thin scar beneath his right eye hinted at a rough past, a past that felt more military than police. Michael had seen that look before: a soldier, still carrying invisible wounds in that stoic way many soldiers do, without complaint. ¡°Pulling recruits from the military now?¡± Michael asked, his tone more observational than curious. The officer stood stiffly, his body language rigid, betraying the tension underneath. ¡°I¡¯ve been ordered to pick you up. There¡¯s been a murder in Trafalgar Square.¡± Michael raised an eyebrow. The officer¡¯s words confirmed what he had already suspected, a soldier turned cop, still too tense, too alert. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± Michael asked, watching him closely.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°Erikson. Jay Erikson,¡± he replied, his posture unwavering, as if bracing for something. ¡°And why do they need me?¡± Michael asked, his voice faltering slightly. The words tasted bitter, forcing him to acknowledge his current state. ¡°I¡¯m on sick leave.¡± He did not want to go. Every fibre of his body urged him to refuse. The idea of staying here, with his sister hovering over him, lecturing him for another hour, filled him with dread. His thoughts raced: the guilt, the nagging, the endless reminders of how far he had fallen. And then there was the alternative, a murder scene, far away from this suffocating room. A chance to slip away, grab a drink, and escape the judgment in her eyes. The murder scene suddenly seemed like the lesser evil. Outside, the city pulsed with light, despite the late hour. The London skyline was a labyrinth of illuminated signs, holograms of impossibly beautiful people, and flashing ads for the latest movies and distractions. Michael turned away from the window, his eyes stinging from the brightness, a reminder that the whiskey still coursed through his veins. He could have taken something to clear his head, wipe away the lingering effects of the hangover, but he did not. He deserved the discomfort. Erikson sat in silence behind the wheel, focused on the road, offering no conversation. Michael preferred it that way, no forced pleasantries, no awkward attempts to connect. A sip from the flask tucked in his coat brought a brief relief from his thoughts. The ache in his head began to ease, but his muscles remained tense, tightening with each passing minute as they neared the crime scene. He knew who would be there. The faces, the forced politeness, the way they would tiptoe around him, offering words they thought might ease his pain. He wanted none of it. Their sympathy only deepened his resentment. As they weaved through the towering buildings, the steady stream of traffic began its descent toward the ground, like the city itself was pulling them down into its depths. He did not need to glance out the window to know they had arrived. The piercing red and blue lights flooded the car¡¯s interior, flashing in rapid, dizzying patterns. He flinched, closing his eyes against the harsh brightness that seemed to cut through his skull. The car slowed to a stop, its gentle halt only heightening the sense of dread twisting in his gut. He knew what awaited him, the awkward glances, the half-hearted attempts at compassion. Nearly a decade spent working with these people, and now, here he was, an outsider in a world he once commanded. Erikson glanced back at him, and in the officer¡¯s eyes, he saw an understanding that only came from having suffered. He turned away, refusing to let it settle in. Erikson stepped out first, moving around to open Michael¡¯s door. Before following, Michael took one more pull from his flask, the burn of whiskey grounding him for a moment. Reluctantly, he slid out of the car, the weight of his hesitation pressing on his shoulders as he fell into step behind the officer, feeling the familiar but unwelcome sting of reality closing in. The street buzzed with activity, officers darted between clusters of potential witnesses and crime scene investigators, with their machine counterparts combing the area for clues. Michael pulled his coat tighter around himself, instinctively wanting to hide, to disappear into the crowd. The last thing he wanted was to be recognized. Reluctantly, he followed Erikson through the swarm of uniformed bodies until a familiar voice called out, halting them both. ¡°Glad you could make it,¡± came the half-hearted greeting. Michael looked up, his stomach knotting at the sound. Standing in front of him was Detective Alexander Marshall, an old veteran of the force and his mentor. His face was etched with scars and the deep lines of a man who had seen too much. His eyes, sharp as ever, studied Michael with the same piercing gaze he reserved for suspects under interrogation. The weight of his scrutiny made Michael¡¯s pulse quicken. ¡°You can go,¡± Marshall said, waving the younger officer away. He stepped closer to Michael, his voice dropping to a low murmur so no one else could hear. ¡°You¡¯re drinking again.¡± It was not a question, and Michael knew there was no point in denying it. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to pull out his flask and take another sip right there. ¡°Yes,¡± he muttered, avoiding the old man¡¯s gaze. Marshall sighed, his expression softening slightly, though the tension lingered. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to drag you out here like this, but if there was any other way¡­¡± That caught Michael¡¯s attention. He glanced up, confusion cutting through his nerves. ¡°What do you mean?¡± he asked. ¡°Come with me,¡± Marshall said, his tone heavy with something unspoken. Without another word, Marshall led him toward the police barrier, the yellow tape marking the boundary like a dividing line between the ordinary chaos of the city and the grim reality waiting beyond. As they crossed the boundary, the noise of the street was cancelled out by the barrier, the air inside the crime scene thick with a different kind of tension. A pair of detectives and a coroner¡¯s officer stood over the body. Forcing himself to look, Michael saw a young woman, dressed in party clothes, a short skirt and revealing top¡ªlying on her back. It was not until he stepped closer that the pool of blood surrounding her came into focus. He edged between the detectives, his eyes scanning the several wounds on her torso. At first glance, they appeared to be knife wounds, jagged slashes across her chest and stomach. Almost by instinct, his mind began working, analysing the scene. Her fingers were smeared with blood, with a missing nail, a clear sign she did not go easily. The random placement of the punctures, the sheer brutality of the attack, suggested a lack of control, a frenzy rather than precision. He knelt down, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the stale smell of sweat in the night air. As he leaned in, he noticed the faint trails of tears dried on her face. She had been terrified, and ultimately powerless against the savage violence that claimed her life. The reality of her suffering settled heavily on him. After a few moments, Michael rose to his feet and turned to Marshall, confusion flickering across his face. Murders happened in London all the time. It was the cost of living in the city, and after years of doing this job, the deaths had become routine, losing their sting. Just another case. ¡°Why am I here?¡± Michael asked, the question heavy with frustration. Without a word, Marshall handed him a small card. Michael took it, his brow furrowed as he studied the plain black rectangle. One side bore the image of a clown, the word Fool printed beneath it in bold letters. Frowning, he flipped the card over, and froze. His heart skipped a beat. There, written in neat, unmistakable handwriting, were two words: Michael Wyatt. His own name. He blinked, staring at the card, a sudden weight of anxiety crashing down on him. His pulse quickened, and a cold sweat began to form at the back of his neck. The card felt heavier in his hand now, as if mocking him. What did it mean? Why was his name here? ¡°Michael?¡± Marshall¡¯s voice seemed distant, barely breaking through the fog of confusion. Michael¡¯s eyes returned to the image of the fool, its painted face grinning up at him, taunting him in the eerie silence. Chapter Two - The Hanged Man’s Warning Michael held onto the card for what seemed like an eternity, the sharp edges dug into his skin as he stared at the image of the clown. The more he looked at the clown, the angrier it appeared to get. The card fell from his fingers, fluttering to the ground like a dead leaf. Michael continued to stare at the card and reached in his pocket for his whiskey, his pain relief, it was only Marshall¡¯s eyes watching his reaction that prevented him taking the flask out of his pocket. He forced his hand back to his side and met Marshall¡¯s gaze. ¡°Any idea why your name would appear at a crime scene?¡± Marshall asked, his voice remaining calm. ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t know, I¡¯ve never seen this woman before,¡± Michael replied looking at her face, her closed eyes and pointed nose. ¡°Cause of death is obvious, but so far we have no clear motive, or suspect,¡± Marshall said picking the card back up and handing it to the crime scene tech. Michael sat on the front steps of a nearby apartment block as everyone moved around him. The hum of the police drones created a faint, mechanical whir that was at odds with the low murmur of officers conversing. Streetlights cast long, fractured shadows against the ground, making the scene feel even more surreal, with the flashes of red and blue. Michael¡¯s fingers twitched near his pocket. Every nerve in his body screamed for release, for the soothing burn of whiskey to quiet the storm inside. He gritted his teeth, forcing his hand away from the flask as he thought about the woman, unable to see any connection between him and her. He could sense Marshall¡¯s gaze linger on him, as he tried to hide his trembling hands. "I¡¯ll have a car take you home," he said, his voice softer, a hint of concern breaking through the professional facade. Michael clenched his fists. He could feel the weight of Marshall¡¯s unspoken words, the pity, the doubt. "If it¡¯s all the same," Michael forced out, his voice low but steady, "I want to stay." His eyes met Marshall''s, daring him to protest. One of the techs appeared beside Marshall holding the card he had dropped, a small drone hummed beside him like an expecting pet. ¡°Sir, it looks like this card was bought locally,¡± the tech informed him, a single, optical light over his eye glowed in the dark, allowing him to see what his helper drone was seeing. ¡°Where?¡± Marshall asked. ¡°Tatiana¡¯s home of the occult,¡± he said turning the card over in his hand, as though expecting to have missed some other key piece of evidence. Michael went to stand up, but before he could Marshall stopped him. ¡°Not you,¡± he ordered, his voice low but firm, ¡°while I might be willing to accept you sticking around the station, I don¡¯t know about a case.¡± Michael locked eyes with him, the flicker of frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "I need to do this,¡± he insisted, feeling the first spark of something more than the mental disease of depression since the incident, he knew he needed to follow this, regardless of what Marshall said, or his own inner, self-destructive thoughts. ¡°You¡¯re not ready,¡± Marshall said, shaking his head, ¡°not only are you on sick leave, but, hell, your name is written on that card,¡± ¡°Exactly,¡± Michael cut in, his voice rising, tension threading through his words. ¡°Someone¡¯s trying to pull me into this, and I want to know why!¡± Marshall hesitated, and Michael seized the moment. ¡°Look,¡± Michael continued, stepping forward, ¡°I know Tatiana. She¡¯s a slippery one, she won¡¯t talk to just anyone. Let me go with you, I can get her to open up. You know damn well that half the time, I¡¯m the only one who can get people to say things they''d rather keep buried.¡± Marshall¡¯s brow furrowed. He crossed his arms, clearly weighing his options. The silence stretched out, filled only by the distant hum of the drones still sweeping the scene. ¡°I can handle it, Marshall,¡± Michael said more softly this time. ¡°You brought me out here for a reason. If you wanted me to stay home, you would have just called me.¡± For a long moment, Marshall said nothing, his eyes searching Michael¡¯s face for any sign of weakness, any crack in his resolve. But Michael stood firm, his jaw set, determination radiating from him. Finally, Marshall sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. ¡°Fine. But I¡¯m coming with you. And if you even think about pulling out that flask, I¡¯m sending you back, understood?¡± Michael gave a tight nod, feeling a wave of relief that he masked with a neutral expression. He reached down, clenching his fist to still the last of the tremors, steeling himself for what came next. He sat beside Marshal in the car, the passing lights shone over his eyes as he waited to arrive. He thought back to the last time he had seen Tatiana in her shop, after the incident he had sought answers, a way to try and make sense of it through the occult, but just like many things the deeper he went into it, the less he found and the more he became lost, till the only comfort he found was in the bottle. Marshall was quiet for the journey there; he was glad as he did not want to talk. He gazed down at his watch, ¡®05:30¡¯. His sister would have gone back home by now, getting his niece and nephew ready for school, all the normal things people with families do. She had tried many times over the last few months to get him to visit and spend time with them, but he shunned them away. No matter what he said, or how angry he got, his sister never gave up on him. The feelings began to flood into his chest again and he felt the need to reach into his pocket for the flask, but just having Marshall sat beside him was enough of a deterrent to stop him. He was okay not drinking this time, he deserved to feel the pain. The car pulled into a long line of traffic that headed towards a giant, domed building with beams of light shooting into the air. By now the rain had started and Michael was listening to the relaxing impacts as the droplets splashed of the roof and windscreen. He was so lost in the rain he did not hear Marshall¡¯s first question. ¡°Micheal,¡± he prompted. ¡°Yes, what?¡± Michael responded, bringing his focus back to the here and now. ¡°I said, is your sister still visiting?¡± Marshall asked.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. ¡°Yes, every morning,¡± Michael responded, his mind drifted back to what she must be doing by now, getting everyone ready, and her husband Clark who works for the city council. He was not sure what he did, he has not spoken to him for the last few months. ¡°I¡¯m glad,¡± Marshall responded as the car drove itself into the parking garage, a large complex filled with hundreds of vehicles for people visiting the giant shopping centre. The centre was so large it housed hundreds of shops offering everything from food to entertainment. Even though it was early morning there were still many people in the shopping centre, moving between shops and businesses, getting what they needed before they went to work. It had been some time since Michael had been to the centre, and the crowd felt suffocating, each passing figure a blur of movement and noise. Michael could feel the sweat pooling under his collar, the bright lights overhead making everything seem just a little too harsh. He took a deep breath and felt the pocket of his coat, the reassuring presence of the flask, and together they walked down the main promenade, the ceiling many meters above them with several floors of shops. They headed towards Tatiana¡¯s shop, which was a little place set out of the way, in an area less travelled and less expensive to rent. When they approached the front door Michael had a strange feeling of nerves, the last time he had spoken to her was about trying to resolve his issue, and he just never came back. Before he felt himself doing it his hand reached into his pocket for his flask, but a look from Marshall caused him to withdraw his hand. He had to keep it together, otherwise Marshall would send him home, and while part of him wished for that, for the sweet release from reality, an unknown drive from deep inside him knew he must carry on. Together they stepped inside and were hit with a thick, smoky wall of burning incense. The air inside of the shop was thick with the pungent smell, too heavy, too sweet. It clung to Michael¡¯s throat, making him want to cough. The shelves were cluttered with strange objects, animal bones, twisted metal figurines, jars filled with who-knew-what, that initial viewing seemed like they would be at home in an antiques shop, and a counter opposite the door where Tatiana would normally be stood. Marshall walked up to the counter and pressed the bell, to let her know there was a customer waiting. A moment later Tatiana, a tall lady, regal with long black hair and an air of distraction about her, moved with a strange, ethereal grace, like someone out of sync with the world around her. Her voice was rich and smooth, with an accent that Michael could not quite place. There was something about the way she looked at him, like she could see past his skin, into the mess of thoughts beneath. She continued to the counter, as though not noticing them, but Michael observed a subtle shift in her demeanour, an almost defensive shift in posture. ¡°Excuse me, are you the proprietor of this establishment?¡± Marshal prompted her. She placed the box on the counter and turned to face him. ¡°Yes, that is me, The Lady Tatiana,¡± Tatiana''s smile did not quite reach her eyes. ¡®What can I do for you both?¡¯ she asked, her tone polite but with an undercurrent of something else. It was as if she already knew why they were there, but she was content to play along, for now. ¡°Well, I thought you would be back, but not in a professional capacity,¡± her eyes fell on Michael, he would not meet them and allowed Marshall to take the lead. ¡°Madame, my name is chief detective, Alexander Marshall of the London constabulary,¡± he showed her a digital card, a hologram glowed above the card to reveal his identification. ¡°What can I do for you both,¡± she smiled. Michael avoided her gaze, remembering how the last time he was here, her words had slithered into his brain, planting seeds of doubt and confusion. She had a way of looking at you that made you feel like she already knew your secrets, like she was only waiting for you to confirm them. ¡°An item purchased from your shop has appeared at a crime scene,¡± Marshall informed her, the image of his ID transformed into an image of the card they had discovered at the crime scene, a flash of the face caused Michael to flinch. ¡°Oh, really?¡± Tatiana remarked, Michael glanced over to see her face, their eyes met for an uncomfortable moment. ¡°It¡¯s a tarot card, the fool if I am not mistaken,¡± she answered looking it over. ¡°Do you sell many cards like this?¡± Marshall asked. ¡°I sell a few packs, here and there,¡± she turned around fishing out a small pack and put it on the table, ¡°they are tarot cards, we use them for divination and magic,¡± she began to explain, Michael could imagine the expression on Marshall¡¯s face of stoic disbelief at this information. ¡°That is very interesting,¡± he broke her off, ¡°you wouldn¡¯t happen to know why such a thing would appear at a murder scene?¡± he asked pressing a little. ¡°Like I said, I can¡¯t be held accountable for what people do with my products after they buy them,¡± she shrugged her shoulders, ¡°It¡¯s got nothing to do with me,¡± before Marshall could continue the interview, an incoming message. ¡°Please excuse me,¡± he said courteously to Tatiana. Michael was left alone with her. He felt the weight of Tatiana¡¯s eyes on him immediately, a gaze that was too sharp, too knowing. The silence between them thickened. Michael shifted uncomfortably, the urge to reach for his flask almost unbearable now. But something stopped him, the way she looked at him, as if she was waiting for him to crack. ¡°How have you been, Michael?¡± she asked. Memories of his last visit flashed before his eyes. She had taken him into the back, into a small room with a table and started to use the Tarot cards, just like the one that had been discovered at the murder scene, she used them to read his future. Before he realized what was happening, Tatiana opened a pack of Tarot cards and began placing them on the counter between them both. One by one the cards were placed down. Michael did not meet her eyes, as each card was placed on the table. She turned one card over and revealed the hangman card. The picture was of a man being hanged upside down by one foot. Michael looked at the image with confusion, his curiosity replacing his turmoil. Tatiana¡¯s eyes glinted, and her smile widened, as if she could see the turmoil swirling inside him. ¡°The hanged man, a sense of feeling trapped, needing release and letting go¡± she said softly, her voice laced with something dangerous. ¡°What does that mean?¡± Michael asked. He thought for a moment trying to understand what she meant. ¡°Oh, this is not about you dear,¡± she smiled, ¡°but I guess you will soon find out.¡± Michael clenched his fists; the sharp smell of incense made his head swim. The memory of her voice in that dimly lit back room sent a chill down his spine. He tried to push the thoughts away, but the weight of her words lingered, like shadows that refused to leave. Before he could respond, the bell above the shop door chimed. Marshall stepped back inside, his face grim, his phone still in hand. He barely acknowledged Tatiana before turning to Michael, his jaw set. ¡°There¡¯s been another one,¡± Marshall said quietly, his voice low enough that Tatiana could not hear. But Michael knew. The way Marshall¡¯s eyes tightened, the heaviness in his tone, it was bad. Worse than the first. Michael felt the pull deep in his chest, that familiar blend of dread and adrenaline. He swallowed hard, ignoring the burn in his throat, the craving for the flask. ¡°Where?¡± ¡°West End,¡± Marshall replied, his voice steady but tense. ¡°Same M.O.¡± Tatiana¡¯s eyes flickered with interest as she watched them, her head tilted ever so slightly. ¡°Another murder?¡± she asked innocently, though Michael could feel the curiosity radiating from her. ¡°Time to go,¡± Marshall muttered, already halfway out the door. Michael glanced at Tatiana one last time. Her smile remained, but there was something colder about it now, like she knew something they did not. ¡°See you soon, Michael,¡± she called as they left, her voice following him out into the rainy streets. The moment they were outside, Marshall¡¯s calm demeanour cracked. He handed Michael a small tablet with the details of the new murder: the victim¡¯s name, the location, the method. All the same. And, at the bottom of the screen, a note. Michael¡¯s stomach dropped. Another card. Chapter Three - Symbols in Blood Chapter Three Symbols in Blood It was only a short drive to the new crime scene, to the majestic housing complex on the edge of London. Michael sat beside Marshall as he waited to arrive looking down at the latest news report on the cars monitor. By now the news were reporting on the first murder, giving all the grizzly details to what had happened, and a small picture of the Tarot card, the fool on one side and his name on the other. A moment later his phone wrang in his pocket, an incoming call he knew would be coming from his sister. He was about to ignore it, when Marshall spoke up. ¡°She was going to ring eventually, once she saw your name on the news,¡± he pointed out. It continued to make a repeating tone, but he did not answer it, he could not face her scolding, her ordering him to go back home and to not get involved, he was involved, and he needed to do it. He retrieved his phone from his pocket, the thin piece of silver steel projected an image on its surface. He pressed the ignore key and the image disappeared and his phone became quiet once again. They soon arrived at the majestic housing complex, a giant skyscraper with thousands of residents that included everything they could need, making it appear more like a miniature city than an apartment building. Marshall pulled the car into the large garage, built into the building. While waiting to land Michael kept thinking he could hear his phone ringing, that his sister was still trying to contact him. But when he looked at his phone, he was disappointed to find out she had not tried again. As the car touched down in the underground parking garage, the rhythmic hum of its engine ceased. Michael and Marshall stepped out, the sound of distant voices and the occasional wail of a siren echoing through the structure. The garage itself was stark and utilitarian, with rows of neatly parked cars, fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow, a sharp contrast to the luxury that undoubtedly awaited above. They made their way to the building¡¯s elevator, which carried them swiftly to the 32nd floor. The air inside was tense, the small, confined space amplifying Michael¡¯s sense of unease. The case was personal now, too personal. His name splashed across the news made him feel exposed, like a pawn in someone else''s game. The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open to reveal a wide, opulent hallway. Plush carpets, expensive artwork on the walls, and soft, ambient lighting gave the place an eerie calm. But as they moved toward the crime scene, the professional hustle of officers and techs setting up crime scene equipment began to puncture the stillness. "This one''s bad," Marshall said under his breath as they approached the entrance, "worse than the last," He added. The moment Michael stepped into the room; he knew this was different. There was no mistaking the deliberate and intricate design of the crime scene, this was not just a murder. It was a statement. The spacious living room of the penthouse had been transformed into something unnervingly sacred, yet grotesque. The heavy scent of incense clung to the air, mixing with the sharp, metallic tang of blood. In the centre of the room, the victim was hung from the ceiling, a young woman in an elegant dress, her blond hair mattered with blood and sweat, her pale skin drained of life. He froze in place when he saw it, the Tarot card placed on the floor in front of her. He stepped closer to it, as if he had seen a ghost. His mind wondered back to Tatiana¡¯s shop and the Tarot card he had seen there, ¡°The Hanged Man,¡± Michael muttered to himself. As Marshall began questioning the lead officer on the scene, Michael found himself staring at the card. His pulse quickened as the weight of it all settled into his chest. Tatiana¡¯s words echoed in his mind, her cryptic warning resurfacing, ¡°The hanged man, a sense of feeling trapped, needing release and letting go.¡± His analytical mind went to work. This must have been the same killer, but the scene was completely different. The first murder was chaotic, seemingly not premeditated, lacking the skill and cunning of a dangerous murderer. But as he further examined the scene, her blood had evidently been used to draw strange symbols around the card. A lot of thought had been put into this, a lot of skill and the whole scene had been set up for everyone to see. Marshall, standing beside him, let out a low whistle. "Victims name is, Elizabeth Thomas, 33.¡± Marshall explained, but Michael was not listening, as all his attention was on the card on the floor. It was similar in style to the card from the previous murder scene, same text and colour with a border, but instead this read ¡°Hanged Man¡± on the bottom with the man suspended upside down from a T shape. It was identical to the card Tatiana had showed him, and as his instincts told him there would be a message on the other side. He put on a protective glove and knelt down, careful picked up the card. The edges were stained with blood. He felt his chest clench, and stared at the image for what seemed like minutes till he took a breath and forced himself to turn the card over. On the other side of the card was indeed another message, but this time it was not his name, it simply read ¡°Now I am free,¡± His mind sank, the message all but confirmed this to be done by the same killer. ¡°What is it?¡± Marshall asked. Michael got back to his feet, his heart racing, his mind threatening to lose control, he thrust the card into Marshall¡¯s hand and left the apartment. Panic threatening to take him over, Michael struggled to regain his breath as he resisted with all his will against the flask calling to him from his pocket. This was not the first time he had suffered from a panic attack; they had become quite common since the incident. A couple of the techs in the corridor stared at him, he would not meet their eyes, forcing his hands into his coat pockets to hide their shaking. A moment later Marshall appeared, with little tact he told the techs ¡°Get back to work!¡±. Michael appreciated it, Marshall standing between him and the others like a shield to protect him from prying eyes. ¡°Are you okay?¡± Marshall asked. Michael took in a few deep breaths. His heart settled down and his hands stopped shaking. ¡°I¡¯m okay,¡± he replied, his throat felt rough and dry. It was always the same, these anxiety attacks left him feeling mentally drained, he looked down at his hand expecting to see the flask of whiskey, but he had taken out his police identification badge. On one side was the police shield, a golden eagle, flat and straight with the words London printed across it and his identification number beneath. Holding the badge gave him strength, as though he had been given a dramatic boost of energy. Marshall put his hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring look. While his mind just like the shield was worn and damaged, he was still strong, he had just forgotten that.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°We better have a word with Tatiana,¡± Michael suggested. ¡°I¡¯ve already sent a pair of units to bring her in, I¡¯m not going back to that quacks shop,¡± Marshall replied roughly. It had been months since Michael had set foot in the police headquarters, also known as New Scotland Yard. The giant building was on the outskirts of the city, with its own, vehicle hanger and training grounds. As they descended towards the hanger, he watched a group of three police cruisers transporting SRU¡¯s (Special Reaction Unit), the cruisers they were in were large, heavily armoured and carrying enough firepower to handle anything they could run into. All Michael could think was, something very serious must be happening inside the city for three units to be deployed together. The cruisers activated their red and blue lights and shot off into the sky, heading deep into the city. As Michael and Marshall made their way through the brightly lit corridors of the station, passing the many officers and clerical workers, the weight of the interrogation loomed ahead. The sterile smell of disinfectant mingled with the faint echoes of voices down the hall brought back memories, there was a time he would be here almost every day, his job always came first, which is why unlike his sister he never settled down. His nerves prickled with unease, not just because they were about to question Tatiana, but because of the unknown variables she brought with her. Could they trust her, or was she connected to the killer in ways they could not yet understand? The harsh fluorescent lights in the interrogation room buzzed faintly, the air was cold and sterile. Michael could feel the weight of the one-way mirror pressing against him, as though all eyes were on him the moment he stepped into the room. A pair of techs sat in the room with them, they monitored the equipment that monitored those in the other room. Tatiana was already there, sat at a table in a long, fur coat and clearly had put on more makeup before she had been brought in, Michael wondered if she knew this was going to happen and had prepared herself this way for it. She was in the room with detective Lynn, a short, blonde-haired detective who had been on the force nearly as long as Michael. They had already began the interview, their voices issued through the computers speakers into the room and being recorded for further study. ¡°We really appreciate you coming down here to answer some question,¡± Lynn was explaining, in her very calm and polite fashion. ¡°I¡¯m always happy to help,¡± she smiled, for a moment Michael thought her eyes lingered on him, which was impossible, there was no way she could have known he was there. Lynn leaned forward, her eyes narrowing just slightly, an attempt to pierce through the calm veneer Tatiana wore so effortlessly. ¡°You mentioned earlier you don''t give private readings unless specifically asked. So, what exactly made Detective Wyatt special?''" ¡°I¡¯m afraid that is confidential, between me and my client,¡± she smiled, her eyes displayed the smallest edge to them. Michael¡¯s heart sank, she was going to talk about the interaction they had together. Marshall prompted him to follow him outside. He stood with Marshall in the quiet corridor, waiting for the inevitable questions, and the memories he would have to relive. ¡°You were a client of hers?¡± Marshall asked. ¡°Yes, but I have not seen her in over a month,¡± he responded. ¡°Why were you going to her?¡± Marshall asked, his skills of deduction now turned on Michael, who saw no point in trying to spin it, Marshall knew him too well. ¡°After the shooting,¡± As the words left his mouth, the office came rushing back. The flash of the gun, Katie crumpling to the ground, his hand reaching out as though he could have stopped it if only, he had been quicker. The crack of the shot still echoed in his mind. ¡°And,¡± Marshall prompted. ¡°I was looking for answers, and I went to her for readings,¡± the story was long but he did his best to shorten it. ¡°So, I went to her for tarot readings,¡± he explained ¡°But why?¡± Marshall asked, his eyes now burning into Michaels as though he was trying to read his soul. ¡°Because it was my fault,¡± Michael caught himself before he screamed the words out, months of anger, guilt and frustration boiled up in him and he pulled away from Marshall. ¡°If I hadn¡¯t¡­.¡± before he could take another step Marshall pulled him back around, his iron grip prevented him pulling away, ¡°Now you listen to me,¡± his voice was firm but kind, ¡°it was not your fault, and if Katie could see what you have done to yourself, she¡­..¡± before he could finish the sentence, the door to the interrogation room opened to reveal Lynn looking frustrated. She paused staring at them both, obviously not expecting to find them standing in the corridor. ¡°Got a live one here,¡± she began, ¡°talking about speaking to the spirits, won¡¯t say much more to me, wants to speak to you,¡± she added looking at Michael. ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± he said. ¡°Michael, you want to prove to me why I should keep you on the case, then get in there and do your job,¡± Marshall said. It was a hard truth for Michael to hear and he had been left with no room to move and talk his way out of it, if he could not do his job, who was he. He looked down at his badge, steeling himself for what was about to happen The moment Michael stepped into the interrogation room he felt a strange, deep-seated cold in his chest. Tatiana was staring at him with uncomfortable intensity as he walked over to the table, he felt as though the air was pressing in on him. Unable to make himself sit down, he took a breath and forced himself to examine her with his critical eye. He took in her appearance, her choice of clothing to grab a man¡¯s eye, and the way she looked at him, as though trying to spark thoughts that would prevent him doing his job. ¡°The card,¡± he cleared his throat, ¡°the card you showed me at the shop appeared at a murder scene,¡± he forced himself to say. ¡°Really, how interesting,¡± she smiled. ¡°Again, the card is from your shop,¡± he said, trying to keep himself calm, ignoring her obvious attempts to distract him. Tatiana leaned back in her chair, her eyes never leaving Michael''s, as if she were dissecting his very thoughts. Her smile was small, enigmatic, more like a challenge than an expression of warmth. ¡°Detective,¡± she began, her voice smooth and measured, ¡°I don¡¯t keep track of every deck that leaves my shop. But I do remember you, the troubled man seeking answers where there might be none.¡± Michael ignored the barb, though it stung more than he liked to admit. ¡°This card,¡± he pulled out a photograph of the crime scene, showing the Tarot card beneath the victim, ¡°was found exactly the way you presented it to me. Why this card? Why now?¡± Tatiana¡¯s smile faltered for just a moment, but she recovered quickly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied the photo. ¡°The Hanged Man,¡± she said softly, as though speaking to herself, ¡°a symbol of sacrifice, of suspension between two worlds. It¡¯s not a card of death, but of transformation. Perhaps your killer is trying to send a message.¡± ¡°And what about the message on the back?¡± he asked. ¡°Only the one who left it can truly answer that,¡± she replied, her gaze slipping from the photo to meet his eyes again. ¡°But the message written on the back would seem to confirm the hanged man¡¯s card, perhaps he is letting you know more is to come,¡± The last sentence hung in the air, laden with implication. Michael felt a surge of anger. ¡°This isn¡¯t a game, Tatiana. Two people are dead.¡± Her expression remained placid, but there was something dangerous behind her eyes. ¡°You came to me looking for answers, detective. Perhaps you should ask yourself what you were really seeking.¡± Michael clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his composure. ¡°I¡¯m after a killer.¡± He insisted ¡°I think you a seeking redemption,¡± she smiled. Before he could respond the door swung open and Marshall appeared. Michael knew from the expression on his face that there was another. Chapter Four - The Devils Enigma Michael was back in the corridor with Marshall, all thoughts of what they had been talking to Tatiana about now gone, as they considered the new murder. Marshall had only said a few words, they had not been given much information about this murder, other than another Tarot card appearing with the victim. ¡°Did they say what was on the card?¡± Michael asked. But before Marshall could answer, a voice came from the interview room. ¡°The Devil card,¡± she murmured. It was not a guess. Michael caught her eye, the glint of dark amusement making his skin crawl. Was it intuition, or something deeper? Something worse? ¡°They haven¡¯t said yet,¡± Marshall responded, ¡°I¡¯ve asked them to give us a feed to everything they find.¡± He was relieved that they would not need to rush across the city in the busy traffic. Together they headed deeper into the station, he could still feel Tatianas gaze on him, even when she disappeared out of sight. As they walked through corridor after corridor, his mind lingered on the previous murders, the two cards and the way the people had been killed. The first murder had been brutal and shocking, with seemingly little thought behind it, but finding the card had clearly meant there was motive behind it. Then the second murder, the hanged woman with the hanged man¡¯s card, surrounded with strange symbols that have been written in her own blood, unlike the first murder it had been done carefully with a ritualistic approach. If not for the two cards in an obvious connection Michael would have thought both murders were by different people. When the case first landed on his desk, Michael had forced himself into it, shaky, nervous, fighting the raw impulse to drown his pain in drink. The whiskey in his pocket was now a constant reminder of his failings, always within reach, its amber comfort calling to him when the nightmares were too close. Now, as the murders mounted and his focus sharpened, the urge felt more distant, as though the adrenaline of the case had smothered the worst of it. But he knew better. His therapist''s voice echoed in his mind, a persistent reminder: This peace is temporary. The moment this case is over, the quiet would return, and with it, everything you''re running from. Marshall led the way to the central office, the large doors had two human like mechs standing guard like solitude sentries, that never needed to rest or sleep. He could see their twin; blue eyes focus on him and Marshall as they approached. This was the first time Michael had been here since being put on sick leave. It was not necessary to display their identification, the moment they entered the corridor the sensors in the walls began that process, taking their biometrics and scanning their IDs in their pockets. They soon passed the machines and walked through the sliding doors. It was a large, open area the central office with dozens of work stations and hundreds of people going about their work. Michael did his best to avoid eye contact, the last time people had seen him here was the night he spoke to the chief and went on sick leave. Marshall ignored the comments, but the more people Michael passed the closer he felt his hand get to the flask in his pocket. The whispered voices, confused and worried looks seem to just cause the anxiety to start boiling back up. But before he could find the flask in his coat, a voice he knew all too well broke through the cacophony of people speaking. ¡°You better see this, sir,¡± the young tech said, red haired and full of youthful enthusiasm. Michael recognised him straight away to be, Anthony. He had only just joined last year and from what Michael could remember about him, he was a gifted tech. ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re back, you got to see this,¡± he said not realizing what was happening. They followed him to his station, a large table currently displaying a holographic image of the crime scene in real time. The scene Michael was looking at was horrifying and bloody. The victim, another young woman was laid on the ground, naked in a fetal position, covered in numerous injuries and blood, at an initial look it was hard for him to see what exactly killed her due to the number of wounds. But was really stuck out for him was the symbols written on the floor in her blood, just like the last victim, but this time there was far more to the intricate in its set up. ¡°Victim is, Alice Galway,¡± Anthony began to explain, ¡°32, originally from Dublin, living in London,¡± he explained, but Michael was not so interested in that, he wanted to know what was on the card which had been left on the floor beside her, covered in blood splatter. ¡°What about the card?¡± Marshall asked. Anthony moved as though to pick up the card, but instead pulled a holographic image from the object on the ground and left it floating in the air. ¡°A tarot card from the look of it, the Devil I think,¡± Anthony answered. The moment he said devil Michael¡¯s heart sank, the same card Tatiana said earlier. He met Marshall¡¯s eye who looked as shocked as him. ¡°What¡¯s on the other side,¡± Michael interjected before Marshall could speak. Anthony spun the image around and with a curious expression read out the words, ¡°In Blood¡±. Michael¡¯s brain kicked into gear and began piecing together the last two cards as well, together they seemed to be saying a message. ¡°Anthony, bring up the last two cards that were picked up as well,¡± he said. As though conducting a symphony in the holographic image, he went through several menus as he collected the two pieces of evidence and laid them out. Starting with the first card discovered he read the messages out, one after another. ¡°Michael Wyatt, you will pay, in blood,¡± the message could not be clearer in its intent. Michael placed both hands on the holographic table, as though to get a better look, but he was sure if he did not, he would have collapsed on the floor. His heart raced, and he could feel the ice, cold sweat trickle down his back.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. Michael was furious, the clear death threat to him from these murders. Marshall had kept trying to ask him questions, who would want to kill him etc the chief had attempted to try and get him to sit down and talk, but Michael was not interested, he marched straight back to the interview room, where Tatiana was still sat calmly drinking a cup of tea she had been given earlier. Marshall pulled him to one side before he could go in. ¡°Are you sure about this?¡± Marshall asked, but he was not listening all sense of anxiety of mental distress had been pushed to one side, he wanted to know how she knows what she knows. He looked Marshall in the eye, and an understanding passed between them. Marshall made it clear; it stops when he decides. The moment the door closed the interview room became intensely quiet. Tatiana looked at him with curious eyes, examining him as he entered. ¡°How did you know?¡± Michael asked her doing his best to keep his voice calm. ¡°This cup of tea is dreadful,¡± she said smoothly. His chest tensed up with anger, a feeling he had not felt for a while, but equally difficult to stop. He took a breath and did his best to pay attention to her face, the micro expressions that people do without knowing can give away their feelings. But she was not allowing anything to slip out. ¡°The cards, you showed me the card of the second murder before we had even seen it, and now you mention the devil card with no way of knowing,¡± he said, calmly as possible, ¡°unless you are involved,¡± he suggested, trying to get her to react to the statement. But all she did was smile, a dark smile that was almost taunting. ¡°I read the cards, the cards show themselves,¡± she explained. ¡°Did you know about the first murder, the first card?¡± he asked. ¡°Of course, the fool¡¯s card is very interesting, so many of us go through journeys are never really know why,¡± she said. ¡°And what will the next card be?¡± Michael asked taking a seat opposite her. He was not sure why, but as she spoke, he was gradually feeling tired, drowsy. ¡°There are many possibilities in a tarot deck for what follows the devil card, and why the killer is doing this,¡± she explained taking out a pack of tarot cards. Michael was about to protest but found he could no longer speak. ¡°I heard it was dark and raining on that day,¡± she said softly shuffling the card, as if on que he suddenly began to hear the rhythmic clatter of rain drops building in puddles around him, as the bright light of the interview room went darker and darker. She was still speaking but he could no longer hear as the whole room disappeared. He looked around and found himself stood in an alley, between two large buildings and with the moon high above his head. In his hand was a police service weapon, a DR-1 plasma pistol. This was not the first time he had been here, he visited this place almost every night, this was the place where it all happened, where for him this year of mental trauma and drinking starting. He turned around and saw her, Katie Lynn, his dead partner. He tried to shout out and tell her he was sorry, but he could not do anything, he was just here for the ride. Katie moved passed him, her pistol held at the ready. It was hard to make out details as she moved to the door way in front of him, while he stacked up on the other side. He remembered this, they would make entry into the building and look for Ethan Blake, a career criminal and member of the mafia. Katie placed a small disk on the door, which began to light up with small blue lights, one after another as it picked the doors lock. This was meant to be a simple job; no-one was supposed to be here. After a moment they went inside the warehouse. It was quiet inside, dark but for the buildings emergency lights which bathed them in a red glow that felt almost demonic, as though they had stepped into the devil¡¯s layer. After a look around and seeing no-one was in the building, they entered the small office, a simple room with a couple of desks and computer stations for whoever worked there. He could remember going through the different computers, searching for evidence that Ethan had been here. But then suddenly, he was struck over the head. Everything went dark as he landed on the floor. He could hear a struggle as Katie tried to fight off the would-be attacker. As his eyes opened, cloudy with concussion he saw Katie thrown against a chair and stood before them was Ethan Blake, with a gun in his hand. Michael had never felt so helpless, he tried to move tried to get up and fight. But Ethan pulled the trigger and a blast of red plasma struck her in the chest. Slowly Ethan then turned the weapon on him, and something he did not remember was a second man, he recognised his face, it was Ethan¡¯s brother William. As the gun was now aimed at him, a shot struck Ethan from the side and knocked him over, killing him instantly. The exchange happened so fast, William disappeared from sight as Michael forced himself up, his head throbbed from the impact leaving him still feeling dizzy. He staggered over to Katie, who was laid against the wall, weapon resting in her lap and a burnt mark across her shoulder and chest. The moment he saw the injury he knew it was bad. He fumbled for his comms, a small device. ¡°Officer down, he stammered,¡± he fell to her side trying to compress her wound. Tears ran down her face. ¡°You¡¯re going to be okay; help will be here.¡± He tried to assure her. ¡°It hurts,¡± she cried weakly, the wound was still so hot from the plasma that it burnt his hand, but he did not care, he had to try and stop the bleeding. ¡°I¡¯ll see if there is a first aid kit,¡± he said and was about to move, when she stopped him. ¡°No, please don¡¯t leave me,¡± she heaved with pain. The comms sounded back. He told them where they were. ¡°I¡¯m not going anywhere, the medics are going to fix you up, and were going to be laughing about this tomorrow,¡± he said trying his best to use his t-shirt to stop the bleeding. The next several minutes seem to pass in moments as he heard the emergency responders arrive to help, but it was too late. His eyes never left hers, tears running down both of their faces as he held her hand, but slowly her soul left. The paramedics soon arrived in the room with other police officers, they seemed like a blur around him, his eyes still on hers. A pair of comforting hands took a hold of his and lead him to a chair. He was in shock, beyond shock unable to accept what just happened. Slowly the room was taken by darkness, her body disappeared and he was surrounded by an abyss. Michael reopened his eyes to find himself staring into Tatiana¡¯s, and at that moment he knew who the killer was. The brother, after all that time he was there when Ethan was killed, the shock had stopped him remembering. Suddenly, the door to the interrogation room burst open. Marshall and a team of officer¡¯s rushed in; their guns drawn. Tatiana''s expression shifted from calm to a calculated smirk. She stood up, her eyes locked with Michael''s. "Too late," she said, a chilling tone in her voice. "I¡¯ve got what I needed." Before anyone could react, Tatiana reached into her coat and pulled out a small, concealed device. With a press of a button, she dissolved into white light and disappeared. Chapter Five - Crossroads Michael was stunned, frozen in place at what just happened. An alert sounded in the station at the unauthorized teleportation. The technology was so rare that he had never seen it used before. Marshall had already left the room with his weapon drawn, as though he could use it to stop what had just happened. But while everything was going on, Michael¡¯s mind was still lingering on what she had said and what he had seen. A single face now filled his mind, the younger brother, William Blake, who was there on that night. It was only a few moments later that he realized Marshall was stood in front of him, trying to get his attention. ¡°Come on,¡± he urged him. Michael followed without argument as his mind ran through a series of possibilities. It felt as though his mind had been sleeping since the incident and was now starting to wake up, like a machine engaging its gears of thought. Marshall led him down a series of corridors. While the alert had gone quiet in the building, security personal ran from place to place and the security drones were now active, UAV (Unmanned aerial vehicle) passed by the windows, their sensors scouring the surrounding ground for her. But Michael knew they would not find her. While he was not an expert in technology, especially teleportation which the United Earth Republic had limited its use, he knew it potentially could send someone many miles. They soon reappeared back in the central office. It was even more busy that earlier, and he could see the chief of the special reaction force, the hardened officer, Magnus. On the other end of the office was the chief of police, Agnis Watts. She was only a small woman, dark hair and seemingly normal in all respects. But she was a heavily experience veteran of the force and had the ability to put men twice her size in their place, with her sharp wit and iron will. Michael knew what was coming, the interrogation that would hinder his investigation, and likely she would want to stop him from continuing and go back home. But he was determined, a fire he thought finish had finally come back. As he approached her, her stern gaze fixed upon him, he was still pondering everything that happened, the murders, cards and the connection to Ethan. He needed to track down William. ¡°Michael in my office, Marshall, stay outside,¡± she ordered. Without a word he followed her inside. It was fairly large inside, with a large desk and several bookshelves of what appeared to be antiques, since people did not read books anymore. She sat behind her desk, the wall behind her covered in accolades, pictures and awards she had received for a near life time of service. Michael was not concerned, he barely looked at her as his mind was focused on the case. ¡°You¡¯re looking better than the last time we spoke,¡± Agnis said. Michael finally met her eyes. ¡°Are you still drinking?¡± he tensed up, as though prompted by her words he had to fight a sudden compulsion to reach into his pocket for the flask. ¡°No,¡± he lied. ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear, you were one of my best, I¡¯d hate to lose you,¡± she said, a slither of care slipped through her hard exterior that would have been missed, if he had not known her for as long as he did. ¡°What happened in the interview room?¡± she asked, carefully watching his face. ¡°I questioned the suspect, as I attempted to discover her connection with the series of murders involving Tarot cards,¡± he began to explain. ¡°And what did she tell you?¡± Michael considered his words carefully, not willing to discuss the vision, the memories that had come back to him and leave Agnis with no option but to send him home. Before he could spin a lie that she might believe the door opened. Stood in the doorway was a tall woman, in a black suit. Michael was confused for a moment, not recognising her as a member of the police force, but then his eyes fell on a small badge on her collar. The badge was a pair of eagles, crossed over a ring, with one resting on the ring. He gave an internal sigh and wished he could walk out. ¡°Agent Maxwell,¡± Agnis said in recognition. ¡°On behalf of the FDI (Federal Division of Investigations) I am taking over the Tarot Card Killer investigation,¡± she announced. ¡°Tarot card killer?¡± Agnis responded.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. ¡°Yes, seems to be what the media have named him,¡± the agent sighed. ¡°We have it under control,¡± Agnis rebutted. Michael felt as though he was trapped between a rock and a hard place. As they continued to argue who was running the case, Michael was just glad he did not give away everything he knew. This was his case and he wanted William. But the federal agent was not willing to give in, and there was nothing they could do about it. Agent Maxwell left them both in an awkward silence in the office, Michael could sense Agnis looking at him carefully, evidently expecting an outburst from him, but Michael was deep in thought as he considered what he was going to do, what to reveal. ¡°Michael, you should go home,¡± Agnis suggested, ¡°there is nothing else to do, and your sister has been calling,¡± his eyes snapped on to hers like lasers. The thought of going back home, going back to that hole he had spent the last several months hiding in. His heart began to race, as he could feel the strengthen temptation to take a drink. The urge to drink from the flask, still in his pocket became so strong he left the office before she could see his weakness. He pushed passed a group of administrators and went to the nearby toilets. He struggled to control his breath as thoughts of going back home, going back to the last several months of mental numbness resurfaced. He turned on the tap and splashed his face to try and snap himself out of it, but all it seemed to do was add to the growing panic in his mind. He took out the flask, finally about to give in and stared at the sealed vessel. But before he could loosen its top, a strong hand grabbed his shoulder. It all happened so quickly, as he turned around, he went to punch the first person he found. But it was Marshall, who took the thrown fist and twisted Michael to the ground, pressing his fist against his back. ¡°Is this what you want? You¡¯re going to give up, go back home and drown yourself in that bottle,¡± Marshall growled, the calm patience he had used to guide Michael earlier now gone, to be replaced with fire in his eyes. Michael struggled back to his feet; the fight taken out of him. The toilet door opened as an officer was about to enter. ¡°Not now!¡± Marshall snapped at him and he quickly left. ¡°I¡¯m off the case!¡± Michael shouted, ¡°what¡¯s the point,¡± ¡°This is more than just a case, this is your second chance,¡± Marshall shot back, ¡°I¡¯ve seen your eyes, the spark, you either continue with this case regardless of Agnis, or the feds, or just go home and drink that trash in your hand,¡± he was angry, ¡°I will pour it for you,¡± Marshall suddenly pulled the flask free of his hand. ¡°I¡¯ve been patient with you, but now this is the point you make a choice,¡± Marshall warned. He opened the bottle, almost immediately he could smell the alluring sent of whiskey. Like a thirsty man in a desert, he had been given a chance to quench his thirst. ¡°What is it going to be, are you going home and spend the rest of your life in that hole you dug for yourself, or are you coming with me,¡± he pushed him. He was about to reach for the flask when he remembered the vision he had been shown, the death of his friend and partner Katie, his sisters voice lingering in the back of his mind, begging him not too. Michael took the flask from his hand; he felt his whole-body shake. Marshall watched him carefully as he looked inside at the amber liquid. Michael¡¯s hand hovered over the flask, trembling as though the weight of his entire past hung in the balance. He could almost taste the whiskey, the warm burn sliding down his throat, numbing the storm that had raged in him for so long. His eyes fixed on the amber liquid, the allure of oblivion, just a heartbeat away. But then, Katie¡¯s face flashed in his mind, vivid and haunting, her voice as though stood with him now. The night she was taken from him, the blood, the shattered trust. And his sister¡¯s voice, like a soft plea that cut through the haze: Don¡¯t lose yourself, Michael. Don¡¯t, Katies voice told him. He let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening around the flask. For a moment, everything around him blurred, the noise of the station, the cold light of the bathroom, even Marshall''s expectant gaze. All that remained was a choice he had avoided for too long. Without another word, Michael moved to the sink. His hand shook so badly he thought he might drop the flask entirely. The scent seemed stronger as it tried to pull him closer to the edge. But with a sharp intake of breath, he tipped it out. The whiskey spilled into the sink, swirling down the drain, disappearing drop by drop, like all the nights he had wasted running from his pain. He stared at the empty flask; his breathing uneven. A strange silence filled the space between him and Marshall, who stood watching, his hard expression softening just slightly. "You made the right choice," Marshall said quietly, his voice steady again. Michael closed his eyes, the ache still there, but something inside had shifted. He was not fixed, not even close, but for the first time in a long while, he felt something other than defeat. He turned to Marshall and nodded. By the time it had emotional sank in, the fact he was able to pour away a liquid only a week ago he would have gladly drank off the floor, they were both back at the car. He looked at his hands and while they had stopped shaking, he had to admit that he felt vulnerable, as though he had given up a crutch and now it would be up to him, he just wondered what his sister would think of what he had just done, would she even believe him after all those days she would come to his apartment stinking of drink. The suffering he had put her through left him feeling guilty.