As Casper entered Mary's apartment — the old lady who commissioned the case. An awful stench overtook his nose.
The fuck? He thought, surprised at the sudden scent.
Turning on the lights, he saw a horrific scene.
Mary laid dead on her heavy, flowered armchair. Her head was tilted back at an unnatural angle, her skin unnaturally pale.
Both her wrists were slit open, her arms dangling over the armrests of her chair, leaving dark, crusting pools of blood on the floorboards beneath.
A cheap kitchen knife laid on the floor directly below her hands.
Casper was momentarily stunned.
He couldn't believe that Mary, that kind old lady, had taken her own life.
Walking forward, Casper noticed a thick wad of cash and a paper placed on the table in front of her.
Picking up the paper, Casper's eyes lingered on the words.
"I'm sorry."
That was all the note said. No explanation, no farewell — just those two words, written in crude strokes.
Images flashed in his mind — her warm, yet depressed gaze as she begged him to take her case, the raw relief in her eyes when he told her he found the man and the way her shoulders dropped as she took a relieved breath.
He had thought that killing Merxises was enough.
That retribution was enough.
But for Mary, there had never been a life after her daughter. There had only been a list of things to finish before she followed — taking revenge for her daughter.
A poor old woman like her couldn't live without her daughter and the guilt of ordering someone's death.
'Why do I feel so sad,' Casper thought with remorse.
It wasn't his fault that she took her life, such cases were common throughout the world — throughout every world.
This was not a rare occurrence.
Casper exhaled heavily. This was a woman who had gambled everything on one last hope, only to face a darker end than any case could predict.
The note on the table wasn't just a goodbye; it was a confession of defeat. That was the cruel truth, behind many cases like this — justice didn't always heal. Sometimes it just arrived too late.
Casper placed the paper back on the table and took his feet — twenty one pounds in total.
It was over the agreed-upon fee by a significant margin.
This wasn't just a payment for services rendered; it was a quiet, desperate thank you.
With a heavy heart, Casper sighed.
His eyes softened as he looked at the lifeless body before him. Casper removed his fedora and gave a small bow, paying his respect.
He then turned away, his footsteps echoing softly as he moved toward the door. With a final long look at Mary's still form, Casper gently closed the door behind him.
…
Casper stepped into the empty street, the city's cold night wrapping around him like a shroud. His eyes were distant as he aimlessly wandered the street.
We are all monsters. Some of us hide it better than others. Merxises was a popular socialite in Tingen, the kind that had a picture perfect smile. But underneath that was an obsessed, violent, and dangerously unstable man. A man blinded by what he believed was love.
The greatest crimes, Casper thought bitterly, aren't always committed out of malice and hatred. Sometimes they are done in the name of love and righteousness. The line between protector and predator can be razor-thin.
The world is built on need and desperation and the ones that fall prey to this cycle have no one to blame — the game was built like that.'
Thinking of that, Casper couldn't help but laugh.
People were pigs.
He turned down a narrow, shadowy alleyway—a shortcut he knew well—and that's when he saw him
Near a dimly lit pub entrance, perched on an upturned crate, was the paperboy. He looked even smaller and more frail in the gaslight, his breath came out in white smoke as he tried to sell his goods
A few meager piles of newspapers lay next to him, but his main stock now was contraband. Cheap, bitter cigars wrapped in tissue, and maybe a few illicit flasks of watered-down gin, huddled together in a wicker basket.
A pang of emotion, sharp and unwelcome, hit Casper. But, he quickly brushed it aside.
"Whatever, not my problem." Casper muttered to himself.
But as he continued walking away from the boy, he couldn't help but think — wasn't he the same as the pigs he criticised earlier?
He knew that he couldn't save every random orphan in East Borough.
But, at least he could make a difference.
"Damn my conscience," Casper thought tearfully as he took a 180, walking towards the boy, "The only reason I'm doing this is because his sister is sick, no other reason."
He convinced himself.
Casper strode toward the boy, his face scrounging up, he really did not want to do this.
'Fanatic writer?' Casper suddenly thought before shaking his head, he wouldn't engage in such petty matters.
Or would he?
Either way, it didn't matter, he didn't care much.
The kid looked up at the approaching figure, rubbing his palms to warm them up.
As Casper drew near, the boy's eyes lit up in realisation, "Aren't you that weird guy who wanted to know about the pink girl?"
"Yeah, the name's Casper by the way." He introduced himself proactively.
The boy nodded, "Casper…. you should know I'm not gonna engage in lip jobs if that's what you're looking for you sick freak."
"What?!" Casper was slightly taken aback.
The boy shrugged, "Hey, you can't blame me. There's lots of freaks in this city."
"....Yeah that I bet. Anyways, what's your name kid?"
The boy tilted his head and said with a chuckle, "Adem."
Casper froze, his face paling as the name hit him like a punch. "Dah fuck?!"