The wooden surface of the door grated on Yao's skin, prickling through the back of his shirt. There was a quivering inside his chest that he could not still, an impatience twisting up inside him as he sat at the basement door. Though he could not tell what time it was, he was sure he had been waiting for more than an hour now — more than an hour since Ivan had gone upstairs in promise that he would return for dinner, only to shut himself in one of the upstairs rooms. Yao had kept his distance, though he wasn't sure who he was doing this for.

Yao watched his hands fidget and tremble slightly in his lap, remnants of dried blood beneath his fingernails. He thought of Ivan's shaking hands, the ice coldness of them as Yao had held them only a few hours ago. Were they still trembling now, as Ivan sat alone in a cold room? Leaving him be suddenly seemed like a terrible thing to do, and yet… Hadn't Yao done enough already? It was his presence, surely, that was making things difficult for Ivan. Difficult for him to kill, difficult for him to sleep at night, difficult for him to live without the guilt of having dragged Yao into this. Yao felt his stomach churn as did these thoughts, his heart picking up its pace every time he thought to go upstairs and check on Ivan, only to dismiss it and remain seated in this dingy hallway.

There was a thud against the door, Yao flinching at the sound. He heard fabric sliding against the other side of the door. Yet another thud, this time directly where Yao's head rested back onto the door.

'You've been waiting for quite a while, love.'

'Aiyah…' Yao muttered under his breath as he lifted his head away from the door. 'Don't make me regret — '

'Not cutting my tongue? I'm sure you already do.'

Yao pursed his lips, scrambling to get up from his seat.

'Hold on, aren't you going to feed me yet?' Arthur said, his voice betraying a trace of panic, perhaps even confusion.

'Ivan already did.'

'For breakfast. What about dinner?'

'You didn't like what I had to offer last time.' Yao dusted off his trousers, making his way up the stairs. Why he had chosen to wait here of all places, he had forgotten.

'Yao.'

Yao stopped still, sighing as he turned his head. 'What?'

'You wanted to talk about something, didn't you?'

Yao could picture the lopsided smile on Arthur's face, the gleam in his eyes as he spoke. He sounded so sure of himself, so confident that it made Yao want to squeeze the smug voice out of him.

'You shouldn't be shy, Yao. You waited all this time down here, waited for me to catch your little signal. Well, I did. I'll play the part of the concerned friend, if you like. Talk away, dear.'

Yao scoffed. 'That's not why I came down here.'

'Really? So you just came down here to torment me with the prospect of food.'

'Maybe I did.'

'I'm afraid I don't believe you, Yao.'

'It doesn't matter if you don't.' Yao continued his way up the stairs, making sure Arthur could hear each and every step. The smug bastard deserved it, causing Ivan all this trouble, bringing him worries when he had more than enough — bringing him guilt when there was enough blood on his hands. No, Yao had not come down here to talk to Arthur. He had only wanted a bit of quiet, isolation. It was cold down here, lonely and uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough for Yao to sit without feeding the nagging feeling in his chest, uncomfortable enough so that perhaps he wouldn't feel guilt for leaving Ivan on his own. Perhaps that was why —

'You upset Ivan, didn't you?'

Yao took a step down, the question causing his breath to waver slightly. 'What did you say?'

Arthur chuckled. 'I'm bang on, aren't I? You did upset Ivan. Oh, tell me, Yao, what did you do this time round? Try to cut some other man's tongue?'

'I didn't do anything —' Yao took another step down, stopping himself short when he realised he was actually defending himself against this idiot's prying. Rethinking his words when he realised that he had in fact, done something. He had been the one to slice the kid's throat after all, had been the one to carry the body into the workshop without saying anything more to comfort Ivan.

'Ah. There it is — the hesitation. Would you like to tell me what it is, or shall I guess?'

Yao stalled to answer, stalled to decide whether he was really leaving or not. As quietly as he could, he took a seat on the stairs, his hands still cold and unsteady as he folded them in his lap. What had they done? Yet another Yong Soo, yet another kid that should have lived on rather than die by his hands. And this time, Ivan was paying for it, too.

'Are you still there? Yao?'

Yao watched Arthur's fingers poke out from the generous gap beneath the door, wiggling around. Yao couldn't help but feel a prick of irritation at the sight.

'Ivan left the door unlocked, you know,' Yao said.

The fingers stopped still. 'That's very true, Yao. But I wouldn't be a prisoner anymore if I could just walk around as I pleased, would I? Now do me a favour and come closer so I can hear you better.'

Yao scoffed. 'You can hear me just fine.'

'Then tell me. Dear old Arthur will fix your problems, don't you worry…'

'What makes you think that?'

'I live in people's heads, Yao. It's what I do. Let me live in yours for a bit.'

'So you can do what? Scramble my brains?'

Arthur chuckled. 'Oh dear, no. Well, I could. But that's not what I want to do. Hopefully, I might just be able to fix you.'

'Really.'

'I can try. Come on, Yao. It'll be fun, don't you think? You don't even have to say much! I'll just guess, and you can tell me if I'm right or wrong. Sounds simple enough, right?'

Yao withheld a sigh. 'Try me then.'

'Alright. You are… a young man.'

'Oh wow.' Yao blinked. 'How did you know.'

Arthur scoffed. 'It's the starting questions, Yao. Just bear with me for a moment. You are… a murderer.'

This time Yao did not withhold his exasperated sigh. 'Yes.'

'You are… an only child.'

A pause. 'Yes.'

'Was that your first lie to me, Yao?'

'No.'

'There's your second lie.'

'I wasn't lying. And don't tell me that's —'

'Your third lie? It is.'

Yao grit his teeth. 'If you know so much, why bother asking?'

'Your voice is telling me everything, Yao. You're the one giving it away, I'm afraid.' A pause. 'Your sibling, or siblings, they —'

'I don't want to talk about that. Change the question.'

'Alright, alright…' Arthur said, perhaps too deliberately soothing for Yao's patience. 'You are… let's see… You are in love.'

'Wrong.'

'Oh dear.'

'What?' Yao snapped back, his fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers. Arthur chuckled, the laugh dry and smug and every bit of annoying that Yao despised about him.

'Do you really want to be playing this game? I'm quite alright reading between the lines of your lies, Yao, but I'm not entirely sure you are.'

Yao picked at the seam of his trousers, a loose thread between his fingers. What was he doing here? What was he doing, telling pathetic lies to someone who could clearly see through them? He should be looking for Ivan, rather than wasting away time here, and yet —

'You're worried.'

Yao looked up at the basement door. 'About the time I'm spending talking to you, yes.'

'No, you're worried about something else. About Ivan.' A silence fell, hesitation before Arthur continued. 'He cracked, didn't he? And you're worried you won't be able to put the pieces back together.'

Yao forced a laugh, wanting to tear away the loose thread trapped between his fingers. 'Nice try. Guess again.'

'You're worried you're only going to break him further, with your clumsy hands and your clumsy temper. Because that's what you do, you drive people away. You break them otherwise.'

Yao's hands felt cold, clammy as the thread slipped out of his grip. Clumsy…

'I'm right, aren't I?'

Yao drew his legs closer to his chest, an ugly, spitting voice wanting to burst out of his throat. His hands really were clumsy, in the most disgusting of ways. They could only break things, break people's faces and smiles. Like they broke Yong Soo, like they broke every other corpse Yao left behind, like they broke…

He swallowed the thought down. He couldn't prove him right, couldn't give him the satisfaction. He held onto himself and tried not to think, not to let that rationale win over — you broke Ivan — and yet, it was already too late.

Arthur drew out a long sigh, as if recovering from a long day's work. 'Have you ever been stabbed, love?'

Yao's fidgety hands halted. 'No.'

'Well, if you ever were stabbed… you would know it hurts like bloody hell. Even after it's been cleaned and bandaged, even started to heal a little. The scar hurts perhaps even more than the stabbing itself.'

Yao felt a lump in his throat, feeling the stretched scar across his back prickle, as if catching fire. It was starting to sting, and Yao could feel the pain burning up slowly on his skin.

'It's curious how the body seems to remember…'

Ripping and tearing the wound anew, Yao could feel the scar opening up like a torn seam. He wrapped his arms around his knees tightly, trying not to think of those words, that voice and how calmly it had spoken —

('forgive me')

Like fiery liquid, Yao could almost feel blood still dripping down his back. He wanted to scratch at it, wipe away the blood. But he knew it wasn't there, wasn't there just like the words and the prying questions, the image of Ivan's trembling hands and Yao's own following like a guilt-ridden puppet. Clumsy, destructive. He'd brought it upon himself, that day. He had been asking for it, with his hands. Clumsy, terrible, bloody hands.

'Anyways, I was wondering if you had any painkillers. I'd hate to be a crumbling mess of a prisoner if I can't even walk to my own execution.'

Yao blinked away the threatening tears. '… What?'

'Painkillers. Got any?'

'N-No.' Yao swallowed. He grit his teeth and got up, leaving the basement stairway without another word. He skipped steps as he swallowed for cleaner air, fresher air that didn't smell of his own blood pooling on the floor, of the cold night breeze and the metal of the blade. Hurting, the pain was sending tears to sting his eyes. He rushed through the kitchen and the hallway, up the stairs as if the memory was following at his heels.

He reached the landing, panting. An icy breeze brushed against him, alleviating the ache on his back for a fleeting moment. He followed its cold trail to the end of the hallway, towards the room he had once been so afraid of. The door swung as the wind howled. The room was not lit, but Yao knew it was where Ivan was. Catching the scent of alcohol, Yao pushed against the door and entered the room hastily.

Ivan lay slumped in the chair, seated in front of the open window with its thin curtains swaying. The walls, once filled with images of faces, was nearly smothered in black crosses. Few profiles had remained uncrossed. The pit of Yao's stomach coiled into a knot, feeling as though the room had become a countdown to an end he couldn't know for certain.

Yao approached the chair, watching Ivan's shoulders rise and fall in slow and drowsy breaths. He reached his hand out, barely touching Ivan's shoulder. It felt frosty to the touch.

'It's too cold like this, isn't it?' Yao said.

Ivan opened his eyes, turning his head toward Yao.

'It's okay, myshka…' Ivan drawled out, a soft smile sweeping across his lips. 'The cold cannot kill me, anyways…'

The smile leaves Yao wanting more, almost letting him forget the scar on his back for a brief moment. But the feel of Ivan's coat also leaves him worried, his brows furrowing at the iciness of it.

'It's not good for you either way,' Yao said, walking over to the window and shutting it, stealing a glance at the nearly full moon. It was beautiful as always. But tonight, it stared back at Yao bitterly. Yao tore his gaze away from it, turning back to Ivan. 'I won't have you getting sick and leaving me alone with that idiot.'

Ivan's eyes were half-lidded in drowsiness, his head tilting towards his shoulder as it slid on the back of the chair. Ivan chuckled. 'You're so beautiful, myshka…'

Yao blinked, hearing the clink of glass on the floor. He drew his gaze toward it, finding Ivan's hand clumsily reaching for a half-empty bottle of vodka.

Yao picked it up, looking up at Ivan.

'Hm?' Ivan's smile grew at the sides. 'You want a drink too? Have some…'

Yao set the bottle aside, noticing the slight flush of Ivan's face. Yao pressed the back of his hand to Ivan's cheek, skin burning up as if overtaken by a fever. He sighed.

'Aiyah… See, you've already gotten yourself sick,' Yao said, despite the overwhelming smell of vodka in the room. 'What am I supposed to do now?'

Ivan leaned further into Yao's hand, eyes gleaming with a fondness that sent Yao's heart leaping into his throat. There was a vulnerability about it that made it so achingly endearing, Yao's heart squeezed by the sight of it.

Ivan's eyelids lowered as Yao smoothed his hand to the back of his cheek, drowsy breath being drawn in. Yao pulled his hand away, jolting Ivan out of his sleepy trance.

'You should go to bed. You're tired.'

'I am…?'

'Come on.' Yao guided Ivan as he stood up from the chair.

Ivan stumbled, crashing into Yao and nearly knocking him over. He chuckled and caught Yao by the arms to keep the both of them from falling over.

'You're so small, myshka…' Ivan hummed, resting his chin on Yao's head.

Yao scoffed lightly. 'Don't remind me.'

'I'm not complaining…' Ivan's arm snaked around Yao's waist, drawing him closer. Yao's breath wavered, suffocated by the scent of vodka that hung around Ivan like mist. A cold hand, ungloved, travelled down from Yao's shoulder to his wrist. Fingers entwined with his, locking their hands together as Ivan drew them up to shoulder height. Yao tilted his head up in question, clumsily bumping his face into Ivan's.

Yao swallowed, his voice coming out as a nervous croak. 'You're drunk…'

Ivan only hummed, pressing his forehead against Yao's. His balance swayed, taking Yao along with it. A soft giggle escaped Ivan's lips, breath teasing against Yao's. Yao diverted his gaze to the floor, watching the shadow cast by Ivan's looming frame. Ivan's humming started to grow into a melody, feet beginning to stumble to the side and forcing Yao's own to follow.

'Aiyah…' Yao sighed. 'What are you doing?'

'Put your hand on my shoulder.'

'Why?'

Ivan nudged Yao with his nose, the corners of his lips tugging up delicately. 'Just try it.'

Yao sighed again, more for show than anything else, and rested his hand on Ivan's shoulder. 'Happy now —'

In a drunken, sloppy turn, Ivan spun Yao around. Yao inhaled sharply, nearly stumbling off balance at the movement. Ivan laughed, the sound airy and sweet enough for Yao to follow Ivan's clumsy steps, sways and turns that were perhaps meant to be elegant and measured instead. Ivan continued to hum the tune on his lips, quickening the pace of their dance along with it.

Yao watched the black crosses around them become blurred and indistinguishable. His own breath, becoming mixed and indistinguishable with Ivan's, shallow and thin as Yao tried to gulp for more, though there never seemed to be enough of it. Ivan's voice, lowering so that it was barely a gentle a whisper in Yao's ear, clumsy in its melody and yet leaving Yao leaning closer for more of it.

Yet another spin, the cruel eyes of a stranger staring from the mottled wall. Yao swallowed, twisting anxiety coiling up in his stomach. Another face, scratched out in black. Blackened, shadowy eyes, hungry teeth. Haggard faces, which had once seen Ivan bleed and cry, spun together by moonlight. Yao held on tighter to Ivan, the fabric of his shirt feeling flimsy and papery, like the wrinkled canvas these photos had been imprinted on.

The room continued to twirl around him, the tune losing its steadiness and becoming lost, unsure of itself. But Ivan continued to sway, stumbling and turning with every step. Ivan's hand drew further around Yao's waist, curling around it in a way that made Yao's heart leap to his throat. Yao stumbled over his own steps, yelping when Ivan's boot crushed his foot. A small gasp escaped Ivan's lips, their movement coming to an unsteady halt as they bumped against the wall.

'Izvini, myshka… I'm sorry… Did I…' Ivan hiccupped, resting his head on Yao's shoulder. '… hurt you?'

'I'm fine,' Yao said, unable to stop his own voice from shaking. 'You need to lie down.'

Ivan mumbled, though Yao couldn't understand it. Ivan slowly fell to his knees, hand still loosely entwined with Yao's. He nuzzled his face into Yao's stomach, trapping him against the wall.

'I-Ivan, I didn't mean here —'

'You're soft…' Ivan lifted his head up, chin pressing into Yao's stomach as half-lidded eyes gazed up at Yao.

'Great. Shall we add that to my never-ending list of unmanly traits?'

A smile broke out onto Ivan's lips. 'You have manly traits, too.'

Yao rolled his eyes. 'Get up.' He tugged at Ivan's hand.

Ivan pouted. 'Don't want to.'

'You'll have to.'

'I'm comfortable here.'

'Well, I'm not,' Yao said. He eyed Ivan's scarf, which had tightened around his throat. Yao reached to adjust it, Ivan flinching at the gesture. Yao slowed his hand, gently tugging at the scarf to loosen it. 'It's late. We should both rest for tomorrow.'

Yao's hand halted. The scar peeked out from beneath the fabric of the scarf. Only now, it was covered in little red welts. Yao pulled away more of the scarf, feeling Ivan tense at this.

'You've been scratching it…'

Ivan blinked, the smile dissolving away. His gaze flickered, became unsure as it lost its hold on Yao's. He was nothing like the Ivan Yao had first met, nothing like the intimidating man he had confronted all those months ago.

'It still hurts sometimes,' Ivan said. 'I don't know how to stop it.'

Yao shook his head, a lump growing in his throat. 'Y-You don't.' He tightened the scarf, covering up the inflamed skin. 'But it's okay. It goes away every once in a while, doesn't it?' Yao forced a reassuring smile, hoping that it might bring back Ivan's.

Ivan nodded, though no smile sprang to his lips. Eyelids lowering drowsily, he pressed his forehead to Yao's stomach. Yao sighed. He kneeled down, holding Ivan's shoulders to keep them upright.

'Why don't we go to your room, okay?' Yao took ahold on Ivan's chin, lifting his head up from its sleepy loll.

Ivan blinked, nodding once again, lazier this time.

'Come on.' Yao guided Ivan up, leading him out of the room. Nearly blind in the dark hallway, Yao felt his hand around for the door of Ivan's room. Finding it, he pushed it open and brought Ivan to his bed. Ivan flopped onto the bed, groaning as his eyes surveyed the ceiling.

'It's spinning…'

Yao seated himself on the bed, sliding off Ivan's boots. 'Then close your eyes.'

'Okay…'

When Yao had set Ivan's boots aside, he turned around, only to find lilac eyes trained on him. They were glazed over and watery from the vodka, half-lidded and tired though Ivan refused to close them.

'You're not closing your eyes.'

'Da, I know.'

Yao furrowed his brows. 'You're making this difficult for me, you know.'

'I'm doing my best…' Ivan chuckled, eyes gently flickering to Yao's hand where it rested on the bed. Ivan reached his hand out, outstretching his palm towards Yao. 'I can't reach…'

Yao blinked, staring at the open palm.

'Yao…' Ivan said, dragging the name out in his own child-like sweetness. His hand struggled to stretch out closer to Yao, the gesture somehow making Yao's cheeks warm up. Yao placed his hand in Ivan's, hesitating —

(you're going to break him)

Ivan's hand closed around Yao's, gentle even as it pulled Yao in. Yao fell against his chest, his breath shaking at the impact. Ivan's arms snaked around him, squeezing him against a chest that was rising and falling from slow, drunken breaths. Yao struggled to breathe, his heart throbbing loud enough for Ivan to hear, surely. His eyes fluttered closed, feeling Ivan's lips pressing softly against his forehead and cheeks, wanting to suffocate in these kisses, wanting Ivan's arms to crush his ribs if it meant being closer to him.

Ivan's lips trailed onto Yao's own, nipping at Yao's bottom lip. Yao pushed his mouth harder into the kiss, hearing Ivan's breath hitch slightly in surprise. He could taste the vodka on Ivan's tongue, burning and lighting Yao's aflame as it smoothed over it. Yao stifled a whimper when Ivan pulled away to nuzzle his jawline, Ivan's breath ghosting over Yao's throat as a drunken giggle escaped him.

'What…' Yao panted, hand fumbling for Ivan's face as he felt lips slide down his throat. 'What are you laughing at…?'

'You taste nice… I should have done this sooner…' Ivan hummed, pulling the collar of Yao's shirt down to suck on his collarbone.

'Oh…' Yao's hand finding itself combing through Ivan's feather soft hair. His eyelids felt heavy, breath intoxicated and thick. '… Make up for lost time, then.'

Ivan nibbled on his collarbone, biting and piercing it until skin grew hot and smouldering. Yao pressed his face into Ivan's hair, wanting to be even closer, not caring for the pulse that was ebbing wildly in his veins, or the cold hand that was slowly sliding beneath the back of his shirt, smoothing up his spine and —

Ivan's lips slowed to a halt, pulling away from Yao. His fingers brushed over the ridge of the scar, sending tiny sparks of pain across Yao's skin. Yao shivered, trying not to wince as the pain forged itself once again in his memory. Ivan looked at Yao in question, brows pinched.

'Aiyah… D-Don't look at me like that.' Yao propped himself up, pulling away from Ivan's hold and feeling his face grow warm. 'It's an old scar. Don't even remember how I got it.'

'So you won't tell me…?'

Yao shook his head, fighting the lump in his throat that had resurfaced. His heart perhaps, as Ivan's eyes bore into him with that innocent curiosity, as the guilt boiled up in his stomach for not telling him. 'I can't.'

'Oh,' Ivan said, disappointment in his voice. The sound fed the boiling, festering guilt in Yao. Ivan had shared so much, trusted Yao with his scars and nightmares whilst Yao had selfishly been keeping his own to himself. Drawing his knees up to his chest, Yao exhaled shakily.

'But… I can tell you a story, if you want,' Yao said, his voice sounding smaller than he had intended. 'It's… it's an old one.'

Yao heard the sheets rustle, the bed creaking as Ivan shifted to his side. 'Tell me, then.'

Yao cleared his throat, jittery nervousness overtaking him. 'A… A long, long time ago, there was a man who could live forever. He could never die, or grow old, and after thousands of years he felt incredibly lonely.'

'What was his name?'

'It… It doesn't matter,' Yao said, feeling Ivan's weight lean closer to him. 'But one day, he found this tiny little child in a bamboo forest, all on its own. He found out that this child was immortal too, and took it in as his own. He raised it as his own brother, taught it to read and write, watched the little child grow up. But it didn't last long… The child wasn't a child anymore, and it didn't need his older brother anymore either. He waited for his older brother in the shadows, and when he had been found, he pulled out a knife…'

Yao's voice grew hoarse in his throat, conscious of his back though he knew his shirt was covering up the mark. He drew his arms tighter around his legs, continuing on. 'The younger brother stabbed him… sliced his back open before the older brother could get away. He left him on the floor, bleeding.'

A short chuckle left Yao's lips, strained in the way it burst out of him. 'It hurt so much. The man thought he was going to die, it hurt so much. But he knew he couldn't… He just… listened to his brother's footsteps fade away. And do you know how the story ends? The man continued to live on forever and ever and ever, with an ugly scar on his back so he could never forget. The end.'

There was a momentary silence, broken by the creaking of the bed as Ivan got up and rested his chin on Yao's shoulder.

'Yao… I think you got the story wrong.'

Yao blinked, only then realising there were tears in his eyes. 'I did?'

'Da. Because at the end the man found someone who was like him. And they could both live forever too, so…'

A half-hearted chuckle escaped Yao's lips. 'Happily ever after?'

Ivan hummed in agreement, tilting his head towards Yao's. Yao sighed shakily, perhaps out of relief as he felt Ivan's drowsy breaths next to him. He blindly reached for Ivan's hand, taking hold of it and feeling Ivan smile into the crook of his neck.

For better or for worse, their lives were entwined now, until the very bloody end.

.

'Officer…?' A sweet voice sent Alfred's gaze up from the file in his hands. A blonde woman was leaning over from her side of the table, still wearing her heavy winter coat.

'It's Detective.' Alfred said.

'Detective…?'

'Detective Alfred Jones.'

The woman's bewildered blue eyes softened. 'Alfred… I was wondering if I could do this some other time?' A shy chuckle escaped her lips. 'Today is not really convenient, I'm afraid.'

Alfred raised his brows in question, the woman's pale skin turning pink as she hesitated to answer.

She clutched at the bag in her lap with ink stained and jittery fingers. 'There's a family emergency I need to attend to.'

Her eyes were earnest, betraying every trembling thought behind them. It was hard to imagine those same quivering hands holding a knife, though Alfred knew better than to simply dismiss the idea. He drew out a sigh, leaning back in his seat.

'Sorry about the inconvenience. But if I'm honest with you, you should be worried about your own situation right now.'

The sheepish smile fell. 'What do you mean?'

'Look.' Alfred gulped down the rest of his cold coffee. 'Why don't I just take you through the questions first? I'll do my best to ask them as fast as I can, and you'll do your best to answer them. Sounds good?'

The woman nodded. Alfred smiled politely, straightening up in his seat.

'Good. Now, before we start, there's something I need to clear up.' Alfred slid a page out of the file, glancing over it. 'You said your name was Katherine Davis?'

Alfred glanced up from the paper, the woman nodding.

'That's… not what your file says. Any chance you'll give me your real name?'

The woman blinked. 'Real name?' She perked her brows up. 'Ah, I'm so sorry! I'm so used to being called by my English name…' She chuckled, though her fingers fidgeted and twisted the strap of her bag. 'My name is Katyusha Braginskaya.'

'You have two names?'

Katyusha hummed in agreement. 'As a young girl I was just Katyusha, no last name. I was an orphan, you see. Braginskaya was sort of given to me out of convenience, since the orphanage was in Bragin and they had to put something on the birth certificate…' A nervous chuckle slipped out of her lips. 'But now I go by my adopted family's name. It's much easier for people to say.'

Alfred set the page down. 'And I take it that you were on your way to visit your adopted family then?'

Katyusha paused, flustered as she nodded. 'Yes.'

'I'll try to not keep them waiting then.' Alfred smiled, watching Katyusha's tense shoulders relax as she smiled back. 'Katyusha, I'd like you to start by telling me what you were doing on the 24th.'

'The 24th… I was working at the clinic.'

'Yes, your file says you're a paediatrician?'

Katyusha nodded. 'It's always busy, so I didn't leave work until… around ten I think.'

'And after that?'

'After that I went home. Ate dinner and went to sleep.'

'Do you have any one to confirm that?'

Katyusha hesitated. 'No… I live on my own.'

'What kind of car do you drive, Katyusha?'

'It's a silver Toyota.'

Alfred opened up the file, flicking through it. 'License plate number MBB 9391?'

Katyusha nodded.

Alfred glanced up at her from the file. 'And that's the only car registered in your name?'

'Yes,' Katyusha said, though her voice wavered. 'Why do you ask?'

Alfred shut the file. 'We found a black pick-up truck abandoned on Route 193. It's registered in your name. Care to shed some light on that?'

Katyusha blinked in puzzlement, shaking her head. 'I don't know, I-I don't drive a black pick-up truck. It can't be mine.'

Alfred leaned forward, settling his arms onto the table. 'That's not what the records tell us, Katyusha.'

Katyusha swallowed, fidgeting in the heavy coat that she still refused to take off. 'I don't know what I've done, detective, but I would like to leave. My family is waiting for me.'

They'll just have to keep waiting until you give me some answers — was what Alfred wanted to say in return. But looking at her frantic and nervous blue eyes, he felt guilt holding him back. And for once, he didn't ignore this thought of self-restraint. Opting for a different approach, he leant back away from the table.

'Look, I know you want to leave and you have a family that needs you right now.' Alfred slid a photo out from the file, pushing it across towards Katyusha. 'But this kid is never going to have the chance to see his again.'

Katyusha's gaze caught onto the photo, her brows pinching together. She shook her head. 'I don't know him.'

'His name is Yong Soo Im. He was stabbed to death on Christmas Eve.'

Katyusha tore her gaze away from the photo, pushing it back towards Alfred. 'I'm really sorry, but this has nothing to do with me.'

'Katyusha.' Alfred waited for her eyes to meet his. 'It does have something to do with you.'

'I don't even know him!'

Alfred pulled out another photo, this one more worn out and curled at the corners. 'But you know him, don't you? Yao Wang?'

Katyusha's eyes remained transfixed on the photo for a split second, before snapping her gaze back to Alfred. 'No.'

'Katyusha. His prints were all over your pick-up truck.'

Katyusha hesitated, opening her mouth to speak before closing it. Alfred set the photo down.

'I know you're protecting him. That's who you were on your way to visit, isn't it? I'm gonna make a wild guess and say its medical supplies you were going to bring him?'

Her eyes widened, unable to even conceal their own shock as her fidgety hands froze in place.

Alfred leaned forward, the chair screeching slightly against the floor. 'He's not going to last long in hiding, Katyusha. Him or his friend.'

Katyusha said nothing, her face tinged pink. Alfred pressed on.

'What you're doing… It's a criminal offence. Aiding and abetting a murderer — you're looking at seven, maybe eight years behind bars? And that's just best case scenario. Cooperate with me here and you might just shave off a few years from that sentence.'

The room fell silent, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Alfred kept his eyes trained on Katyusha's, watching them for the slightest hint of self-doubt. But nervous as they were, she gave no sign of surrendering. No longer warm, her expression seemed to go cold in the absence of voices. Alfred knew this expression well — it was one of withdrawal, of numbing yourself so that nothing else could show through. But Alfred would not let her go through with it.

'Do you really think you're helping them like this?' Alfred asked, leaning closer. 'You're not. They're sick, both of them. And the sooner you give them up, the sooner they can get the help they need.'

'You would rather kill them than help them!' Katyusha snapped, her voice trembling. 'I know what happens to people like them! You hurt them just the same as anyone else in their lives!'

Katyusha's breath shuddered, unable to keep her gaze still as it trailed frantically between Alfred and the photos strewn on the table. Alfred opened up the file, flipping through to the photo of Yong Soo's corpse. He slid the photo across to Katyusha.

'Does this look like you've been helping them?'

A small gasp escaped Katyusha's lips, her quivering fingers reaching for the photo. She pulled it closer, her breaths hitching as her eyes bore into the photo.

'That's Yong Soo you're looking at, in case you couldn't tell.'

She looked up at Alfred, a horrified expression contorting her face. Her panting breaths turned into withheld sobs, her hands falling weak and letting the photo slip out from her grasp.

'I…I didn't know…' she croaked out. Her eyes looked to Alfred pleadingly. 'It… It was only bad people, he said… Just the bad ones…'

'Yong Soo was just a kid, Katyusha. Nineteen years old.'

A cry broke through her lips, Katyusha clutching at her face as if to withhold it. Her body sank, arms sliding against the table surface as her head buried itself into the sleeves of her coat. Shoulders shook as sobs rang out, and Alfred could only sit through it wordlessly.

Once again, he had pushed it too far. Only this time, he hadn't just struck a nerve, or pried into someone's dirty secret. He had done much more damage than that, and Alfred knew this too well from the sound of her crying, soft in the dusty silence.

'Katyusha,' Alfred said when the sobs had died down. 'Listen to me.'

She lifted her blonde head up, the ink from her fingertips smearing onto her skin as she wiped her reddened eyes. She looked almost child-like, her rounded and soft features pinched in distress. Alfred handed her a tissue.

'You need to give them up. For your own good.'

Katyusha took the tissue, straightening up in her seat and wiping the ink from her eyes. 'You don't know what I —' She hesitated, perhaps reconsidering her words. 'What he means to me. He's all I really have.'

'Does anyone else in your family know?'

Katyusha shook her head. 'No, my…' She exhaled sharply. 'My adoptive parents died two years ago in a car accident. They were the only family I had other than I —' She pursed her lips, averting her eyes away from Alfred. A pause settled, leaving Alfred to fill in the silence once again.

'You're still not giving them up, are you?'

Katyusha stared into the table surface. 'If you want, lock me up instead. You've already taken my fingerprints, haven't you?' She lifted her hands up, waving her purple stained fingers. 'I'll stay the night in a cell, too, if you want.' A sad smile crept up on her lips. 'As long as the place I end up in is warm… I'm happy.'

.

The early morning light crawled at its own achingly slow pace, a heart beating steadily, firmly, within Ivan's chest. The sound of it lulled and lingered in Yao's ears, drawing him further into sleep though he could never quite reach it. It had been like this for the past few hours, Yao balanced on the fine line between wakefulness and sleep, tortuously teetering over the edge for a few moments before being yanked back into reality. Yao couldn't say for sure why, but there was a little thought that somehow, maybe, it was because this was a moment he was meant to stay in, to completely take up before it could pass him by.

The thought left him uneasy, unsure — why was it there? Anxiety simmered within him as he felt Ivan's chest rise and fall in deep, untroubled breaths. The moment was achingly precious, and it twisted his stomach in fear.

A gust of wind pierced through the boarded up windows, ice cold as it ghosted over the sheets. Yao shivered, burying his face further into Ivan's chest in an attempt to keep whatever little warmth saved between them. Yao drew out a sigh, remembering the two corpses waiting for them in the downstairs room. One of which, was never meant to be a corpse in the first place.

Yao propped himself up onto his elbows, careful not to disturb Ivan. At what point had they even fallen asleep? He couldn't quite remember the moment, though he was sure it was Ivan that had dragged him beneath the sheets and into a tight embrace. Yao struggled to retrieve the moment from his memory as he got out of bed, drawing the blanket back over Ivan before going downstairs.

Walking through the downstairs hallway, the door of the 'workshop' — though Ivan rarely called it that anymore — was wide open, causing Yao to halt in his steps. He spotted the faint outline of a corpse lying on the table in the dark room. He switched the light on, the body glaring white beneath the flickering light. On the floor beside the table, a large black bag.

It was an ugly sight — pale lumpy flesh splayed out on the table, capped by a mess of red where a face should have been. The body had begun to smell, its rotten stench filling up Yao's nostrils. He gagged, grabbing a pair of gloves and rolling his sleeves up. He would get rid of it, cut the body up and make it disappear so that Ivan would not have to wake up to this horrid sight.

I almost lost him yesterday, to this pig… Yao thought, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he picked up a blood-stained saw — not wanting to make too much noise with the chainsaw. As he wiped away old splotches from the blade, he thought of the way Ivan had touched the mirror, as if his own reflection were foreign. It had sent Yao's heart into a leap, afraid he had let Ivan go too far. It was getting too much for the both of them, though Yao had never once considered stopping.

He had felt something terrifying in the way Ivan held him the night before, too tightly and too desperately. It made Yao's stomach churn in sickening twists, feeling as though he was losing a piece of Ivan to every corpse they brought home.

Swallowing back down the bitter taste rising in his mouth, Yao hauled the blade of the saw up. He positioned it onto the man's forearm and prepared to cut away, only to find that the corpse had been laid off centre on the table. It was too close to the edge, and set slightly diagonally so that the feet rested on the other side of the table. Yao put the saw down and pulled the man's legs with both hands, dragging them to align them with the rest of the body. But the limbs were heavy, resisting every pull. Yao yanked with greater force, not quite watching the man's upper body situated dangerously close to the edge. He shifted the man's legs to the centre, perhaps too abruptly, and sent the upper part of the corpse toppling over the edge.

The body slid off the table and thwacked against the floor. Bits of flesh from the man's mangled face splattered across Yao's feet, ice cold and wet on his skin. Yao gasped, nearly jumping back into the shelves behind him. Rotten blood dripping down his feet, Yao withheld a shiver. He crouched down to lift the body back up, only managing to haul the corpse's weight a few inches off the floor before dropping it.

'Aiyah…' Yao stood up, wanting to retch as he felt cold flesh resting against his feet. He stepped away from it, gripping the edge of the table as he stared at the monstrous lump on the floor. He couldn't leave it like this. He couldn't wake Ivan up either, not after last night's incident. Yao groaned, not even able to rub his face in frustration.

(There's blood everywhere…)

'Something the matter?' a loud voice muffled through the walls.

Yao tensed, walking out into the hallway and peering into the kitchen. Arthur was stood in it, fridge open and a curious look directed at Yao.

'What are you doing?' Yao frowned, watching a teasing dry smile tug at Arthur's lips.

'If no one's going to feed me, I might as well go hunting for it myself.'

'Whatever happened to staying a prisoner?' Yao elbowed the fridge door shut, nearly catching Arthur's hand in it.

'I was hungry and curious, Yao. You can't blame me for bending the rules a little. Also, if you don't mind me asking…' He held up a lump of frozen meat. 'This is pork, right? '

Yao grit his teeth, hissing. 'Put that back. And keep your voice down!'

Arthur studied Yao for a moment, eyes lingering on Yao's hands and feet. 'Do you… need help with something?' He put the frozen meat back in the freezer, shutting it loudly and earning a glare from Yao.

'No. Go back to the basement.'

'Are you sure? You look like a bloody mess.'

You'll be a bloody mess if you keep this up — but Yao only cleared his throat, remembering the heavy corpse he had left on the floor.

'You know what?' Yao forced a curt and restrained voice. 'I actually do need your help. Come with me.'

Yao walked back into the workshop, offering Arthur a pair of gloves. Arthur slipped the gloves on, not even blinking as he glanced over the corpse.

'Yours or his?' Arthur asked.

'What?'

Arthur turned to look at Yao. 'Is it yours or Ivan's?'

Yao furrowed his brows. 'That doesn't matter. Help me put it on the table.' Yao stepped over the body and grabbed the man's arms.

'You've got another in that bag? Yao, I'm impressed —'

'Just shut up and help me!' Yao hissed, wanting to get this over with so he could wash the blood off his feet. Arthur huffed in amusement and grabbed the corpse by the ankles.

'Alright then.' Arthur looked up at Yao. 'On the count of three?'

Yao nodded, tightening his grip on the man's forearm. It felt cold and stiff, Yao's stomach boiling in repulsion as his fingertips pressed into it. He began to count, and on three Yao and Arthur lifted the body up, their balance wavering as they dumped it onto the table.

'Okay…' Yao panted, picking up the saw and ignoring the slight ache of his left hand. 'Now I want you to hold it still while I cut away. Be careful with your fingers.'

'That's very considerate of you.'

Yao looked up at Arthur, realising he had only just echoed what Ivan had told him countless times. He snapped his gaze back to the corpse, settling the blade on the man's forearm. 'I only said it out of habit. You can let me cut you up too, if you want. Saves us both a lot of trouble.'

'I'll pass.' Arthur held down the arm of the corpse as Yao began to saw away. 'But thank you for offering.'

Yao pursed his lips, withholding an exasperated sigh. Cutting through the bone and remaining flesh of the man's arm, he picked the limb up with feigned ease — though it felt heavier than he would ever let Arthur know. 'Put it in the tub over there. Don't let it splash.'

Arthur took the limb, cradled in his arms as he walked over to the small tub. He peered into it, expression drawn in curiosity. There was a hum of interest, before easing the limb into the tub and returning to hold down the upper part of the man's arm.

Yao began to dig the saw into the shoulder of the dead body, crunching through cartilage and scraping against bone. Though the sounds were not foreign to Yao, they rang loud and fresh in his ears. Yao pushed a breath out, fighting the light-headedness that was starting to creep up on him.

'I'm going to make a wild guess and say we're not doing anything fun with the corpse?' Arthur said, disappointment in his voice.

Yao furrowed his brows, looking up at Arthur for further explanation.

'Well, it is only cutting him up and letting him dissolve away,' Arthur said. 'I must say, it's not terribly creative.'

'It's practical. That's all it needs to be,' Yao said, returning his gaze back to the arm and continuing to cut through. The saw snapped against the table, cutting free the piece of flesh and sending a small shiver through Yao.

'You wouldn't want to… I don't know.' Arthur picked the piece of the man up. 'Make it look a little pretty? Sew his face back up? Throw in a couple of roses —'

'What the hell are you talking about?' Yao watched Arthur place the shoulder piece into the tub, wondering if perhaps he had unknowingly brought back a monster into his home. When Arthur turned around, his eyes pierced through Yao, too intimate in the way they stared.

'I assuming it's too dangerous to play games with corpses now.' Arthur returned to the table, pressing his palms against the edge of it, as if eager to continue on with cutting up the body. 'I understand you left a mess at 'The Poisoned Apple'?'

Yao set the saw down, palms warm and jittery. 'How do you know that?'

'Darling…' Arthur grinned. 'You were covered in blood when I met you.'

Yao exhaled slowly, unsettled by something in the way Arthur was looking at him. 'Yeah, I was. But you also knew my name without me telling you.'

There was a flicker of hesitation in Arthur's expression, grin faltering. 'Yes, well… I suppose you could say I knew you from afar.'

'What does that even mean?' Yao frowned, worry beginning to stir in his stomach. 'You make it sound like you've been following me around.'

Arthur hummed, flickering his gaze to the dead body. 'Right you are… in a way.'

Yao blinked. 'Is that supposed to mean you were following me around?'

Arthur only shrugged. 'Let's get on with the other arm, shall we?'

Feeling too unsettled to press any further, too lightheaded to even hold up this conversation, Yao picked up the saw and began to work on the other arm, all the while feeling watched. He felt Arthur's gaze burn into him, picking apart every expression on Yao's face. It sent the sickening feeling only lurching further up from Yao's stomach, his lungs smothered by the stench of blood and Arthur's sweat.

Slicing through the arm, Yao lifted his head up and contained the sigh he wanted to take. He turned to look at Arthur, met by his green irises — almost cat-like in the way they followed Yao.

'You're staring at me,' Yao said. 'What is it?'

'Is that a bite mark on your collarbone?' A small smile crept up on Arthur's face, almost unable to contain itself on his lips. 'I take it I'm not the only one getting a taste of Yao?'

'Do you want to lose your tongue?'

'I think we've established you're incapable of cutting my tongue, Yao.'

Yao raised a brow. 'Really?'

'Really.'

'I'm guessing you would also tell me that cutting a man's tongue is not all that difficult.'

'Possibly,' Arthur said, though his smile gave the impression that he was more than sure of this.

Yao opened up the dead man's mouth, holding in his breath while he did so, and pried out a swollen tongue. He let the tongue sit on pale lips, turning around to the knife rack and picking out a blade. He handed the knife to Arthur.

'Go on, then.'

Arthur grabbed the knife. 'I will.'

He took hold of the tongue, setting the blade against the top of the tongue. Yao heard him take a breath and gag on the stench. Arthur shifted in his balance, fidgeting with the knife as the room fell silent. For nearly half a minute, Yao waited before Arthur broke the silence.

'Tell me,' Arthur said, is eyes still trained on the darkened and bloated tongue. 'What do you think of when you kill someone?'

Yao furrowed his brows. 'What do I think of?'

Arthur nodded, swallowing as his hand twitched in its hold of the tongue. 'I'm sure you have something in mind, when you're cutting up someone…'

'It's different when they're actually breathing.'

'I know that,' Arthur snapped, breaths deepening by the slightest. 'But I'm asking you… What's it like?'

Yao folded his arms, leaning his hips against the table as he sighed. 'You don't really feel anything. At least, not while it's happening. Your mind just kind of goes blank.'

Arthur chuckled, his laugh dry and sarcastic to Yao's ears. 'Is that really it? Nothing?'

'It's only when you start thinking that you stop cutting them up. When you start noticing what you've actually done,' Yao said, stomach beginning to coil up and twist inside him as the memory of Yong Soo's bloodied face eased its way into his mind. Even the sound of Yong Soo's voice climbed into his head, a broken croak by the time Yao had finished with him.

'Why do you do it then?'

'Hm?' Yao glanced up at Arthur.

'You don't make it sound very enjoyable. So why do you do it?'

Yao held Arthur's gaze for a moment. 'I don't choose to do it. Not always.'

'And the times that you do?'

Yao felt a lump form in his throat — though he couldn't quite tell if it was nausea from the stench, or something else entirely. He forced it back down, searching for an answer he didn't have. Arthur had caught the slight movement, green irises trailing over Yao's throat with piqued interest. Feeling exposed, unjustifiably dissected by Arthur's questions, Yao took a step back.

'Why don't you start cutting already? You're wasting time.'

Arthur's curious expression faltered, replaced by an empty smile. Polite, Yao presumed, though it was more so a teasing one than anything else.

'Alright. I'll think of nothing, then.'

Arthur took a deep breath, pressing the blade into the dark tongue. It sliced through almost effortlessly, deep crimson pouring out as the knife struck through a vein. Yao felt sick at the sight, his folded arms tightening as he fought down the boiling mass in his stomach. The stench intensified, leaving Yao dizzy though he was familiar with it. He gripped the edge of the table, hoping Arthur wouldn't notice. But as Arthur set the lump of flesh onto the dead man's chest, he too swayed in his balance, almost doubling over.

'I…' Arthur coughed, leaving the knife to fall out from his hand and clang against the floor. 'I can't believe how easy that was…' He turned his head towards Yao, the freckles on his skin more prominent as he paled.

'You don't look like you had an easy time doing it.' Yao said, keeping his voice as steady as he could without letting the smell of rotting flesh overwhelm him.

'Hey,' Arthur panted, chuckling. 'You don't look so good, ei —' Arthur began to heave, knuckles whitening as they gripped the edge of the table.

Yao walked over to him, grabbing the collar of his shirt. 'I'm not letting you make this room more of a mess.' Yao tugged at his shirt. 'Come on, get up.'

'Help —' Arthur's shoulders convulsed, shaking as the coughs grew more violent. 'Help me… then.'

Yao sighed in exasperation, pulling Arthur up by the arms. He led Arthur back to the basement, leaving him towels and a glass of water. When he made his way back to the workroom, his vision had become hazy at the edges, every footstep seemingly tilting the whole world at an odd angle. He pushed his back against a wall to keep himself steady, gaze trailing over the bloodstained floor and the unfinished corpse before him. The black bag, waiting expectantly by the table.

Yao groaned, the sight only thinning out his breaths further. There was so much of it, of this disgusting corpse and the images that came with it. Of Yong Soo's own torn face, and every other body Yao had left ripped up and bloody. He had always thought it was beautiful in some strange, twisted way. He thought Ivan did, too.

But now, as he settled his eyes upon the dark piece of flesh atop the man's chest, Yao could only feel repulsion spitting and bubbling at the back of his throat. The black bag, the next body waiting to be chopped up into pieces, only sickened Yao further.

And as if seeing his own handiwork for the first time, Yao realised just how ugly it all really was.

.

Alfred went to shut the door behind him, file tucked beneath his arm. A tired sigh eased out of him.

'You were cruel to her.'

Alfred looked up, finding Kiku leaning with his back against the wall, a plastic cup in his hands.

Kiku shifted slightly, perhaps just noticing his own sudden boldness. He cleared his throat, lowering his gaze to the floor. 'If you don't mind me saying.'

Alfred pushed the door closed, a click echoing out into the hallway. 'Yeah, well…'

(You can't always be the good guy.)

'Interviews never were my strong point,' Alfred said instead. 'Would have been nice if you were there, though. Can't do my 'good cop bad cop' routine without you.'

'Forgive me. I was busy running a background check.'

'Yeah?' Alfred stabbed the cane into the marble floor idly, fiddling with it as he tilted it from side to side. Though Kiku was still not making eye contact, Alfred spotted the curious gaze directed at the cane. 'I thought we were done with those. Who was it on?'

The plastic cup crinkled between Kiku's fingers, the plastic snapping in the awkward silence. Kiku looked up to Alfred, a crease between his brows.

'Alfred… What's going to happen to them when we arrest them?'

Alfred blinked. 'Same thing that happens to all the guys we catch, man. They get locked up. Though…' Alfred rubbed his forehead, brushing back his fringe. 'I have a feeling these guys might be going straight to death row.'

Kiku stared back at Alfred, expression still as stone. 'I see. And you're comfortable with this?'

There was a momentary pause. 'What are you talking about, man?' Alfred said. 'Of course I am. You've seen what these guys do, we've both seen it. How does anyone just wait it out in prison after killing seventy seven innocent men and women?'

'I'm not sure if they were innocent men and women…'

'Seventy-eight if we count Arthur,' Alfred said, feeling his hand grow warm and clammy where it held the cane. 'You'd let them grow old and play chess in some pampered up cell for killing Arthur? Is that what you're telling me?'

'That's not what I meant.'

'Then what the hell are you trying to say?' Alfred raised his voice, Kiku's eyes becoming startled for a fleeting moment. Quickly, Kiku regained his calm expression.

'Nothing, Alfred.' Kiku straightened up, no longer leaning against the wall. 'Please forget what I said. I'm sure…' Kiku trailed his gaze around Alfred, not quite meeting his eyes. 'I'm sure we'll find Arthur soon. Please excuse me.'

Kiku turned to leave, Alfred catching him by the arm. Kiku tensed, though Alfred had expected this.

'Sorry. For bursting out like that.'

'It's fine.' Kiku offered a polite smile, weak and plastic. 'Let's just catch these men as soon as we can.'

'Y-Yeah…' Alfred released Kiku's arm, watching him walk down the cold hallway. 'Kiku?'

'Yes?' Kiku stopped and turned back slightly.

'The uh… The search warrant. You've got it?'

'I'm working on it.'

'Right…' Alfred nodded. 'That's… that's good. I'll just… let you go do that then.'

'You should rest, Alfred,' Kiku said, though his face remained cold and distant. 'There's not much further to go, but you need to take care of yourself.'

'Yeah — no, I know.' Alfred chuckled. 'I'm fine, man. Don't worry about me.'

Kiku smiled — this time the gesture was genuine. He turned away and left, leaving Alfred standing in the hallway. He let out a drawn out breath, feeling his shoulders slump as if to pull him towards the ground, aching for rest. He hadn't been getting enough sleep, exactly… but that wasn't anything coffee couldn't fix, at least for the moment. He had to keep running, to keep searching until he closed the case — until he found Arthur.

You didn't leave much of a trail, though, did you…? Alfred leaned onto the cane, the sides of it covered in scratches from hitting it against the desk too much. He had tried polishing them away, but they stubbornly had remained.

'You feed and care for a pack of strays, and yet you can't even keep a bloody cane in good condition?' — at least that's what he imagined Arthur would say. An amused smile tugged at Alfred's lips.

I don't even like him that much… And yet, something felt missing when the Englishman wasn't around to taunt him. Perhaps even more so, the thought of that pitiful man being subjected to death or worse — it was one that sent Alfred's insides into a tangled, frenzied mess, the smile fading away as quickly as it had appeared.

Alfred made his way down the hallway, his palms damp with sweat. He wouldn't let this fear ruin him once more, as it already did so long ago. He would find Arthur, and he would be in one piece, unharmed, and just as frustrating as ever. Yes… Alfred would do this, and end this chase for good.

.

'Just let me go! Please!'

Ivan watched the shadow writhe, twisting in the grip of another. Panic, high-strung in a gentle voice that had never begged like this before. Other, rougher voices overpowered it, vicious when their prey broke loose from their grip. A knife gleamed in the dark, a squelch — the first drop of blood to be drawn. But Ivan remained still, hiding in the shadows of the alleyway even as the figures fell to the ground in a struggle.

A distant streetlight illuminated the pale face of a man, contorted with fear as a scar faced man straddled him. Ink black hair, splayed out onto the cemented ground like twisted vines. Ivan watched in fascination as the smaller man's hands plunged a knife into the scar-faced man's throat, did not even think to intervene as crimson droplets spattered across the pavement, across pale and shivering skin. It's too beautiful, too mesmerizing, much too —

A cry. It broke out into the air like ice, cold and crushed. The sound pierced Ivan, pierced his chest and his heart the way his own cries did. He stepped out of the shadows, thinking maybe, maybe this smaller man was like him. Left with no choice, left with knowing only fear and anger and rejection. Maybe…

The smaller man was gone, the bloody and torn body of the scar-faced man in his wake. Ivan felt the pads of gentle fingertips on the nape of his neck. He turned around to the shadows, Yao in their place.

'This way, Ivan. Come on.'

Ivan followed Yao, their footsteps lighting up an unfamiliar living room. The sound of glass crunched beneath his boots, causing a shiver to sprout from within his chest. He sat at a couch, legs growing heavy and numb as his gaze trailed over the state of the room. Stretches of blood were thrown across the walls and ceiling, pooling at the bottom of the chair. Ivan's eyes travelled up, away from the floor to find the dark and torn mess of a man. It had been one Ivan had created — the formless, bleeding lump of a man.

He parted his lips to speak, only to be interrupted by a low guttural groan from the other side of the room. The silhouette of the man in the chair shifted, the shadow of his lumpy head lolling to the side. Ivan swallowed, a bitter taste filling up his mouth.

'I'll do it,' Yao said, pulling away from Ivan.

'N-No.' Ivan drew Yao back, tugging him by the hem of his shirt in a frenzied panic. Yao blinked in surprise, drawing back in towards Ivan with his brows furrowed in question.

Ivan felt his lungs expand, taking in more air as Yao's legs pressed against his. 'You… you shouldn't.'

Yao smiled, wiping away at the blood splotches on Ivan's face. The pit of Ivan's stomach stirred, a heat rising from it as Yao leaned forward to press a kiss on the bridge of his nose. He felt Yao's soft exhale on his skin, tearing the ache in Ivan's chest further.

'Let me finish this for you.'

Please don't — The words tangled themselves, caught in Ivan's throat along with the sickening lump that writhed and twisted within him. The man in the chair groaned once again, his voice gurgling through a jaw Ivan had crumbled to pieces. Ivan felt his throat constrict, dried up and hoarse as he felt Yao's hand pull away from his. He watched Yao pick up the pipe from its end, grasping it with fingers that had been stained red.

('Just imagine how good it would feel to smash this face in, to send it flying into nothingness, myshka…')

Yao lifted the rusty pipe up, positioning it in front of the man's face and swinging it back and forth in practice motions. Just like then, when the sight of Yao's bloody hands had not sent a lurching nausea through Ivan's throat, had not festered as a feverish guilt in his chest. Every swing sent Ivan's heart racing faster, squeezing harder so that it throbbed like a fresh wound.

('I'm not a killer. I'm not like you. I can't.')

Ivan could still hear the sweetness, the tremor in Yao's voice as he said those words. The horrified look in his dark, rounded eyes as Ivan offered him the stage. The trembling of Yao's arms as he arched the pipe back in preparation… the very same motion that Yao now followed through with practiced ease.

('Oh, but you can…')

'Don't!' Ivan stumbled forward and fell to the floor, though the pipe had already struck the man with a squelch. A chunk of the man's mangled head flew toward him. He felt hot droplets dot his skin, burning and seeping into him as the room stood still. Yao turned toward Ivan, the end of the pipe still lodged in the lumps of flesh atop the man's neck, crumbling and dripping —

Ivan jolted beneath the sheets, the taste of blood sprouting on his tongue. He stared at the mottled ceiling, breaths heaving in and out of him. It had only been a nightmare, yet another… Ivan should have been accustomed to them by now. But even so, he couldn't stop the feverish sweat that coated his forehead, the paranoid feeling that the nightmare was somehow real. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he sat up.

Agony ripped through his head. Ivan groaned, overwhelmed by the stench of vodka on his clothes, though he couldn't recall drinking all that much. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, almost losing balance as he stood up. With a throbbing headache, he went downstairs, peering into each and every room on his way. With Yao nowhere to be found, Ivan stopped in front of the basement door. Before he could reach the door handle, the sound of rustling snow stopped him still.

He hurried outside, the nightmares still fresh enough for his mind to make terrifying leaps of logic. His socked feet sinking into the deep snow, he caught sight of Yao.

A shovel in hand, Yao was digging up snow and dirt, still dressed in his dishevelled clothes from yesterday. Ivan approached him, and though the snow crunched beneath his footsteps, Yao did not turn around.

'Yao?'

Yao spun around, nearly dropping the shovel in the process. Behind him, a dug up grave in the snow.

'What are you doing?' Ivan spotted the empty black bag by the dirt pile, taking a step forward to peer into the grave.

'Just go back inside, Ivan.' Yao blocked him, though Ivan could already see the pale corpse of a young man in the ditch. Ivan fought the urge to stumble back, breath unsteady as he fought the overwhelming sickness. He could see the blackened and bloody slit across the body's throat, the deathly pale complexion of an unfamiliar face, one that didn't belong with all the others, the crossed out profiles on Ivan's wall.

'I couldn't cut him up like the other one. But I'm taking care of it, okay? Please, just… Go inside.'

Ivan swallowed, watching Yao's pale hands clutching the shovel, trembling in the cold. 'L-Let me help.'

'No.'

'You'll get sick like this.'

'Won't you?' Yao's eyes flitted to Ivan's feet, socks drenched in the melting snow.

'It doesn't matter if I do.'

Yao's brows furrowed. 'It never does to you, does it?'

'Just let me do it.' Ivan reached out for the shovel.

Yao stepped away, holding the shovel closer to his chest. He sighed and turned around, scooping dirt into the grave. 'You can stay if you want. But I'm not letting you bury him.'

'I'll stay then,' Ivan said, though Yao didn't seem to pay much attention. He watched the shovel eat away at the dirt pile, staining the snow around it. With each scoop of the shovel Yao's breaths grew shallower, the movement getting lazier each time. When the pile of dirt was halfway gone, Yao stopped. He stabbed the shovel into the snow and leaned onto it, balance swaying.

'Yao?'

'I'm fine, just… a little…' Yao's knees buckled, his body falling towards the ground. Ivan reached out and caught him, the shovel slipping out of Yao's hands.

'Yao!' Ivan knelt onto the ground, Yao's body slumping down with him. Ivan gently shook Yao's face, his cheek cold to the touch. Yao groaned, weakly swatting away Ivan's hand.

'I'm fine, I said. Just… sick of that stench….'

'You should let me finish it, myshka. You look pale.'

Yao shook his head, struggling to get up as he grumbled back incoherently. Ivan drew him back into his hold.

'At least wait until you've recovered, da?'

Yao huffed out in protest, though he fell limp in Ivan's arms without much more than that. 'Have you even recovered yet?'

'Hm?'

'You still stink of vodka.'

'Oh.' Ivan chuckled. 'A bottle is nothing to me, myshka. I can handle it.'

'Really…'

'You don't believe me?'

'You were waltzing, Ivan. That sounds pretty drunk to me.'

Ivan blinked, suddenly recalling stepping on Yao's foot, dragging him around the room in ridiculous stumbles and turns. The memory warmed his face up a little. 'I stepped on you...'

Yao chuckled. 'Yeah. You did.'

'Does it hurt?'

Yao shook his head, letting it rest more comfortably against Ivan's chest. 'Do you…' Yao hesitated, teeth chattering from the cold. 'Do you remember anything else?'

Ivan felt Yao tremble slightly, presumably shivering from the cold. But there was also something else, some other kind of uneasiness as Ivan held Yao close. He thought of the smooth skin he had felt yesterday, the swollen ridge of a scar on Yao's back, the story Yao had so timidly told him.

Ivan pulled his scarf off, ignoring the bite of the cold wind. 'I remember a story you told me.' He wrapped the scarf around Yao's throat, Yao tilting his head back in question. 'And the ending I gave it.'

A small, hesitant smile grew on Yao's lips, his red-stained fingers touching the scarf in thought. He turned his head back towards the grave, sighing. 'I was just thinking… In that story, they would be planting sunflowers, wouldn't they?'

Not dead bodies — the words had crawled their way into Ivan's head, unwelcome. He hummed absent-mindedly in agreement, drawing his arms tighter around Yao. Envious almost, of the story's inhabitants. They could have their sunflowers, their warmth and their happy ending. Out here, Ivan felt as if he had to grasp for it, hold onto it before it was blown away by the icy wind. Desperately unfair, is what it felt like.

Yao shifted in Ivan's hold, making as if to get up. 'It's cold. Let's get this grave done and over with.'

Ivan nodded, helping Yao up. In spite of Yao's protests, he shovelled the last few piles of dirt and snow onto the grave, having to insist that he was okay with it. Truth was, he wasn't okay with it. In fact, Ivan wasn't sure if he was okay with any of this anymore. Somewhere along the way, cutting flesh had lost its charm, and watching Yao get his hands stained in blood and dirt had become like something out of a nightmare.

Ivan dropped the shovel into the snow, hoping he would never have to use it again for anything other than sunflower planting. There were only three uncrossed pictures left… only three more monsters left to kill, and yet Ivan could feel his resolve crumbling. Couldn't he stay with Yao, have the happy ending his imaginary self seemed to have?

That night, Ivan found himself falling asleep with Yao in his arms again, the warmth kinder than any crackling fire or bottle of vodka could give. But even so, Ivan couldn't help but think that as long as those faces hung on his wall, as long as those three remained uncrossed, his nightmares would always come back. As long as there was blood waiting to be spilt, Yao would be the one to shoulder the burden along with Ivan. Yao's hands would always carry the stains of Ivan's kills, the scars of the dangers Ivan might put him in.

No, Ivan would have kill the nightmare before it could kill them. He would end it, so he could give Yao more than just dead bodies and drunken embraces, so they could reach for that sunlit happy ending. So that it wouldn't have to remain as just a far-away, distant wish. He wanted it to be more than that.

Ivan closed his eyes against the nape of Yao's neck, hearing Yao's contented sigh and feeling his resolve mend itself in his chest. For that sigh alone, Ivan would cast aside his crimson-stained pipe.

For Yao, he would end this bloody nightmare for good.