1. Daughters

Four years later...

He sat at his desk, alone in the dimly lit room. The photographs spread across his workspace stared up at him, the last looks of stolen identities, scorned by fate too cruel to comprehend. Sorting through his notes, he began to match the faces to the corresponding intel for what must have been the hundredth time since he took on the assignment. But that was exactly why they hired him; his precision was his brand, the one thing upon which he could be relied.

Facts and speculations, suspects and victims; all of it was scattered into a thousand pieces, a puzzle waiting to be built. There was a common string in the case: the fourteen victims. Each one, a young woman between the age of twenty and thirty, hidden away and yet not, nude, arms and legs bound, with an "x" carved in between her breasts. The cause of death was always asphyxiation.

It was grotesque, even for someone as desensitized as himself, to see a stolen life become someone else's trophy. As the body count grew, so did his disgust for the waste. These women weren't soldiers. They didn't sign up for this.

He got up and poured himself another coffee. At this point, caffeine was the only thing that kept him from falling into a fat, heavy slumber. But he knew that allowing himself to even feel tired at all was a luxury in itself. Twenty-six hours and counting. He'd done worse. Once, he had stayed up for three days straight while running a surveillance mission in Timber. Exhaustion was just a state of mind. Nothing more.

He took a long, slow sip of coffee as he walked over to his window, surveying the view. The rain glassed over the streets of Deling, city lights erupting vividly in pavement reflections. Drops kissed his window and created a beautiful obstruction to compliment the outside world. It was 03:00, and the city was graced with something that resembled quiet. He closed his eyes and dissected the white noise: tires through water, a siren, a city bus that hit its brakes just a little too hard.

Deling, he decided, suited him much better than Balamb ever did. Here, he was just another face in a crowd of millions. He could never have imagined the level of satisfaction complete anonymity granted him. To go outside and not have to worry about being called back to the confines of an office; to go all day without a single disturbance; to walk around town and not hear his name in half-hushed rumours...

It was almost perfect.

Almost.

He cracked the window slightly and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Gingerly, he lit one and inhaled deeply. He felt himself ease, mind worn from recycled ideas and excess scrutiny. Smoke tangled with the air in front of him and for a moment, Squall found himself blissfully entranced. It seemed as though he was noticing all the little things lately.

The case itself was full of small details; at times, it was hard to deduce the significant from the irrelevant. Still, when SeeD's Intelligence Division assigned Squall as one of the lead investigators on the case, he tackled it just as he'd done with every mission that had come before it. But time was dragging on now, and even though his sympathy for the victims ran deep, the utter lack of progress was starting to grate on his patience.

The difficult part about finding a psychopath was that they blended in easily with the rest of society. They could be friends, neighbours, co-workers, church-goers, moms, dads, lovers...anyone. Human beings were capable of so much more than surface facades. The murders were just a piece of a very long and very complicated equation.

He finished his cigarette and smashed the butt into a near-full ashtray. The pause was just enough for him to collect himself, to find his sense of clarity even as his body cried out for his bed. Coffee still in hand, he made his way back to his desk, where he was almost certain he was going to spend the rest of his night.

His thirtieth November was spent in the warmth of coffee shops, in long nights in front of his computer, and under pencil-grey skies, surrounded by damp autumn leaves and crystalline air. It was days lined with citrine, it was wondering when the snow would finally fall; it was wanting normalcy and falling five degrees below the mark.

He sat on the bench, surrounded by the sounds of kids' playground games and mothers' gossip. Husbands, exes, cars, money; the choir of the Stepford status quo. He felt like a satellite, orbiting outside of the world but still somehow trapped by its pull. His gaze floated around lazily, taking in all there was to observe before settling on the one person calling for his attention.

"Daddy! Can you spin it one more time please?"

"You've had three turns already."

"This will be the last one! I PROMISE!"

He knew better than to place trust in her promises, but still he obliged. He grabbed the rung of the merry-go-round and began to run, much to the delight of his passenger. The cool autumn air surrounded him as he spun her faster and faster, streaming across his face and tunnelling into his lungs. Her laughter resounded in his ears, echoing like a song that never got old.

The merry-go-round slowed to a halt and she jumped off awkwardly, dizziness taking control of her movements. Her little legs grew wobbly as she tried to adjust to walking with a spinning head. Squall quickly scooped her up and set her on his shoulders to prevent her from toppling to the ground. She giggled wildly, putting her hands over top of his eyes in a feeble attempt to obstruct his view.

"Ah! Don't do that, Ellie! You're gonna get my glasses all smudged up!" he cried out, pulling her hands away from his face. Blotches of fingerprints dotted his vision, and he found himself groaning as he wiped the lenses on his t-shirt. His eyesight was not what it was when he was a teenager, but it was just a small thread in a tapestry of changes he'd experienced since then. He was less than a year shy of thirty, but somehow, seventeen felt like over a lifetime ago.

"Daddy, I'm hungry! Can we please get something to eat?"

He was starting to learn how to decode four-year-old English. Asking to get food didn't mean getting dinner; it meant candy from one of the street vendors, and copious amounts of it. He knew that Rinoa would have given in to the request without a second thought, but Squall was nothing like Rinoa.

"Mom's gonna cook you something when you get home, okay?" he offered.

"But the store is right there!" she declared, pointing toward one of vendors with her tiny outstretched hand.

"Your bargaining skills are just as bad as hers, you know that?" Squall made his way back to his car, Ellie sulking on his shoulders. She might not have been satisfied with his decision, but he wasn't about to bend to her will every time she asked him to.

There was something about being a weekend father that wrenched knots into his stomach. Ellie meant the world to him, but he often wondered if she would ever know it; the notion hurt worse than any wound. Starting the car was starting the countdown again, the final Sunday minutes winding away before she was gone.

Music filled the cab; a hauntingly distant piano piece that he had fallen in love with years ago, the notes tumbling with a bittersweet grace that he couldn't quite identify. He heard her try to hum along to the melody, sound like a smile as his own formed against shy lips. It was a small comfort as he drove down the familiar route, back to the home she did not share with him.

The sun broke from the clouds just in time to collide into the horizon, a symptom of too-short days. Dwindling glares filled the spaces between buildings and wrapped around the fingers of leafless trees as the sky burned itself out in an echo of amber and coral. Skyscrapers came back down to earth as they climbed out of the sprawl and up the hill, into the suburbs.

Galbadia Heights was not a Rinoa-style neighbourhood in any way, but he knew why she chose it. Low crime rate; parks and schools nearby; friendly, bland neighbours; quiet; safe. If she'd had the option, she would have gone back to Timber, but the nation still lacked stability, and Deling was the only other home she knew. She could raise Ellie here, without worry of civil unrest; that battle was no longer hers to fight.

This place was her sacrifice.

Her house was a small, narrow building, one among dozens, its only distinguishing features denoted by the gold 736 hanging near the entry. He walked Ellie up the stairs to the doorway and let her ring the bell. From inside, he could hear the sound of footsteps as they made their way to the landing.

"Mommy!" Ellie yelled, moving to wrap her arms around Rinoa's legs the moment the door opened.

"Hello, Ellie. Hi Squall."

Rinoa looked up at her former lover and smiled softly. Although age had changed her—a few crow's feet gracing her eyes, a bit of extra weight around her waist—he was still entranced by her beauty. He saw artistry in her lines, the honesty in her features. If only the circumstances could have been different... If only he hadn't forfeit the opportunity to be her knight.

"So, how was she?" she asked, absently combing her hand through Ellie's unruly raven hair.

"Good, as usual. She's wound up on just the idea of sugar, but she'll get over it," Squall said as he handed her Ellie's backpack.

"Well, kids will be kids."

Squall tried his best to keep a grimace from crossing his face. He hated it when she said that—it was just a poor excuse to refrain from discipline. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

Just let it slide...

He knelt down to Ellie's level with waiting arms. She eagerly ran back to him and let herself get wrapped up in her father's embrace. Her little hands squeezed his shoulders tightly, soft skin against the worn leather of his jacket. Squall had never been one for open affection, but ever since Ellie was born, he found himself breaking all his own rules.

"Love you, Daddy," she said into his ear. He pulled her closer and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

"Love you, too."

His phone vibrated on the wooden surface of his nightstand, cutting overdue sleep short. With one groggy gesture, he reached for the sound. His eyes were immediately assaulted by the bright light of the screen as he struggled to make out who was at the other end of the call. The blurry letters in front of him wouldn't co-operate without his glasses, but he already had a fairly good idea of who it would be.

"Hello?" he answered, trying to mask the tiredness dripping off his voice.

"Squall, it's Quistis. There's been another. Come to the 1900 block of 57th Avenue as soon as possible."

Another. "Alright, I'll be there."

Squall groaned inwardly and closed his eyes for a moment. The will to leave the warmth and comfort of his bed was not easily unearthed, weary body engrossed in the comfort of his cocoon. He squinted at the digital clock across the room, barely able to make out the red glowing numbers.

04:17.

Fuck.

He tried to banish the intoxicating memory of sleep from his mind as he got up and retrieved his clothing from the floor beside his bed. He pulled on day-old garb: black t-shirt, grey jeans, and old socks. Grabbing his glasses from the nightstand, he made his way to the bathroom and took a good look at himself in the mirror.

Dark circles framed his tired, pale eyes, and his facial hair had come in well past the five o'clock shadow mark. His hair sat in a dishevelled mess atop his head from tossing and turning throughout the night. Pulling his fingers through his disaster of a mane, he attempted to make himself a little more presentable, but the effort felt redundant at best.

His Griever tattoo peeked out under the sleeve of his t-shirt. At twenty-one, it had been a symbol, but now it sat, branded in his skin as little more than a taunt. How delusional had he been, to believe that he could ever be so brave? So proud? He never wore his ring or pendant anymore.

He retreated back into his bedroom to grab his wallet, keys, and phone. The prospect of another call from Quistis was enough to make him hurry. Hastily, he made his way to the foyer, put on his boots and jacket, and stepped out into the cold, rain-stricken November night.

As he drove down the streets of Deling, wipers on full blast, his mindset transitioned from tired dad back to SeeD. He cursed the rain and its detrimental effects on the crime scene; it was enough to wash away key evidence and make it difficult to conduct a thorough investigation.

The 1900 block of 57th Avenue was deep in the city slums, where vagrants and addicts and prostitutes were a common feature on every corner. Only a few streets away was the red light district, a degrading place where women sold their bodies in a vain attempt to make up for their failures. Women who were promised careers in film and art and dance, women who got stuck in the revolving door of human trafficking.

The ill glamour of the neighbourhood greeted him the moment he turned down onto 57th Avenue, crime scene visible just a few blocks away. Police lights flashed wildly and the area was cordoned off with yellow tape. He parked his car and stepped out, just in time for Quistis to greet him with a coffee.

"Thanks." He lit a cigarette and took the coffee. "So, what do we have here?"

"A Jane Doe, twenty to twenty-five-years-old, same modus operandi as far as I can tell," Quistis replied. "She was dumped in the alleyway between the convenience store and the Boko's Chicken. The medical examiner came in and said that she would have to run an autopsy to determine the cause of death, but I'm almost certain that it's going to be the same as all the other girls. We've canvassed the area, but so far no one has come forward with any information."

Squall nodded. He often wondered why Quistis had chosen to take this assignment with him. She was too competent, too effective a soldier for some local investigation; she could've had any job she wanted and this sat at the bottom of a long list of open contracts.

He quickly finished his cigarette and coffee before walking onto the scene. Pulling on a pair of plastic gloves, he made a vain attempt to limit the contamination of a scene already drowned by the rain. Down in the back alley, he could see a pale white body spread out on the ground, nude skin in stark contrast from the garbage and pavement surrounding her. He walked up to her for closer examination. The woman's lips were blue and chapped, eyes withdrawn. A shallow "x" was carved between her breasts, branded like her sister victims.

"Do we have a time of death?" he asked.

"The medical examiner said she hasn't reached full rigour yet, so she likely died anywhere between four to ten hours ago," Quistis told him. "We've taken her prints, so hopefully we can identify her and track down who heard from her last."

"Alright," he said. "It'd be nice if we could find the actual fucking crime scene and not just the dumping grounds for once."

"Wishful thinking, Squall. We just have to keep at it."

"Yeah...right."

The rain had matted his hair down, and the cold wet air was piercing right into his bones. He pushed his bangs out of the way and knelt down beside the victim. She looked so gaunt and listless; whoever did this to her probably didn't have to put up too much of a fight. He took her hands, bound together with rough twine, into his own. Though stiff, he was able to move them closer so that he could get a better look. She was wearing light pink nail polish, although much of it had appeared to be chipped off. Upon closer inspection of the woman's nails, he noticed something.

Blood.

"Quistis, get over here! Take a look at this." A small amount of browning blood had congealed under her fingernails. "I wonder if this is from our killer. Maybe she scratched him as she was trying to defend herself."

"It's possible," Quistis said. She turned to the photographer and one of the crime scene technicians. "You guys, come here. We need to get a photo of this and a sample before the rain washes it away."

The two officers moved in and she stepped out of the way. She looked over to Squall then, and noticed the troubled look on his face. His jaw was clenched a little tighter than usual, and his eyebrows had furrowed together beyond his regular brooding demeanour. She offered him a hand on the small of his back, a small gesture to let him know that she was there. He flinched at the contact, surprised, and turned his gaze to meet hers. She quickly withdrew the hand in question and cleared her throat, trying to cover her own embarrassment.

"Sorry, uh, it's just that...well, you just seem more tense than usual," she explained. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," he replied, shrugging his shoulders and heaving out a sigh. "I guess this case is just getting to me. This woman isn't just a victim. She's someone's daughter. Each one of these women is someone's daughter. I mean, I don't know what I'd do if something like this ever happened to Ellie."

"We'll get to the bottom of it. It's only a matter of time."

"I hope you're right."