"Stop overreacting, everyone." Lee's voice sliced through the chaos, sharp with irritation as he addressed the people circling them like they were gawking at some fucking freak show. "He is not dead."
Paul was sprawled across the floor, a small pool of blood gathering around his palm, with a butcher knife lying motionless beside his body.
For a fleeting moment, the scene looked disturbingly like the aftermath of a murder–a mysterious corpse of some elite, discovered in the most fucking unconventional place imaginable.
"If he is not dead then why," a neatly dressed man in a black suit stepped forward, gesturing toward Paul, "there is blood on his shirt and hands? Was he playing with tomato sauce?"
Lee threw an unfazed stare at him. "Wanna find out Sherlock?"
He crooked two fingers, gesturing for the man to step closer. The guy hesitated, visibly reluctant, but eventually followed the cue.
