Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The body is gutted from pelvis to mouth, one long, clean cut that appears surgical to Edwin, precise and neat, a gory contrast to the mess of meaty entrails spilling out from the corpse, over the edges of the countertop and down onto the floor. He blinks and sees the way his own organs had piled atop each other, how they'd rotted and melded into something unrecognizable as human. Nothing but defeated prey.

He turns back to their client. She has her face buried in Charles’ shoulder as she sobs, Charles patting her back comfortingly even as she drips blood onto the floor.

She can't be more than an hour dead, but Death hasn't found her yet. It's highly dangerous, the three of them being here at her murder scene, but she'd rushed for their office as soon as she realized what had happened– a fan of the supernatural during her life, and now needing their help in her death. Her ghostly form is still showing signs of trauma– not surprising, with her corpse only a few feet away.

What disturbs Edwin is that her body is still here, untouched. No police. Georgie had described her death in brutal detail, including her screams for help and attempts to fight back. Edwin can see shattered dishes and a kicked-in cabinet in the young woman's kitchen that prove she was telling the truth.

So how is it that no-one has been alerted to her murder?

Edwin takes a few careful steps forward, close enough that Georgie's view of the body is blocked. He coughs gently.

Georgie shifts her head so she can see Edwin, her sobs slowing down. She doesn't leave Charles’ embrace, and Edwin can't blame her.

“Are you certain you would not rather return to our office to discuss your case?” Edwin offers again. “Charles and I can check over your flat at a later date, I assure you we are very thorough and–”

“No!” Georgie shouts, cringing at the sound of her own voice.

Charles whispers something that sounds like, “you’re safe with us, yeah?”

A few deep breaths later, Georgie relaxes enough to speak again. “No,” she repeats. “There’s something, I don’t know– something drawing me back here. I have to know who killed me to move on, right?” The boys exchange a tentative nod– it's a likely guess, but impossible to confirm until they know more. Still, Georgie takes it as proof. “Right. Well, maybe the killer missed something. Maybe they're going to come back. We need to look around.”

Selfishly, Edwin doesn't want to investigate alone. Every time he blinks he's reminded of the way his flesh would congeal and cool, the way bones would crunch and muscles would snap. It is unlikely the killer here holds the same kind of hunger as the spider. Still…

Charles meets Edwin's eyes over Georgie's shoulder, and determination settles over his features. He turns Georgie to face him.

“Right, we're gonna have a look around, yeah?” Georgie nods feebly, and Charles grins at her, bright and reassuring. “Can you do us a favor and write down everything you can remember about this week, from the time you woke up to visiting us? Helpful to have a written account, detailed as you can make it.” As he talks, Charles rummages around in his bag for a moment before producing a plain leather journal and fountain pen, both of which he hands to Georgie.

Edwin is once-again struck by Charles’ quick-thinking. Putting Georgie to such a task could provide more clues to her murder, but, more importantly, it will keep her occupied, head down, focusing on her memories instead of the grisly scene in her flat.

When Charles comes to stand by his side, Edwin quickly squeezes his shoulder as thanks.

With Georgie's body already investigated, the boys start with the rest of the kitchen, quietly opening cabinets and drawers.

“I don't get it, mate,” Charles mutters, sticking close as they move to the living room. “Nice girl, friendly with coworkers, no jilted lovers or family troubles. Why kill her?”

Edwin hums, sticking his arm through the sofa and feeling for anything interesting. Nothing but dust and coins. He grimaces. “I agree,” he replies, wiping his palm free of unnecessary dust, “that a motive does not seem obvious. But not all crimes require motives. Sometimes, violence is just…”

“Violence,” Charles finishes. “Yeah.” Charles flips through the mail on her coffee table. “Just seems a shame we can't find more of an answer for her.”

They move to Georgie’s bedroom next, and it’s ordinary. Again. Edwin feels a mounting pressure of frustration behind  eyes.

“Doesn't make sense, does it,” Charles says, moving around Edwin to check Georgie’s closet, brushing his palm down Edwin's spine as he walks.

There's very little, Edwin knows, that frustrates them both more than being unable to help a client. It's the work of Edwin's afterlife, and Charles–miracle of miracle, Charles– has chosen that same exhausting, unending work instead of his paradise.

Edwin steadies himself, straightens and steeples his fingers together. “Well,” he begins, “the answers we need clearly lie elsewhere. We should–”

Georgie screams.

No, not a scream. Edwin's heard those many times before. This is a rarer sound, a gutted, agonized wail that comes from someone's very core. Edwin's only heard it twice before, and now it fills him with paralyzing dread just as it did before.

Only now, he's not alone. He has someone to protect.

“Charles, get behind me,” Edwin orders, moving as quickly as he can to the nearest vantage point that will give them a clear view of the kitchen.

“Edwin,” Charles hisses urgently, “what the fuck are you doing? We need to help Georgie.”

Edwin hears a near-silent whoosh from behind him, knows Charles has his bat out and primed for defense.

“I am sorry, Charles,” Edwin whispers back. “But I fear it is already too late.”

“What–”

Charles’ reply dies in his throat as they peer into the kitchen. Georgie's wailing cuts out in the same instant, leaving an awful void of sound to contrast the horrific visual confirming Edwin's worst fears.

Half of Georgie's face is…gone. Raw sinew and cracked teeth show the jagged line where one half still exists. The missing chunk leaves a shimmer in the air, a kind of oil-slick wrongness infinitely worse than Georgie’s physical corpse just a few feet from her ghost.

Georgie's neck is gouged through the middle, her left arm missing up to the elbow. Her remaining eye locks on the two boys with a level of grief Edwin hasn't seen since Limbo.

“Edwin.” Charles’ voice breaks halfway through the name.

Edwin spins just enough to clamp his hand over Charles’ mouth, hard. “It is awful,” he breathes, loathing that Charles must witness this too, that a piece of Hell has crawled up to find them despite a decade of running. “I know it is awful,” Edwin repeats, “but we must be very, very quiet.”

Slowly, carefully, he lifts his left hand and points to the thing in the room with them and what's left of Georgie. Edwin feels the startled gasp from Charles that he muffles.

Mercy claws at the seams of Edwin's composure when the creature does not notice them. It never had a proper name in Hell– just stories, terrible stories, of what happened when a ghost was devoured piece by piece, when they could feel themselves being torn to nothing.

Edwin had taken to calling them soul eaters.

The beast wrapped around Georgie’s legs is easily twice her size. Its pale flesh is turning pinker by the second, an added glow with each hungry bite. Six limbs– neither arms nor legs, but a combination of both– stretch up and around Georgie's torso, kneading at her body like a contented cat. Its eyes are closed in pleasure, and its mouth is red and wet.

Both boys are kept frozen in place by their horror, unable to look away as pieces of Georgie are torn away and swallowed, one by one by one, until all that is left is a hovering oil slick of nothing at all.

The soul eater crunches its last bite. To Edwin, there is something almost…grateful, about it, as though it needs to savour the taste, appreciate it fully. He does not bother to hide his grimace. The monster lumbers away after what could be a week of waiting, and Edwin collapses to his knees– barely managing not to phase through the floor– the moment he is certain it is gone.

Charles wraps himself around Edwin, holding on tight, and Edwin sobs once, loudly, before pulling Charles into his arms so they can cling to each other properly.

Edwin composes himself as swiftly as he can– a shoddy, barely-supported composure, just enough to get them out of this flat– and he makes sure Charles goes first when they crawl through the bathroom mirror to their office.

They end up on the floor again, backs to Edwin's desk, too wound up to speak.

Eventually, in the early hours of the next morning– Edwin's been counting shadows and keeping his mind blank– Charles speaks.

“We killed her.” His voice is hollow and cold, a tone it should never be. “If we hadn't– hadn't helped her, she might've– I left her alone–”

“Charles!” Edwin tugs them both to their feet and cups his hands around his partner's face. “Charles, a soul eater will hunt to the ends of the earth to find their victim.” He stares into Charles’ eyes, willing him to believe what Edwin's saying. “Nothing could've saved her.”

“Doesn't make it okay, does it,” Charles replies, running a hand through his hair. He keeps his other hand on Edwin's back. “Fuck, but that thing was scary. Why didn't it– why didn't it go after us?”

Edwin swallows, runs his thumbs along Charles’ jaw in even motions. “From what I have heard–” he catches the question on Charles’ face, and silently promises to answer it later– “from the little I have heard, the victims of soul eaters are…marked, somehow. A way to track them, and them alone.”

As always, Charles is quick to understand. “Georgie's murder– you think she was killed just to, what, feed that monster?”

“I can't be certain,” Edwin answers. “But it is a disturbing possibility.”

“Right,” Charles says, mostly to himself. “Then we'll just have to stop it before it takes anyone else.”

Chapter Text

Back when he was alive, Charles had made himself a promise. He’d scrawled it on a bare patch of drywall in the basement, praying as he painted over the letters that whatever gods were watching would forgive him for using a stolen pen from school. Asking for one from his mum meant his dad would know, and…well. Charles had sworn he’d keep that promise his whole life.

I will never allow anyone to be hurt when I can protect them. 

Charles supposes that death breaks a lot of promises.

Thing is, Charles only made that promise to himself, didn’t he? And he’s still around to observe it, thanks to Edwin.

Which means, in the grand scheme of things, Charles really did let someone get hurt on his watch.

Not just someone – a client. Not just hurt– but torn apart, devoured, eradicated in a way that Charles hadn’t even known ghosts could experience.

Georgie hadn’t deserved that. Nobody did, not even–

Just for a second– less than a second, so Charles could tell himself he’d never had the thought at all– he thought of Edwin’s murderers. They were all dead, now, moved on to their afterlives. Some had died in World War I, and deserved it, but others had lived to their eighties. 

Edwin had been killed at sixteen. All his potential, all his long life, ripped away. Was that any different than what the soul eater does?

Charles bites his lower lip, shakes his head to clear his thoughts without the help of the sting his teeth used to cause. 

Edwin needs him. Everything else will wait.

“Charles?” His partner’s voice is quiet, but encouraging. Letting him know he’s there whenever Charles is ready. 

Part of Charles is comforted, but the other part of him is horrified that Edwin needs to comfort him. Charles is supposed to be the strong one, the brawn, protecting Edwin from any threat that might dare to touch him. But now, after a monstrous nightmare from hell had devoured someone in front of the one person who should never experience hell again, Charles is the one who needs comforting? What’s wrong with him?

He’s spiralling, he knows he is, but snapping out of it requires Edwin and Charles needs him to recover, needs to support him and love him because even though Edwin deserves better, the best, he had chosen Charles, and–

“Darling.”

Oh. Edwin only breaks out the pet names when Charles is really gone. How long has he been sitting against the desk with his face in his hands, deaf to Edwin’s attempts to rouse him? 

Charles stretches himself out slowly, lifting his eyes to the ceiling, and arches his back, wincing. Some cruel god out there is laughing at the misery of the dead still able to feel pain, but Charles isn’t going to risk cussing them out. No need to repeat the Greedy Godsend Debacle of ‘94.

“Sorry, love,” Charles offers, standing up and holding out a hand to Edwin. 

He looks terrible, his eyes more gray than gray-blue-green, pomade falling out of his hair and leaving it in looser waves, bowtie coming undone. Charles feels an iron spike bury itself in his heart. “‘m sorry,” he mumbles. 

“None of that,” Edwin says fiercely, tugging Charles into his arms. 

Pine. Crisp winter air. Smoke from a bonfire. Charles nuzzles into Edwin’s neck, breathing deeply even though his lungs are rotted and any scent on Edwin should have long since burned away in hell. Edwin tips his head to the left, presenting more of his bare throat. Vulnerable. Trusting. His. Charles is momentarily lightheaded by a rush of possessive feelings. 

“Occasionally, what we witness on a case…affects us,” Edwin whispers. “Changes us, hurts us. We are both hurting, Charles. I do not wish for you to suffer, for any reason, but it causes me despair beyond description to think you are suffering alone. Please, Charles, let me help.” Edwin keeps one hand on Charles’ waist and lifts the other to the back of Charles’ neck, his lovely, long-boned fingers playing with the curls there.

“Feelin’ better already,” Charles sighs, pressing a soft kiss to Edwin’s shoulder before pulling back.

Edwin regards him dubiously, eyes narrowing in concentrated suspicion. “Charles,” he begins, “this is not something to be brushed–”

“Mate,” Charles interrupts, “I’m not lying.”

Frowning, Edwin strokes his thumbs along the delicate skin beneath Charles’ eyes. 

Charles sways forward into the touch. “I’m not lying,” he repeats. “I’m aces, really.”

Edwin’s smile lasts only an instant, but it’s enough. “You are a terrible liar,” he says.

“But you love me anyway,” Charles returns, and swiftly pecks Edwin’s nose. 

Their quiet is shattered by the sounds of sirens and breaking glass outside. Moments later shouts break out, and a car horn starts blaring. 

Charles and Edwin turn as one to the windows facing out onto the street. The glow of streetlamps is overpowered by harsh torches, armed police out on patrol. Charles can just make out the broken shop window that they heard only moments before. This started a couple months ago– some panic about the end of the world because the 1900s are ending, fear and protests and vandalism only growing as December 31st gets closer. 

It’s weird, sure, to think about the next millennium. Charles and Edwin spent their only years alive during the 1900s, met during the 1900s, started their agency, became friends and then more. But, at the same time, Charles figures that as long as he and Edwin have each other, their office, and cases to solve, then it doesn’t really matter what year it is. Although Charles should really figure out more about this internet that’s becoming so popular. 

“The living will achieve nothing through these violent demonstrations,” Edwin murmurs, turning away from the windows. “I cannot believe they are so worked up over nothing more than the passing of time.”

Charles finds even Edwin’s grumbling endearing. He’s really gone, isn’t he? “Were people like that before you were born? Leaving the 1800s?”

Edwin hums, steepling his fingers together. “My parents never mentioned any hysteria, and neither did my history teachers at St. Hilarion’s. Of course, that does not act as proof. Keeping in control– one’s ‘stiff upper lip’- was paramount back in my day.”

Charles shakes his head. “Reputations,” he grumbles, and Edwin nods. Though he’s done nothing but sit for the last several hours, Charles wouldn’t mind just laying down on the floor– with Edwin beside him– and getting as close to sleep as possible until tomorrow. 

Edwin, naturally, notices the slump of Charles’ shoulders. “Perhaps you could keep an eye on the office while I visit a few of the nearby libraries? I’m afraid our collection isn’t very well-suited to this particular case. I doubt libraries will be the source of any vandalism, regardless, so I should be perfectly safe.”

Charles doesn’t agree. Even though protesters wouldn’t actually be able to hurt Edwin– unless they start tearing up iron fences to throw– the image of a brick smashing through Edwin’s stomach or glass shards phasing through his eyes is upsetting enough. And there’s something else, too. Charles is good with people. It’s his job, yeah? Lately he’s been hearing…rumors. Mentions of some ghosts who are enthralled by the chaos. Who add to people’s hysteria, drive them crazy with hauntings, mix their own rage with the mess on the streets and make everything worse. Charles isn’t letting those ghosts anywhere near Edwin.

“Nope,” he replies, “sorry, mate. No way I’m letting you out of my sight. We can go together in the morning, yeah?” Charles strides to one of their overstuffed bookshelves and begins fingering the spines, looking for something useful. “Meantime,” he calls over his shoulder, “we can start with what we have here.”

“Very well," Edwin says. "Tainted Flesh, volumes one and three,” Edwin instructs. “Dark green leather, middle of the top shelf.”

Charles pulls the volumes down after a few moments of searching, setting them down with a thunk on their desk. “Why not volume two?”

Edwin flushes, glancing down at the floor. “That particular volume deals almost exclusively with monsters attracted to or fed by…lust. We will not find anything of use there.”

The smile pulling at Charles’ mouth is impossible to resist, and when Edwin rolls his eyes at the sight– a gesture Charles taught him, knowing how perfectly it would fit with his other mannerisms– Charles only smiles wider. 

“Do try and focus, Charles,” Edwin chides fondly. He moves to the desk, purposefully brushing against Charles as he does so. Edwin takes volume three for himself, passing volume one to Charles. 

Charles makes sure his fingers caress Edwin’s when he takes the book. This new intimacy between them is barely a year old, and even though Charles thrills at the layers its added, he’s grateful that their friendship is unchanged. Edwin’s still his best mate, his partner, his reason for staying on earth. Charles knew years ago that he loved him. All that’s changed is that sometimes, instead of spending a day off with Edwin reading to him, or exploring some part of the world they’ve never visited, or attending a concert, Charles sits in his best mate’s lap and kisses him senseless. It’s aces.

When Charles manages to pull himself out of his thoughts, Edwin is once more seated on the floor, posture perfect, reading. Charles knows he’s not going to get him out of ‘case mode’ for a while yet, so he sinks down against the bookshelf and flips open his own volume. 

“We should check up on the police report tomorrow, too, see if they have any leads on her killer,” Charles offers, partly to distract himself from the hours of silent, studious reading awaiting him. 

“Excellent idea, Charles,” Edwin returns, still not looking up. “We must not forget we are chasing two killers. Neither must escape justice.” 

There is a finality to Edwin’s words that reminds Charles of the tolling of a bell. Justice.

Chapter Text

Research, Edwin has found, removes completely the concept of time from his mind. There is no sense of day or night, of the schedules of the living, of other tasks he must complete. The only thing Edwin is aware of is Charles. 

The light, even breathing he maintains without needing to. The shuffle of his feet on the floor if he’s pacing, the shift of his clothes if he’s sprawled out on the floor. The way he mumbles new words to himself, trying out pronunciations before turning to Edwin and asking what it means. The tapping of his fingers against the closest surface, keeping him focused. 

Right now, that surface is Edwin’s thigh, and it is distracting. His mind feels split cleanly down the middle, one half studying gruesome stories of the living and the dead ripped apart by awful monsters, their hearts eaten, their minds warped, their bodies puppeted. The other half is concentrating on the fingerprints of warmth Charles is leaving with each touch. How Edwin wouldn’t mind if Charles’ touch crept higher, or inward, or if Edwin was wearing less layers. He must breathe in deeply through his mouth and let it out slowly through his nose in order to finish the volume open on his lap. It is with no small amount of relief that he finally snaps the thick tome shut.

“All finished, mate?”

When he glances up, Charles is beaming at him without a trace of subtlety. 

“You vex me unceasingly,” Edwin sighs, and leans the scant few inches needed to kiss him. 

Charles is wonderfully responsive, as always, moaning softly and tugging Edwin closer till one of Edwin’s legs slips into the open space between Charles’, and he is sprawled, most inelegantly, across his beloved’s lap. Edwin finds he does not mind it, and returns his focus to kissing Charles until he melts completely. 

By the time Charles pulls away, he has one hand fisted in Edwin’s white undershirt while the other cups the back of Edwin’s neck, warm and sure. 

“Edwin,” Charles pants, his breath impossibly warm across Edwin’s lips. “Either we move this somewhere more comfortable–”

“We cannot feel if a space is more comfortable, Charles, we are dead–”

“Or,” Charles emphasizes, undaunted by Edwin’s correction, “we head over to the station for some more research.” Charles tips his head to the window behind them. “Sun’s up, isn’t it, love?”

Edwin lifts himself up on his knees to peer over the top of their desk. Early morning rays are casting themselves over the room, the sounds of the civilized citizens waking up to assess the damage looters had done the night before. 

“You are correct, Charles,” Edwin replies. “The police station will be open, and the daylight will discourage other spirits to lay low while we investigate.”

Charles smooths one hand down Edwin’s back. “S’pose we’re puttin’ a pin in this, then?”

Edwin nods, grateful when Charles doesn’t press or pout, just rises to his feet and holds out a hand to him. 

“Aces. Got all the time in the world, don’t we?”

“Indeed. Well-reasoned, Charles.”

They mirror-travel to the closest station, pausing only to confirm the interrogation room they’re stepping into is empty. 

Typically, Edwin would look through case files for relevant information, while Charles hung around gossiping officers for any leads not written down. Today, by unspoken agreement, they stick together, starting in the offices.

This early in the day, no-one’s actually at their desks, which is beneficial, as it allows Charles and Edwin to investigate without sharing space with the living. 

Georgie’s murder is front and center on a whiteboard at one side of the office, but it is woefully lacking. The only photos are of Georgie, her parents, and her boyfriend, and the only notes are a few artless scribbles about her time of death, the lack of anything suspicious at her flat, and a reminder to please bring her boyfriend in for questioning this week.

“Shameful,” Edwin condemns. 

Charles scoffs in agreement. “Workin’ hard or hardly workin’, eh mate?” 

He grabs a sharpie from the board’s edge and, after an approving nod from Edwin, adds a few notes to the caseboard– checking her work life, her social media, retracing her last day for CCTV footage. Charles’ writing mimics that of the lazy officer’s almost exactly after only a few minutes of observation. It is truly a marvel to behold.

“Well done, Charles,” Edwin praises.

“Don’t usually like to be this overt, do we,” Charles returns, though he’s blushing faintly at Edwin’s praise. 

“I believe in this instance it is wholly warranted,” Edwin answers firmly. 

Despite the lack of effort on the whiteboard, a few buried files do lend helpful information– the addresses of Georgie’s boyfriend and parents, her place of employment, her health records. 

“Charles, please take a look at this and tell me what you see.” Edwin points to a scan paperclipped to the report of Georgie’s latest check-in. 

“Sure, mate, but you know I’m not as good at this part as you are.” Charles sets down his own file and ambles closer, sliding one entirely unnecessary arm around Edwin’s waist. 

“That is a blatant lie and you know it,” Edwin retorts, leaning into Charles’ hold. “Now look here.”

Charles lets out a low, concerned whistle. “Mate, is that– is that a brain tumor?”

Edwin nods. “I believe so. The doctor hasn’t diagnosed her– why, I cannot fathom– but the scan is quite revealing. Without proper treatment she would have been dead in a few months.”

“D’you think it’s intentional? Her being…chosen?” Charles grimaces down at the photo, and Edwin knows he’s reliving the day of Georgie’s death and subsequent destruction, the way Edwin has been. Another nightmarish loop of his memories, only instead of his own escape and torture, it’s his frozen, selfish cowardice as someone else is forced to suffer.

“I am not certain,” he tells Charles, yanking himself back to the present moment. “If Georgie’s condition was motive, and not unrelated tragedy, then we could be dealing with a serial killer.”

Charles shudders. “A serial killer marking victims for a soul eater to feast on. And the only way to know for certain–”

“-is for the killer to strike again. Correct, Charles.”

Silence hangs over the two detectives. Charles takes an empty photo album from his bag and clamps it around the scan of Georgie’s brain, creating a perfect copy they can take with them. Edwin nods approvingly, not trusting what he’d say if he spoke. 

He knows this is the type of case they both despise– one that requires waiting. Worse, their waiting will bring death to more innocent people. It is difficult to not feel responsible for murders that have not even happened yet– that might not happen. What if Georgie’s murder and destruction are not linked? What if the soul eater does not need another victim for years to come? A tiny, buried kernel of Edwin’s childish wants does not wish it so. He wants to catch this soul eater, eradicate it from this earth, pull free this tendril of Hell before it pulls him back. Edwin wants, selfishly, to be free.

Charles’ hand climbs up from Edwin’s waist to the back of his neck. “Still with me, love?”

“Yes, Charles.” Edwin cannot afford another breakdown. “Perhaps we should return to the office and–”

A clamor of voices in the adjoining room cut off Edwin’s suggestion. The layers of urgent, angry shouting puts Edwin on high-alert, and, without needing to check if Charles will follow him, he phases through the closest wall. An officer– young, if the patchy stubble is any indication– is standing in the middle of a circle of other, more senior-looking men. The young officer is covered in blood, his hands shaking, trying to explain what happened as the other officers get increasingly frustrated and loud.

“Speak up, boy! Get a hold of yourself!” one of them shouts, and the young man flinches. 

Edwin’s reaction is instant, squeezing Charles close to him, growling low in his throat. He knows this kind of anger. It is not permissible in Charles’ presence. Never again. He’s ready to drag them through the closest mirror– information be damned – when Charles leans in close to whisper to him. 

“I’m alright, Edwin,” Charles is saying, over and over. “I’m alright, yeah? We’ll listen to this and then go. I’m alright.”

Edwin memorizes the face of the officer who had yelled, and listens, pressing Charles as close to him as he can. 

“It– it was a standard noise complaint, you know? I was– was– was in the area, so, you know, practice and all that–”

“Did you knock first? Announce your arrival?” another officer interrupts, speaking with marginally more kindness than the others. 

The young man bobs his head. “Y-yeah, I did. The door was– was open, so, when I knocked, it, it opened, and–” the young man’s words break into panicked, heaving sobs that last for several seconds before he regains enough composure to finish. “She was– oh, God, she was gutted, like– like a fish, or– or I don’t know, but there was blood everywhere and she was dead and I didn’t know what to do–”

“Why didn’t you call it in?” A third officer jumps in, arms crossed. “It’s protocol!”

“I know!” the man wails, throwing his arms out and splashing several men with blood. “But– but I didn’t know what to do because, because–”

“Because what?” the officer, the problem officer, yells again. Edwin narrows his eyes. 

“Because it’s the chief! She’s dead!”

“Oh, fuck,” Charles whispers, just before the room erupts into chaos.