POV: Officer Jordan
Officer Jordan had seen some shit in his time, but this… this was just sad.
The kid was being carted out on a stretcher, zipped up in a black bag, yet his face still somehow looked peaceful. He'd died sometime in the night. A gas leak, apparently. Quiet. Quick. At least, that's what they hoped.
What made it worse? His family, mom, dad, younger sister, had died in a car crash the same night. Different part of town. No one had connected the two until the next morning.
A cruel, cosmic joke.
Jordan sighed and took another look inside the apartment. It was a mess, clothes on the floor, ramen cups stacked like a makeshift tower, two monitors still glowing. The air smelled faintly of burnt plastic and whatever gas had leaked out. A single oscillating fan kept turning like nothing happened.
On the bed sat a notebook, half-buried in a tangle of bedsheets and hoodies. Jordan picked it up, curiosity getting the better of him. Amateur stuff, but passionate. Sketches of monsters, battle scenes, oddly-shaped continents, magic circles with notes scribbled in the margins. The handwriting was god-awful.
He flipped to a page marked with sticky tabs. A language key. Symbols and translations. The kid had put time into this. Might've been his own world.
Jordan ran a finger along the edge of the page and shook his head. "Shame."
He didn't know what he was supposed to do with it. No family left. No next of kin. Technically, it wasn't his to take. He set the notebook back on the bed with care. Let the cleanup crew handle it.
He stepped out of the room just in time to see the ambulance pulling away.
God, this job sucked the soul out of you sometimes.
---
POV: Luke (Panicking Mugger)
"Shit. Shit. Shit."
Luke was fucking panicking.
He hadn't meant to actually stab the guy. It was just supposed to be a mugging, flash the knife, grab the wallet, bolt. Easy. Done it before.
But this dumbass, this short, black-haired, brickhouse idiot, charged him like he had something to prove. Luke didn't even think. He just reacted.
His arm jerked up.
The knife went in.
Right into the guy's neck.
Luke staggered back, hands shaking, heart pounding in his throat. The guy hit the ground hard, clutching at his bleeding throat, eyes locked on him with pure fury. No fear. No begging. Just hate.
And then… the light in those eyes started to go out.
Luke looked at his hands. Blood. Looked at the guy. More blood. It was spreading too fast, pooling under his head.
"This is bad. This is so fucking bad."
He wasn't going to prison. He was already dead if he stayed. Fuck the guy. Fuck the cops. Fuck everything.
He turned to run-and then remembered the wallet. Still in his hand.
"Shit-"
He dropped it. Or threw it, more like. It hit the ground, flopping open. A single card spilled out. An ID. The name was smeared with blood, but the first word was still clear:
Guy.
Luke didn't stop to read the rest.
He ran.
With the last vestiges of life fading from Guy's body, he uttered only a few words.
"fucking fa**ot…"