The radio fell quiet after that, replaced by a low hiss.
Zekai snorted.
Calm. They always said that.
Greyhaven didn't know how to be calm anymore.
From the balcony, the city stretched out in dull layers—brick buildings stained with soot, factory chimneys coughing smoke into a sky that never seemed to clear. Smoke drifted sideways, never up, as if even the air had learned to avoid escape. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed, thin and tired, before cutting off mid-note.
Trams rattled past on rusted tracks, windows shut tight despite the heat. Inside, passengers sat stiff-backed, eyes forward, hands clenched around bags. No one looked out. No one looked at anyone else.
Eye contact had become a risk.
Posters clung to the walls below.
WORK BUILDS STABILITY.
REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY.
Most were torn down the middle or burned at the edges, smiling faces scratched out until the words meant nothing—or worse, something unintended.
People still walked the streets, but they didn't linger. Conversations ended quickly. Doors shut fast. Locks clicked twice.
Even the children played differently now—staying closer to their parents, games tighter, quieter. Fewer shouts. Less running. Their eyes drifted toward alleys more often than swings.
This was Virellion.
His country.
A place that insisted it investigated problems while quietly filing them away. Where criminals disappeared into paperwork. Where bodies were explained as hysteria, gang violence, accidents no one bothered to revisit once the ink dried.
And now someone was carving letters into corpses.
The glass reflected Zekai faintly.
Messy black hair that never stayed down. A thin face that always looked like it hadn't slept enough. Purple eyes—too sharp for someone who pretended not to care.
He stepped onto the balcony, elbows resting against the cold railing, watching a patrol car crawl past below. Its lights were off. The officers inside didn't look up.
They never did.
"Still murder," Zekai muttered.
The city didn't argue.
It just kept breathing—slow and heavy, like something waiting for permission to stop.
Below him, the street filled in. Children chased each other near the corner, laughter bouncing unevenly between buildings. A woman stood at the park entrance, holding her child's hand too tightly. The boy squirmed, trying to pull free.
The man beside her wasn't watching the child at all.
His gaze lingered on a woman passing by, eyes tracking her longer than they should have. Measuring. Deciding.
The child stumbled.
For a fraction of a second, the street seemed to hesitate—like it was waiting to see what kind of people they were.
No one reacted.
Zekai did.
He saw the woman's grip tighten a second too late—not care, just panic. The man's attention stayed elsewhere, already calculating something he wouldn't admit to himself.
Three seconds.
That was all it took.
If the child had fallen harder, the mother would've blamed the street. The father would've blamed the city. Neither would've blamed themselves.
Zekai exhaled softly.
His fingers flexed against the railing without him realizing it.
"Predictable," he murmured.
He wondered how long before he stopped noticing at all.
He clicked his tongue once, quiet.
"What a fool's life."
His gaze drifted, unfocused, following nothing in particular.
What was life, anyway?
Working. Loving. Marrying. Having children. Repeating.
Was that the order—or just the shape everyone stepped into because it was easier than asking if it fit?
Zekai leaned forward until his forehead touched the cool metal railing. The chill seeped into his skin, grounding in a way sleep never managed.
"Everyone's a fool," he said quietly. "Just pretending they aren't."
He went back inside.
For a moment, he thought about the kitchen—about whether his grandfather would complain about the food tonight. The thought irritated him, and he pushed it away.
The apartment swallowed him with familiar clutter—circus posters peeling at the corners, old props stacked in places they didn't belong. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to.
He lay down again.
Sleep took him faster this time.
It was the kind of sleep that didn't dream—just dropped him somewhere dark and heavy, like sinking without falling.
Night arrived without ceremony.
A heavy knock shook the door.
Zekai jolted awake, heart snapping hard against his ribs. For half a second, the room felt wrong—too dark, too tight—before the second knock hit, louder, sharper.
He scrambled upright, nearly slipping off the couch.
The clock on the wall read 8:03 PM.
"Already?" he muttered.
"…Grandpa?"
He pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his face. "I'm coming, Pops. Stop it."
The knocking didn't stop.
Zekai frowned and crossed the room. "Alright, alright—"
He opened the door.
A man stood in the hallway, hat clutched in both hands. Middle-aged. Tired eyes. A circus jacket worn thin at the elbows, threads fraying where fabric had given up first.
"Are you Zekai Krystan?" the man asked.
Zekai hesitated. "Who are you?"
"I work with your grandfather," he said.
"My name is Helvin Jan."
Something tightened in Zekai's chest.
"You're Marcus's grandson," Helvin continued. "Right?"
Zekai nodded slowly. "Where is he?"
Helvin's gaze slid past him, into the apartment. Took in the dimness. The mess. The absence of noise.
Then he lowered his head.
Zekai's irritation flared. "Why are you hesitating?" he snapped. "Say it. I still have to cook. He hates it when I burn the oil."
Helvin removed his hat. His fingers trembled slightly along the rim.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Your grandfather… passed away during the performance."
Zekai laughed.
The sound slipped out sharp and wrong, too loud for the narrow hallway.
"That's his trick, right?" Zekai said. "Fake collapse. Curtain call. Applause."
Helvin didn't smile.
"Believe me or not," Helvin said quietly. "He's gone."
The words didn't hit all at once.
They slid in sideways, catching on something in Zekai's throat. He swallowed. The pressure stayed.
The hallway light buzzed once overhead.
Just a short, tired flicker—then it steadied.
Zekai hadn't realized he was holding his breath.
The hallway felt smaller.
His fingers tightened around the doorframe. The floor tilted just enough to be noticeable, like the building had shifted without warning.
"…oh," Zekai said.
His gaze drifted to his right hand.
He didn't know why.
His fingers were curled slightly inward, as if they had been holding something for a long time—and had only just let go.
The sensation didn't fade.
It settled.
Helvin said something else—about arrangements, about the show ending early—but Zekai barely heard it. The words passed through him, weightless.
Still murder, the radio had said.
✦ End of Chapter 2 — Still Murder ✦