#renee

What few places of his skin aren’t covered in blood are instead slick with cold sweat - he vaguely remembers that’s a sign of blood loss or shock, one of those. It’s hard to focus out the window, his eyes keep closing on their own. But lungs just keep doing that whole breathing thing on their own, and hearts can apparently run on fumes. He’s relatively sure some synapses in there are still firing, despite all proof of the contrary.

It’s just absurd, it’s crazy. All that blood. He couldn’t think, he wasn’t thinking. There’s so much blood on him. Renee can’t feel his hands.

He closes his eyes. When he opens them, his chin rests on his chest, temple pressed uncomfortably to the ledge between the door and the window, and the car is idle. Maybe waiting on a red light, he figures, until keys rattle in the ignition, and the motor quiets down.

Renee mutely watches Davin exit the car. His silhouette orbits around the trunk, black against the blinding sun. Conrad is breathing fast. Renee wonders if he’s realized it, too, but it’s hard to tell one fear from another.

As a door opens, and Davin cuts the zip ties tying handcuffs to the grab handle, Conrad shivers against the frigid air, thin arms tense. He hunches up his shoulders. Fresh scars left unbandaged on his arms begin to turn purple-red.

Renee’s gaze drifts, just for a moment.

“Wake up.”

Something keeps his head raised, pats his cheek. Renee blinks, eyes rolling. Groans.

“You’re heavy, man. I’ll help you inside, but I’m not carrying you.”

Renee finally manages to fix his vision somewhere in the center of the dark silhouette above him. “F… ffffuck your whole self.”

“Odd way to address the guy who just saved your life.”

“I’m not… stupid.”

“Right, I keep forgetting.” Maybe it’s supposed to sound like banter, but there’s no hint of humor in his voice. “C’mon. We’re out in the open, I don’t want you spotted. Get up.”

When Davin levies a hand under his arm, Renee pulls away, sneering. “Why the fuck should I—”

A fist tightens in the front of his shirt to help yank him forward, hard enough to make his teeth snap. Renee lands with a grunt in a sea of cold dirt, gasping as his vision darkens again. His hand sears red hot, head too heavy to hold; he rolls over on his side, and the world keeps moving even as he comes to a stop. He’s still dazed when Davin leans over him to search along his waistband. He pockets the police officer’s gun.

It’s a clearing in a sea of orange, a small parking lot overgrown by tall grass, withered but still standing. A strip of grey asphalt sixty-or-so feet to the left of the Mercedes reveals the road they must’ve come from. To the right, a cracked concrete walkway leads to the front door of a house that somehow looks new and decrepid at the same time. The style is modern, a two-story suburban-looking villa with a facade in concrete, black shingles, flakes of paint still stuck to the pressure-impregnated, greenish wood of a collapsed carport. Every window visible from the perspective of a guy eating dirt in the driveway is dusty and cracked. There’s graffiti here and there, but never more than one or two layers. Abandoned, but not for more than a few years.

He can’t see Conrad anywhere. Guesses, as he huffs into the dirt, that Davin brought him inside while he was passed out.

Renee groans. Planting his good hand in the dirt, he pulls himself up to kneeling in the clearing, hunched over the pulsing wound in his stomach. The belt makes it harder to breathe, and he has to sway with each inhale to give his lungs space to inflate.

It doesn’t take long for Davin to lock down the car. He returns to Renee, peering down with a cold indifference. “I’ll drag you by your ankles if I have to, you know.”

“You should’ve - killed me this morning.”

Davin lets out a chuckle, shaking his head. “Nobody packs a bag, man.”

The tone implies it’s a joke, but then again, the smokescreen has become obsolete. Renee grunts in pain as Davin drags him to his feet and pulls his good arm over his shoulders. He reluctantly clutches the other as his knees immediately threaten to buckle. The sudden shift makes him lightheaded, and he blinks away darkness, limping doggedly towards the abandoned house.

The front door looks to have been kicked off its hinges, dust settled in the broken splinters, lines of spraypaint arching from wood to the plaster it leans against. The entryway is covered in a thick blanket of leaves left to dry in cover of the rain. A dozen treads of a staircase leading to the second floor have been ripped off and lay discarded in a corner, leaving only the skeletal frame of risers. A laminated piece of paper has been zip-tied to the post of a handrail, but it’s damaged beyond legibility. There’s no furniture around, no picture frames, no building equipment scattered about. It’s as if the house was built for the sole purpose of decay.

There must be a story here, Renee hazily thinks. Maybe with enough time, someone could piece it together from all the ruin it left behind.

He himself is in no position to try. Keeping up with Davin’s pace makes his awareness dim. Two feet from the door to a smaller room, Renee can’t see anymore, and he reaches out a broken hand to feel where he’s going, but the subsequent lack of support is all that’s needed for his own weight to drag him down.

Davin’s hold tightens, but Renee still feels his shoulder hit something hard. A low but exasperated voice, somewhere far away, before his world drifts into nothing: “Jesus…”

He wakes up on his back this time, blinking at a ceiling discolored by dark patches of either mold or water damage. One rather impressive cobweb spans from the wall to a would-have-been light fixture in the center. Renee wants to cough, but can’t find the burst of energy necessary. He painstakingly rolls to his side, moaning instead. Lets it grate through whatever irritates his throat. Through the constant flickers between adrenaline and unconsciousness, he’s lost all sense of time, but some must’ve passed, because everything is starting to get unbearably sore and murky.

The room is bare. A quarter of the carpet, caked in dried mud and spotted black from burnt out cigarettes, has been ripped up and folded over the rest. There’s a pinewood dresser in the corner, sun-bleached and mostly intact, where a slew of initials have been carved into the drawer fronts.

Groaning, Renee reaches for his phone.

“You don’t want to do that.”

He misses up at Davin, silhouetted against the light through an empty window frame. Behind him, huddled in the corner, Conrad hugs himself with cuffed hands, shoulders up to his ears, shivering violently. He’s more exposed to the cold than not. On the unbandaged parts of his thin arms, fresh purple-red scars stand in raw contrast to the pale tan of his skin. It must’ve clicked by now. He looks like he’s barely there, same way he did before Davin fucked up his leg.

Renee licks his lips. Numb hand changing its trajectory, he pinches the cuff of his sleeve and draws his other arm back, wincing as his broken finger shifts to fit the fabric. He doesn’t get far before the jacket draws tight across his back, and his elbow won’t get farther without bending in ways he can’t make it bend, and the whole endeavor becomes a little too painful to handle on his own.

Exhausted, he blinks up at Davin. “Take my… take my jacket off.”

Davin glances down. “Hm?”

“T-take my jacket off.” Renee juts his chin at Conrad. “Give it to him. He’s clattering, dude… ’s f-fucking annoying.”

It takes a bit for Davin to move, as if he considers whether he should. Wordlessly, he pulls Renee up to sitting by the arm, ignoring several grunts of pain to prop him against the wall. Crouching down, he drags the collar over Renee’s shoulder, holding the sleeve down as Renee slips his good arm out.

Davin doesn’t bother being gentle with the other, rather unceremoniously pins his shoulder to the wall while drawing the sleeve off. Any other time, it would’ve made Renee kick and scream; all he has the energy to do is let out a raspy breath and lean his head back as the ceiling swims. “Arh, shit…”

The pain makes him hazy enough to barely feel the rush of cold, and even without the jacket, he’s better suited for it than Conrad is. But the sweatshirt is far from sufficient. He’ll start shuddering soon, if he has the energy for it at all.

“Mind telling me what’s going on?”

“Wh…?” Renee clears his throat. “What?”

Davin stands up. He folds the collar of the jacket, eyes flickering between it and Conrad, as if talking to Renee is the real tangent. “How did they find you?” As he crosses the room, the bottom of the jacket brushes the floor, picking up dust that instantly stains red, but all the rest of the blood is hard to see in the black fabric. Conrad doesn’t seem to notice it, or maybe he’s too cold to care. Wary, he keeps his eyes fixed to the floor as Davin drapes the jacket over his shoulders. Stiff, pale fingers brave the risk of staining to pull it tighter around himself.

Renee’s mouth is dry. “I just fucked it. I just…”

“What did you do?”

He feels lightheaded. Pits are endless, it seems, there is no bottom. It’s unfathomable. You just sink and sink. “It’s on the news, right? Did… Did he say anything?”

Davin raises a brow. “Who?”

It takes Renee a second to realize he messed up. He closes his mouth, slumps back. Both hands are automatically drawn to the wound in his abdomen, his long legs sprawled across the dirty floor. There’s blood smeared on his shoes, and he’s not sure how it got there.

Letting out a breath, Davin comes back, stands just a few feet above him. “Someone recognized you, didn’t they?”

Renee pulls his legs up, gritting his teeth to stifle a groan.

It’s the usual unbothered demeanor, but the context fills in the blanks. “You know I’ll find out eventually.”

“… fuck you.”

“Was it an ambush? A sting?”

A weak, breathy laugh. Renee shakes his head from side to side, although the movement makes him woozy, and meets Davin’s gaze with a sluggish smile. “You c-… there’s nothin’ you can do to me. Nothin’.”

He thinks there might be a crack in the facade then, a hint of frustration as Davin stares him down. Renee feels a spark of glee in that. until Davin throws his head back to level a deep sigh at the ceiling. Straightening back up, he rubs his forehead with the back of a gloved wrist. “Yeah,” he mutters. And he draws the gun from his pocket, turning on his heel.

Despite himself, Renee stiffens. “Davin.”

Conrad having watched them in silence, visibly shrinks at the sudden shift in Davin’s attention. He lets out a small sound of distress, shirking backwards a moment before a gloved hand catches a fistful of his hair to drag him forward, a move that has him scrambling to crawl on cuffed hands and a leg that still causes enough pain to make him groan out loud. Davin mercilessly hauls him along, stopping just a few feet in front of Renee’s slumped form.

Eyes locked with Renee’s, tightening his grip in the curls, Davin presses the muzzle to the nape of Conrad’s neck. Kneeling on the dusty rug, Conrad shudders violently, raises his hands out in front of him, fingers splayed open in the air.

That’s what’s left of his pleading. He doesn’t say a word.

Renee looks away.

Amid shaky gasps of fear, Davin lets out a hum. His voice is eerily calm. “The least you could do is look him in the eye.”

Renee can’t grit his teeth hard enough to stop gasping. With a hiss, he forces himself to look at his victim.

Conrad’s expression is haunting. Struggling to keep his breaths somewhat even, a wince at the discomfort of the hold in his curls, but he’s otherwise still, clearly afraid to move - and resigned in it, as if he sees no point in even trying to move away.

“Make a good case for him,” Davin says evenly. “Who recognized you?”

The pain makes it hard to concentrate on believable alternatives. The jacket is threatening to slide off of Conrad’s left shoulder, he’s quivering so much. Renee swallows. “My source.”

Davin nods slowly. “On brand, I suppose. What’s their name?”

“… Jake.”

Without hesitation, Davin moves the gun over Conrad’s shoulder and pulls the trigger.

The world seems to erupt in chaos. Deafened by a high-pitched ringing, Renee flinches and curls up, pressing his palms the sides of his head, blinking at the sudden spray of dust kicked up by the bullet. There’s a small hole in the floor, right between where his feet were just a second ago, and Conrad is screaming.

It’d make sense if he was reeling from what has to be a burst eardrum, but Conrad clutches one cuffed hand in the other, squirming against the tight grip in his hair. Through his fingers, blood spills, rapidly dotting the decaying carpet. Davin shot his outreached hand.

Renee’s heart beats so hard in his chest, it feels like it might fail. His voice cracks. “What the fuck, dude?! What the f—”

“That was a test.” Davin’s voice sounds muffled under the ringing. “You’re not going to lie to me again.”

“I’m not l—… what the fuck?!”

Conrad’s mouth repeats the familiar form of a please, but only frantic whining or hisses make it past his lips. Shallow breathing gets stuck in his throat, eyes shut in agony. The mouth of the gun, still searing hot from the shot, draws out another cry as Davin calmly returns it to the back of his neck.

“Going by your texts,” Davin mutters, “your source is someone named Lazarus.”

Renee freezes.

Of course Davin would question where Renee disappeared off to all those times, and of course he’d deal with it in the way he consistently has - by giving in to the seemingly ever-present compulsion to do the slimiest thing possible. How many times has Renee left his phone unattended? It can’t have been hard to crack.

And it feels like a rush of icy water. Feels like Renee might pass out right then and there. Not just what he did an hour before, but Laz’ name on that tongue, in that fucking psycho’s head.

It’s a betrayal.

Renee betrayed Lazarus first.

He can’t properly inhale. Weak beyond reason, already down as his conscience sobs at his feet, tearing at whatever scraps remain. “Just stop… dude, just stop.”

“How did he find out?” Davin asks.

“It’s fucking over, it’s—you can’t—”

“Tell me.”

A sound escapes Renee’s throat, something like a whine. He shuts his eyes, locking his teeth. His body is so heavy. “I think I t-… I told him something.”

He doesn’t feel inclined to look at Davin’s expression in that moment. It’s not the sort of answer that’d make the man happy, but the cat’s out of the bag anyway, and he can’t risk getting caught in another lie.

He keeps talking unsteadily, not entirely on purpose, and it gradually fades into a whisper. “I’m messed up, okay? I had a panic attack and told him to… I thought I was dying. And h-he’s a good person, he’s right, I needed h-… I don’t know what—I just can’t d-… I can’t fucking do this. I don’t want—I never wanted…”

“I’m guessing he snitched. And what happened this morning?”

“He was… I went to… He was wearing a wire, and it was like…” There’s that stinging feeling in his chest, on par with the pain in the rest of his body, that makes his breaths come far too short. Renee is fairly sure he’s crying as he opens his eyes to meet Conrad’s. “I just panicked, okay? I didn’t… I’d never try to…”

“You killed him,” Davin guesses.

A sharp hiss. “No.”

He wants to repeat it over and over, wants to scream it, but his focus doesn’t linger on Davin. Conrad’s pained expression elicits something different, something Renee can’t name. An urge.

It comes out as a ragged sob, a broken voice. “I hurt him pretty bad. I swear to god I didn’t mean to, I’d never… But it was bad.” Quivering lips on a grimace stuck somewhere between hopelessness and recognition. “I did… something really bad.”

Davin sighs, juts his chin out. “What did you tell him?”

Conrad breathes hard under the man’s hand, jaded by pain. By now, the full body shakes only come in subtler bursts. At such a close range, a few bones in his palm must’ve been pulverized, and it feels fucking awful contending with the fact that the best case scenario right now is another life-long source of injury - the worst is a bullet through the throat.

It feels like testimony. “He just wanted to save…”

“Answer me, Vaughan.”

Hands bunched in the makeshift tourniquet, Renee hits the back of his head against the wall, lets out a groan, kicks the ground uselessly. The hiss escaping drawn-back lips wavers. “He’s a good fucking person.”

His tone is deadpan. “Tell me what they know.”

Renee swallows, chest deflating. Looking down through the blur of tears reveals a spot on the back of his sleeve that’s not too stained. His arm feels unbearably heavy as he lifts it to wipe his face. “Dude, I don’t even remember.”

“You’re gonna have to try real hard.”

“It happened so fast, I don’t…I just—”

“Did you mention me?”

Through the fog in his head, Renee can’t help but weakly snicker. “I fucking hope I did.”

Setting his jaw, Davin shifts, pulling Conrad’s head farther back. From the whimper it elicits, he’s pressing the barrel harder into the nape of Conrad’s neck.

Renee lets out a groan. “Dude, stop, just stop—”

“To the best of you recollection,” Davin says, each word articulated clearly and dangerously slow, “did. you. mention. me?”

Despite the uncomfortable position, Conrad is frozen, shoulders hunched to his ears. The swelling in his face has gone down, but his eye, cheek and jaw are all bruised, contrasted by the lack of color in the rest of his skin. He’s shut his eyes in anticipation of a shot. He must be holding his breath, because the word he mouths makes no sound at all. “Don’t, don’t, don’t…”

Don’t shoot.

It’s coming closer.

Renee would’ve liked to talk to him again. To face it, not with irony, not out of spite or as his last form of leverage when confronted with powerlessness. Maybe spending the rest of his years simmering on death row would’ve been worth the potential for a visit, a chance to explain it all. It would’ve been better than this. And Renee is beyond the point of deserving even death row - he deserves less than being dumped in a ditch, honestly, or bloating for weeks on the bottom of the Ohio River - but Lazarus should’ve gotten a chance at closure.

Don’t shoot, he said, drowning in his own blood, because that’s what you do when you love someone.

Renee would’ve liked to know if he’d had a chance at forgiveness, at least eventually. Any hope that Lazarus would’ve been willing to understand and maybe grant him that mercy, however unwarranted, for all the damage he’s done.

If there’s anything left.

If Laz is alive.

A sob presses against gritted teeth. Whatever frayed ropes still keep Renee together and conscious. Davin’s eyes are dark.

It’s so obvious now, but Renee can’t muster up the energy to be angry at it. Whether Davin intended something like from the start or simply grabbed each opportunity as it arose, it doesn’t really matter. Either way, no part of Renee believes the gun to Conrad’s neck is there for show, and he won’t have time to idle or collect his thoughts. No fighting, no fleeing, no freezing.

If Renee makes Davin believe he’ll be subject to a manhunt, Davin’s best chance would be to leave this room as the sole survivor, the only person left to spin a narrative. It’d be preferable, but the odds would be stacked against him. Painting it all as a one-man-job would be hard enough if Renee was known for planning ahead - he’s just not. Neither is he the type who would have the skills necessary to build a software capable of streaming a live feed on the darknet.

There’s too much smoke. Davin needs more.

Renee’s voice doesn’t work on his first try. He clears his throat and starts over, but even then, the words are quiet. “You can make him lie. They won’t—”

“Answer.” It comes out uncharacteristically rough, and Conrad lets out another whine.

Renee sucks in a breath. “I said it was me. He asked if… if someone was forcing me, and I said it was all me. I didn’t mean… I meant the decision, I meant… But there you go. So you can… you can make him lie.”

Davin is silent for a long time. Looking down, judging, chewing over the decision, something to that effect - Renee is too tired to guess, even though he knows that this is what it all hinges on. He keeps the eye contact as a sign of his own sincerity, however strained by exhaustion, until eventually, Davin opens his mouth. “Is that the truth?”

Renee manages to nod. When Davin still doesn’t react, he breathes it out. “Yes.”

It’s a standstill for another eternity, a wait that feels endless when you’re fighting the urge to close your eyes and let the dark just have its way. Slowly, Davin gives a single nod. He lets go.

Conrad crumples with a cry, briefly curling around his maimed hand before he throws himself away from Davin. In his painful retreat, he kicks up dust to plaster his back against the far wall. The jacket leaves a trail.

A wash of abject relief is buried by a pull from the earth beneath Renee’s body. He forces himself to direct his focus upwards. “Don’t kill him.” He winces. Numb hands slide aimlessly over the blood-stained fabric on his stomach. “You don’t have to kill him.”

Gun at his side, calmly stepping toward Renee’s flank, Davin says nothing, but it’s all the same - his word would’ve meant very little. To the sound of inconsolable sobs, to Renee, he vanishes entirely.

It doesn’t come from a place of acceptance, but Renee knows he can’t evade where it’s headed, and for once - just one time - he wants to face the bed he made with the kind of integrity that Lazarus always ascribed to him, or a front along those lines, anyway. He looks at Conrad without the spite he’s managed to instill in himself, a half-conscious recognition. They’re both crying, subject to similar forces, but the mirror is gone.

When Conrad’s line of sight shifts, his sobbing abruptly stops - the last breath just seeps out with a hollow, bewildered sound. Wide-eyed and unsteady, he straightens up, whole body tensing around the bleeding hand, and he inhales sharply through his teeth.

Renee knows exactly what the guy sees, but where he thought he’d find relief, he instead has to bite back a wave of fear. Goddamn self-preservation. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I’m not ready.

On and on, always, always, but he detaches himself from it, lays it neatly aside for the one thing that remains. It’s not enough, it never will be, but he has to say it, and it has to be now. As the hard barrel is pressed to a spot above his ear, pushing his head askew, Conrad lets out a panicked shout, and Renee Vaughan hoarsely tells him, “I’m so s—”

And with a sound that shocks through the confined space, a gunshot silences the rest of his words.

He looks up with an expression Conrad has never seen on him before knit brows over half-squinted eyes, lips parted. His gaze drifts from Conrad to the table, then back to the screen. "It's been one hour. How the fuck is it possible t-"

He stops.

"The house," he says low.

Something in it has made Conrad lean back widen the distance between them, but before he can begin to ask, Davin pushes up from the table, rushing through the kitchen. He disappears down the hallway, the sound of his steps travelling, and Conrad hears a door swinging open with enough force to thud against the wall.

The uncharacteristic urgency makes him lightheaded. Instinct tells him there’s danger here, that he should do something, but he’s nowhere near steady enough on his feet; Davin had to lend a shoulder just to get him to the kitchen.

Hugging himself with his good arm, Conrad grits his teeth, listening intently to for the sound of footsteps eventually scaling the stairs, then the creak of floorboards, or occasionally, the sound of something dragging. Then it’s back to the stairs, heavier thuds on the descent.

When Davin emerges from the hallway, he’s carrying a large duffel bag over his shoulder, one identical to those he carried the first night. He doesn’t say a word, just drops it in the middle of the floor and leaves again.

Conrad stares open-mouthed at the bag.

He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Davin is clearly packing up; all he knows, really, is that as long as he’s this clueless about what’s going on, he won’t feel a hint of reprieve. Why would they leave the house, if this wasn’t the end, somehow? The knot formed in his chest overnight tightens with growing anxiety, until breathing feels difficult and strange.

Davin returns, setting down a second duffel bag as well as a rucksack. Jaw set, he unwinds an elastic from his sleeve, bunching up his hair on the back of his head.

Conrad nervously clears his throat. “Did, did something happen?”

One last twist of the elastic, lips pursed in an otherwise neutral expression, before Davin turns his attention to him, setting off in a rapid beeline as he digs for something in his pocket.

The sudden, determined approach makes Conrad instinctively stumble to his feet, whining at a half-step on his bad leg. His fear doesn’t make Davin slow down. The moment he’s within reach, he grips Conrad’s wrist, yanking his hand forward.

“Dav—”

Interrupted by a wheeze when cold metal locks around deep abrasions, Conrad accidentally struggles to pull away, which only aggravates the feeling. Once his hands are cuffed, Davin pulls him forward, but his legs give out again. He cries out, but still hears the low grunt of frustration as Davin scoots him off his feet, dodging an elbow to the face when bound hands flail at the loss of balance.

An arm under his knees, the other on his back, steady enough, but Conrad still clutches at the man’s clothes as they head for the entrance. His head is spinning. “Wh-what, what are you—why are you—”

Davin opens the front door with an elbow. The rush of freezing air hits Conrad like a wall, instantly raising the hairs on his naked arms and biting through the thin sweatpants, bare feet curling in some attempt to shield from it. There’s a car parked in front of the driveway that he hasn’t seen before, a shiny grey Mercedes with half-melted snow dripping from the roof.

“Where are we going? Davin, where are we g-…?”

Davin doesn’t answer.

Maneuvering him into the back seat takes a while, not helped by the fact that the rush of freezing air quickly makes Conrad shake. Following the gut feeling that he’s better off complying, he does his best to move along, but the effort to shiver makes his whole body ache. When Davin lifts his hands to zip-tie the handcuffs to the grab handle above the door, the pain in his newly set shoulder makes him jerk back involuntarily. It looks like resisting, and Renee might’ve made him hurt worse for it, but Davin simply tightens his hold.

Three ties secure the short chain between his wrists. Conrad flinches as Davin pushes the door shut, thoughts hazy, but he’s grateful to at least be out of the biting wind.

Davin briefly circles the car to retrieve something from the trunk. As he walks back toward the house, he’s carrying a large petrol cannister in each hand. Pushing the door open, he disappears into the house. It doesn’t take him more than a minute minutes to reappear. By then,

Conrad is fully shaking from the cold, legs curled up into the seat, one bare foot covering the other to save the remaining warmth. In the brief glimpse allowed before the door swings shut, he thinks he spots a flickering yellow light in the kitchen. A moment later, a flame licks up a wall in one of the downstairs rooms – Davin’s room, to be specific. It’s quickly followed by others, puffing out plumes of black smoke as they curl up a dresser, charring white paint by proximity alone. It’s hard to see through the reflections in the window, but he’s pretty sure the room is clouding up already.

Davin is silent as he ducks into the car. Fishing out his laptop from the rucksack, he flips it open on the passenger seat. From where Conrad sits, it’s hidden by the backrest, but he can see Davin’s eyes flicker intently back and forth, searching. Eventually he straightens up, and his gaze shifts from the continual flicker to slower, arching movements, as if he’s watching a fly walk across the screen. Pursing his lips, he settles back, turning the key in the ignition.

Conrad’s wide eyes fix on the house as the car sets off from the sidewalk. In the closest corner of the tile roof, another small, glowing tongue quickly darts out from under the gutter, disappearing, reappearing, joined by others. The fire has already spread to the rafters.

Not long after the drive has begun, Davin makes the first of many, many unanswered calls.

💵

It’s darker down here, but a bit of brass catches the fluorescent lights when Davin half-releases the clip into his palm. Satisfied, he pushes it back in, cocking the slide, and then sits back with a drawn-out sigh, resting his elbow on the center console. “You keeping warm back there?”

It’s the first thing he’s said to him directly since this all started, and now that Conrad’s been able to glean a sliver of context, it feels like whiplash. Not long after they arrived in the city, Davin found a roofed garage without CCTV, and Renee called back. As with the first call, Conrad only heard half of the conversation, but there was an austerity in Davin’s voice that made even him snap to attention. You need to focus. Calm down. Listen to me. A short list of directions, and further off-handed mentions of what sounds like an army of cars, canines, helicopters…

Whatever’s happening right now could well involve a hundred people, and indirectly impact a thousand others. Gleaning the scale of it all makes Conrad dizzy, not because he didn’t know his case had garnered attention, but because it feels as though it zeroes in now, it rears its head – all because of him.

“I should’ve brought your jacket,” Davin mutters absentmindedly. “Slipped my mind. I’m sorry about that.”

Cars line the rows of booths on either side of the entrance, but people only walk around in the distance, closer to whatever stairs or escalators bring them to the ground floor of the mall. Some push carts, some are groups or couples milling about their daily lives side by side, colorful clothes almost dot-sized. If Conrad screamed, if he clacked the cuffs against the tinted window, none of them would hear him.

Huddled in the corner between the seat and the door, he tugs at the cuffs a little to ease the discomfort in his shoulders. He’s not warm, but at least he’s not shaking anymore. “How did, how did they find him?”

Davin sniffs. “Pertinent question, isn’t it?”

Conrad’s breathing has gotten somewhat rougher during the trip, and it feels familiar in a way that makes him nervous. He licks cracked lips, trying not to wince with the battered side of his face. Whenever his eyes shift to the gun, it’s hard to pry them away again. “They’ll find your DNA in the house,” he says carefully.

It prompts a chuckle.

“Or in his car, or…”

“Mhm.” Davin turns his attention back to the laptop.

“Maybe they already know about you. Right? If they knew about him, then…”

“He’s close now,” Davin mutters.

“So are they.”

“I appreciate the concern, but these guys are decent enough to keep their distance in populated areas.” Davin waves the gun vaguely in the direction of the passenger seat. “You can’t even see them in the live feed.”

Conrad clears something from his throat. “What’s the gun for, then?” Davin casts him a glance in the rearview mirror. “Self-defense. Renee’s on a bit of a spree, it seems.”

“What, what – what does that mean?”

They both turn their heads at the distant sound of sirens, whispering eerily through the air. Not long after, a low thunk echoes down the corridor of parked cars. From a down ramp, headlights creep around the corner of a wall, a small, blue car Conrad’s never seen before. Its tires whine on smooth concrete, front bumper grazing in a rather inelegant transfer to the level floor.

Davin turns on the ignition.

Conrad is scared to move. His voice is small. “Did… Davin, did Renee kill someone?”

The car stops five, six yards from the Mercedes. Overhead lights reflect in the windshield, blocking the view of the driver, but the door pops open soon after, only to swing half-shut again.

Davin lets out a breath. He picks up a cap from the passenger seat, flipping up his collar as he steps out. Passing the rear window, he’s tucking the gun into the back of his waistband, appearing in the rear windshield with his arms casually at his sides, although his pace is quicker than usual. With the driver’s side door still ajar, the cry of the sirens is exponentially clearer, steadily growing in volume, second by second.

Conrad grits his teeth, watching Davin pull the blue door open and lean down, only to rise a few moments later with an arm draped over his shoulders.

Despite Renee’s height, his silhouette appears eye level with Davin’s: folded forward, head bowed, legs bent at the knee. He’s limping, generally seems off-kilter, as if he’d drift to either side or outright collapse if Davin wasn’t propping him up. When the door opposite to Conrad is opened, Renee practically falls inside. A smell hits, the sickly sweet, almost oily singe of copper.

Davin wastes no time getting him settled. Slamming the door shut, he ducks back in the driver’s seat and immediately sets off, weaving through rows of cars towards the far side of the lot. As they near it, Conrad begins to hear a continuous, low whir.

Renee’s hand leaves behind a glossy print on the seat’s leather, arms visibly shaking as he pushes himself up. “Hi, Connie,” he says, a tone that might’ve been casual if he didn’t sound completely winded. He dumps back against his own door with a pained expression, shoe dragging a muddy track on the middle seat as he draws one knee up. It’s not until the Mercedes nears one of the exits and indirect sunlight refracts through the cabin that Conrad realizes.

Half of Renee’s sweatshirt, collar to waist, is covered in blood. It’s on his neck, on rolled-up sleeves, on his forearms and hands, and it runs down past his crotch, seeping into the denim on his thighs. A large patch of the fabric on his stomach is so saturated, the light reflects in the same way it would a puddle.

Conrad’s mouth opens.

Renee curls one hand around the other, gaze drifting out of focus. His skin is so pale, even his lips have lost color. “Ah… god…”

“Stay awake,” Davin calls back.

Letting out a vague laugh, Renee leans the side of his his head on the seat. “Yeah…”

Another short ramp feeds from the garage to a main street, forming a small queue of three cars, Mercedes included, steadily leaving the garage. Once they clear the roof, the sudden burst of daylight makes him miss, hands curling over the restraints. The whir is louder, beating the air like a fast drum. Overhead, a news helicopter circles the block, red logo stark against the sky.

Breath hitching in his throat, Conrad strains against metal to press his palm flat against the tinted glass.

Davin follows the row of cars slowly snaking around the perimeter of the mall, joining others as they shift toward the sidewalk at the sound of approaching sirens. He looks down, cap hiding his face as a police cruiser rushes down the oncoming lane, close enough to sound deafening as it passes by the Mercedes – for a split second, the mirrors are mere feet from each other.

Keeping his head on a swivel makes him dizzy, but Conrad can’t stop himself from staring out the back window, where the cruiser swings across the road to block the ramp they just came from. He lets out a small sound, heart hammering in his chest.

“When did they shoot you?” Davin says over his shoulder. He turns at a green light, following the flow of traffic away from the mall. “Hm? Renee.”

There’s no answer. Despite the rapid rise and fall of Renee’s chest, his eyes are closed, body swaying loosely with the movement of the car. Clusters of small scratches on his cheek and chin makes it look like he stuck his face in a pile of broken glass.

Davin curses.

The sound of sirens wanes before that of the helicopters, but even those are nearly inaudible by the time Davin blinks down a smaller street, then turns into an alleyway. Putting the car in park, he twists out of his seat, back pressed to the ceiling as he climbs across the center console.

Renee stirs when Davin maneuvers himself over him in the tight space, one knee on the seat while his other leg keeps balance on the floor. His gaze flickers, but doesn’t settle. He doesn’t react when Davin flicks a knife open, just murmurs. “F-… finger hurts.”

Davin snorts. “I think you have bigger issues.”

He lifts Renee’s collar and splits the fabric from top to bottom, peeling it off his torso. Two fingers gently pry at the edges of a seeping wound, almost like a star-shape on Renee’s stomach. The sweatshirt left behind a general haze of red, but already, darker streaks trace down his side.

“Does it go through?”

Renee slowly nods, not meeting his eyes.

“And this is the exit, mh?”

It takes a moment for him to think through the answer, and even then, it doesn’t sound entirely certain. “N-no, no, it’s…”

At the sound of sirens, Davin stops what he’s doing and stares intently at the street, but as the whining reaches its zenith, no cars drive past the alley before it once again disappears. They must’ve been on the main road. Letting out a tense sigh, he turns back to Renee, reaching around his side, seemingly to feel around. “Goddamn high caliber,” he says under his breath. He swiftly runs the knife down the sweatshirt from the other shoulder, cutting loose a square that makes up almost the whole front, which in turn is cut in half. “Did they sic a fucking sniper on you?”

Renee’s been expressionless, eyes following the movements of Davin’s hands. He squints at the question, brows furrowing slightly. “Tree,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“T-… tree. Or, uh… it went th-… through… uh…”

More comes out of his mouth after that, but it’s too slurred to make out, and his eyelids are drooping.

Before his chin can drop to his chest, Davin catches it. He sharply cracks an open hand against his cheek. “Stay conscious,” he says tersely. “Tree, hm? You got impaled on something?”

Renee blinks a few times. His eyes remain unfocused, but his breathing picks back up. “You hit me.”

Davin hums an affirmation. He roughly balls up half of the blood-stained fabric and places the bundle over the wound in Renee’s abdomen, then guides his hand on top of it. “Hold this,” he says. “You don’t have to press, just hold it.”

While Renee blinks down at himself, seemingly confused at the task, Davin undoes the clasp of his belt, pulling it off in an arch.

Renee snickers lazily. “Ha, yeah…” A syllable or two per breath; he doesn’t seem to be capable of more. “You’re not… not my…”

Looping the belt behind Renee’s back, Davin bunches up the second half of fabric, feeling around for where to place it, before he props it in place by putting tension on the belt. He peels away Renee’s hand from the front, lining up the black strap with the cut fabric, the wound.

“Alright, I need you to exhale as much as you can.”

Renee blinks vaguely at him.

“You understand?” Davin places a hand flat on his sternum, pressing down. “Breathe out.”

Hesitantly, Renee shuts his eyes and blows, cheeks puffing slightly as he does.

“Keep going,” Davin says, “keep going…”

Two or three seconds later, he tightens the belt with a single, hard tug to the side.

Renee’s whole body jerks, one foot kicking Conrad in the process. His head snaps back and hits the window, veins in his neck standing out as he grasps Davin’s arms, airways frozen on nothing.

Davin closes the clasp with ease despite the hands clawing to push him away. “You’re good,” he says. “Deep breath.”

Renee finally does choke down a gasp, curling over his stomach, face contorted. He lets out a growl, but it’s weak. “I’ll kill y…”

“Right.”

Belt secured, Davin presses a hand to Renee’s throat. For a split second, Conrad thinks he’s going for a chokehold, and clearly Renee has the same instinct; he lets out a hiss, pushing back.

Firmer than necessary, Davin swats Renee’s hands aside. “I’m taking your fucking pulse.”

A moment passes, and Renee leans his head back. Struggles to swallow under the fingers pressed against the side of his neck.

Conrad can’t tell if he’s staring at a murderer or not. The man is covered in blood, but it might all be his own. Even the hatred he emanates in Davin’s presence flickers like a light, fading and reappearing when Davin moves, as if Renee keeps forgetting he exists. Something wild in his eyes, but instead of anger, it’s uncharacteristically fearful.

When Davin hums and crawls back into the driver’s seat, Renee manages to maintain his scowl for the first ten seconds back on the road, until a pothole makes him grunt and curl up.

Conrad’s eyes are fixed to the hands guarding at his stomach, where dried blood has split into continents.

Renee notices, follows his gaze, and then winces. He shuts his eyes, resting the side of his head against the seat. “’S fucken’… somethin’ in me, dude.”

Conrad doesn’t say anything.

Weaving out from the inner city along narrow one-way streets, passing more blaring cruisers headed back where they came from. The apartment buildings get progressively fewer floors, and it’s been a few minutes before Davin turns out on the main roads again, and the flight picks up speed. He heads for a highway exit ramp. The sun is reflected in pools of melted snow on the road. They hurt to look at directly.

There’s a pricking feeling in Conrad’s fingers. To help circulation, he opens and closes his hands, but it’s no use when they’re raised above his shoulders. “Where are we going?”

He expects an answer, but it doesn’t come.

Conrad feels dizzy. “Davin, where are we going? You have to take him to the hospital, or that guy - the guy you took me to, Shaun. You have to—…”

In the rear view mirror, dark eyes glance up in acknowledgment, only for Davin to turn his attention back to the flow of traffic.

“He’s bl-… And you, you want to keep it going, right? Right? And you need him, so you have to—you need to—“

“It’s been dead for a while,” Davin mutters.

Renee shifts at that. Twisting in his seat, he lets out a hoarse, dry laughter, then plants a knee in the back of Davin’s seat, pressing forward.

Davin doesn’t see it, but the way Renee slumps a mere moment later, resting his temple against the door, doesn’t look like a response to physical weakness, and he’s not wincing in pain.

He looks far gone.