A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews. I hope to update regularly, but if you have a problem with the story please feel free to tell me. I don't offend easily.

Title: Elysium

Character POV: Norman Jayden, (Carter Blake), as well as inserts by the killer (Вбивця)

Rating: T (for the moment) for language and violence

Disclaimer: I don't own Heavy Rain or any of its characters

*****Spoilers: This story takes place after the completion of the game if you've managed to keep everyone alive until the bitter end, but accidentally pulled the trigger in the enthused Nathaniel Williams' apartment during his interrogation.

Summary: A letter from the dead drags Norman Jayden back to Philadelphia, PA, but between Triptocaine withdrawal and Blake's witticism, he'll be surprised if he comes out of this with his sanity intact.

It was partly cloudy when he landed in Philadelphia, the sky nothing more than a gray smear above the horizon, but he could feel the humidity here better than Boston. The air stuck to his skin as he gathered his suitcase from the drop-off conveyor belt and carried it to the nearest entrance. With his free hand he fingered his collar, fidgeting in the August warmth, and wandered off to the taxi curb.

Much to his surprise, he found Carter Blake waiting outside, leaning against his old 95 Caprice, arms crossed, posture tense, looking just as bitter now as when Norman left him.

"Son of a bitch."

Good to see nothing changed.

"You didn't have to come," Norman replied. He didn't call Blake to pick him up and he kindly declined the precinct's offer of a ride from the airport. He needed a little space, more now than ever before.

Blake laughed at him under his breath and climbed into the driver's seat.

Norman dropped his suitcase into the trunk before joining him up front, pulling his seatbelt on as the man practically sprang the car from the parking space onto the road. He wasn't surprised. Blake was usually in a rush.

"I was told you received a letter from Nathaniel Williams," the old man began, waiting for the car in the left lane to either speed up or slow down so he could cut in. Norman was amazed Captain Perry would partner them up again—but the head of the Homicide division had his own agenda and using Blake to keep Norman in line didn't sound like too much of a stretch. Norman had a knack for stepping on toes, especially those of the political variety, and Blake had a knack for breaking said toes when they stepped out of line.

"Yesterday."

"Any prints? Any idea who delivered it?"

Norman almost laughed. No, there weren't any prints—no sightings of the individual that 'delivered' it either. "I came up with nothing," he said, "Not even on the rock."

"The rock?"

"The one that escorted the letter through my window."

Blake had a solemn look about him. Eyes narrow, almost squinting in the dim light, he looked older now than Norman remembered. "Nothing on the other letter either."

Norman blinked. "Other letter?"

"Yep, but at least the little prick had the courtesy of putting it in my mailbox. Probably too scared to bust my windows."

Norman couldn't exactly blame the offender there. Blake was liable enough to shoot someone for trespassing on his property, and with Perry in power he was likely to get away with it too.

It was not as though Blake was a bad cop—quite the contrary, he supposed, at least by what he heard from the other officers at the precinct. The man was smart and he knew how to do his homework, he just came off as rough with newcomers and rookies. After a while, Blake had eventually grown on the others.

Despite that claim, Blake hadn't grown on him. Talking with lieutenant was like chewing on glass.

"What did it say?"

Blake laughed again and shook his head. "Nuh-uh—my case. What did yours say?"

Norman leaned his head back against the seat and weighed his options: play nice now and hope Blake didn't take that as an invitation to walk all over him, or persist and tell him where he could shove his authority.

Normally, he didn't take shit from anybody—he was FBI, after all—but his patience was paper thin and he was exhausted. His gradual withdrawal from Triptocaine had left him feeling relatively weak and sooner or later Blake was going to pick up on that.

"'Dear Mr. Norman Jayden: The dead cannot testify. Ribbon on the wrist. Save yourself. God bless, Nathaniel Williams.'"

Blake hnn-ed and kept his eyes on the road. After a long while, in which Norman wondered whether or not he'd made the right decision, the lieutenant replied: "Mine was addressed to 'The Anti-Christ' and it didn't say 'God bless'. The motherfucker signed it with 'Go to hell'."

Norman turned his gaze to the side window and stared out at the passing scenery, mind wandering as he compared the letters. Their malefactor knew Nathaniel Williams well enough to recognize Blake as the dead man's tormentor, and it was possible he didn't realize Norman was the one who pull the trigger on the enthusiast. But then, why send Norman a letter to begin with? It was at least obvious that the offender knew Norman and Blake were partners during the FBI's stay in Philadelphia, and that Norman had something to do with the man's untimely death.

The list of suspects was a long one. Employers, relatives, neighbours, fellow parishioners (if Nathaniel practiced anywhere outside his apartment)—Norman needed something else to go by. He couldn't make a half-decent profile just yet.

"Do you have any idea what he means by 'Ribbon on the wrist'?"

Blake almost grimaced. Almost. "Boy, do I have something to show you..."

------------------[~*~Вбивця~*~]---------------------

He killed the engine and sat in silence across the road, hands folded peacefully on his lap, watching the woman in her driveway as she unloaded groceries from the back of her Highlander SUV. A large brown bag braced against each hip, she kneed the door shut and pressed the automatic-lock command on her key chain before making her way to the front entrance of the duplex. She fumbled with her keys, dropped them and struggled not to lose hold of anything else as she leaned over pick them up.

Almost as though he was working on automatic, he exited his car and crossed the street.

Just as she straightened, successful in her feat, she caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye and jumped, turning halfway to face him as he reached out to grab her, frightened, tense, prepared for the worse.

Steadying her by her arm, she smiled nervously at him, body slowly relaxing in his grip as she recognized him—his eyes, his grin, his faux affection as he relieved her of a bag and followed her to the front entrance. Quietly, she unlocked the door and let him, wandering into the kitchen to put her things away, fluttering about her house like a canary in a cage, safe but trapped, beautiful but fading, just the same as many of the others before her.

When she asked him if he would like some tea, his mouth said, 'Yes, tea would be lovely'.

But when she spun around to turn on the electric kettle, the hands around her neck told her No.

A/N: I promise that future chapters won't be as brief.