Chapter 5

A day had passed since Harlis's body disappeared into the disposal unit. Abel sat in his office, the lumen-lamp overhead casting cold light over the scattered data-slates and reports that lay untouched before him. The room, dimly lit by the faint glow of a lumen-lamp. The flickering light cast distorted shadows across the walls, twisting the mundane into something grotesque. His fingers trembled as he ran them through his damp hair, his pulse hammering in his chest.

He had meant to work. Meant to sift through the reports, cross-reference the evidence, and dissect the Veridan case until only truth remained. Yet, the more he tried to focus, the more his mind drifted. The more the image of Veridan's bloated, grinning face with its shine like molten gold drew him away.

Maybe an hour passed, he chuckled some more. Eventually, Abel rose, his limbs stiff from inactivity. He wasn't sure how long he'd been still, but the lumen-light had shifted, dimmer now as the chrono ticked into late hours. His boots clicked against the cold metal floor, their rhythm swallowed by the precinct's faint, sterile drone. The tang of recaf hung in the air, sharp and bitter, mingling with the hum of cogitators processing endless data streams. His gloved fingers brushed against the edge of his coat as he walked, each step deliberate, his gaze distant but sharp.

The corridor was a tunnel of light and shadow, lumen-strips flickering intermittently above. Abel's thoughts flickered just as erratically. Harlis's face hovered in his mind, a tableau of betrayal and fear. The chirurgeon's treacherous smile had been a crack in the facade, a confirmation of the rot that had seeped into the Veridans. Abel had acted in service to the Emperor. His hands felt the ghostly resistance of the chirurgeon's coat as he shoved the body into the flames. Necessary, he reminded himself again, though the memory lingered like a stain.

The briefing room door was slightly ajar, spilling lumen-light into the corridor. Abel pushed it open with deliberate care, letting the heavy door hiss shut behind him. The sound made Joral glance up from his stack of reports, his pen pausing mid-stroke.

"Marshal," Joral said, his brows furrowing. "Something I can help you with?"

Abel's hands were clasped behind his back as he took a measured step closer, his posture rigid, his face calm. "I wanted to ask about Harlis," he said evenly. "Have you heard from him?"

Joral paused, his pen hovering mid-stroke. "Harlis?" He blinked, frowning slightly. "No, not since he… well, since the complaint. He's been keeping his distance, I suppose."

Abel tilted his head, his eyes sharp as they fixed on Joral. "Has he dropped it, then? The complaint?"

Joral hesitated, the pen slipping from his fingers to rest against the edge of the table. "I… don't know. He hasn't been in touch. I figured he was letting it go, but…" He trailed off, his frown deepening. Abel leaned against the table's edge, the metal frame groaning slightly under his weight. His tone was steady, almost conversational. "Perhaps he's reconsidered his position. It happens. Sometimes, people realise they've made… mistakes."

Joral's brows knit together. "Mistakes?"

Abel shrugged, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Filing baseless complaints. Stirring up trouble. Harlis never did handle pressure well."

Joral's gaze sharpened, his pen forgotten. "You sound like you know something about it."

Abel's smile didn't waver. "I'm just saying, people tend to retreat when they realise they've overplayed their hand. Perhaps the pressure became… consuming."

Joral stared at him for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if trying to see through the Marshal's measured calm. "You came here just to ask about Harlis?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Abel's tone was light, but his posture was a touch too rigid, his presence looming despite his outward ease.

Joral hesitated, his discomfort plain. "Because… you're acting strange," he said finally, his voice careful but edged with unease.

Abel's head tilted slightly, a subtle gesture that made Joral shift in his seat. "Strange?" he echoed, his voice low, almost amused.

"Yeah, strange," Joral pressed, setting his pen down and leaning back in his chair, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. "You've been different, Marshal. Since Veridan. You've always been intense, sure, but now? Now it's like you're…"

"Go on," Abel said softly, though his eyes flashed with warning.

Joral hesitated, then drew a deep breath, his voice dropping. "You're not the same man who used to talk about duty and order and the Emperor's justice. You're not chasing justice anymore, Abel."

Abel's chest tightened, his lips curling into the faintest sneer. "Careful, Officer," he said, his voice dangerously low. "You're treading close to insubordination."

Joral held Abel's gaze, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table. "You've always been obsessive, Abel. Always been consumed by justice," he said, his voice steady but heavy with venom. "That's who you were. It's what made you a good Marshal. Even when you scared the hell out of us, at least we knew you were fighting for something."

Abel's sneer deepened, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "And now you think I'm not?"

Joral's eyes hardened, the tension in the room coiling like a spring. "No. You're not." He leaned forward, his voice lowering as though the words themselves were too dangerous to speak aloud. "You're not trying to solve this case, Abel. You're not looking for clues any more, ior suspects… you're not doing any real work..you're just… reveling in it."

Joral's eyes hardened, the tension in the room winding tight like the crackling charge of a shock maul held just too close. "No. You're not." He leaned forward, his voice lowering as though the words themselves carried the hum of suppressed energy. "You're not trying to solve this case, Abel. You're not looking for clues, or suspects… you're not doing the work. You're just… reveling in it."

The accusation struck like a shock maul, sharp and electric, leaving the air heavy with its echo. Abel didn't move, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths that belied the storm churning beneath his skin. His fingers flexed at his sides, the movement small but telling.

"Reveling in it?" he repeated, his tone almost mocking, though his voice trembled with suppressed fury. "Is that what you think?" he laughed.

"That's what I see," Joral shot back, emboldened now. "You talk about Veridan's death like it was some kind of… art. You don't see a crime scene anymore, Abel. You see something else. Something you can't pull yourself away from."

Abel froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, his mind was a storm of denial and anger, but beneath it, something colder twisted in his gut. He couldn't look at Joral. He wouldn't let himself.

Abel straightened, his expression shuttering like a blast door slamming shut. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode to the door, his boots striking the floor in sharp, deliberate beats.

Joral watched him depart, letting out a long, shaky breath. For a moment, his face was taut with tension, then his lips curled into a quiet, knowing chuckle.

"This," Joral murmured to himself, his voice soft and edged with dark satisfaction. "This will be beautiful."