'State your name, please?'

'Mathew Williams.'

'Occupation?'

Mathew shifted in his seat. 'I uh… work as a cashier, I guess… But I do other things, t—'

'Could you speak up?' Alfred leaned forward over the table.

Mathew smiled weakly, raising his voice shakily. 'I-I said I work as a cashier. At the charity shop.' He looked to Kiku, perhaps deeming him the more approachable one of the two detectives. 'Can I have some water, please?'

Kiku nodded and left the interrogation room. He had insisted he and Alfred use a friendlier environment to question their first — and perhaps only — witness, but Alfred was rather adamant about 'applying pressure' for information, as if the witness were a ketchup bottle and not a fragile human being. Alfred was, without doubt, too indelicate to be good with witnesses. He was, however, phenomenal at piecing together seemingly unrelated evidence to build a strong case, his enthusiasm unmatched by anyone else in the department. Kiku supposed that was why no one made too much of a big deal when Alfred sent witnesses and suspects into hissy fits or breakdowns.

Reflecting on this, Kiku returned to the room with a glass of water and set it in front of Mathew, who softly thanked him.

'Alright,' Alfred stretched his arms out, cracking his knuckles in such a way that Mathew flinched. 'Shall we begin?'

'Yes,' Kiku took his seat next to Alfred, flicking through the file on the desk. 'Mathew, how about you start with what you saw? On the 7th of July?'

Mathew nodded. 'It was about one in the morning, I think… I was asleep in the storage room when I heard voices through the window —'

'What were you doing at the shop at one in the morning?' Alfred interjected, immediately pouncing on Mathew's statement.

'Ah… I…' Mathew averted his eyes and smiled shyly. 'I got locked in by accident.'

'How did that happen? Don't you have the keys to the shop?'

'N-no. My boss Francis does.' Mathew bit his lip, embarrassment flushing across his face. 'I fell asleep on the job, you see… I guess he must have forgotten I was still in there.' He laughed weakly.

'Could you please continue with your first statement?' Kiku said, trying his best to redirect the questioning before Alfred could find something odd with Mathew's simple explanation. He needed these sessions to go well, for once.

'Ah, yes. Um…I heard these voices outside, and I thought it was really strange so I took a look through the window. There were two men holding this bundle, I don't know what it was but I had a bad feeling about it when they threw it into the river.'

'What did these men look like?' Alfred leaned forward in his seat.

Mathew seemed to reflect on this question for a moment, before replying. 'One of them had this light-colored coat. And he was really tall, I remember that. The other man… He had a ponytail. And he was kind of small. He kept dropping his end of the bundle….'

'You didn't see their faces? Hair color? Skin tone?'

Mathew shook his head. 'It was so dark outside, and they were kind of far away from where I was.'

'And what about their voices, what did they sound like? Do you remember what they were saying?' Kiku asked.

'…One of them was definitely foreign, he had a strange accent.' Mathew furrowed his brows as he struggled to recall. 'But I couldn't really hear what they were saying, it was all so muffled and quiet.'

Kiku hummed thoughtfully, looking to Alfred as if to ask if he had any further questions. Alfred shook his head.

'That's all we wanted to ask you today.' Alfred turned to Mathew. 'We'll call you back if we have any more questions.'

'And please don't hesitate to call us if you remember anything else,' Kiku added, getting up from his chair to lead Mathew out. When Kiku had guided Mathew out and returned, he looked to Alfred questioningly.

'So… do you think it's the same killer?'

'It has to be.' Alfred frowned as he perused the file, examining the photos of the mangled torso that they had found floating in the river. Hands, feet, and the body's head had been severed cleanly — making the job of identifying the body a hell of a lot harder. 'Two killings in one night, in the same area? They have to be connected.'

Kiku stood there silently, saying nothing. Alfred looked up to him and smiled reassuringly, although his mind was racing with possibilities. With two killers on his hands, and a new corpse in the morgue, Alfred had much to think about.

.

The smell of flesh burning singed the air. Yao resisted the urge to gag as he held the cold, limp arm still as Ivan pressed the chainsaw further into it. Specks of blood dotted his goggles, the sound of meat being torn echoing in the 'workshop' — as Ivan liked to call it. Yao always felt uneasy in this room. It constantly reeked of decomposing flesh, a scent that Yao was slowly starting to get accustomed to, much to his own horror. To make it worse, Yao had spent nearly every morning aiding Ivan with the preparation of the corpses since —

(I smashed that pig's face in)

— he had helped Ivan in the motel. He had refused Ivan's invitation to his 'nightly errands' ever since, but with a most peculiar kind of guilt in his chest, he offered to help cut up the bodies Ivan brought home. It was sick, disgusting, horrifying — all of these thoughts had passed through Yao's mind every morning — but they quickly faded away, leaving behind an apathetic willingness to earn Ivan's hospitality. This was his home now, whether Yao liked it or not.

The sound of the blade grating on the metal surface of the table screeched in Yao's ears, Ivan promptly switching the chainsaw off. Ivan lifted his goggles. 'Is the bath ready?'

Yao nodded, helping Ivan carry each segment of what used to be a man towards a large metal tub in the corner of the room. Carefully, he placed them into the clear liquid, taking caution to not get any of it splashed on to him. That had already happened once before the first time he assisted Ivan and had left a swollen patch of skin on his forearm. It stung and burnt like nothing he had ever felt before. Ivan had actually laughed when it happened, chuckling as he rinsed Yao's throbbing arm with water. 'You'll be like me now,' he had smiled as he indicated towards a burn on his own arm. 'We'll have matching scars.'

Yao wasn't sure if the gesture was comforting or not.

He placed the last of the pieces of the body into the tub, looking to Ivan for confirmation.

'You're getting better, myshka.' Ivan smiled, removing his gloves and throwing them into a bin. Yao did the same, immediately feeling the need for a hot shower as he normally did after such a morning. He was well-practiced enough to not get blood on himself by now, but he could still feel phantom splotches of blood on his neck, his face, his chest. It was everywhere, the guilt and repulsion that he just couldn't scrub away. He hoped the hot water would somehow ease the presence of it, but it never did.

He let the scalding hot water burn him in the shower, wanting to make his skin feel raw until he was satisfied that any imaginary bloodstains would have been washed away. He got out before the shower could cool, as it always did after a few minutes. Comfort was a short lived luxury in this house, as Yao had come to learn.

He put on fresh clothes and wandered around the house for a while, unsure what to do with himself once again. Between cutting up corpses and dinner, there was little for Yao to do. Ivan was nowhere to be found around this time of day, although Yao was sure he had not left the house. He suspected he locked himself in this room at the far end of the upstairs hallway, a room that Yao had never seen the inside of. He was incredibly curious about it, but never mustered up the courage to ask. Yao's fears of being killed by Ivan were undoubtedly eased ever since he became Ivan's pet project, his apprentice in the art of killing, but it was needless to say that the man still terrified Yao. Who knew when Ivan's gentle smile would falter? What did it take to make him snap? Yao did not want to be the one to find out.

When dinner time finally arrived, Yao seated himself at the table. Ivan set down a plate in front of him — a bowl of soup today. At least it's not pork again, Yao thought glumly.

Yao started eating without hesitation, fully aware of the lilac gaze that watched him. He was used to it by now, having learnt to not make any comment about it, fearing Ivan would make an unsettling statement in response as he normally did when prompted.

Today, however, a prompt was not needed.

'Are you coming with me today, myshka?' Ivan asked sweetly as he poured himself a glass of vodka. Yao set his spoon back into the bowl. He was starting to lose count of how many times Ivan had asked him to kill again.

'I told you, I don't want to,' Yao replied, his pulse quickening in anticipation of Ivan's reaction. To his surprise, Ivan said nothing and smiled weakly instead. He gulped down the shot of vodka, pouring more into his glass shortly after. The silence had suddenly become uncomfortable for Yao, his stomach churning and making him unable to eat any more of the soup. And yet, Ivan still watched — he could feel his gaze even though Yao had his eyes cast down. It was starting to unnerve him.

Feeling the need to break the silence, Yao's eyes travelled up to meet Ivan's, a question forming on his lips. One he realized he had been wondering about since the first day he had been here, but was too afraid to have it answered.

'…What was your first kill like?' Yao asked, the question hanging in the air uneasily as he waited for a response.

'My first kill?' Ivan's eyes fluttered in slight surprise, setting his small glass of vodka down. 'That was long ago… My memory from that time is hazy.'

Yao stared back incredulously as he realized that for the first time, Ivan was lying to him. His lilac eyes didn't quite lock onto Yao's as they normally did, and his hand was fidgeting. For a serial killer, Ivan was a terrible liar, and Yao couldn't help but feel just the slightest bit amused at this. Feeling more courageous than usual, he pressed on.

'You don't remember?'

Ivan chuckled. 'It's not something to discuss at the dinner table.'

Yao scoffed, perhaps too abruptly. Ivan's smile wavered. Yao was playing a dangerous game here, he knew that, but he was intoxicated by his sudden feeling of empowerment. For once, he wasn't the one being cornered. 'You can tell me. What do you have to hide from me anyway?'

'Yao…' Ivan's mask of feigned amusement was starting to slip, his eyes darkening slightly. 'There are things no one wants to hear.'

'But I want to hear it.'

'You don't,' Ivan growled, his expression telling Yao to drop the subject immediately. Yao's mouth was starting to go dry, perhaps realizing that he had taken it far enough. He broke away his gaze from Ivan.

'S-Sorry. I didn't realize it was…' Yao's voice trailed off.

'It's fine,' Ivan replied, his voice sweet and child-like once again, though Yao could hear the irritation interlaced between his words. 'You should finish your soup before it goes cold, myshka.'

.

That night Yao woke up to the sound of Ivan's murmuring voice, his weight pressing next to Yao's legs on the mattress. Yao stayed still, facing the cracked wall in the pitch black darkness. He could hear his own heart beat louder and desperately hoped Ivan wouldn't hear it.

'Ochi chernye…' Ivan's voice slurred in the dark. The sharp scent of vodka poisoned the air around Yao as he tensed and waited for Ivan to leave. Only he didn't. Yao lay there for what felt like an eternity, listening to Ivan's barely coherent mumblings as he clutched to his pillow nervously. Perhaps Yao had gone too far with his question today, perhaps he ruined his only chance of survival in this house. Perhaps Ivan had grown tired of him already, and this was Yao's last night on earth. He swallowed nervously.

Yao nearly flinched when Ivan lay down on the bed, his back pressed against Yao's. Ivan murmured, sighing deeply. There was silence, Yao's breaths feigning deep sleep although his heart was racing. Nothing was happening. At least, not yet. That only furthered his uneasiness.

He's toying with me… Yao thought with dread.

Suddenly, Yao felt the mattress shake as a deep chuckle echoed in the darkness. 'You too… myshka?' Ivan mumbled. 'I did not think you would be awake at this time…'

Yao felt his heart leap into his throat. 'Don't you have people to kill?' He managed to choke out, despite the panic rising in his chest.

'Mm, da…'

'And?' Yao continued sharply. 'Shouldn't you be out by now?' He didn't mean to come across as too rude, but Ivan's presence here really wasn't helping the condition of his heart — which was surely going to burst from fear at any moment.

'What did it feel like to kill for the first time, myshka?' Yao felt Ivan's weight shift as he turned towards Yao.

The question almost made Yao flinch — he had not expected it. He hesitated for a moment. 'It was… overwhelming. Sickening. Horrible.'

'That was after you killed him. What about when you stabbed him, when you first saw his blood spill?' Ivan's voice was cold, distant. It was strange to hear him so emotionless, the lack of playfulness in his voice making Yao shiver despite the sweltering July heat.

'I… I don't know — why are you asking me this?' Yao turned around in the dark, the invisible snakes around his chest loosening up slightly as he realized that Ivan wasn't here to finally kill him.

'I was curious…' Ivan hummed. 'You want to know what I felt when I first killed?'

Yao said nothing. Ivan took his silence as a 'yes' and continued on.

'I felt like I was in control, for once. I could decide…' Ivan's voice faltered, no longer sounding like the intimidating man he was. For the first time, Ivan sounded vulnerable. Scared, even. But of what?

'Who was it?' Yao asked softly. He heard Ivan exhale lightly. Yao could picture the tender smile he was likely to be wearing right now. Yao couldn't help but feel a little guilty, perhaps having drudged up unwanted and painful memories for Ivan.

'I'm tired, myshka,' Ivan crooned. 'Maybe tomorrow…'

Yao stayed quiet, knowing that Ivan would not answer his questions any time soon. He wanted to ask him to leave, Ivan's heavy vodka scented breath making Yao incredibly uncomfortable, but was too afraid to ask. He lay there and waited for sleep to take him away, the minutes passing by painfully slowly as Yao listened to the quietness of the night. Yao could even hear his own heart thumping in his chest. Perhaps if he listened closely enough, he would hear Ivan's too — that is, if there was one.

It was then, in that moment of nearly absolute silence, that a little thought emerged. As if it were carried by a breeze, the thought floated around in Yao's head, quiet and lingering.

(He's lying there… asleep. Unaware. How easy it would be…)

The thought tugged at him, teased him.

(If I had the strength… If my hands could wrap around his throat and squeeze until his breath stops…)

Wouldn't everything be so much easier then? Yao would no longer have to fear a death by that man's ice cold hands. His last breath wouldn't be drawn whilst gazing at those cruel eyes.

(I can end it now. I can put a stop to it. I only need to reach over…)

Yao propped himself up on his elbows, ever so slowly and carefully. No, he wasn't mad. He wasn't crazy. If anything, Yao's mind had never been clearer, or more reasonable. Yao knew he could no longer return to the life he once had. He was a killer, a murderer. He had no place in the world now. But living down his guilt with Ivan by his side — that was unbearable. Impossible. The man would always push him to do more. To kill again. Yao was the monster, Ivan holding the leash in his hands. It was a bond Yao refused to accept, and there was only one way out of it.

Yao's hands fumbled in the darkness, reaching forward to touch Ivan's sleeve. He froze, waited to see if Ivan was still awake. Nothing. Ivan's breaths continued to whisper softly in the air. He cautiously got up on his knees, his other hand following behind the other as they sought Ivan's throat.

(Just reach a little further…)

Yao's hand traveled up, gently smoothing over where Ivan's chest rose and fell. He moved so painstakingly slowly, Yao's shoulders were starting to ache, but he had to do this right. One misstep and it was over. His hand moved up higher, until a gentle thud pulsated beneath it.

His heart… Yao thought glumly. I guess he does have one after all.

Yao continued on, his hand touching the scarf that Ivan wore even in his sleep, curiously enough. But something had changed. Suddenly he wasn't sure what he was doing, or what had him so convinced before. His hand trembled uneasily as it hovered over Ivan's throat.

(It's right there. Your chance. Your escape from Ivan. Take it. Take his life.)

The voice beckoned incessantly in Yao's mind. It urged him with such desperation, Yao was almost ready to act upon it and tighten his grip on Ivan's throat. To squeeze and squeeze until he heard the monster's final cry. To hear his windpipe crush beneath Yao's hands. How beautiful that sound would be…

And yet —

Why couldn't he do it?

Yao slumped back into the bed, his hands falling limply to his sides. He didn't understand why. How could Yao so easily beat a man's face to a pulp — a man as horrible and unworthy of life as Ivan — and yet couldn't even muster up the strength to suffocate the pale-faced monster sleeping beside him?

And then Yao remembered the image of Ivan's tender expression when that broken little girl had appeared, the softness of his voice. There was a part of Ivan that Yao had a glimpse of that night, a part that surely couldn't inhabit the same body as the cold-blooded killer who sliced up corpses every morning. If Yao killed Ivan, he would be killing that child inside of him, too. The child that was so innocently thrilled with having company for once, for having another person to cook for, for having someone.

Yao closed his eyes and let himself drift away, this time finding a strange comfort in Ivan's breaths beside him. Yao hadn't killed the monster, but he hadn't killed the child either. For now, it was something Yao would have to live with.