A/N:Thank you to those who have followed, commented, and liked (favorite) the story. I just want to say that I'm thanks for the support. I know that the first chapter was more like a prologue and that I should've either added more or better yet add another chapter. This chapter is for you guys.

2:49 AM The Dragon's Den Repair Shop

He bites down on the piece of leather, not even the fireball whiskey that was running through his veins could numb the writhing pain. "Fucking shit!" He yells a little too loud for the middle of the night.

"Don't move." Jellal says in an even tone.

Easy for him to say when he wasn't getting a fucking bullet out his calf. Said fucking bullet hurt like a bitch. Not even when had to climb up the fire escape did it hurt as much. So much training and grief from his uncle and he still couldn't control his pain. He clenches his jaw and balls his fist, "It's a fucking flesh wound, hurry up."

"The more you concentrate on your pain, the worst it will feel." With nerves of steel he makes the incision site wider. "Now take a deep, I need you to concentrate on something else."

They were the last two standing. None dared to make the first move. He knew if he fought him directly his secret would be out. It was one thing to study the other's movement than to take the person head on. Since kids they'd been dealing punches and kicks at each other. As much as he'd like, he could never forget the impact of the person who gives you your first scar. He went toe to toe with the others, but he needed to be careful with Gray.

"Mystogan." He whispers into his comlink."Mystogan."

"Put your hands up."

"Damn." He takes something out of his utility belt. Eying the golf ball sized weapon, nothing fancy, just something to buy him time to get out of there in one piece. He rolls it towards the detective.

Landing between Gray's feet, it discharges a puff of smoke, engulfing him whole. "Shit." Gray coughs.

Earning himself a couple of seconds he runs towards Gray using his head to headbutt him in the stomach, sending the detective to be airborne for a few seconds. The body lands near the rooftop door with a disgusting crunch sound. He runs out of the door, practically cheering in knowing that he had escaped. Yet closing the door, his eyes landed on the detective, his enemy, and his childhood friend, "Fuck."He opens the door quietly, as if he were sneaking in. He presses two fingers against Gray's pulse point. Still beating, he was alive. He checks for more severe injuries. His hands come across something in his pocket. A carton of cigarette and a cell phone with a lighter integrated to the case. "Damn it Gray."

He takes the pack and chucks it off the rooftop.

Gray groans, his eyes still closed, but he seems to be coming to, unlike his fellow officers who were still knocked out.

Seeing this as a sign to leave, he turns his back on his friend. The sound of the trigger being pulled echoes in his ears. He throws himself towards the roof door. A bullet hits calf.

Closing the door behind him, he crawls on the floor. Blood gushing from his leg. The bullet hot in his leg. The smell of gunpowder drowning him.

"Mystogan." He presses his comlink. "Mystogan do you hear me?" He grabs onto the railing on the wall and lifts himself, all his muscles tensing at once making the pain in his leg unbearable.

By the time he reaches the second floor of the abandoned building without any functioning elevator he falls to his knees, practically crawling he lies underneath a cobwebbed and dust covered desk. He takes a blade from his glove and cuts the arm sleeve off his jacket and ties it around his bleeding calf as a makeshift bandage. "Fucking Mystogan, where are you?"

The lights of the squad car flash through the window, reminding him that they're still out there. So far no backup has entered the building.

As much as he wanted to lie there and rest, he needed to get out of their as soon as possible. Clenching his jaw her crawls out from the desk and lifts himself up, using the desk to steady himself. He balls his fist, his muscles tensing up from the pain. He limps to the other side of building away from the main entrance. He enters the manager's office and his eyes fall onto the couch. It had springs popping out from the cushion, tempting; he walks away from it and collapses onto the desk. His heartbeat beats loudly in his ears, his fists cramping up from balling them, and his calf is beginning to throb. Were he able to remove the damn thing he would have already done it. Five minutes or more had passed; he was living on luck at this moment. Any second now the police could come busting in, guns blazing and ready to take his ass to jail. All because the guy who's suppose to be his eyes and ears is off somewhere. "Fuck you Mystogan."

He sees a window sized opening, or what used to be a window, without the glass or the frame around it. There is only one way out and it was through the damn window.

"Fuck you!" He spits. Jellal was cutting into his flesh; the feeling of the thin blade on the scalpel splitting his skin open, the warmth of his own blood running down his calf to his ankle. Grabbing the bendy straw with his mouth he takes another big gulp of his whiskey.

"Natsu." Wendy says in a soothing voice. "You need to calm down. Getting angry will only increase the pain more."

There were only two women who can make him enter into reason and calm him, one of them was the fifteen year old girl standing before him. So young and smart for her age, last week while on his nightly activities when Jellal was occupied she took a shard of glass out of his shoulder blade. At first she was trembling, palms were sweating, and she even started to look pale. Blood. So much blood. It was her first time she found out about his nightly activities and the first time she learned how to do stitches.

"It's like sewing a teddy bear back together." He told her with his signature grin on his face. It was not like sewing a teddy bear. Teddy bears didn't bleed out or winced when you put a needle through their fur. Regardless he thinks those words were kinda reassuring.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, "Jellal can you please explain to me where you were when I was calling you?" He tries to keep his tone even…even though he wanted to punch the blue haired man.

"I was doing a repair." He answers nonchalantly. "It was important."

Natsu could feel himself getting fired up. He could have died because of a stupid repair. Now he wants the beat the crap out of the guy. "So you were downstairs then?"

Downstairs on the first floor, they owned the Dragon's Den Repair shop, where they—mostly Jellal would fix computers, cell phones or any kind of tech really, while Natsu did basic repairs and dealt with customers. It was a nice shop surrounded by good people, but far way from everything as to not draw attention to themselves. Last thing they needed was Magnolia Police Department showing up at their door step. "No I was in my room fixing the cell phone."

He was in his room, where he has access to not one or two monitors, but a triple monitor hooked to his computer? He's definitely going to kill Jellal.

"Take a deep breath."

"Son of a bitch." Natsu's voice cracks.

Jellal takes the bullet out placing it in a small bowl. "Bullet is out."

"So what's so important that you almost left me to die?"

"Wendy can you hand me the needle and thread please?" She hands him the items. "Does the name Bora ring any bells?"

"Scumbag that owns the local strip club, maybe connected to prostitution," He winces, the needle entering his skin. "What about?"

"That may have been true ten years ago, but in the last three years he's become one of the major players in Magnolia's human trafficking. Today that little local strip club has turned into a brothel."

"What are ya getting at?"

"I have two theories either the brothel is a cover up for human trafficking or the brothel workers are victims themselves of human trafficking. But he's throwing a party tomorrow night, something about unveiling another floor to his business. The thing is order to go is by being one filthy rich or by invitation."

"How'd you get an invitation?"

"A local kid with sticky fingers came at night with a Lacrima 12 Phone. Wants me to erase the data so he can keep it. His "uncle" gave it to him, but can't get a hold of said uncle for the password because the guy is out of the country on business."

"Convenient. So who's phone is it?"

"No one special," He takes his phone out. "Names Dante Forde twenty nine year old, born with a silver spoon in mouth, party boy, extreme sports enthusiasts, and currently off grid on his way to an island."

"Wendy can you read me the message on my home screen?"

"It says that according to the coordinates provided, passenger should be landing in Ishiki island in five hours."

"You hacked the GPS didn't you?"

He smiles as he continues typing, "When everything is connected to Wi-fi or data, anything can be hacked." He slips the phone back into hick pocket. "If you're done cursing my name, you have until tonight to find a tux."

4:23 AM Magnolia Memorial Hospital

The smell of rubbing alcohol stings his nose. Nearby beeping sounds ring in his head, like if someone was playing the drums near his ears. His sight greeted and covered by blue hair on his chest. A pale green curtain covers his view from the outside. He stretches his finger underneath a weight, most likely her hand.

"Juvia." His voice comes out hoarse.

"Gray?" She lifts her head up slowly as if to make sure it was really him. "Gray." She throws her arms around his neck, peppering his face with kisses.

"Geez I'm fine." He sits up and his stomach decides to do a gymnastic routine. All the hairs on his body are standing up. A chill runs up his spine. Acid is building in the back of this throat, he's going to—"Puke."

"Here." Just in time she puts a blue plastic medical bag in front of him.

He lies back down after releasing his vile into the bag. "Fuck." He closes his eyes to stop the room from spinning. "Why am I at the hosp—."

He remembers…a call had come in at midnight. Lukewarm coffee in one hand and pen in the other, he was finishing some last notes on a case when his phone rang. Like a child ready to open presents on Christmas morning he grabbed his coat and left.

The cold never bothered him, but tonight it seemed colder than usual. Even he who was nicknamed the "snowman" could feel his nose turning red the second he left his car. Police have already set a perimeter, but that didn't seem to deter the onlookers from surrounding the building.

"Detective." The red haired police officer waves at him.

"What do we have?"

"Shoots fired from the rooftop, someone says they saw your favorite person go up with some big guy with a buzz cut, we've identified him as Daiki Cantwell. Local thug for hire. Has a rap sheet for petty thefts and is a registered offender. Nothing serious just got caught whacking off in a grocery store parking lot." Jet informs him. "As far as I know neither him nor our hero have come down," He points to the top with his pencil. "Let's see if he can escape this time."

A man dressed in a red and black motorcycle jacket with matching pants and gloves. Black boots on his feet and long wrist black bracelets…no bracers on his arms. Then there was the blood red the dragon like helmet. Two horns on the two on the top, with a two inch horn protruding from the snout, and a smirking like mouth with all its fangs bared. The helmet covered his entire face, the only thing visible were two black slits, covered by black looking plastic of some kind. He stood there with hands still on the hilt of the knife that was impaling his father.

In his mind he can recall all if not most cases featuring the vigilante. None of the crimes scenes or those injured was a gun or bullet present and that included his own father's case. "Guns aren't the vigilantes M.O." Gray pinches the bridge of his nose and clicks his tongue. "Listen Jet when I said keep me posted I meant him not some wannabe copycat."

Jet swallows hard, backing away with each word, "Look detective I'm—."

"Save it," He takes his gun from out of his holster. "I'm already here."

"Gray." She snaps her fingers in front of his face, bringing him back to the present. "Gray darling."

"Sorry…I," He clears his throat. "I spaced out…what were you saying?"

She runs her fingers through his hair, "I was saying that the doctor wants you to get a CT scan."

"Of what?" Why was he even hooked up to a fucking machine for a headache and nausea.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

He …he… was heading…he was heading…towards the roof…two flights of stairs…many… many left turns….. And that's it. "My memory is fine, just a little hazy." He sits up slowly this time making sure to keep the rest of his contents in his stomach.

She puts a pillow behind his back, "You should take it easy; the doctor believes you might have a concussion."

"I…." He messages his temples. From the corner of his eye he could see Juvia's hesitant hand slowly reaching out to him…."How are the others?"

"Only one officer sustained an injury, a knife to the ankle. The doctor believes that Jet will make a quick recovery as the knife was more of a flesh wound, while the others have sustained some bruising…." Juvia continues speaking but it's like his brain had put her on mute.

He was tired; sleep was nonexistent with maybe an hour or two at best. Coffee started to taste like shit, so he started solely relying on many cans of energy drinks that would make a high school athlete crash. And when that didn't work, he turned the other way and went for a smoke. He limited himself to three cigarettes a day; it tended to take the sting out of "waking up."

He pulls his IV drip out of his arm, "Shit." No way in hell was he going to take that thing to the bathroom with him. The tape stung more than the damn needle itself.

"Gray." She reaches out for the call nurse button on his bed.

"It's fine," He puts his hand over hers. "I don't need it." He ties the back of his hospital gown. All of this for a damn concussion. He grabs something out of his pant pocket his phone and discreetly a cigarette. He wouldn't doubt that Juvia knows about his recent habit, but she didn't say anything about it and he sure as hell wouldn't bring it up. Maybe that's why he continues "sneaking" the cigarettes. He checks his coat pocket—he could've sworn he had a full pack. Was it possible that she might have thrown them away without telling him?

He looks over to Juvia.

Their eyes meet.

She gives him a small smile.

Maybe she did? "I need some fresh air," Juvia opens her mouth, but he stops her. "Alone." He looks over his shoulder and notices she's sitting at his bedside hands clasped on her lap, like s fragile doll. Maybe he was being too harsh. "It'll take a minute…I'll be back, okay."

She nods.

11:28 AM Magnolia Police Department

Getting called into the department after barely being released from the hospital was just what he needs. The workload may be increasing day by day, but wanted—needed to get there quickly. The desperation to start writing his report on the case was like taking away a dehydrated man's bottle of water. He needed to interrogate Cantwell himself. Screw the headache he might have, fuck the dizziness that he feels as he walks into the department. To hell with everything. Anything that he learns about the man behind the mask gets him one step closer to solving the case. He leans against the receptionist desk, closing his eyes to stabilize himself. His father's silver cross pressed against his chest as he takes deep breaths. Just looking at it serves as a daily reminder of what he needs to do.

He knocks on the chief's door.

"Come in." She says from the other side.

"Thanks." He closes the door behind him and takes a seat. "So what's up?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Are you asking as a friend or my boss?"

Erza Scarlett looks up from her computer screen, "I'm asking as a human being."

"Doctor says mild concussion. No big deal." He takes a note out of his pocket and slides it across her desk. "I'm fine with just getting the rest of the day off."

She reads the note, "Your doctor disagrees."

"It's a suggestion," He leans back into his chair. "I just need to have a good night rest and I'll be fine for tomorrow."

"I agree with you doctor, take a few days off then come in next week."

He jolts up from his seat, "What?"

"You haven't had a day off since—."

He paces, "I know." He says in a low tone. "I know….But I'm fine."

"If this is about Cantwell, I'll personally conduct the interview my—."

"No!" He slams his hands on her desk. His eyes widen with sudden realization.

"Gray." Her voice falters.

He rubs his temples, "I'm—I'm sorry, okay." He sits back down, his head in his knees.

"I…." She pauses. Her faces hardens.

Sitting in front of him is no longer his childhood friend, but the chief of police. "Detective Fullbuster you are now officially on medical leave. That is an order. Should you not comply I will be forced to take you off the case.

Before he could open his mouth to retort, he notices the look in her eyes, she's pleading him to stop.

"Is that clear?"

The necklace around his neck feels heavy, instead of a cross it felt like an anchor. Is he going to fall…to fail? Sitting in a pool of his own blood, a knife protrudes from his father's open stomach, his entrails visible for the world to see, blood seeping from his mouth, the vigilante with the knife still in his hands, branded into his mind. "How long?"