The giant form of the great Buddha towered over Kwai Chang Caine, but he did not see it. His eyes were closed, his legs crossed in the distinctive form of the lotus. His mind should have been at rest, focused on his breathing, on the welcoming the energy around and within him... but it was not so. His son's face floated in his thoughts, angry and betrayed.
Xin ping— an even heart. Qi he— harmonious chi.
How was such to be attained by a man who had killed his son's father in anger? No matter his words to Master Dao, no matter his insistence that he was ridding the world of evil rather than destroying the enemy who had corrupted his son, Kwai Chang could not lie to himself, not here in the Tao Temple, with its declarations of loyalty to the Four Noble Truths.
Instead of peace, these thoughts, these guilts surrounded him. His eyes opened and he shook his head slightly. Once again, he had failed to achieve communion with the underlying truth of the universe. He strove, and so he fell short. He reached, and so he could not grasp.
He stood in frustration, and knew that that was failure as well.
A few of the students chanted mantras, and at least two nearby twitched, his negative energy impacting their own attempts. A hand touched his shoulder and he turned to see his friend, Master Kwan. The man tilted his head, a silent indication that they would speak away from the students and monks who meditated more successfully than Kwai Chang had been able to do.
Through stone-faced hallways, made quiet by the contemplation of those who paced them, the pair walked until they were far enough that they would not disturb those in the great hallway, then turned into a room where an old man in deep yellow robes stood reading one of the Temple's ancient books. He turned, and Kwai Chang bowed deeply, surprised.
"The Dalai Lama? My friend— I had not known you would be here."
"I am only here for a brief time."
Kwan smiled. "When he heard that you were here, he insisted he meet you once again."
The Dalai Lama smiled. "Indeed, Kwai Chang Caine and I are acquainted of old." His voice was soft, yet powerful in a way that Kwai Chang thought privately must be unique to those who were so enlightened as to return again and again in the manner of the Dalai Lama. "How are you, my friend?" The priest smiled in return, but shrugged in answer to the question, and the other man turned concerned eyes at him. "What is wrong?"
He looked at Master Kwan for a moment. He had not intended to tell anyone at this Temple of his sin— but Kwai Chang Caine did not believe in chance. The Dalai Lama had given him advice when he was younger, and had been a powerful, steady guide. The bonds between student and teacher were ever present: perhaps the legendary figure had sensed the disturbance in Kwai Chang's heart without even realizing it, and arrived here to help him bring the truth to the surface. If he could not speak the words aloud to this man, he might never grow. Even so, shame kept his tone somber. "I have killed a man," Kwai Chang replied.
"Is that so...? An accident, surely." The Dalai Lama looked deep into his soul. "Or perhaps not. I see that it troubles you greatly. You search for a renewed sense of peace?"
Kwai Chang nodded, but Master Kwan looked at him with concern. "Ah, Master Caine, had you told me this... I must speak plainly. You came to me several months ago, asking for my help in achieving peace— but you also asked that I do this without understanding the root of your distress. Perhaps I could have helped you, had I insisted. I have failed in the task of guidance. In the time you have been here, you have devoted yourself to meditation and the practice of kung fu, but your disquiet has only grown."
Kwai Chang held back a sigh. "Yes," he said instead, folding his hands. "I had hoped that being here, with the other monks, I would be able to find..." He shrugged.
"Forgiveness?" offered the Dalai Lama.
"No." He shook his head. Forgiveness was not something he could grant to himself, nor was it something that anyone at the Temple could grant. And forgiveness could not be granted by the dead. What he sought was the ability to look at his son without remembering the empty, hollow eyes that stared at his adoptive father's murderer. "I hoped for a clarity of purpose," he said, but the words rang hollow. "Or perhaps... distance."
The man who had lived so many lifetimes looked at Kwai Chang. "Distance..." he repeated to himself, a look of deep thought on his face. He walked closer, putting a hand on the priest's shoulder and tilting his head. "What do you seek distance from, my friend? The memories of the man that you killed?"
"Perhaps... I..." He glanced over at Master Kwan, who watched quietly. "You recall the destruction of my Temple?"
"With great sadness, my friend."
"The corrupt priest who caused the destruction... he took my son as his own, taught him to kill, to murder, to lie... my son was raised to hate my memory." Kwai Chang closed his eyes as he felt the hand on his shoulder tighten. His own hands became fists as the anger coursed through him, but the anger did not control him. "That man who raised my son... he told my son what he had done, and then he... dared him... to kill his father."
Beside him, he heard Master Kwan let out a breath through his nose.
"He would have had my son commit patricide, an unforgivable evil, thrown my son from the karmic wheel and left him in endless torment. That is the man that I killed before his eyes. The suffering that he gave to my son..."
"Life is suffering."
"Should it be eternal? Such harm without cause— I am committed to the preservation of life! But seeing my son suffer so greatly at that man's hands..." The touch fell from his shoulder. "And yet, I know that my own actions caused my son more suffering. Two fathers, each abusive, each lost in front of him. How can I face him?"
"Abusive? You compare yourself to this fallen priest," said Master Kwan, dismay in his voice.
"The comparison is hardly unwarranted," he replied.
"And so, you seek distance," said the Dalai Lama. "But you still have not admitted what distance it is that you seek."
Kwai Chang opened his eyes and looked at the old man. "Have I not?"
The Dalai Lama frowned, then smoothed both his robes and his expression. "You seek to protect your son through physical distance. But I think you also seek to distance yourself from him in order to find an emotional point where his suffering will not hurt you. You have closed yourself to him."
The priest shook his head. This was not about the suffering of Kwai Chang Caine—
"What are you afraid of, Kwai Chang Caine? What is it that you fear?"
Fear.
It was as if the word struck some chord within him, and he found himself seeing with the sight of the Masters, saw his son suddenly, frightened and lost, both a child and a man. A spider's silken thread connected them to one another, becoming ever thinner as his son was surrounded by shadowy figures.
These visions were not new to him, but this time, his son cried out. "Father! I'm frightened!"
He reached out a hand to his son, but the shadows rose up to block him. "Peter!" His son was being locked into a box of shadows, terrified and helpless— a face, sweet and smiling, recognized not by its features but by the feeling of the rotten energy behind it.
"The Chiru," he gasped as the vision left him, Master Kwan holding him steady, the pair on their knees. "They come for my son!"
"The Shadow Assassins?" muttered the abbot with a frown. "A myth."
"I have met them many times, in many forms. They feed on fear," the Dalai Lama said softly. "Some take great pleasure in cultivating it, and then... harvesting it, to strengthen their own chi during battle. Others simply take pleasure in causing it, in creating dissonance within the soul..."
If the force of that terror was enough to bring Kwai Chang Caine to his knees, Peter Caine would not be able to stand against them. "Master Dao has given my son many fears."
"You fear for your son," said Master Kwan. "Is he their target?"
"I... do not know." He paused and forced his anxieties aside, calling on his reserves to think clearly. "I also have a bond with a man I swore to protect. It is possible that my own fears have influenced this vision." Kwai Chang took a moment to recompose himself, then stood with Master Kwan's help, missing the look that passed between the other two men. The beads of his mala fall through Kwai Chang's fingers, and an urgent need to leave the safety of the Tao Temple bloomed in his chest. "Regardless of the source, I must go," he said with a bow to the two priests. "Thank you for your assistance, my friends. I must meet this challenge."
"Walk in the light, Kwai Chang Caine— but remember that the darkness will strike at your worries," said the Dalai Lama, his face serious. "Guard yourself, not with distance but with the great compassion I know you have within yourself."
Kwai Chang nodded seriously, and was gone between one breath and the next.
"Kermit, if I were a serial killer, why the hell would I pick people who've helped me out? Is that really how serial killers work?"
The man with the green glasses leaned against the wall and rubbed his forehead, but he didn't reply to Peter's entreaty. Instead, Detective Eagleton shook his head. "Sometimes. Killers start with opportunity, which you've had plenty of. But we aren't calling you a serial killer, Caine, we're just asking you some questions. You told the Captain you'd give us a little cooperation."
"You're accusing me of killing people, Eagleton! And I am cooperating: anyone else would have gotten a lawyer by now!"
Kermit slammed a hand down on the table between them. "No, you're not, Caine! Three people are dead. Mary Hart, who worked in the deli you frequent. Alex Lane, one of the bartenders at the Green Hand, a place where you've been working. Jennifer Hso, the daughter of the carpet cleaner you've been seen talking to. The only connection between these three people that I have is you." He shook his head in frustration. "Caine, listen to me: I don't think you did it. Just give me something to work with: an alibi, an alternative theory..." He glanced at the mirror. "Give me something."
"You've had me in here for four hours. If I had something to give you, don't you think I would have already done it?"
"You've got to—" A knock on the window, and Kermit sighed. "Give us a minute," he said, then he and Eagleton opened the door.
Peter put his head on his arms and let his eyes close while he waited for them to return, wishing he could take the brief respite as an opportunity to sleep. He'd barely had any rest last night— nightmares again, the kind that wouldn't let him get back to sleep for hours. He felt so tired, like he could barely move anymore.
He was sluggish while someone targeted people who'd helped him. Or were they targeting him? Peter wasn't sure what was going on at the moment. Someone was definitely trying to move into Chinatown, and Peter was more or less their only official opposition. What if it was them killing these women?
Could it be the Triad? But they wouldn't do that, not without talking to him, without making their position clear, and he was relatively sure they'd consider him an asset until he proved otherwise. They'd simply expect him to do what they wanted. They'd have made contact.
Maybe a new Tong? With the Triad gone, there was probably room for it, and he'd definitely crossed a few lines with some people over the past few months, pulling old codgers with more money than sense out of the gambling halls. The Huakma in particular had sent a few people his way to express the dissatisfaction of their Chair. But... even if it was a new Tong moving in, they wouldn't start by killing people around him.
For either of those groups, if they really had it out for Peter Caine, it would be easier to blow him up, or convince him to leave, or even approach him with an offer. Killing people he had tenuous connections with... it wasn't anyone's style.
Instead of direct action, he had radio silence. Something was happening, he knew that much, but it felt like he was fighting shadows: he'd hear whispers about something happening, rush from one end of Chinatown to the other, and find nothing. It was like someone was trying to run him ragged, and frankly, he needed help in fighting it. That's why he'd come to the police station in the first place: to give them a heads up about what was going on in Chinatown, and to ask for some help in keeping the people there safe.
But instead of getting help from the people who were supposed to be allies, he'd found accusations.
A click of the door heralded the return of Kermit and Eagleton. Peter looked up— but— that wasn't right, where were the cops—?
The force of an explosion ripped through him, through the walls of the building. The next thing he knew, he was climbing out of the rubble, coughing heavily through dust and smoke so thick that there was nothing to see beyond blurs of light where flames flared. The world was bathed in a strange mixture of blue and gold and red. "Hello? Does anyone need help?" But he was met with an eery silence. "Anyone?"
"Peter!"
"Pop...?" In the distance, obscured by the debris, he could just make out the form of his father, the hat and flute silhouetted against the hazy light of one of the columns of flame. "Pop! I'm over here!" His heart pounded as the man turned, walking away, and Peter climbed up over the fallen walls of the police station in an attempt to chase after him.
Over seemingly endless debris, he chased after his father, the smoke choking him. He could hear wailing in the dust, the cries of children and priests— no, must have been cops— but he couldn't see anyone. "Father! We need to help them! Stop!"
The silhouette did as he said— but then, fell. Peter clambered up a mountain of destroyed building, reaching a summit where only his father's flute and hat sat, unattended. "Dad... where did you go?" He pulled the hat to his chest and stifled tears.
The rasping sound of a blade cut through the fog and Peter looked up to see a shadow taking form in front of him. He started to scramble back from it, but the edge of the mountain had become a cliff behind him. He grabbed the flute, trying to defend himself from the sword, but his shadowy opponent sliced through the metal as if it were butter. The blade stopped before it cut into Peter's neck, and the sound of laughter joined the soft puffing of tiny gas fires.
His hand closed around a rock and he threw it at the shadow, desperate fear turning into anger as the shadow moved backwards. "I'm not ready to die!" He had no weapons against this thing, but he wasn't going to let it kill him, not without a fight! He rose to his feet and rushed it, and was kicked back down against the hard ground.
The agony made him look down. Blades sprouted from his chest, strangely clean of blood.
The shadow stepped back. "You have abandoned the Dao. There will be no continuance for you," the monster said as he gasped. "The cycle of your lives is at an end."
The words seemed to echo as the world darkened around him, as he gasped for air and his heart thumped loudly in his ears. He wasn't ready to die— he hadn't made the reparations the Ancient told him he must— he wasn't ready—
A loud bang startled him and he woke, sweating and shaking, in the police department's interview room. A man Peter did not know was staring at him, tall and blond, a black trenchcoat obscuring his body. He thought he saw a brief moment of something dark in those blue eyes, but it was gone before he could understand it.
Kermit's voice was pierced the fog of nightmare. "You okay, kid?"
Peter took a deep breath, a veneer of calm. It didn't matter if he was falling apart, his father— well, Tan, anyways— had taught him well. He couldn't force his heart to slow down, he couldn't make the sweat of his fear disappear, but he could certainly apply all his meditation skills to keeping his breaths even, and he could hide any lingering fear with a bit of bluster. "I'm fine, Kermit. Is this guy my court appointed attorney?"
The blond man chuckled and backed away a little bit. "You're not under arrest, Mr Caine. No free lawyers for you. At least, not yet."
"Caine, this is Agent Jorgenson. Federal Agent Jorgenson." Was it his imagination, or was there a note of warning in Kermit's voice? Peter nodded cautiously. "He's got some questions about Triad operations. That's what he's here to talk about, right?"
Jorgenson's smile was easy, but predatory.
Peter smiled back, despite the butterflies in his gut telling him that this whole situation was wrong. Triad operations? "You know, I was never that involved in things. I was a respectable front. The guy who—"
"No child of a Triad leader is completely uninvolved, Mr Caine. No, don't deny it," he said as Peter's mouth opened and shut. "I wouldn't believe you, and I'm sure we want to start out on the right foot, here. You're a friend of this station, and I want us to be friends, too."
Jorgenson pulled a file and started looking through it; Peter glanced over at Kermit, whose stony face told him nothing. A sense of unease filled the air as some pictures were placed in front of Peter. "Do you know these people?"
Peter looked down at the pictures. "Sure. That's Li Sung. He's... um... I think he's an industrialist or something like that."
"More like a weapons smuggler," muttered Eagleton. Peter and Jorgenson both turned to look at him. "What? I've seen him on some Interpol watchlists. No one can make anything stick."
Peter glanced over at the mirror. "If you say so. It's gotta be almost ten years ago..." Blaisdell was probably over there, watching from behind the silvered glass. Did he know what was going on? "Look, I don't really know him beyond a few visits when I was a kid. He was running some sort of martial arts tournament. Tan had me compete. Some of those guys probably were deadly weapons, but I don't think anyone would dare to smuggle them."
Kermit made a noise as he suppressed a chuckle, and Jorgenson threw him an annoyed look.
"Let's see. This next one is Chan, uh, that's Roger Chao... not sure about this other guy. Chan was Tan's lieutenant, Roger was rank and file. I haven't seen either of them since Tan died. Chan said he was going to start something in another city... when did you take this photo? And this is..." Peter frowned and picked up the picture. "One of the guys I live with. He's not Triad," said Peter dubiously. "He's the guy who owns the house."
"You ever help him out with anything? Picking up people from the airport, that sort of thing?"
Peter frowned. "Maybe," he said. "I help lots of people. That's... kind of my thing these days." He grinned and leaned back in the plastic chair. "I'm the community gopher. I don't know what you think he's done wrong, but James Jiong is the kind of straight-up guy who wouldn't hurt a fly. He's even renting me a room below cost."
"Then I suppose it would surprise you to hear that we suspect him of being involved in human trafficking." Peter shook his head dismissively. "How do you think a recent student from Fujian buys a house, Caine?"
"I don't know. I was never good with finances."
Jorgenson stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "All right, Caine. What about the next picture?"
"This is my— my... this is Xia Tan. Don't ask me to introduce you, she thinks I'm responsible for our— for her father's death. I haven't had any contact with her since before Tan died, either." He sighed. "Not that I haven't tried..."
Another picture placed in front of him, this time of a young Asian girl. "One of my ex-girlfriends. A singer. She's got nothing to do with— maybe she sang at a one of Tan's clubs, but—" Peter looked over at Kermit in confusion. "She's okay, right? She's not one of the victims?"
"She's fine." The older man gave a slight nod. "Answer the Agent's questions, Caine."
Peter looked at the photo and shook his head. "I don't know what to say. She's not really involved in anything. She's just... just some girl."
"Strange that she also comes from Fujian, don't you think?"
"China's a big country," said Peter. "You don't think everyone knows everyone over there, do you? Or... are you saying she was trafficked into the country?" He paused for a moment to think, then shook his head. "She'd have told me. I have a talent for getting people out of trouble." She'd been nice. He'd liked her voice, enjoyed watching her singing, enjoyed dancing with her.
"Sometimes helping someone get out of China is getting them out of trouble, don't you think?" Peter shrugged and kept his mouth shut. "When did you break up?"
"Couple months back. She was a rebound."
"Oh? And what happened to the previous girl?"
"She wasn't trafficked, if that's what you're asking." The man deserved the most ridiculous answer: "Some people say she tried to kill the Emperor of China."
Jorgenson slammed a hand down on the table, his face suddenly large and distorted in Peter's vision. It was enough to startle him, to make him lose the facade of cocksure Peter Caine for a blink of an eye. "The truth, Caine."
"Sh-she... got stabbed. M-mugged." That was the story the Chinese community had gone with. The Emperor was still a secret, after all. He bit his cheek. He needed to pull himself together. Stammering his way through this interview wasn't a good idea.
"And are you dating someone from Fujian now?" Peter shook his head. Jorgenson stared at him intensely for a moment, then nodded and pulled another photo from his portfolio. "How about this man?"
Peter's shoulders tensed. The others had been people he didn't have current contact with, or people he had very legitimate ties to, but this photograph— Peter couldn't help the momentary shiver that ran through his body as his eyes lingered on the fine features, the frost tipped hair. "He's not Triad."
"Tell me what you know about him."
"He's Tong, not Triad. Works for Jimmy Ma in... some capacity." Jorgenson stared at Peter, and it felt as though the room was filling with smoke and heat. There was nothing around him; Peter knew enough about himself now to understand it was all in his head. "I met him after Xiu Min."
"Is that so?" The agent looked at him pensively for a moment. "You're not going to ask if something happened to him?"
Peter looked up, brown eyes meeting piercing blue. The question was there all right, unspoken in the back of Peter's mind. He felt like a coil being pressed out of shape, and he glanced again at Kermit. The man wasn't giving anything away. "I thought the serial killer was only going after women," he said.
Jorgenson smiled. "Yes... I guess Mr Wong is safe." There was something about the way he said it— something predatory. Peter couldn't help the flinch, but luckily, the agent didn't seem to notice it. "I'm sure a friend in the Tongs would be a useful ally to a man involved in human trafficking."
Peter kept himself still against the sudden urge to fidget. "It really sounds like I need a lawyer."
"Not just yet." The blond man stared at him for a while, then smiled slightly. "Ah, I almost forgot. One last question, Mr Caine: tell me how Mr Tan died."
Peter stiffened and looked at Kermit, whose lips had tightened into a thin line. "I've already told that story."
"I know. I'd like to hear it in person. After all, the Triad's heir apparent has made so many friends since the old man died. The Tongs, the police, the people from Fujian, the industrialists... you've got your fingers in a lot of pies. A claim of self-defense is very interesting."
Peter looked at Kermit, but the man in the green glasses turned away, unhelpfully. He couldn't be an ally, at least not right now, which meant Peter Caine had no choice but to tell the story again, regardless of the emotional baggage.
He put on a brave face.
"What the hell was all that about, Kermit? I want to talk to Blaisdell." Peter felt off balance, like he was about to fall off a bridge. Over the months, Blaisdell had proved himself a stabilizing figure— the man's mercenary experience had given him insight, and sometimes he seemed to know more about Peter than Peter did.
"He's busy, kid." Kermit leaned against the wall outside the station. "Blaisdell and I think there's an investigation into him for helping you out." Kermit shook his head with a sigh. "We could be wrong, but there's a heavy implication that we covered up Tan's death for your benefit."
"That's ridiculous."
"Don't I know it, kid." Kermit gave Peter a half-smile and shrugged. "Look. We just need to keep you at arms length from Blaisdell, Caine. There's nothing there, so it'll fizzle out soon enough, and he'll move on." Peter shook his head and leaned back against the white brick of the police station, and Kermit shook his head. "You're obviously beat. C'mon, kid, I'll drive you home."
"I have a few things to get done first. If you could drop me off at the mall in Chinatown?" Kermit nodded, and they headed towards the parking lot, Peter fighting to keep his eyes open until they reached the bright green car. It was almost offensive to Peter's eyes, and just enough to wake him up again. "What exactly is it they think is going on?" he asked as Kermit got in the car and unlocked the passenger side.
"You know... Crime in any of the ethnic communities can be tough to ferret out. Chinatowns are worse... they're opaque to law enforcement, and they tend to manage themselves from within— people like you keep the internal crime low, and no one wants to talk about it. But we all know they're not crime free. Jorgenson's clearly working the human trafficking angle, and, well, face the facts, kid, you're the only one who stuck around in this town after Tan's death. The feds must think you took the reigns of the organization."
"What organization? That's the whole point. Everyone except Tan left Chinatown after the whole... Emperor incident." The last two words were spoken in a low voice. Even though they were in the relative privacy of Kermit's car, it was something he couldn't afford to leak.
"I believe you. Even Eagleton agrees with you, which is a hell of a thing— the man's a great detective, but he just doesn't listen to anything when it comes to you— but Jorgenson is not one of Blaisdell's hand-picked detectives." Kermit hummed to himself, then shook his head. "Listen, kid, just— keep your nose clean. We're working to get you into a position where you can be an asset going forward." He put a hand inside his jacket breast and pulled out a manilla envelope.
"Is that...?"
"Your background check, my young friend."
Peter grabbed it and opened it, pulling out the report with satisfaction. "I owe you one," he said with a grin.
"You owe us a lot." Kermit returned a half-smile and a wink to the younger man. "You pass that PI exam and get your license, and we'll be able to make you an official consultant." He paused and looked back at the station through his rearview mirror. "Assuming you haven't been implicated in a felony."
"If he thinks I'm running the Triad, then he's not going to get anywhere in his investigation." Peter forced a laughed, but quieted when he realized Kermit hadn't joined him. He looked at the man anxiously. "You know I wouldn't do that, right?"
Kermit put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Kid, if Blaisdell or I thought that you were the head of a criminal organization, we wouldn't be nice about it." Peter smiled, grateful for the show of faith. He'd worked hard the last few months to get that. Without either of his fathers around, Peter had found himself lost with his goal of become the protector of the community. Kermit and Blaisdell had stepped into an opening he hadn't realized he'd made, and Lo Si had encouraged him to explore the paths in front of him. "That said... I know you have a helpful streak that's a mile long. And sometimes, human trafficking gets done by people with good intentions, and that doesn't make it any less illegal." Peter shrugged and looked out the window. Kermit shook his head. "Good thing you're not doing anything that stupid. Going to jail is the nice way that ends. People get killed doing things like that."
"It's the people coming over that are taking the real risks." Peter looked out the car window, watching some woman crossing the street beside them. "Can I ask you something? How'd they die? The women, I mean."
"We don't know."
"Really?"
Kermit sighed. "There's not a mark on them, it's like they just die. Another reason we don't think it's you: you're just not that subtle. But it doesn't change thing. They all knew you. You're the only link. I had to bring that up to the detective on the case, and that's Eagleton. And now he's thinking about the other angles thanks to Jorgenson..." Peter scowled and waved off the words. "Look, just be careful who you associate with. Stay away from this case. I know with you and Eagleton, the feeling's are mutual—" Peter snorted— "But he's a fine detective, and he's not going to frame you for murders you didn't do. He's a good cop. As for Jorgenson, you see him, you turn around and walk the other way, you got me?"
"Yeah. I get it." He leaned his head back against the seat and sighed.
Kermit looked at him for a moment, then pulled his sunglasses off. "All right, kid. Out with it."
Peter looked down. "I just... Kermit, I can't shake the feeling that someone's after me. They're killing people around me, trying to frame me, cutting me off from the people who might help me, like you and the Captain. You want me to stay away from this, but I just don't think I can. I'm not even sure I want to. I get the feeling you wouldn't, and neither would Blaisdell."
"Maybe not," acknowledged Kermit, putting his glasses back on but leaving them down a bit to look at Peter over the top of them as he pulled to a stop. "But Peter, you remember this: you're not a cop, and you're not a mercenary. The Captain and I will handle things. I don't want you to implicate yourself further. Just watch your own back— and get some sleep. You've got shadows under the shadows in your eyes."
Peter huffed. "I'll sleep when I'm dead," he said as he turned away.
