(This is dangerous…)

Yao's clammy hand gripped the door handle. It was ice cold.

(I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be doing this.)

And yet, Yao's hand moved of its own accord and pressed the handle down. The door clicked open. It was unlocked, but this only furthered the feeling of dread in Yao's chest. If it had been locked, Yao would have no choice but to walk away, there would have been nothing he could do. But it was open. There was nothing stopping his morbid curiosity, the burning need to find out what this room hid — the room that Ivan often locked himself in during the afternoons. If Ivan saw what Yao was doing now, he would —

(But he won't. He's not here.)

It was a dangerous assumption to make, Yao knew that all too well. It was an unusually quiet morning today, Ivan nowhere to be seen or heard. The humming sound of the chainsaw rumbling that Yao had become so accustomed to was absent, and the house was devoid of any echoing footsteps aside from Yao's own. Surely Ivan had left to catch up on the 'work' he had neglected last night? Yao felt it was a reasonable explanation — albeit one Yao's very life depended on.

(I'll only be a moment, just a look is all I need.)

For all Yao knew, the room was nothing but an innocent little library, a resting place for Ivan. But whatever it was, he couldn't help but feel that it would bring him closer to the answer Ivan wouldn't give. Yao needed to know, to understand, the child that was trapped in that monster's body.

Taking a deep breath, Yao gently pushed the door open. He switched on the light, which flickered on uneasily until the whole room was illuminated with its dim light. Yao nearly stopped breathing at the sight.

The walls were covered, from floor to ceiling, in photos. Photos of men and women, young and old, were plastered side by side. Many of them had been crossed out with a black marker, and Yao knew only too well what this signified. He looked for the man whose face he beat to a pulp — he was sure he would find his picture crossed out as well.

His eyes finally resting on a familiar face, a large black 'X' across it, Yao's suspicion was confirmed. This room was Ivan's hit list. But why was there a sinking feeling of disappointment in his chest? Shouldn't he be relieved that this was all it was? Yao may well have uncovered something worse, something vile and horrifying. He could have stumbled upon a dead corpse, preserved like a stuffed animal. He might have found the severed heads of Ivan's victims, souvenirs from all of his kills. But he didn't, and yet somehow Yao wanted there to be more.

Sighing, Yao took a seat in an armchair that had been placed in the center of the room — perhaps from where Ivan selected his next target. He let his eyes wander around the room, eventually settling on a large chest in the corner of the room… How had he missed that?

Kneeling in front of the chest, Yao opened it carefully. Inside were papers, newspaper clippings, more photos. He picked up a yellowed and crumbled newspaper clipping: 'GLEN HILLS ASYLUM SHUT DOWN'. The small print beneath it was smudged and faded. Yao struggled to make out the words.

'…horrified to find patients malnourished and violently abused. Many patients were forcibly restrained to their beds for days on end, some dying from starvation… records falsified to maintain funding… children as young as four years of age falsely declared mentally ill and admitted into the Glen Hills Children's Ward for purposes of being used as test subjects… One of the 'patients', aged ten years old when he was admitted, was repeatedly abused and raped by nurses —'

Yao put the newspaper down, finding himself unable to read any further. He picked up another — more accounts regarding the asylum — and Yao felt sick to the stomach before he could even reach the end of the article. He looked to the date of the newspaper. This was nine years ago, though why Ivan was fixated on this particular asylum he did not know. Yao could guess why, but it was a possibility he didn't like to think about. Setting the papers back in the exact way he had found them, a small photo caught the corner of his eye. He picked it up.

It was a photo of several young children, scrawny and miserable looking. They were outside in the snow, standing in a line with their hands buried in their worn out coat pockets. Yao studied their faces, as if he could somehow glean their life story simply by looking at their dull and vacant eyes. They were so small, so tiny amidst the bleak scenery they had found themselves in. A crumbling brick building stood ominously behind them, its windows cracked and broken. On the far left of the photo was a thin little boy, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. His eyes looked scared and weary, but nevertheless held that gentleness that Yao had become so familiar with in recent days.

(Ivan…?)

Yao leaned closer into the photo. It was definitely him, and yet how could it be? How could such a frail little child grow to be the monster Yao knew? What had happened to him? Yao's heart went out to the boy in the photo, wishing someone had been there for him, been there when god knows what happened. Perhaps then —

A hand abruptly grabbed the back of Yao's collar, causing Yao to yelp in shock as he was roughly dragged out of the room, not even given the time to stand up. He was yanked against the wall in the hallway, his breath knocked out of him forcefully. He looked up fiercely, only for his anger to dissipate swiftly at the sight of Ivan's towering frame hanging over him.

'Yao,' Ivan growled, his eyes hardened and completely lacking in the usual gentleness they contained. 'What were you doing in there?' The question seethed through his teeth in a way that made Yao's stomach twist painfully.

'I…' Yao started in an attempt to explain himself, only to find a different set of words spilling out of him instead. 'What happened at Glen Hills?' He shot back accusingly, although he immediately felt foolish for doing so.

Ivan reached down and picked Yao up by his collar, the coldness in his eyes sending a shiver down Yao's spine. He pulled him up to his feet, and then just a little further so that Yao's toes barely touched the floor beneath him.

'Don't ever mention that place. And don't ever go into that room again.' Ivan's voice was low, quiet, and yet it rang painfully loudly in Yao's ears. 'Understand?'

Yao felt the urge to nod, to say whatever Ivan wanted to hear for the sake of his own life, but something stronger was starting to build up in his chest. A defiance that had been growing since his first day here. A spark that demanded to be recognized. Yao was not the timid little mouse Ivan thought he was. He wasn't his toy — he wasn't' his wind up doll that he could put away when it wasn't needed. Yao wouldn't have any more of Ivan's sick game.

'No, I don't understand,' Yao hissed back, his hands gripping Ivan's in an attempt to pry them off. 'You can't keep me in the dark. I'm not your pet or your prisoner — because I didn't just kill that man, Ivan. I murdered him. And then I helped you slice him up, I held him still while you tore him into tiny little pieces — and you can't tell me why? You can't tell me the reason for all this?!' Yao's voice trembled as it raised, his face growing hot as he felt more and more aware of how deeply Ivan was staring at him, unblinking and cold. 'I-I think I've earned an answer.'

Yao forced himself to look Ivan in the eyes, to not look away as he often did, even though every fiber of his being urged him to run far, far away from Ivan. He could hear his own pulse throb in his ears as he waited for Ivan to response, for his expression to change, for something to happen. But instead, Ivan kept his grip on Yao, not saying anything. Just staring at him.

A chuckle broke through the silence, Ivan's eyes softening. Yao released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. 'You're right, myshka.' Ivan loosened his grip on Yao's shirt, setting him down gently. Yao's legs felt unsteady and weak as he sank down to the floor unashamedly, wishing his burst of strength had lasted a bit longer.

Ivan kneeled down to face Yao at eye level. 'We're in this together, da?' Ivan smiled, any trace of the monster that had bared its fangs at Yao long gone. 'Which is why I'll make you a deal.'

'A deal?' Yao echoed back, suddenly feeling self-conscious of the sound of his own ragged breathing.

'I'll answer any of your questions, but only if you help me.'

'Help?' Yao repeated weakly. 'You want me to kill again?'

'Mm,' Ivan nodded, his smile widening. 'One kill, one question answered.'

'I… I have to…' Yao stared back with widened eyes. This man was trading lives for answers, and yet his voice was so light and carefree. How could Ivan smile like that? How could he smile as if he had never seen the sight of a man's face distorted in pure agony, as if he himself had never felt it? If Ivan really was that frail little boy in the photo, then why wasn't his gaze tainted with suffering?

What happened to you? The question swam in Yao's head frantically, desperately asking to be answered. Yao had to know.

'So what do you say, myshka?'

Yao nodded faintly. 'It's a deal.' The words were spoken softly and somewhat reluctantly. It's people Ivan would have killed anyway — Yao tried to reason with himself, justify it somehow. But the truth was painfully obvious to him, guilt festering in him feverishly as Yao realized that he was perhaps not just doing it for the sake of his burning curiosity, but for something darker instead. A deeply submerged need that was buried beneath all of Yao's false and comforting words that he spoke only to himself.

.

Alfred slapped a photo on the desk with such force that Kiku jumped up in his seat. Taking a moment to recover, Kiku turned away from the computer screen to look up at his partner, and then at the photo beneath Alfred's hand.

'New lead?' Kiku asked.

'You bet your ass it's a new lead!' Alfred tapped the photo with vigorous excitement, Kiku flinching at just how loud the office suddenly was because of him. Co-workers glanced their way with interest, some with irritation, and Kiku fought the urge to apologize on Alfred's behalf. This seemed to be, after all, something incredibly important.

'What is it?' Kiku picked up the photo from beneath Alfred's hand and looked at it.

'You're not gonna believe this, man. This guy — he went missing the same night our guy was stabbed.'

Kiku looked up at Alfred questioningly, opening his mouth to make a comment until Alfred continued on brusquely.

'I know what you're thinking. Coincidence, right? Except this guy was last seen at the 'Poisoned Apple' — don't even get me started on that place — before he disappeared. That was at approximately 11 p.m., around the same time our victim was stabbed. Now get this —' Alfred set a map down on the desk and pinpointed to a spot marked with an 'X'. 'So this is where he left, and this…' Alfred slid his index finger down the map. '…is where the guy lives. Notice anything?'

'He passed by the crime scene.' Kiku leaned forward, eyes now drawn to the map as he mulled on the possibility. 'But… the victim's time of death is just an approximation – we could be wrong by an hour, two hours. How do we know they even met?'

'And the photo — look at the photo, Kiku!' Alfred said, ignoring Kiku's quiet criticisms. Despite not wanting to, Kiku looked back at the photo with a small sigh. He could understand why Alfred was so excited, the man had long hair and looked to be of a small stature — a match with their witnesses' statement. But that was hardly anything to go on as far as leads go. Not to mention…

Kiku sighed again and set the photo back onto the desk.

'Please forgive me for saying this, but this isn't really a lead.' Kiku looked at Alfred, whose shoulders sank slightly. Kiku hated to be the one shooting down his ideas, but someone had to do it.

'But it's something, isn't it?' Alfred sighed, leaning onto the desk. 'I don't know… I guess I am clutching at straws here.' He picked the photo up from the desk, looking at it with his brows furrowed for a moment of silence. 'He just might be our guy, you know. He has that look in his eyes. Like pitch black stones staring right through you…'

Kiku wanted to say that perhaps Alfred was just seeing what he wanted to see, but instead made no comment. He turned back to his computer, Alfred still lingering as the phone rang.

'Detective Honda speaking.' Kiku pressed the phone to his ear, Alfred lifting his face to watch in interest. 'Yes…We'll be there right away. Thank you.' Kiku closed the phone, only to be immediately barraged by Alfred's voice.

'Who was it? Another witness?' Alfred asked as he straightened up, eyes brightened with curiosity.

'No.' Kiku tidied up his files into his desk drawer. 'It's another crime scene. No body, but there's traces of blood and a man who's been missing for four days now. Left a child behind, too.'

'Ah. Heading over now?'

Kiku nodded, getting up and putting on his jacket. 'Who knows? This might be your next lead.' He said with the intention of it coming across as slight banter, only to find that the two of them had taken it seriously, their expressions grave. They both knew, or at least had a gut feeling, that the blood thirst of the beast they were hunting wasn't quenched just yet.

.

Despite the darkness in the room, Yao could see the man's face contort in terror, in dread of what might come next. Yao could smell the acidic scent of fear in the air, sweat breaking out on the man's forehead as he writhed on the floor beneath Yao. All was exactly as it had been a few days ago, a fresh victim lying in wait, his hands and feet tied down so he couldn't run away.

'Please — Whatever you want, just take it! Please… don't…' the man whimpered, almost squealing like a pig in anticipation of being butchered. Ivan stuffed a cloth into the man's mouth, the room suddenly quiet as the man's cries became muffled.

'Who is he?' Yao asked, his hands clenching and unclenching as nervousness started to overtake him.

'Is that your question for tonight?' Ivan reached over for his bag and rummaged through it.

'N-No.' Yao bit his lip. He had to choose his questions carefully. Each one did cost a life, after all. He studied the man's face, worn and rough looking. He was old, perhaps around fifty years of age. He was a scrawny man, the contours of his face jagged and sharp. He looked like a cruel man. Yao wondered how many bloodied faces his eyes had seen. How many children's cries he had heard with his ears. For Ivan to have selected him, to have his face plastered on a wall, surely he must have done something. Yao clung on to this thought desperately, a thread that kept him from being completely immersed in guilt. If the man was a monster, then Yao would merely be slaying him, erasing his pitiful existence. This, perhaps Yao could live with.

'Myshka?' Ivan's voice lilted sweetly in the room, his hand offering Yao a metal pipe. It was clean, almost glimmering in the ribbons of moonlight that escaped the apartment window. Yao felt his breath deepen as his hand reached for it, to feel it in his grip once again, only to stop midway.

'Something wrong?' Ivan asked.

'…Yeah.' Yao glanced at the large black bag on the floor, the one that Ivan brought with him everywhere. He swallowed nervously, wanting to say the words that were starting to form on his lips, but feeling hesitant to do so. It was an odd thought, one that had taken Yao by surprise, but nevertheless it was there. 'Do you…' Yao started, not quite understanding himself fully when he asked this. 'Do you have something else to use? Something other than a pipe?'

For a fleeting moment Ivan's eyes lit up, perhaps finding this question to be unexpected, only for his gaze to immediately soften. 'Of course, myshka. I have so many other things you could use…' He smiled as he knelt down to open up the bag. He pulled out a knife. It was small, and it painfully reminded Yao of the one he had used to kill the scar-faced man. He wondered if Ivan had actually kept the knife from that night, as some kind of sick souvenir.

'Will this do?' Ivan handed the knife over.

Yao nodded, taking the knife with trembling hands. God, he was shaking so much.

Suddenly the knife was starting to feel very hot, burning into his grasp. Ignoring this, Yao turned to the man on the floor, considering the shape of his face and throat. How would Yao kill today? Quickly and mercifully? A slice across the throat and the man wouldn't even have the time to scream. But Yao knew Ivan wouldn't like it. He glanced up to find Ivan watching him in the same way he watched Yao eat his food, with fascination and child-like glee. Ivan was expecting so much more than a mercy killing. No, Ivan wanted something spectacular, something magnificent and beautiful in a way that only Ivan could appreciate.

Yao knelt down to the man, lingering the knife around him teasingly as the thought toyed with Yao. Should he? Shouldn't he? His whole body shook and trembled, his throat closing up in a feverish panic. And yet, there was a voice, a calm and tranquil voice — perhaps it was Ivan's — that whispered to him.

(Draw a line and watch him scream… Don't be afraid… Draw it…)

Yao felt Ivan's gaze upon him, it was scorching him, making himself feel as if he was lit on fire. It was the kind of attention that Yao had never felt before, and there was the urge to earn it. To make himself a sight worth watching.

(Draw it… Draw it in red.)

Yao brought the knife up to the man's face, his eyes wide and terrified as the pointed edge pressed gently into his temple. Slowly, carefully, Yao brought it down the side of his face, a deep crimson red forming a trail. He heard the man shriek behind the cloth, but it was buried and far away. Yao brought the knife back up again, seeking to feel it again – delicate skin breaking and tearing beneath the knife.

He stood back, realizing that his hand no longer trembling. He wasn't panicked anymore. No, everything was calm, a kind of apathetic clarity guiding Yao's hand as he bent back down to dig the knife in again. He drew it this way and that, sometimes pressing in a little harder to draw more of the red fluid he was hypnotized by. When Yao had run out of blank canvas, he made more of it. He tore open the man's chest, muffled cries quickly ceasing as Yao twisted the knife into him.

(So much red… So much of it…)

Yao choked on the air, the stifling odor of flesh and innards coating it thickly, but he continued on. He sliced whatever he could find, no longer caring about keeping his hands clean. Yao was already tainted. A little blood wouldn't make much difference anymore. Furiously he drove the knife around, breaking and ripping up everything until it was a sticky puddle of useless flesh. Organs no longer in their rightful places. Veins no longer pumping blood. A man's chest no longer rising and falling.

A sharp breath left Yao's lips as he fell back, his vision darkening and flickering like a dying flame. This was it. The man was gone and Yao's work was done. He dropped the knife with a clang as it hit the wooden floor beneath him, looking up to Ivan's surprised expression.

'Well?' Yao panted, his head lolling slightly to the side as he struggled to find the strength to keep his eyes open. He was so very tired, all of his energy expended and gone. 'Don't you like it?'

Ivan smiled gently. 'Very much, myshka.' He knelt down so that he was at eye level with Yao, straightening the collar of Yao's bloodied parka and wiping away flecks of blood from his face. 'Maybe next time I can show you how to do it without them passing out so early on, da?' Ivan chuckled, getting up and offering Yao a red stained hand. Yao took hold of it and pulled himself up, choosing his words carefully before asking.

'That photo of you…' Yao started, still trying to catch his breath. 'In the snow with the other children. Where was this?'

Ivan stayed quiet for a moment — perhaps caught off guard by the question. His eyes flickered to and from Yao uneasily. 'That… that was a long time ago.' He turned to open his bag, busying himself with it whilst he spoke quietly, his words almost a whisper in the dark apartment. 'The photo was taken when I was still in the orphanage in Bragin. I must have been… eight, I think. No, wait. The photo was…. before….' His voice trailed off, his words becoming intermingled with Russian and no longer coherent to Yao. Carefully stepping over the pools of blood on the floor, Yao approached Ivan.

'What happened there?' Yao asked gently, fearing that he had perhaps opened a floodgate of unwanted memories for Ivan, but curious enough to press on. He watched the back of Ivan's head, wondering what expression he was wearing. Pain? Anger? Nostalgia? He took a step closer, wanting to see Ivan's face.

'Ah, myshka. You forget…' Ivan turned to face Yao, a body bag in his hands — although Yao did not know how they were getting that crimson mess neatly into it. Ivan's expression carried no trace of sadness, his eyes clear and gentle as they always were. 'I can only answer one question per body.'

'…R-Right.' Yao had nearly forgotten that every drop of blood spilt meant he was one step closer to finding out. But words weren't always needed. The more Yao gazed at Ivan's soft and peaceful expression, the more it began to resemble a mask. A mask to coat and hide all of the ugly and painful memories etched onto Ivan's skin. And with every question asked, even without Ivan's answer, Yao could see his mask falter and waver. Glimpses of the hurt child hidden away made themselves visible to Yao. He only had to wonder how long — how many torn bodies — until Ivan's mask completely fell away.