Chapter Text
The sliver of yellow light peeking through the doorway is drastically different from that of the calm moonlight bleeding through the curtains. Especially when it flicks on in the middle of the night, interrupting one’s already restless sleep.
Max lays on his side of the bed, having downed what little remained from a sample bottle of whiskey swiped from the drugstore before calling it a night. The warmth of the alcohol still lingers in his chest, letting the bed serve as his cloud as he drifts in and out of consciousness.
The room sways, only finding comfort in the darkness behind his eyes. So he keeps them closed, even when the other side of the bed sinks, the blinding light fading away by each amorphous shape.
Pulling off his tie, Sam’s mind is busying itself with details of the past day. Far too concerned about the coming days than what lays beside him. Come morning, the commissioner would phone in, asking for updates. The question is - should he be completely transparent? The girls he met on the street already don’t trust the local law enforcement, which is more than understandable. But with him, there’s a chance one will come forward. Is that worth the risk of compromising the case? Hell, he’s only one person. The commissioner has an entire team at his disposal.
With a deep, audible sigh, Sam rubs his temple. There’s no right answer - no matter what, somebody is gonna end up pissed.
Speaking of…
Max seems to be asleep or acting as such. The look his little buddy shot him earlier, geez, if looks could kill he’d be six feet under. There’s a small feeling eating him up inside, although it’s small enough to push aside. He could deal with a pissed partner, not so much another body on his hands.
As Sam stands to wash up, his feet hit the edge of a glass bottle, kicking it under the bed to be forgotten.
“Nothin’ yet,” Sam says to the other voice on the line when asked. It took around twenty minutes of prep for him to dial the number of the commissioner, gaining strength to do what he’s never done to him, lie.
“Should’ve known,” the commissioner sighs on the other end of the phone, “we’d already covered our tracks four times by now.” Sam swallows, drying off his sweaty palms onto his pants. Every pause the commissioner takes seems like a lifetime. As if he’s cracking the code - Sam has never been a good liar. “How far did you get on the list?”
Sam fumbles, his pad falling out of his hands as soon as he reaches into his pocket. With a small curse, he retrieves it hastily. He runs down the margins until he reaches a name unmarked. “Rebbeca Hill.”
A thoughtful pause. “Alright, just keep workin’ down the names. I’ll check in when I can.”
The line clicks.
Huh. At first, Sam stares dumbly at the wall - refusing to believe he got away with it that easily. The commissioner didn’t give him a second thought. How could he disobey his trust like that? Then, he shakes his head. It’s a small white lie, why all this guilt? Is it because he made the wrong decision? He places the phone back on the base, turning around when he meets Max, his relief short-lived.
Max sits on the sofa, gulping down a glass of bubbling Alka Seltzer.
“Oh!” Sam exclaims, his heart beating wildly. “Scared me, pal. How long have you been sittin’ there?” he chuckles nervously.
Max lowers the now empty glass. “Came in when I heard ya’ on the phone.”
“That so?” Sam laughs uncomfortably. “Didn’t see ya.’” He turns to busy his hands, collecting loose papers scattered about the table.
Max shrugs. “Guessin’ nothing turned up last night?”
"Huh?" Sam blinks, his mind too jumbled to think correctly. It takes a few beats to understand what Max is asking. "Oh, not exactly, I may have someone that could be helpful.”
“Really?” Max turns his head. Usually, Sam talks the commissioner's head off with useless details, it isn't like him to forget to mention something 'useful.'
Shit. Should he be keeping this from Max? The thought hadn't entered his mind. Has he ever kept something from Max? “Oh, well, could is a, er- understatement, I guess. Probably nothin.’”
Max nods slowly. “Alright,” he replies hesitantly, staring at the suds in his glass. There must be a reason, there has to be. Maybe it really is nothing after all.
Sam swallows dryly. He hadn't the time to think it over, to think of the consequences. He trusts Max, hell, he trusts him more than anyone. But the guy...can he handle this type of case? He isn't known for being the serious type, evident by yesterday's actions. Couldn't wait to get home to watch his stories. Not to mention, what if something happens to him due to his carelessness? No, no. It's better to solve this one alone. Deal with the aftermath later.
Still, the feeling of guilt grows, weighing him down like a stone. It’s all happening too fast, he doesn’t have the time to break down every decision from right and wrong.
"I, uh, met up Geek yesterday." Max scratches the back of his neck. "Says she needs my help with a project today, if that's alright with ya'."
Sam's shoulders fall. "That so?" He claps. "Well! Real sorry I ain't gonna be there with ya. Come back in one piece - never know what that little fireball is gonna do."
"Yeah," Max mutters, laying his glass on the side table. "See ya later Sam." For the first time since they started this case, Sam smiled. And of course, it's only when he's leaving. He decided to save Sam the effort and gave himself an excuse to lay out. Turns out that's exactly what he was waiting for.
"Leavin now?" Sam rushes to catch him at the door. "Guess I'll see ya later ton-" The door slams in his face before he can finish. Suppose he’s earned that one.
At last, Sam catches his breath. He didn’t mean to be alone in this, but it seems he made it that way - intentionally or not.
He’s in over his head.
Sam grabs his case file and rushes out of the house, thinking of the future victims as he waits for the lights to change.
“Yesss?” The apartment door opens ever so slightly, just the extent of the chain lock allows. Blue eyes peak out, scanning the man standing on their doormat. Before he has time to introduce himself, she calls back to what he can only assume is another roommate. “Is this the guy you was talkin’ about?” Then a familiar face appears just before the door unlocks.
“It is,” the girl Sam interrogated earlier pants as if she was worried he’d run off if given enough time to think about it. “Come in, please.”
Sam smiles sheepishly as he walks into the perfume-scented room. His gaze darts over four women sitting in the small living space. Three of which flash him surprised looks, presumingly from the presence of a uniformed man. The other can’t be bothered, smoking a cigarette by the open window. These must be fellow coworkers.
The woman he talked to yesterday motions at a loveseat. “Um, let me make some tea. You can sit here if you’d like.”
Sam obliges, now sitting in uncomfortable silence. Clearing his throat, he aims to cut through the tension. “How-?”
“Am I the only one wondering why the fuck the police is here?” One interrupts, looking around the group for an answer. She wears a fiery red boa as if she watched The Best Little Whorehouse of Texas and went with it. The three other girls wear sweats and hoodies.
“We’ve been over this,” the one who answered the door hisses. “He’s here about-” She motions vaguely. “Madilyn.” That shuts her up - her mouth closing audibly. Sam recognizes the name as someone on his list - the list nobody wants to be on.
“I don’t think I ever gave you my name. As a general rule, we don’t give our actual names, but you can call me Anne.” Anne returns with a mismatched tea set, setting it down clumsily on the table.
“Nice to meet ya’ Anne. And thank ya’ for meetin’ up with me.”
“Oh no, I should be thanking you.”
Another girl gives an audible hmph!
“So, do you - shit,” she curses, spilling some of the tea onto her pants. Sam retrieves a handkerchief from his coat pocket, offering it to Anne. To which gains the attention of the girls - even the one sitting on the window seal. “Thanks. Do you have any new information?”
“We have a make and model,” Sam says before the cup touches his lips. When he brings the cup down, they all look at him as if expecting more.
“Oh,” Anne replies, seeing there is nothing to add. “Is that helpful? I mean, it is right?”
“Well, uh.” He scratches his chin. “Not exactly. Narrows it down but it’s still a dauntin’ number. Got a long way to go.”
“Meanwhile the bodies keep piling up,” the girl at the window finally speaks. “Girls.” They all perk up. “Give us a moment.” They all keep staring, dumbfounded. “Now.”
All at once, they stand, without another word. Anne stays a beat longer until the one at the window motions her to leave as well.
Once the door clicks shut, leaving her and Sam alone, she speaks, “I’m not saying I trust you. But I don’t have a choice.” She pulls out a lighter from inside her shirt, lighting a cigarette. She flicks the tip once lit, flacks of ash falling onto the window seal. “I know who your guy is.”
“What?!” Sam exclaims, standing abruptly. “Tell me where he is and I’ll-”
She raises her palm, and Sam sits - seemingly under her spell as well. “I know his username. He gets women off of forums, promising a good payout. And sometimes - it works. Some girls make it out of there. Others aren’t so lucky.”
Usernames? Forums? It’s as if she’s speaking another language. “Where exactly does he talk to these women?”
“I told you - forums. You know, the internet?” She speaks matter-of-factly.
“Ah.” Sam nods, having only a vague understanding. “I see. So he tells these women he’ll pay them for, er, sexual favors - and sometimes it turns violent?”
“Exactly. I like to keep track of my girl’s whereabouts, and his username popped up a few times in our conversations. He doesn’t give his real name, obviously.”
“How do you know it’s him?”
“I only know a few clients that wanted to stretch a girl. Among other things. Including typing up his own contracts.”
“I’m sorry - stretch? Contracts?”
She shakes her head. “It’s better you don’t know. It’s not BDSM, don’t let him fool you, it’s torture. But he has you sign this contract, stating you want this, so you can’t file a report stating otherwise.”
“Damn. Guy planned this all out.”
“Now I don’t know if shit hits the fan and he panics, or if he plans to kill these women. Not like it matters,” she mutters.
“Wait, have you told the police this? You knew these women were getting killed and you didn’t do anything?”
She flicks the ash off of her dress. “You try being on the other side of the law someday, it’s like you’re a nobody. It took four killings for them even to bat an eye. We’re at the bottom of the totem pole. Hell, why do you think they hired you? No offense, you're nobody too.”
Sam swallows dryly. It does make sense, they’d never been entrusted with this type of investigation before. Is it because this case isn’t a priority? The thought leaves an ache inside, although he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Rather, use it as fuel to his fire.
“Right, well, how would I talk to this guy?” Sam asks.
Condescendingly, she gives him a brief explanation of the internet and how chat rooms operate. Sam scribbles the directions onto his notepad, creating a list of things to purchase as well. He’s to be on the lookout for the username ‘mundare’ in the group chat, oddly enough titled ‘Street Sweepers.’
As soon as it’s over, Sam stands, adrenaline hitting his system - taking the place of the coffee he skipped this morning.
The group of women is still standing outside the door, jumping back as the door swings open - their ears having been glued to wood. They back out of the way, looking at the detective with eager eyes. Sam only tips his hat, before jogging down three flights of stairs.
It’s still early enough that there’s no traffic in the normally bustling city. Fog smudges his headlights, the windshield wipers working overtime to clear the snowflakes falling onto the glass. Sam steps on the gas harder, thinking of the man sleeping with a roof under his head, after all, that he’s done. Not only that, the commissioner is on his mind as well. For different reasons, of course. But the thought of a man in charge pushing something like this away, like dust bunnies under a couch, sets a fire underneath him.
It doesn’t take but five minutes to reach the nearest electronics store. Several uniformed men lean against the brick wall, chatting before their shift along the line of stores. Sam walks inside, the bell chiming softly. A man behind the counter lifts his head, not expecting a customer first thing in the morning.
Pulling out his notes, Sam recites what he needs, only hoping not to come off as a complete idiot when it comes to these things.
“You’re just in luck,” the man says, “We only have the one.” He disappears into a backroom, still calling out to Sam. “Everybody wants their own computer. Especially the kiddos.” He returns with a large box, grunting as he places it on top of the counter. “You’re gonna beat Santa with this one.”
-
Geek likes her days quiet, routine - especially on holiday break. So when an ill-tempered lagomorph appeared dead center of her lab, she wasn't exactly pleased. Although she had expected him there, given yesterday’s painful conversation.
So she decided to make the best of the situation - using Max as her own personal lab rat. Luckily, he doesn’t refuse.
“Hold still,” Geek grumbles, tired of the pinpricks of blood staining her suit.
“Sorry,” Max sighs, yet again moving as Geek pins the fabric draping over his shoulders.
“Didn’t you want a flame-proof suit?” She throws the strawberry pincushion onto the table. “The way you’re acting you’re not going to get one.”
He shrugs, gaze cast down on the floor.
The uneasiness feeling bubbles once more, Geek unprepared to handle a situation such as this. It’s people that are unpredictable, no formulas or equations can help her to decipher them. She doesn’t mean to come off rude, or uninterested, it’s just the fact she can’t help it. There’s no manual on how to act around people.
Luckily Geek doesn’t have to think up another mindless conversation starter for the door kicks open. Entering the room is Sam, holding a large box, seemingly weighing a ton.
“Heya,” Sam huffs, “may need ya’ help with somethin’ kid.”
Max perks up, giving Sam a second long glance before turning away, muttering something under his breath.
“Like what?” She eyes the box, reading the letters IBM. “Setting up a computer?”
“Bingo.” Sam lays the box on top of a nearby table, wiping away some sweat from his brow. “Whadya’ say?” He smiles when Max shoots him a look, quickly averting his gaze when met with Sam’s.
“Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Oh? No project or nothin’ tying ya’ down?”
“No?” Geek replies, confused.
Max’s eyes widened, caught in a lie. With his face getting redder by the moment, he coughs, “I’ll stay here and, uh, clean up while you two do....whatever it is you’re doin.’” He looks around restlessly at the room before his gaze locks on a broom.
Sam looks over at Max as he walks across the room, refusing to believe Max would ever clean. Cutting off his thoughts, Geek speaks up, “Coming?” She has one hand on the door’s handle.
“Right,” Sam replies, staring hard at the back of Max’s head.
Max holds tightly onto the broom, staring at the tile as the door clicks.
-
The site of their office is shameful, neither having straightened up in weeks. Not that it ever looks clean, but the stacks of loose papers are usually picked up, at least. Sam carefully works his way through the maze of propped boxes and books to reach his table.
“You’ll need the internet, which I doubt you have,” Geek says, hopping onto Sam’s chair. She politely ignores the deteriorating state of the room. “But you can probably feed off the neighbor’s.”
Sam takes the computer out of the box, packing peanuts flying everywhere in the process. “To be honest, heh.” Sam pauses to scratch the back of his head. “I’m a little over my head here.”
“First, plug the tower in.” Sam blinks, wide-eyed. He already spent years struggling over a typewriter, but this is an entirely different ballgame. Sighing, Geek reiterates, “The tall one.”
“Oh!” Sam snaps his finger. He grabs the tower and gets under the desk.
“What do you need the computer for? Scientific journals, articles, statistical tables…?” she lists, refusing to believe they know how to do any of which.
“Uh, not exactly.” Sam tries to stand, slamming his head on the table. With a small curse, he straightens his back. “You, uh, heard anythin’ bout chat rooms n’ such?”
“Chat rooms? That’s it?” Geek sighs, rubbing her temple. She could do anything, and here she is, wasting her time setting up a computer for her father to meet and greet.
It’s not like Sam would share any grime details about the case. Sure Geek has seen some of what the world is like. Much too soon for Sam’s liking. Sam’s eyes fixate on the back of Geek’s head, occasionally glancing at the mirror of the computer screen. Between the lines of codes, he can see her round face, looking too grown up. He places the palm of his hand on top of her head, ruffling some of her hair. She doesn’t even look up, completely transfixed.
It takes another half hour until the startup noise finally chimes. A few minutes after that, Geek motions at Sam. Sam, standing off to the side eating a doughnut, sets down the pastry and dust off the crumbs from his jacket.
“You can search the directory here for topics.” With the mouse, she points to the search bar on the program. “And just type how you’d normally.”
“So say I had the name of a group chat, I could just search it there?”
“Yep, that’s it. You’ll need to make an account, though.” Geek hops off the chair, “But I think even you can figure that out.” She leaves shortly after.
Sam cracks his knuckles, seating himself with the deliberation of a surgeon about to scrub up. But just as his fingers lay above the keyboard, he freezes. He’s used the local computers at the library before, but this is entirely different. Usually, he’d type out the address printed in Max’s National Geographic magazine and let him read whatever it was he was interested in. (Usually volcanoes, or other explosives.)
As the menacing line blinks in mockery, he’s stuck without a name. He’s only here for one reason, and it isn’t for volcanoes.
Cringing, he types the first thing that pops up in his mind, thankful that Geek is no longer in the room. ‘Madmax,’ what kind of codename is that? It's not like it matters. It doesn’t take long after that to find the search bar, enter the name of the group he wrote down earlier. Just as his confidence is tentatively rising, it’s shot down. The entire program shifts, nearly unrecognizable with icons and hyperlinks.
This is going to take longer than he thought.
14:05:56 MADMAX joined the chatroom…
Sam’s eyes fixate on his username, waiting for a response. There are well over thirty individuals in this chat, surely one...ding!
15:08:24 howl_09 who r u?
Shit, are they already suspicious? Hands hovering above the keyboard, he desperately tries to think of a response. Luckily, he doesn’t have to.
17:02:15 marino player hasnt been online in a while. prob set one up without telling us
17:48:17 howl_09 => MADMAX u prob right. so what brings u here?
The conversation continues without much of a hitch. Luckily, Sam’s ignorance works in his favor. The members are more than willing to educate him on some of the ‘terms.’ He uses the narrative that he’s new to sex work, recently graduated, and he could use a few tips. Other than a few salacious offers, he comes up empty in his search for the culprit.
The overhead lights return Sam to the world of crumbled coffee cups and forgotten paperwork. He squints at the glare, blinking away the washed-out blue light from the computer screen. More time had passed than he thought. “Max?” Sam mutters, voice thick with sleep. “That you, pal?”
“Yeah, just me,” Max replies, slamming the door behind him.
“Didn’t realize it was so late.” Sam leans back in the chair, rubbing his sore eyes. Looks like the user mundare isn’t going to make an appearance tonight.
Max pauses in the living room, hesitating before broaching the subject. “How did it go today?” He makes note of the large cardboard box sitting adjacent to Sam’s desk. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Guess you could say that,” Sam chuckles.
Looks like that’s all Sam has to say about the matter. No reason to persist, man ain’t gonna crack. They stand tensely, waiting for the other to make the first move. Max can feel his heart beating, the anger mounting since this morning.
Seemingly reading the look on Max’s face, Sam asks, “Doin’ okay, pal?”
Max opens his mouth, then shuts it. Tapping his foot, he tries to stop the words from boiling over. It doesn’t work.
“Member’ the first thing you said to me? This could be an opportunity. Not t’ fact people died.”
Sam doesn’t comment, sitting silently.
Max’s jaw flexes, refusing to meet Sam’s eyes. “You’re in this for the wrong fuckin’ reason. Sure we didn’t get in this business to help people, but we sure didn’t do it to kiss asses.”
Another moment passes. Sam stares dumbly at the lagomorph with large disbelieving eyes.
Max lowers his voice. “You...you ain’t even tellin’ the commissioner bout’ what you find, are you? Keeping it all to yourself. Just for the big catch.” He shakes his head. “I heard ya’ this mornin.’ Didn’t tell him a thing about yesterday. It ain’t like you.”
“It,” Sam swallowed thickly, “it wasn’t important.”
“Bullshit.”
Sam places either hand on the desk, pushing the chair out. “Not like I’d expect you to understand. You don’t know what it takes to keep the lights on,” he mutters while pacing around the room, trying to find something to keep his hands busy before he loses his composure.
Max jumps in response to the sudden movement. “I don’t believe ya, Sam. Not one bit. You keep sayin’ it’s for financial shit, but it ain’t! This is deeper than that, ain’t it?” Suddenly his voice strains. “Somethin’ inside you. How ya’ don’t believe you’re good enough but somehow this’ll prove your worth.”
Sam pauses, staring at the paperwork, not registering a word on the page. “It’s not like that.”
But it is, isn’t it? What good is he if he can’t even catch one guy? But he isn’t hiding anything, it’s the simple truth the commissioner doesn’t care.
“Ya’ need to take care of yourself first. What good are ya’ exhausted like this?”
Max isn’t telling him anything he doesn’t already know, things he doesn’t want to hear. Before he can keep control of his impatience, it erupts. “I need to finish this case, Max,” he hisses, slamming papers down. “I don’t matter.”
“What?” Max immediately interjects. The grim set of Sam’s mouth says everything, it’s clear he’s crossed a boundary. He can’t fault Sam being annoyed, but it’s hell seeing him like this - wasting away for the betterment of a client. Swallowing his nerves, Max speaks softly, “Whadya’ mean by that?” Max steps tentatively towards Sam, meeting his distracted, dark eyes. “That’s - that’s my friend your talkin’ bout’. My partner.
Sam rakes his fingers through his hair. “Jesus, I - I didn’t mean it like that. Just - just let me work. If ya’ ain’t gonna help me, leave.”
Max searches Sam’s face, looking for a sign in his eyes telling him he didn’t mean it, it was just an outburst. But the glint in Sam’s eyes stays, glaring back into Max’s. “Alright, Sam,” Max blurts out, “I’ll go. Hope you catch your big break.”
Max stops at the doorway, listening keenly for the apology that isn’t coming. When it’s clear he isn’t going to hear what he wants, Max leaves.
Sam slumps back onto the worn chair, resting his head in his palms. Not a second passes before another ding! chimes, signaling a new message in the forum. He listens to the clock ticking like the beat of a metronome, counting to thirty, before resuming work.
The snowy sidewalk is occupied by men and women on their way home from work - eager that holiday break is just around the corner. Looking up at the passing faces, Max feels detached from the world. They’re probably talking about dinner plans, eager to get home to their loved ones. And here he is, about to drown his sorrows.
It doesn’t take long to reach the nearest bar, a local hotspot for young college-goers. Normally this wouldn’t be in his tastes, but if he wants to walk home tonight through a foot of snow, this is the best option.
In the shadows of the bar sits a man dressed in dark clothing. When a cop seemingly on patrol enters, it catches his attention. Adrenaline begins to pump. So far, he’s been invisible, but the presence of a cop could change that.
Except, the cop sits at the counter, waving down a bartender. Just like that, his confidence surges once more - the cop isn’t on duty.
Taking his time, the man downs the remains of his glass, assessing the situation. Sure he didn’t plan on this happening but this could be an opportunity. I mean, what kind of conscience is this? He can’t let this opportunity slip. Maybe he could even teach the cop’s partner a thing or two.
The man reaches inside his pocket and tosses a few twenties on the counter. “Put him on my tab.”
Max straightens his posture, glaring at the individual. “I can pay for my own drinks.” Despite the dimness of the bar, the man looks eerily familiar. Like a passing face in a sea of strangers. He doesn’t give it much thought, though. It isn’t the first time someone offered to pay his way. Although, that was years ago. Still, hadn’t he seen him before?
With a nervous twitch, the man pulls out a cigarette - though, he doesn’t light it. “Try the scotch,” he says, motioning at the bartender. They share a moment’s glance before he disappears underneath the counter to retrieve what Max assumes is a bottle.
“Ya’ still here? Well, who am I to deny a free drink?” To hell with it, if some guy wanted to flirt, he could at least get a few free drinks out of it.
The bartender returns moments later with a glass in hand, a bottle in the other.
“Hey,” the man says, punching Max’s arm for his attention. Max turns his head as the bartender pours the drink, too distracted to see him slip something from his sleeve. “What’s your day job like?”
Strange approach, guy needs to work on his pick-up lines. “Nothin’ interesting. Beat up a few guys, sign a shitload of paperwork. Though I usually skip out on that portion.” Max swigs the glass, slamming the glass on the counter once empty.
“Yeah? You’re not a cop are you?”
Max laughs, “What makes you say that? Done somethin’ I should know about?”
He shrugs. “Haven’t we all? I mean, are any of us really innocent?”
Max raises a brow, a feeling forming in his gut that this guy ain’t right. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Seemingly ignoring the question, he goes on, “Besides, aren’t some crimes worse than others? Like, how some bad people just deserve bad things. Somebody has to balance the system. Do a couple of favors for the rest of us.”
“What the hell are ya’ talkin’ about?” Max sets down his glass, turning in his direction. Just in case he needs to sock-it-to-him. When the bartender goes to pour more, he stops him. What was he thinking anyway? Mixing his meds with alcohol. Hell, he’s already feeling dizzy.
“Now I don’t think you deserve bad things coming your way. Sometimes people slip in the cracks. But, uh, hope you understand. I’m not a bad guy.”
“Ya’ just sound like a creep to me,” Max mutters, turning back to the bar to place his head in his hands. Shit, the place is swimming.
Suddenly, his demeanor changes. The smile from before disappears in a flash. “The fuck you say to me?”
A low-voltage shock shoots through Max. That voice…the spark of anger.
“After I buy you a drink.” He laughs bitterly. He digs inside his pocket, retrieving a white envelope. He slams it on the counter, which the bartender hastily retrieves. “I think you owe me one.”
“I don’t,” Max swallows down nausea, “I don’t owe you shit.”
“Damn, you don’t look so good.” The man stands, his face once again changing - this one showing genuine concern. Or what appears to be. He takes off his jacket, wrapping it around Max’s shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“Fuck off,” Max slurs softly. The ambiance of the bar slowly softens, until becoming nothing more than a single piercing tone.
“Just had one too many drinks, am I right?” He laughs when curious eyes look in their direction, carrying Max over his shoulders like a limp doll. They, too, laugh in return. Happy to see someone make sure he got home safely.