The Blind Banker

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/53213476.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: M/M
Fandoms: My Chemical Romance, Bandom, Panic! at the Disco, Sherlock (TV)
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Mikey Way/Pete Wentz, Ryan Ross/Jon Walker
Characters: Mikey Way, Gerard Way, Pete Wentz, Patrick Stump, Ray Toro, Brendon
Urie, Ryan Ross, Andy Hurley, Joe Trohman, Jon Walker
Additional Tags: Sherlock AU, Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Post-
Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Canon-Typical Violence, Unresolved
Sexual Tension, Developing Friendships, Blood, Murder, Pining, Mutual
Pining, Fluff, Alternate Universe, Surprise Kissing, Light Dom/sub,
Asshole Gerard Way, Morally Ambiguous Character
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of Frerard BBC Sherlock AU
Stats: Published: 2024-01-22 Updated: 2024-01-31 Words: 31,099 Chapters:
6/10
 The Blind Banker
by jenniferlawrence

Summary

Frerard Sherlock AU

S1E2-The Blind Banker

Gerard Way, a brilliant and eccentric consulting detective, takes on a perplexing case
alongside his loyal companion, Frank Iero. The duo becomes embroiled in a web of ancient
symbols, hidden codes, and a mysterious Chinese smuggling ring. Oh, and also, Frank wants
ONE date that doesn't end in murder.

Disclaimer:

This fanfiction is a creative work inspired by the television series "Sherlock" produced by
BBC and the music of My Chemical Romance and other bands. I do not own the rights to
"Sherlock" BBC, My Chemical Romance, or any other bands mentioned in this fanfiction.
All characters, settings, and plotlines from "Sherlock" belong to their respective creators,
Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, and characters from My Chemical Romance and other bands
belong to their respective creators. This fanfiction is a non-commercial work created for the
enjoyment of fans, and no copyright infringement is intended. All credit for the original
works goes to the respective copyright holders.
Series
 CHAPTER ONE

Frank didn't mind buying the groceries.

If he left Gerard to buy the groceries, they probably would have ended up with enough pasta
to feed a small army and a cabinet full of tomato sauce. That was if Gerard remembered to
buy the groceries at all. Frank found himself stuffing Gerard full of toast, crackers, and rice
any chance he got because if he didn't, he worried the man wouldn't eat all. Don't even get
him started on whenever Gerard took on a case. It was a miracle to get him to eat; forget
trying to get the man to take a shower! Frank had taken to spraying down the room with
Febreze every time the man left the room.

Despite his worry for Gerard's nourishment and his nose-burning stench, Gerard wasn't all a
bad roommate. Yes, he may keep the room a pig sty. Yes, he's in the most kindest words
possible, an unfeeling asshole. Yes, he may ditch Frank any chance he gets and leave him in
various dangerous locations. But, Gerard paid his portion of the rent. He left Frank alone
when Frank woke up screaming more times than not, drenched in sweat and looking haggard
as he stumbled out of his room to where Gerard lounged on the sofa deep in thought. He
didn't even mind that Frank smelled like an ashtray most of the time so long as Gerard was
allowed to sniff him creepily now and then when the urge to light one was strong.

Frank picked up a loaf of bread and threw it into the cart before pushing his cart towards the
checkout. He scanned his minimal groceries (bread, butter, pasta, tomato sauce, salt, and
peanut butter) through the self-checkout, the electronic voice guiding him through the
process with her loud and annoying voice. "Please place your items in the bag," the voice
repeated monotonously.

Frank placed the bread in the bag.

"Item not scanned. Please try again."

Frank huffed, scanning the bread again and bagging it.

"Item not scanned," the voice announced loudly, and Frank shushed her, placing his hands on
the screen. "You think may you could keep your voice down?" He pleaded self-consciously.

The teen employee watched him boredly, popping his gum.

The voice shows grace and allows Frank to scan the rest of his groceries without hassle. He
plucks his card from his wallet and inserts the chip into the machine. He presses his PIN and
watches a tiny circle spin around the screen. Then, it screams at him. "Card not authorized,"
it announces loudly in between beats, "Please seek alternative methods of payment."

Frank scrambles for change in his pockets. "Card not authorized," the machine repeats.

Frank shakes the machine around, "Yeah, I've got it. Alright!"
He feels before he sees a large shadow cascade over him, and he turns around to see the
bored teenager texting behind the large mountain of a man. Frank sighs, slumping dejectedly.

----------------

Frank returns to the apartment, grocery-less, shoulders tensed to his ears as he shuts the door.
Gerard sits in his armchair, cheeks flushed--although that could have been due to the open
window--hair disheveled, and The Catcher and the Rye held in his hands. He doesn't look up
when Frank enters the room. Frank doesn't think he's even moved since he left.

"You took your time," Gerard remarked, turning the page.

Frank felt steam coming out of his ears. "Well, I didn't get the shopping," he snapped,
crossing his arms.

Gerard looked up, furrowing his eyebrows together. "What? Why not?"

Frank threw his arms in the air. "I fought in the store. With the chip machine."

Gerard raised an eyebrow, scanning Frank up and down judgmentally, "You fought with a
machine? In the grocery store?"

"Well, sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse." Frank snarked. "We still need groceries. All
we have is the heel of the loaf and a piece of cheese with mold-"

"Mine!" Gerard claimed, jumping to his feet.

"Yeah, take it. But we need consumable food. Have you got cash?" Frank moved to the side
as Gerard dashed past him.

He nods towards the table, ripping the fridge door open, "Take my card."

Frank digs through Gerard's wallet, trying not to seem nosy when he spotted Gerard's driver's
license glaring at him. He finds his debit card and looks up at Gerard's hunched-over back.
"You could always go yourself, you know," Frank called out, "You'd been sitting there all
morning--you hadn't moved since I went out."

Gerard doesn't answer, producing the square of cheese and throwing it into a ziplock bag.

"What happened about that case you were offered? The Jaria diamond?" Frank asked
conversationally.

Gerard closes the fridge door, and shoves past Frank, kicking something under the sofa.
Frank would find it later when Gerard left and Frank would secretly vacuum. "Not interested.
I texted them."

Frank spots a scratch on their table and rubs it with his thumb. Gerard really needed to take
better care of their stuff--Frank had already had to replace the window once this month
because a teenager had thrown a rock and shattered it. It was a big rock, maybe even loose
concrete, Gerard had told him when Frank had arrived home.
Frank shoots Gerard's figure one last look before disappearing on the quest for groceries
again.

---------------------------

Frank returns, arms laden with groceries from a different store this time.

He dumps the plastic bags on the counter with a loud bang, although it doesn't phase Gerard
who had migrated towards the table and was now surfing the Internet on a computer. Oh, but
not just anyone's computer. Frank's computer.

"Hey, is that my computer?" Frank rubs the chill out of his hands, raising an eyebrow at
Gerard's figure. Gerard doesn't look up, rapidly typing.

"Oh course," he says dismissively.

Frank hopes he doesn't look as taken aback as he feels. That would just be more ammo for
Gerard. Gerard wasn't a bad roommate, but what was Frank's was Gerard's, and what was
Gerard's was Gerard's so what was Frank's? Over the past week, many of Frank's personal
items had come up missing and been found in Gerard's possession: his cell phone, his laptop,
his Bluetooth speaker, and Frank's t-shirts after he chain-smoked on the fire escape.

"Okay..." Frank drawled out, "But why? Where is your laptop?"

"Mine is in the bedroom."

"And you couldn't be bothered to get it?"

Gerard couldn't even be bothered to answer. He ignored Frank, continuing to do whatever he

was doing on Frank's laptop.

Frank stared at the laptop screen, frustration etched across his face. "It's password protected,"
he remarked, his tone tinged with annoyance.

"In a manner of speaking," Gerard remarked nonchalantly, eyes flickering up to Frank's,

"Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox."

"You guessed my password!?" Frank exclaimed, disbelief evident in his voice.

Gerard, unfazed, continued, "There are forty-three types of password. That people like you
commonly use."

Frank, feeling a mix of irritation and curiosity, sought clarification, "What does that mean?
'People like me'?" He crossed his arms.

Gerard's response was succinct, "Ordinary."

"Well, that's stupid. I better change it then."

"No point," Gerard tells him, and Frank deflates.

"No. I suppose not."

Frank watches Gerard click on Frank's 'journal-turned-blog' and he hurriedly reaches out to
snap the laptop shut, cheeks burning a bright red. Gerard and him stare at each other for a
moment, before Gerard speaks. "So, you've started a blog."

"Did you...did you read any of it?" Frank asks warily, sliding the laptop under his arm.

Gerard hums, stretching his legs out in front of him. "'Imperious'. Not a word I've ever been
called before." Gerard gives him a scathing look.

"I said some nice stuff about you, too," Frank blurted out, "I said you knew some good
restaurants!"

Gerard's gaze is blank, "'Pompous' has a 'U' in it."

Frank sucks in a breath, "Right. Thank you."

Both the men stare at each other for an uncomfortably long time, and then Gerard's phone
buzzes and he is sucked back into the digital world. Frank collapses into his chair, snatching
the mail from the coffee table and sifting through it. This looks familiar to Frank--Bills, bills,
bills. Frank's eyes widen at one of them, and he throws them back on the table. He says a
silent prayer in his head and turns back towards Gerard.

"Hey Gerard we're friends, right?" He begins slowly.

Gerard doesn't look up, "We are two people who share a living space and I take you to
murder scenes. I would say we're close roommates at best."

Frank gulps. "Right. Well, look...if you could find it in your heart to lend me some..." Gerard
doesn't even seem to be listening to him now, "Not much. And I'll pay you back..." Beat. No
response. "Gerard? Did you hear what I said?"

Gerard leaps to his feet, pointing at Frank, "I need to go to the bank."

Frank's eyes widen, "What?"

Gerard doesn't answer, tugging on his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck. Frank
sighs and walks over to smooth Gerard's hair down and smudge his eyeliner back to
something suitable. Once he looks less like somebody living on the street, Frank nods at him.
Gerard nods back, and the two wrestle on their shoes before flying down the staircase.

---------------------

Gerard leaps out of the taxi into the busy street, tugging Frank along with him through the
throngs of important-looking people. As they approached the building, they were greeted by
a sleek and modern facade, a towering structure that stands out in the skyline. The building's
exterior is characterized by its reflective glass surface, giving it a contemporary and dynamic
appearance. A gleaming sign blinded Frank as they got closer: Shad Sanderson.
Gerard swung open the door, nearly clocking Frank in the head, and confidently strides
through the lobby, featuring high ceilings, modern furnishings, and a polished aesthetic.
Frank eyes the chandelier warily and darts his eyes back to Gerard's back, terrified of losing
him in the chaotic mess of clients. After suffering through countless spiraling stairs and
escalators galore, they found themselves inside a vast high-tech atrium, surrounded by glass
lifts, internal windows, and multiple trading floors—all aglow in bold colors reminiscent of a
nightclub. The atrium was adorned with banks of digital clocks, each heralding the time in
financial hubs like New York, London, and Tokyo. As the clocks synchronized, indicating 5
pm in London, midnight in Hong Kong, and noon in New York, the hustle and bustle of
employees continued.

Employees navigated the space, waving their badges at electronic eyes, and security doors
swung open seamlessly. The high-security environment was such that even accessing the
lavatory required a pass. Frank, bewildered by the unexpected setting, voiced his confusion to
Gerard, "When you said we were going to the bank..." Gerard squeezed his hand, walking up
to the reception desk and beaming. "Hello, I am here to see--"

"Gerard Way!"

Frank turns to the source of the sound.

Gerard's smile drops and he turns, "Jepharee."

"Just Jeph is fine," the man corrects, striding across the bustling trading floor with an air of
confident authority, his tall frame commanding attention among the chaos of financial
activity. Dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, and black shoes that screamed Daddy's money.
His dark hair was combed back with gel, much like Gerard's, and he donned a wedding ring.
Jepharee exudes a charismatic demeanor, with piercing eyes that reveal a keen understanding
of the intricate dance of numbers and stocks. His presence alone seems to orchestrate the ebb
and flow of the trading floor, a conductor of financial symphonies.

Jepharee clasps Gerard's hands in his own, and Gerard grimaces. "How are you, buddy? How
long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" Jeph beams at Gerard, and
Gerard gestures towards Frank.

"This is my friend, Frank Iero," he introduces, and Frank manages a tight smile of his own.

The corner of Jeph's mouth twitches, "'Friend?'"

"Colleague," Frank interrupts, quick as lightning. Jepharee reaches out to grip Frank's hand,
and Frank echoes Gerard's sentiment. Sweaty. Ew. The man's grip is like a machine vice,
cutting off circulation to Frank's hand, and Frank grips harder. Jeph smirks and lets go.

"Follow me."

He leads them to a corner office, corporate art, and chrome, Frank eyeing the plaque on the
desk reading "Director of Trading".
"Take a seat," Jeph gestures, just as a PA appears at his door. "Need something? Coffee?
Water? No?"

Both men shake their heads.

"We're all sorted here thanks," He smiles broadly at the PA, sitting pompously in his seat and
scooting his chair in. He brushes off his jacket and watches Gerard with curiosity.

"You're doing well," Gerard pauses for a moment, glancing at the plaque on Jeph's desk.
"Spending lots of time abroad."

Jeph grins, clearly proud. "Well, some."

Gerard studies him carefully, "Flying all the way round the world. Twice a month!"

The Director leans back, smiling. "You're doing that thing," He looks to Frank, "We went to
college together, and this guy here--" he made finger guns at Gerard, "--he had this trick he
used to do."

Gerard's eyes cut across him sharply, "It's not a trick."

Seemingly ignorant to Gerard's discomfort, Jeph continued, "He could look at you and tell
your whole life story."

Frank drummed his fingers on the desk, "Yeah, I've seen him do it."

"Put the wind up everyone. We hated him," Jeph smiled at Gerard, and Gerard glared. "You'd
come to breakfast in the dining hall and this freak--" Gerard flinches, "--he would know who
you'd been hooking up with the previous night," He said with a sense of amusement.

"I simply observed," Gerard said flatly.

Jeph laughs and leans across the desk, brown eyes searching Gerard's hazel eyes. "Go on.
Enlighten me. 'Two trips a month, flying all round the world'. You're right. But how could
you tell?"

Gerard opens his mouth to speak, but Jeph isn't done, "Gonna tell 'em there's a stain on my tie
- from a type of ketchup you can only buy in London?"

"No. I--"

"Or maybe it's the mud on my shoes..."

"I was chatting to your secretary outside. She told me," Gerard disclosed, sending the two
into an awkward silence. Jeph's arrogant smile faded, replaced by a hint of surprise and
discomfort.

"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in," Jeph admitted.
Frank smirked as Jeph cleared his throat, stood up, and began to lead them across the bustling
trading floor, a cacophony of telephones buzzing and squawk boxes chattering. The
personalized nameplates of each trader marked their territories in the fast-paced environment.
Metal signs hung from the ceiling, delineating the different trading groups—Sterling, Dollars,
Yen.

As they navigated through the sea of activity, they arrived at a darkened corner office with a
glass front—a space that held significance. "Sir William's Office. The bank's former
chairman. His room has been left here—like a sort of memorial," Jeph explained. A door
secured by an electronic keypad stood before them. Jeph effortlessly swiped a card, granting
them access to the room. The atmosphere inside held a sense of reverence, disrupted by the
intrusion that occurred the night before.

"Someone broke in here late last night," Jeph said, his voice carrying a mix of concern and
frustration.

"What did they steal?" Frank asked.

Jeph shrugged. "Nothing. They just left a little message."

He flicked on the lights, revealing a room with an air of sterility. Frank could tell that nobody
came into the room anymore. An old leather-top desk adorned with a blotter, pen, and brass
lamp stood as a testament to the man who had once occupied the seat. The room resembled a
museum, frozen in time since the passing of Sir William.

Above the desk hung a gilt-framed oil painting—a portrait of the grim-faced banker himself.
The plaque beneath the painting read: 'SIR WILLIAM SHAD. 1944-2009. CHAIRMAN.'
However, the serene memorial had been marred. Bright yellow aerosol now defaced the
portrait, a thick line drawn across Sir William's eyes, and the paint dripped down, resembling
yellow tentacles. Beneath the vandalized artwork, the artist had left their mark—a scrawled
tag, illegible yet indicative of the intrusion into this memorialized space.

Frank looked over, watching as Gerard's sharp eyes took in the details. He spun around
towards Jeph. "Do you have the security footage?"

In the dimly lit room, Jeph, Gerard, and Frank gathered around a computer screen,
scrutinizing the CCTV footage. The footage displayed still frames at one-minute intervals,
capturing the quiet solitude of Sir William Shad's office. As the seconds ticked away in the
footage, a sudden and miraculous appearance of yellow paint on the portrait caught Jeph's
attention. He froze the image at '11.34 pm'. With a swift maneuver through the footage, he
highlighted the frame just a minute earlier at '11.33 pm,' revealing the pristine state of the
portrait. Forward again to '11.34 pm,' and the yellow paint marred the image.

"Sixty seconds apart. So someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint
around, then left within a minute," Jeph sneered.

Gerard leaned in closer to the screen, "How many ways into that office?"

Jeph gave a toothy smile, "That's where this gets really interesting."
He ushers them towards the reception desk and logs into the computer. "Every door that
opens in this bank--it gets logged right here. Every walk-in closet. Every bathroom," he
informs them, pulling up the record. Gerard studies the computer screen, eyes raking over the
line upon lines of recorded lines.

"That door didn't open last night?" Gerard asks.

Jeph shakes his head, "There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you. Five figures."

He reaches into his pocket and brandishes a cheque that has Frank's eyes falling out of his
head. While Frank is impressed by the amount and the problems it would fix, Gerard is
clearly not. "This is only an advance," Frank gulps, "Tell me how he got in--there's a bigger
one on its way."

"I don't need incentives, Jepharee," Gerard says coldly, and then he breezes off leaving Frank
in the dust. Jeph goes to put the cheque away, and Frank stops him with a gentle touch to his
hand.

"He's joking, obviously. Should I look after that for him...?" Frank tentatively takes the check
from Jeph's hand, Jeph watching him with amusement as he scurries off after his roommate.

When he finds Gerard, Gerard is dancing around the Hong Kong office. He moves around the
trading floor with grace, dodging and weaving in and out of the pillars. The employees on the
floor have stopped in their work, and stare at the eclectic man. He appears to be studying the
graffiti from all sorts of different angles, and inspiration must strike because he suddenly
darts into the office next door to Sir William's. 'Hong King Desk Head' the sign on the door
reads. Gerard's mouth falls open in realization, and a robotic voice comes over the intercom.

"The London market is opening...The London Market is now opening..."

Frank's eyes fall on the New York clock as it goes from 12:59 to 13:00, and a sharp bell
reverberates in his ears. Gerard smirks, exits the glass room, and tugs Frank by his jacket
towards the elevator.

The two climb into the glass lift, standing incredibly close, and slowly begin to descend.
Frank looks up at Gerard and raises an eyebrow, "Two trips around the world this month'.
You didn't ask his Secretary. You said that just to irritate him," he said knowingly.

Gerard looked down at him and the two shared a grin.

Frank broke eye contact, huffing out a laugh and shaking his head, "How did you...?"

"Did you look at his watch?" Gerard interjected, his keen eyes fixed on Frank.

"His watch?" Frank echoed, trying to recall the details of the encounter.

Gerard grabbed Frank's wrist, ignoring Frank's rabbiting pulse as he drew a clock with his
finger. "The hands on his watch were correct but the date was wrong," Gerard explained, "It
actually said the day before yesterday. He crossed the date line twice, and didn't alter his
watch," He circled Frank's wrist twice with his finger.
Frank gulped, "Within a month? How d'you know that part?" He stammered, not moving to
pull his wrist from Gerard's hand but wondering if he could smell Frank perspiring through
his Old Spice deodorant.

"New Rolex. Only came out in February," Gerard responded matter-of-factly, watching as the
lift reached the bottom and tugging Frank forward. Curious eyes darted towards their hands
as they weaved through clients towards the door. Gerard yanked him through the door, before
letting go of Frank's wrist so he could use both hands to rapidly text.

Frank's cheeks pumped full of blood, and he tucked his chin into the collar of his coat.
"Should we sniff around here a bit longer?"

Gerard sends a text and pockets his phone, "Got everything I need to know already, thanks."
He begins to stride up the street, Frank scuttling after him, "That graffiti is a message, Frank.
For someone at the bank--working on the trading floor. We find the intended recipient and..."

"He'll lead us to the person who sent it," he finishes breathlessly.

Gerard squints at the sun, "Obviously."

Frank looks up at the looming building as it shrinks behind their falling footsteps, "Three
hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?"

"Pillars," Gerard says simply, skimming his fingers on a brick building.

Frank rubs his ear, wondering if he heard him wrong, "Sorry, what?"

"The pillars. And the screens," Gerard elaborated, "Very few places where you could see the
graffiti. That narrows the field considerably."

Gerard hummed, "And of course - the message was left at 11.34 last night. That tells us a
lot."

"Does it?" Frank resembles a lost puppy, struggling to keep up with Gerard as he cuts across
the street sharply and nearly gets them both run over by a cab.

"Traders come to work at all hours. Some people trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the
night," Gerard said confidently, smirking.

Frank thinks back to the metal signs--Sterling, dollars, yen. Ring!

"That message was intended for someone at midnight," Frank breathed out.

Gerard reaches into his jacket revealing a stolen nameplate: 'Van Coon'. Frank's eyes widen.
"Not many Van Coon's in the phone book," Gerard says smugly.

Frank gulps, watching as Gerard hails down a taxi and reluctantly climbs in after him.
 CHAPTER TWO
Chapter Summary

Inspector Jon Walker doesn't get paid enough for this. Oh, and Frank gets a job!

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Frank stumbles after Gerard as he walks up to an apartment block, finger tracing down a set
of buzzers labeled with the names of the tenants. His finger stops on Van Coon, tapping it
once. He rings the buzzer, taking a step back.

No answer.

Gerard presses it again.

Still no answer.

He glares down the buzzer.

"What are we gonna do now, then? Huh? Sit here and wait for him to come back?" Frank
asked, crossing his arms. He hoped not. It was cold as hell, and his nipples were so hard they
could cut through diamonds.

Gerard runs through the buzzers again, finger stopping on a pristine label on one of the
buzzers. He taps it, "Just moved in."

Frank furrows his eyebrows, "What?"

"Floor above. New label."

Frank leans in closer to Gerard, secretly basking in the man's body heat, and observes the
label. "Maybe they just replaced it."

"Noone ever does that," Gerard scoffs, the 'you idiot' going unsaid. He rings the buzzer
labeled 'Wintle', which would take them to the seventh floor--the floor above Eddie's
apartment. A woman's voice crackles through.

"Hello?" She asks, confusion thick in her voice.

Gerard leads in close to the buzzer. "Hi. I live in the flat just below you. I don't think we've
met," Gerard, adopting a friendly tone, responded.

"No. Well--I've just moved in."

Gerard gives Frank a victorious look. "I've actually locked my keys in my flat," Gerard
admitted with an air of embarrassment, a hint of vulnerability in his tone.

The woman, seemingly sympathetic, offered assistance, "You want me to buzz you in?"

"Actually, could I use your balcony?"

Frank and the woman echoed the same sentiment, "What?"

---------------------------

Gerard precariously balanced on the seventh-floor balcony, the bustling cityscape sprawling
below him. With calculated precision, he climbed over the edge, aiming to lower himself
down onto Van Coon's balcony below. However, a momentary slip threatened to send him
plummeting, eliciting a gasp from the woman observing this daring maneuver. Undeterred,
Gerard recovered with an elegant smile, resuming his descent with confidence.

Upon reaching Van Coon's balcony, Gerard deftly opened the patio door, revealing the
interior of the empty flat. The space was pale and sterile in appearance. No furniture adorned
the room, leaving it bare and lifeless. The telephone lay on the laminate floor, lacking a table
to support it, accompanied only by a phone book and an A to Z of New York. A small stone
Buddha served as the sole ornament, providing a touch of serenity in the otherwise vacant
space. Just as Gerard began to explore the desolate surroundings, a knock echoed at the door.

Frank was banished to the outside of the apartment. Apparently, two men approaching the
woman were too suspicious and would be deemed dangerous. Frank didn't like being away
from Gerard for too long; especially when the situation required him to scale the side of a
building. The man has time and time again proven himself to be too clumsy to be allowed to
function in the world alone. Frank didn't know how he had stayed alive for so long without
him. Frank knocks on the door again, "Gerard?"

The front door stood firmly bolted, the chain securely pulled across. Gerard, in his typical
manner, rifled through the sparsely stocked kitchen. The contents were meager, with only a
fridge full of champagne catching his attention.

Outside the closed door, Frank continued to knock, concern evident in his voice. "Gerard?
You OK?" His words echoed through the corridor.

Ignoring the knocks for a moment, Gerard delved into the small, pristine bathroom. It was a
minimalistic space, containing only a single toothbrush and a dispenser of liquid soap.
Gerard's keen eyes quickly scanned the surroundings.

Frank's voice persisted from the other side of the door, a note of frustration in it. "Any time
you feel like letting me in..."

Gerard moved swiftly to the bedroom, a sense of urgency in his steps. As he reached for the
doorknob, he realized the door was barricaded. A chair had been wedged against it, creating
an obstacle that required some force to overcome. Exerting strength, Gerard pushed against
the door until it reluctantly gave way, revealing the interior of the room. The atmosphere was
heavy with the weight of the unknown.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, and the air held a chilling stillness. At the center of the scene
lay Eddie Van Coon, sprawled on his bed. Dead. Gunshot. Gerard stumbles back, just as the
sound of a door opening echoes in his ears. He hears heavy footsteps, and then Frank's
heaving figure is at the door.

Frank looks at the body on the bed and hunches over. "Jesus Christ, Gerard," Frank breathed
out, his stomach churning as he struggled to contain the urge to vomit.

"Did you--did you break the door open? Fuck, Frank, that's gonna mess with the invest--"

"Picked the lock," Frank interrupted him, pulling Gerard out of the room.

"What? You? Why?" Gerard wrinkled his nose, confusion etched across his features.

"Why? Because you wouldn't let me in!" Frank exasperated, "I thought something happened
to you."

Gerard rolled his eyes, "Well, I'm fine."

"Clearly," Frank snapped back.

Gerard stares at him for a moment and then cocks his head. "Is lock-picking a required skill
for the military?"

Frank doesn't answer him, storming out of the room and puking in one of the fancy plants in
the hall.

----------------------------

The police descended upon the scene, a solemn presence as they meticulously searched for
forensic evidence. Frank observed their efforts, his gaze drawn to the gun resting on the
bedroom floor, near Eddie Van Coon's lifeless hand.

"You think maybe he'd lost a lot of money?" Frank pondered aloud, "Suicide rate is pretty
high amongst these city types."

"We don't know that it was suicide," Gerard asserted, pulling on latex gloves. He began
rifling through the dead man's suitcase, which appeared stuffed with underwear and socks.
However, a noticeable hole in the middle suggested that something had been tightly packed
inside.

"Come on! His door was locked from the inside. You had to climb across the balcony!" Frank
exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

"Been away. Three days, judging by the laundry. Look--something was packed tightly inside
this suitcase," He pulled Frank over to look at the cylindrical shape.
"Thanks. I'll take your word for it," Frank grimaces.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I'm not desperate to root around some dude's dirty underwear," Frank said flatly.

Gerard's sharp eyes scrutinized the lifeless body before him, "Those symbols at the bank -
that graffiti. Why was it put there?" Gerard pondered aloud.

"You think it was some sort of code?" Frank inquired.

"Obviously. But I'm saying why paint it? Why not use email if you want to make contact? Or
the phone?"

It took a moment for Frank to connect the dots. The realization dawned on him, "Maybe he
wasn't answering..."

Gerard, satisfied with Frank's deduction, nodded approvingly. "Good. You follow."

"No."

Gerard huffed, shaking his head, "What sort of message would everyone try to avoid?" His
hands passed over the dead man's lips, and he paused. He delicately opens the man's mouth,
and pokes inside, "What about this morning? Those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills!?"

Gerard, undeterred, insisted, "Yes. He was being threatened."

The atmosphere grew tense as Gerard retrieved a small, screwed-up ball of black paper from
the dead man's mouth. Moist with saliva, the paper was stretched open, revealing a
disconcerting blankness.

Amidst this revelation, the door swung open, and a young man entered the room. Chestnut
hair that touched his jawline, light brown eyes that were framed by thick dark brown busy
eyebrows, and tan skin. His lanyard swung over his white button-up-clad chest, and he
crossed his arms as he loomed over Gerard's kneeling body. Gerard looked up, and jumped to
his feet,

"Ah, Sergeant! We haven't met."

"I know who you are," The man sneered, "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of
the evidence." He held out his hand.

Gerard put the soggy ball of black paper into an evidence bag and sulkily hands it over, "I
phoned Pete. Is he on his way...?" He looked around.

"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant. It's Detective Inspector. Walker." He says
snootily, nose raised in the raise. He sweeps out again, with the expectation that Gerard and
Frank will follow. They enter the lounge where all of the forensics team flock.
"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Walker begins, and Frank elbows Gerard hard,
smiling.

"It does seem the only explanation of the fact," he says professionally, catching up to Walker
and folding his hands behind his back. The two men stand in solitude, backs straight and
surveying the scene. Inspector Walker looks over at Frank and frowns. "Sorry, who are you?"

"Wrong. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts. You've got a solution that you
like...but you're just choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it," Gerard
interrupts, circling the lounge.

"Like?" Inspector Walker says irritatedly.

"The wound is on the right side of his head."

"And?"

"Van Coon was left-handed," Gerard mimed shooting himself in the right temple with his left
hand, "Requires a bit of contortion."

"Left-handed?"

Gerard looked at him with mock surprise, "I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do
is look around this apartment....tea stains from the bottom of mugs, where he's been resting
them on the arm of that chair. The left arm... Pad and paper on the left side of his phone,
means he could hold it in his right hand and take messages with his left... All his expensive,
favorite suits on the left side of his wardrobe, because he'd open the left-hand door..." he took
a deep breath, raising an eyebrow, "Want me to go on?"

Frank could sense Walker's rising irritation as he stepped forward, "Er, no. I think you've
covered it."

"I might as well actually. There's only one left on the list."

Frank face-palmed.

"The butter knife on the kitchen surface has butter on the right side of the blade because he
used it with his left," Gerard deduced, his mind working like a well-oiled machine. "Unlikely
that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of the head. Conclusion:
someone in and murdered him. Only explanation of all of the broke facts."

"But the gun..." Walker stammered.

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened," Gerard said confidently.

"What?"

"Today at the bank. A sort of a warning," Frank chimed in.

"He fired when his attacker came in," Gerard added.

"And the bullet...?"

Gerard waved his hand in the air, "Went out the window."

Frank observed the other officers engaged in gossip about Gerard, their expressions carrying
a mix of amusement and skepticism. "Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?" Walker
said incredulously.

Gerard, undeterred by the speculative chatter, maintained his composure, "Wait for the
pathologist's report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun, I guarantee," he says
confidently.

"But if his door was locked from the inside... how did the killer get in?"

Gerard, pleased with the shift in focus, commended Walker, "Good. You're finally asking the
right questions."

Then, he turned around and swished out of the door.

Walker turned towards Frank, confusion still written all over his face. "I'm his colleague,"
Frank holds his hand out, "Frank Iero." Inspector Walker shakes it stiffly, and then Frank
darts out of the crime scene.

-------------------------

Jeph's clients roared heartily at his jokes, their laughter filling the air as they enjoyed the end
of a long lunch. The stylish classical building, likely an old converted bank in the city,
provided a sophisticated backdrop to the scene. Amid the convivial atmosphere, Gerard and
Frank approached the table with purpose. Gerard, as usual, cut through the joviality with his
sharp observations.

"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant," Gerard declared, his words hanging in the air.
The sudden intrusion disrupted the table's laughter, and an uneasy silence settled over the
gathering as they grappled with the unexpected revelation.

"I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" Jeph suggested,
clearly irritated by the interruption.

Gerard, unfazed by social norms, nonchalantly sat down and helped himself to someone's
glass of water. "I don't think this can wait, Jeph. Sorry. One of your traders--someone in your
office was killed." Gerard takes a heavy gulp, wet tongue running over his full bottom lip.

"What!?"

"Van Coon. The police are at his flat," Frank affirmed, eyes on the droplet of water that ran
down Gerard's chin.

"Killed?" He asked weakly.

Gerard, nonchalant and with a mouthful of water, casually disrupted the ambiance of the
restaurant, "Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion. Still want me to make an
appointment? OK. Would maybe nine o'clock at NYPD suit?" The unexpected announcement
brought an embarrassed hush to the surroundings.

Jeph excused himself, and the three found themselves in the restaurant toilet; a more private
setting. Jeph splashed water on his face, staring at himself in the mirror. Explaining Eddie's
background, Jeph shared, "Harrow. Oxford. Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while,
so..."

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," Frank said finitely, watching the man in the mirror.

Seb continued, "Lost five mil in a single morning. Made it all back a week later. The man
had nerves of steel."

"Who'd want to kill him?" Frank questioned softly.

Jeph seemed to reflect on something, eyes seeming sunken in, more tired as he responded.
"We all make enemies."

"You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple," Frank emphasized.

Jeph chuckled darkly, "Not usually."

Jeph's phone buzzed, and he reluctantly answered it. "My Chairman. The police have been on
to him. Apparently, they're telling him it was suicide," Jeph relayed, glancing up at Gerard.

"They've got it wrong. He was murdered, Jepharee," Gerard insisted.

Jeph shrugged. "I'm afraid they don't see it that way. And neither does my boss."

"Jeph..."

"I hired you to do a job--don't get side-tracked," Jeph cautioned him. He gripped Gerard's
shoulder once, then he exited the bathroom leaving behind the smell of heavy cologne and
steak.

Gerard cursed, kicking the wall. "Idiots!" He shouted, tugging at his hair, "Everybody is an
idiot but me!"

Frank leaned against the wall, watching Gerard throw his little tantrum that consisted of
pulling out a bunch of paper towels and shredding them to pieces. He went to punch Frank,
too, but Frank caught his fist and spun him towards the wall pressing him up against it.
Gerard panted against the wall.

Frank put his mouth close to Gerard's ear, "Listen to me you little shit," He growled, "I put up
with a lot from you. Get mad at Jeph, get mad at Inspector Walker, but you will not get mad
at me. You want to prove them wrong, solve it." Gerard shivered, slumping against Frank's
body. Frank reluctantly lets go of him and leans back. Gerard doesn't move.
"Now, I'm going out to smoke. If you want, you can stand next to me and pretend that you
aren't orgasming off of the secondhand. Or you can stay here and punch the walls some more.
Your choice." Frank turned around and walked out of the bathroom, leaving Gerard to scowl
at the wall.

------------------------------

Frank needed a job. He needed a job quick. When he mentioned it to Gerard, Gerad just
scoffed, "Nobody will hire you with all of those tattoos."

The next day, Frank had an interview as a secretary at a tattoo studio to Gerard's chagrin.

Frank sits across the table from Jamia Nestor, the studio manager. Appearance-wise, she's
Frank's type on paper. Straight black hair cascading over alabaster skin, small up-turned nose
dotted in the daintest of freckles, a shy smile as she reads over his CV. She was pretty,
intelligent, and seemed to be about his age. Her light brown eyes watched him shyly over the
paper, and a light flush covered her cheeks.

"Just secretary work," She says quietly, flipping the page.

"No. That's fine," Frank assured her, giving her a small smile. Her flush darkened.

"You're a bit--well, over-qualified," She admitted to him, eyes flickering up.

"Could always do with the money," Frank remarked.

Jamia, busy reading through Frank's qualifications, explained, "Spencer won't be back until
the next year--graduate student. It might be a bit... mundane for you."

Frank smiled in response, appreciating the simplicity of the word 'mundane.' "Mundane is
good, sometimes. Mundane works."

As Jamia continued to review Frank's file, she came across an interesting detail, "Says here
that you're a soldier."

Frank nodded, confirming, "Sniper."

Curiosity sparked in Jamia's eyes as she probed further, "Anything else you can do?"

"I was in a band," he told her, leaning in closer. Jamia followed suit, smiling flirtily at him.

"Anybody I would know?" She asked, eyes skimming along the posters adorning the walls.

Frank chuckled, "Probably not. I was the Pencey Prep frontman for a little while...before I
enlisted."

"Hmm...Do you have a CD anywhere?" She tapped her chin.

Frank smirked, "Hire me, and I'll bring you every CD from every band I've ever been in," he
said playfully.
Jamia watched him for a second, raising her eyebrow. Frank mirrored her expression crossing
his arms and subtly flexing his biceps in the process. The action drew her gaze, and she
smiled, sticking her hand out. "Fine. I'll bite. Welcome to Inked Bunny, Frank Iero."

Frank shook her hand, beaming. He had a job!

-----------------------

In the quiet solitude of 221B West 53rd Street, Gerard had printed off photos of the graffiti—
capturing the enigmatic symbols of the blindfold and the cryptic tag. Determined to decipher
their meaning, he meticulously stuck them to the mirror above the fireplace, creating a visual
puzzle that echoed the mysteries he loved to unravel.

Sprawled in the armchair, Gerard fixated on the images, his keen mind searching for patterns
and connections. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the fireplace, casting a flickering
light on the photos that seemed to hold the key to a puzzle yet unsolved.

Suddenly, the door slammed open, jolting Gerard from his focused trance. Frank, back from
an interview, entered with a surprising burst of energy. His face wore a rosy glow, and an air
of cheerfulness accompanied him into the room.

"Hey, Gerard!" Frank greeted, the lightheartedness evident in his voice.

Gerard looked up from his contemplation, acknowledging John's presence with a raised
eyebrow. "I said could you pass me a pen?" He asked irately.

Frank tugged his arm from his coat, feeling taken aback, "What? When?"

"About an hour ago," Gerard closed his eyes, steepling his fingers under his chin.

"I was out," Frank informed him, grabbing the sparkly pen from the side table and tossing it
to him. "I went to see about a job at that tattoo parlor."

Gerard didn't open his eyes, "How was it?"

"Great. She's great," Frank responded airily, flopping into his chair.

Gerard opened his eyes, raising an eyebrow, "She?"

"It," Frank hurriedly said, flustered. Gerard observes him for a moment, and Frank is worried
he can see right through him. After a moment, Gerard shakes his head, "Sorry, I thought you
were gay."

"What-?!"

Gerard slides his laptop onto Frank's lap, pointing to the news story on the webpage: New
York Times. Frank puts Gerard's statement in the back of his mind, passing it off as one of
Gerard's usual instigating statements, and squints at the screen.

"The intruder who can walk through walls," Frank reads.

 Gerard shuts the laptop, nearly closing it on Frank's fingers, "Happened last night. Journalist
shot dead in his apartment. Door locked. Windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same
as Van Coon."

"God," Frank runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the tangles. As soon as he gets
paid, he's getting a haircut. Swear. "You think...?

Gerard nods solemnly, "He's killed another one."

Chapter End Notes

Jealousy, jealousy!!! Mwahahha.

 CHAPTER THREE
Chapter Summary

Frank sees ghosts from his past, and oh yeah, Gerard, who the hell are these kids?

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The police office buzzed with activity—an open plan with desks cluttered with paperwork,
the air stirred by whirring fans. In this sea of organized chaos, Detective Inspector Walker sat
at his tiny desk watching as Gerard and Frank waltzed in. Gerard pulled up a plastic chair,
scraping it against the floor in a long, grating screech.

He turned Inspector Walker's computer towards himself, and pulled up a headline from New
York Times."Brian Lukis. Journalist. Freelance. Murdered in his flat. The door locked from
the inside."

"You've got to admit it's similar. Both men killed by someone who can walk through solid
walls," Frank added, leaning his hip up against the desk.

The atmosphere in the police office was tense. Inspector Walker remained stoic at his desk,
surrounded by the hum of activity. The other police officers seemed skeptical, perhaps
smirking and gossiping about Gerard's unorthodox methods. Gerard, undeterred by the
skeptical glances, addressed Walker directly, "Inspector? Do you seriously believe that Eddie
Van Coon was just another city suicide?"

A moment of silence hung in the air as Walker's gaze met Gerard's. His expression revealed a
reluctance to budge on his initial assessment.

"You checked with ballistics, I suppose?" Gerard continued, pressingly. Walker nodded.
"And? The shot that killed him wasn't from his own gun."

Inspector Walker glared at him from under his bushy eyebrows, "No."

Gerard, with his characteristic arrogance, asserted, "No. So. This investigation might move a
bit quicker if you took my word as gospel."

Walker, taken aback by Gerard's audacity, exchanged a disbelieving look with Frank.

"He makes everyone feel like that," Frank said consolingly.

"I've just handed you a murder inquiry. We might have a serial killer. Five minutes in that
flat," Gerard said urgently, turning around and tugging Frank with him.
----------------------

The scene was one of dusty, dirty chaos, marked by police tape across the door. Mountains of
books, including travel books detailing time spent in Southeast Asia, formed disorganized
piles. In one corner of the room, an open suitcase lay empty and recently used, suggesting a
hasty departure or a purposeful act. Frank cast an eye over the dead man's desk, revealing
pages and pages of handwritten notes and books on South-East Asian politics. Frank heard
Gerard's light footsteps as he pressed his nose up to the window, big hazel eyes scanning over
the people below.

"Fourth floor. That's why they think they're safe. Put the chain on the door, and bolt it shut.
They think they're impregnable," Gerard remarked breathlessly. Gerard spins around to look
for alternative entry points. The windows, all bolted shut, offered no opportunity for access.
Frustrated, he looks towards the ceiling and is immediately blinded by the sunlight. "They
never consider for a moment - there's another way in here," Sherlock remarked, a glimmer of
realization in his eyes.

"I don't understand," Inspector Walker asks perplexed.

Spotting a broom nearby, Gerard swiftly seized the opportunity. With determination, he
grabbed a table, balanced a chair on it, and climbed up on the makeshift structure, broom in
hand.

"What are you doing?" He asked, just as Frank gripped the chair to keep it steady.

Gerard, focused on the task at hand, responded confidently, "We're dealing with a killer who
can climb."

Walkers's incredulous expression mirrored the disbelief in his voice, "What?!"

"He can cling to walls like an insect. That's how he gets in." Gerard, seemingly unfazed,
explained with a matter-of-fact tone. Balancing on a chair atop the table, Gerard lifted the
broom high and nudged the skylight, successfully opening it and blinding the three with light.
"He climbed up the side of this building, ran across the roof, and dropped in through the
skylight," Gerard elaborated, beaming down at Frank.

"You're not serious?" Walker crossed his arms.

Gerard closed his eyes, steepling his hands under his chin. "Scaled a sixth-floor balcony in
Docklands to kill Van Coon," his voice echoed. "Of course, he got into the bank the same
way." Gerard's eyes popped open and he jumped down from the table and chair. "We have to
find out what connects these two men," he declared, thumbing through the books on the desk.

Frank's attention was drawn to the detritus on the floor. Among the scattered items, he
noticed a small scrunched-up ball of black paper, trodden into the carpet. Intrigued, he picked
it up, realizing it had been meticulously folded up.

-----------------
Frank had made it a point in his life to spend the least amount of his time in a library. A
young librarian gave him a shy smile as she pushed her cart past them, Gerard glowering at
her fading form. Gerard turned towards Frank, holding up a book he had swiped from Lukis'
desk, and waved it around in his face. "Lukis was working here. The date stamped in this
book is the same day he died," Gerard informed him.

Frank squinted at the cover, "Maybe if we ask the librarian--"

"Why do we need her help?" Gerard growled, "I probably know this place inside out." Frank
was startled, looking over to the pouting man. He avoided Frank's gaze, worrying his lip with
his front teeth as he scanned through the rows and rows of books. Frank sighed, hand going
out to...well, he didn't know, console him? Frank wasn't sure what he was going to do, he just
wanted Gerard to stop acting like a pissy teenager for once.

Gerard must have anticipated Frank's move, already starting towards the rows and rows of
books and running his sharp gaze over the serial numbers. "You start from the other side.
Cover more ground," He grumbles, leaving Frank standing awkwardly in front of the desk.

Not one to be deterred, Frank took a deep breath and decided to follow Gerard's instructions.
He moved to the other side of the library, zigzagging through the rows of books in an attempt
to cover more ground. He couldn't help but feel a bit out of place in the quiet and orderly
environment of the library, especially with Gerard's glowering presence still lingering in the
air.

Frank is close to throwing in the towel, having not seen Gerard for at least an hour now when
he falls upon a sliding rack labeled 'Political Science-South East Asia'. Frank tugs at the
rack, causing it to slide out. He carefully examines the spines of the books and suddenly
freezes.

Gun shots. Lotus. Warning.

A cold chill races down Frank's spine. He vividly recalled a dimly lit room, hushed
conversations in the shadows, and coded messages that held life-or-death implications. No.
No. He was Frank Iero now. He had sworn to leave that life behind. But the symbols now
glaring at him from the library shelves were a stark reminder that the past could linger,
waiting to resurface at the most unexpected times. Frank's hands trembled slightly as the
familiar scent of adrenaline filled his nostrils, and all of a sudden, he forgot where he was.
His eyes darted around the library, looking, waiting. His hand fell to his waistband.

"Frank!" Gerard's voice cut through the mental fog, snapping him back to the present. Frank
blinked rapidly, heart racing. He turned to face Gerard, who was giving him a questioning
look.

"Yeah?" Frank responded, attempting to mask the unease that still lingered beneath the
surface.

Once Gerard sees the open drawer, he stalks into the row Frank's in, arms crossed over his
chest. "There's no way you found this before me," He begins, "I bet you asked that nice
librarian-" Frank clamps a hand over Gerard's mouth, and gestures with his other hand to the
book spines.

Scrawled across the book spines are two massive graffiti symbols, written in bright yellow
aerosol—the same symbols found at the bank: a horizontal line and a scrawled tag. Gerard's
mouth spreads into a thin line, and he holds out his hand. "Alright, phone."

When Frank didn't hand over the phone right away, Gerard looked over, studying his
reaction. "Frank?" Gerard asked, furrowing his eyebrows together. Frank moved his hand
from his waistband, fishing around in his pocket. Frank reluctantly handed it over, watching
as Gerard squinted at him suspiciously, but ultimately let it go.

-----------------

Gerard, having photographed the new graffiti from the library, sticks the images to the mirror
above the mantle. He stares intensely at the four yellow symbols—two from the bank and
two from the library.

"So. The killer goes to the bank—leaves the threatening cipher for Van Coon. Van Coon
panics, goes back to his flat and locks himself inside. Just hours later... he dies," Gerard
closes his eyes, flinching when Frank brushed up against him.

"The killer finds Lukis at the library, he writes the cipher on the books where the guy will
see it. Lukis goes home..."

Gerard, deep in thought, completed the sequence, "... and that night he dies too." The
realization hung in the air as they both stared at the display. Gerard quickly whips around
towards him, leveling him with a hard gaze.

"The way you reacted in the library..."

"Trauma," Frank shrugs, "Somebody dropped a book. I thought I heard a gunshot go off."

Gerard's gaze doesn't waver, suspicion etched across his features. "Trauma, huh?" he repeats,
a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

"Yeah, PTSD," Frank adds, attempting to sound convincing. "Been through some shit in the
past. Gunfire messes with your head."

Gerard narrows his eyes, studying Frank for a moment longer. The weight of unspoken
questions hangs in the air, and Frank feels the need to divert Gerard's attention.

"So what's with your pissy attitude lately?" Frank asks.

Gerard recoils, "I don't have a pissy attitude."

Frank smirks, leaning against the wall. "Come on, Gerard, don't play innocent. You've been
giving me shit since my interview at the tattoo studio. More than usual," Gerard averted his
gaze, "Come on. What is it? Did I throw away one of your experiments again? Because if I
did, I told you, you have to label them--"
Gerard scowls, crossing his arms defensively. "It's got nothing to do with your need to put
your hands on things that are not yours," Frank scoffs because he's one to speak, "And it's not
a pissy attitude."

"Could've fooled me," Frank quips, "You've been acting like a child."

Gerard's scowl deepens at Frank's remark. "I'm not acting like a child," he retorts, his tone
defensive.

Frank raises an eyebrow, "Really? Because last time I checked, children pout when they don't
get their way. You've been pouting since we left the library."

"It's not pouting," Gerard insists, though there's a hint of irritation in his eyes.

"Sure, sure," Frank says, pretending to zip his lips. "I won't call it pouting. Maybe you're just
expressing your artistic temperament."

Gerard shoots him a look, caught between annoyance and amusement. "I don't have an
artistic temperament."

Frank smirked, standing Gerard off. His lanky hair hung over his cheekbones, pale skin
flushed with annoyance, and hazel eyes sunken in with lack of sleep. He smelled of body
odor and old books, and his skin was oily and broken out. Quite frankly, Gerard looked like
shit.

"Have you been sleeping?" Frank asked, examining the dark circles under his eyes.

Gerard scowled at the question, crossing his arms defensively. "I don't see how my sleep is
any of your business."

Frank raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer. "Are you sure about that? Because right now, you
look like you could use a good night's sleep and a hot shower."

Gerard shot him a glare. "I don't need your advice on personal hygiene, Frank."

"Alright, alright," Frank said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Just offering some
friendly advice."

"Well, don't," Gerard snapped. His phone buzzed, and he flipped it over to check it. He
snorted, typing rapidly on the device. Frank rocked on his heels, trying to avoid putting his
nose into Gerard's business. "Something interesting?" he asked noncommittably.

Gerard looked up, grinning. "Very. Get your coat and your best walking shoes," he says
cryptically, flying out of the door and sending some of the pinned papers fluttering in the air.
Frank looks down at his beat-up Converse and sighs. His doctor would be so proud of all the
exercise he was getting.

-----------------
They bound down the street, the tip of Gerard's ears red with chill and his fingers shaking
with excitement. "The world runs on codes and ciphers, Frank... that million-dollar security
system at the bank, the pin machine you fought valiantly. Cryptography inhabits our every
waking moment," Gerard jumps over a puddle.

"Yes. Okay. But," Frank implores, letting out an 'oof' when Gerard cuts a corner into the
alleyway.

"But it's all computer generated. Electronic codes-electronic ciphering methods. This is
different, it's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods can't unravel it," Gerard
gestures wildly, and almost smacks Frank in the face.

Frank looks around, taking in the knocked-over garbage cans, fighting raccoons, and dirty
mattresses propped up against the brick walls. The alleyway smells of stale urine, rotten food,
and cigarette smoke-it's a familiar scent to Frank. He looks up to see a teenager with spiky
hair dangling over a fire escape with a blunt; they promptly flip Frank off when their eyes
lock. Frank scowls, tugging Gerard's elbow and halting him in his tracks. "Alright, where are
we going?"

Gerard looked away, mumbling something under his breath.

"What? Sorry?"

"I need some advice," he repeats, a little louder this time.

"Sorry, can you repeat that?"

"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again," he says loudly, turning away and
continuing their trek down the alley.

Frank smiles broadly at Gerard's back, "You need advice."

"On painting. Yes. I need to talk to an expert," Gerard scoffs.

Frank looks at their surroundings and frowns. "The...the Met was back there," he says, voice
thick with confusion. "Where...where are you going? Gerard?"

Gerard takes one last sharp turn down a side alley and gestures theatrically to the mural in
front of them. The boy had to be at least sixteen, adorned in a hoody, baseball cap, and
oversized jeans, engaged in an act of urban artistry. A kit bag rested at his feet, and an aerosol
can was wielded in his hand. With a deft hand, he sprayed a stencil onto the rear wall of the
gallery—a provocative image depicting a policeman with a pig's face.

Despite not turning, the boy keenly sensed Gerard's presence. "Part of my new exhibition,"
the boy says, although Frank can detect a hint of an accent, "I call it 'Urbanbloodlustfrenzy'."
The boy takes a step back from his mural, and turns towards Gerard. He had a mole under his
left eye, big brown eyes framed by long black eyelashes, deep purple eyebags, and light
brown dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail. The accent was familiar--German. The boy's
tongue messed with his rejecting lip ring as he shook his aerosol can, and he sighed. "I've got
two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner. Can we maybe
talk while I'm working?"

Gerard offers him his phone, and the boy hands Frank the spray can so he can put both of his
hands on the phone. His skinny fingers flick through the photographs, eyes darting all over
the screen. Gerard watches his reaction carefully, "Know the author?"

The boy hands Gerard his phone back, "I know the paint. Looks like Michigan, hardcore
propellant. I'd say zinc."

"And what about the symbols? Do you recognize them?" Gerard presses.

The boy shrugs. "It's not a tag. I'm not even sure it's a proper language."

Gerard searches the boy's eyes, waving his phone. "Two men have been murdered, Tom.
Deciphering this - it's the key to finding who killed them."

Tom crosses his arms, "This is all you got? Not much to go on."

Gerard gives him a challenging look, "You think you could help out?"

Tom shakes the can, turning around and spraying one long thick line. "I can ask around."
Frank hears distant footsteps and grabs the young boy by his sweatshirt.

"What the fuck-?" Tom begins to protest, before his eyes widen and he gets with the program,
"Mr. Way, can you grab my-?"

Gerard scoops his bag of paint up, already on Frank and Tom's heels as they cut a corner, "I
got it. Let's move."

--------------------

Gerard was engrossed in his latest puzzle, surrounded by a collage of printed pages from the
internet. The edges of his mirror were adorned with a myriad of language systems and
archaic symbols—Egyptian hieroglyphics, the Greek alphabet, Hebrew letters, Arabic letters,
and Chinese words. He meticulously arranged them around the edge of the mirror, each piece
a potential key to deciphering the mysterious yellow squiggle.

Frank had the window cracked open, allowing tendrils of smoke to snake their way out of the
tiny space. Gerard had dashed back to the apartment once they escaped the huffing and
puffing of the patrol, claiming that he had to go to his "Mind Palace", whatever that meant,
leaving Frank to play mother hen. Frank had seen Tom safely dropped off to another
teenager, perched nonchalantly on the fire escape with big, spiky black hair dangling over the
edge. It had been a casual observation for Frank, nothing worth gloating about to Gerard. The
similarities were unmistakable—those same big, scared, brown doe eyes; the willowy frame
and familiar facial structure. Dragging Tom forcibly into the dimly lit apartment, Frank
couldn't spot any parents around, though he knew all too well that the absence of parental
figures didn't always tell the full story.
Immigrant kids. Tom's English was near perfect, but the other teenager spoke in choppy,
broken sentences, stuttering through an interrogation of the older man covered heavily by
tattoos. Tom shook Frank's hands off of him, shouldering his bag through the doorway and
throwing it down onto the ground. The clank of spray cans echoed through the apartment,
rolling around on the concrete floors and bumping into the worn-down futon pushed up
against the wall. White hotel towels rolled thickly served as makeshift pillows and one fleece
blanket covered the entirety of it. Women's eyeliner scattered across the kitchen sink, the
scent of mildew drafting up from the drain. Two joints were already pre-rolled and resting on
a metal tray. The boy held a roach between his lips, big brown eyes darting between Frank
and Tom.

Frank crossed his arms, smirking at the stick and poke tattoos on the other boy's wrist. A sun,
a heart, and a smiley face. The boy tugged his hoodie sleeves further over his wrists and
scowled. "Our parents come soon to home," He spat at Frank, "You can go now. We are not
babies."

Thin, too thin, Frank thought looking at the boy's ankles. Frank furrows his eyebrows, "How
old are you?" Frank couldn't help but notice the stark contrast in their demeanors—Tom's
composed presence and the other boy's defensive posture. Familiar. Everything was so damn
familiar to him.

The boy, caught off guard, hesitated for a moment before responding. "Me and him, we are
seventeen," he claimed, attempting to sound more mature and in control of the situation. He
puffed out his chest, setting aside the roach.

"Bullshit," Frank says simply. The boy flinches, crossing his gangly arms and drumming his
fingers. His fingernails were colored in with black Sharpie, and he wore a bread tie around
his finger like a ring. "How old are you guys, really?"

The other boy stamped his foot, shielding Tom back with his arm when he rose from the
couch to approach the escalating situation. "We seventeen! Me and him, we are seventeen!"
He repeated, his voice cracking, "We are allowed-This is-They said we are allowed!"

Frank held his hands out in front of him, "Woah, hey, kid-"

"We aren't kids," Tom sneered from behind the other kid's shoulder, "We smoke. We're
allowed to smoke. We're allowed to do whatever we want," Tom declared with a defiant edge,
his attempt to assert control mirroring the defensive stance of the other boy.

Frank's expression remained firm but not unkind. "Alright, alright," he conceded, lowering
his hands in a placating gesture. "You can smoke, no problem. I'm not here to be your dad."
The other boy relaxed slightly, his shoulders slumping as the immediate threat seemed to
diminish. However, the wariness in his eyes persisted. "So, you go now, yeah? We're fine
here," he asserted the false confidence back in his tone.

Frank glanced between the two, his skepticism lingering. "I'm not going to report you or
anything," he assured them, recognizing the fear underlying their defensive front. "Just... be
careful, okay? Life can be pretty tough out here."
"We always careful. Always watching. Always running," the other boy spat, "We not run. We
don't run now. Not here. Mr. Way so it's okay. We stay here." Jesus Christ, Gerard. What the
hell did you get yourself into?

Frank absorbed their words, a mix of frustration and sympathy etched on his face. "Look, just
take care of yourselves. If you ever need help or someone to talk to, find me. I'm Frank. I'm
Gerard's friend-"

"Mr. Way doesn't have friends," Tom hisses, "He just has people he uses and throws away
when he's done." He said bitterly; resentful. "Me and my brother," Tom continued, "we're
small, innocent. People always underestimate us. Mr. Way only keeps in touch because he
thinks we don't know any better."

"Gerard can be a bit... weird. But I've known him for a while now. Sometimes he's just trying
to protect people in his own way."

"Protect?" The other boy scoffed. "Mr. Way, he do not care for me and him. He only care
about his own world. He tell me, oh you do this and it's for protection, that he's keeping us
safe. But I think he like to be in control, like he has got little spies."

There was a rawness in the kid's voice that struck a chord with Frank. He recognized the pain
of feeling used and discarded, and he wondered how deeply Gerard was entangled in these
boys' lives. Frank leaned against the doorframe, contemplating his next words carefully.
"Gerard's got his demons, no doubt. But I've seen another side of him too. If he's reaching out
to you and your brother, it might be his way of trying to help. Maybe he sees something in
you guys that others don't."

The other boy's defensive facade wavered for a moment, revealing a glimmer of
vulnerability. Tom exchanged a hesitant glance with his brother, and for a brief moment, the
weight of their shared experiences hung in the air. Tom shook his head, "No, he sees what
everybody sees in us. Small, easy to control." His hand goes to close the door, but Frank
stops him, sucking in a breath.

"Listen, just," he fumbles around in his pocket, producing a scrap of paper. He nicks the
Sharpie from the kitchen counter and quickly scrawls down a phone number, "This is my
personal number," He says seriously. "If you ever want someone to talk to or need assistance,
I'm around. Just take care of yourselves, okay?"

With those parting words, Frank exited the apartment, the door slamming behind him. As he
walked away, he heard two small voices talking rapidly over each other in a language he
didn't understand.

Frank feels Gerard's eyes drilling a hole in the back of his head. "You're angry with me.
Why?" He says tentatively, taking one creaking step forward.

Frank exhales into the air, ignoring Gerard's nasally voice and counting to ten inside his
head.
Gerard sighed, and Frank could imagine him looking towards the ceiling in irritation, "Is this
about Tom-"

"Of course, it's about Tom!" Frank whipped around, "What the hell, Gerard? Since when did
NYPD employ children, huh?"

"Oh please," Gerard rolls his eyes, "They're hardly children. When I was their age-"

"How old are they? Fourteen? Fourteen years old?! They are fucking skin and bones,
smoking fucking roaches on their threadbare futon and giving stick and pokes to themselves,
which are probably infected. Alone. In a house alone. No parental supervision. No nothing!"
Frank turned on his heel, storming off in the opposite direction, a swirling tempest of
frustration.

Gerard reached out, grabbing Frank's coat in an attempt to halt his departure. Angrily, Frank
shook off Gerard's grip, sending him stumbling into a nearby table. Gerard grunted in pain,
his eyes reflecting betrayal as he shot a reproachful glance at Frank.

"Oh, Captain Iero! Always playing the hero!" Gerard called after him.

Frank whipped around. "They are kids, Gerard! What the hell are you thinking?"

"I'm not their babysitter, Frank. They can handle themselves better than you think," Gerard
retorted, his voice laced with irritation

"Oh, they're doing great, aren't they?" Frank shot back, sarcasm dripping from his words.
"Living in squalor, smoking who knows what, and you're okay with that?"

"They're survivors, Frank. Not delicate flowers. They've been through worse," Gerard argued,
a defensive edge to his tone.

"They're kids, Gerard! Kids shouldn't have to be 'survivors.' They should be in school, with a
family, not living like this!" Frank's voice resonated with genuine concern.

Gerard's eyes flashed, and he took a step forward, closing the gap between them. "You think I
don't know that? You think I wanted this for them?"

"Then do something about it! Don't just drag them into your mess!" Frank's frustration
surged, his words a sharp rebuke.

Gerard's patience wore thin. "You don't get it, Frank. They needed help, and I provided it. If it
weren't for me, they'd still be on the streets."

"At what cost, Gerard? You're not a savior; you're just entangling them in your mess."

The room felt smaller as their argument intensified. Gerard's temper flared, and he shoved a
hand through his disheveled hair. "You always play the hero, thinking you can save
everyone."
"Someone has to care about these kids, Gerard because you clearly don't!" Frank's frustration
reached its peak.

In a sudden surge of anger, Gerard moved closer, and their confrontation escalated physically.
He grabbed Frank's collar, his frustration mirrored in his grip.

"You don't know anything," Gerard spat.

In a moment of impulsive frustration, Frank span Gerard around, pinning him against the
wall. The air hung heavy with their unspoken conflict as they locked eyes. The brief lull in
the physical altercation allowed Frank to find his voice, though the intensity of the argument
lingered. "I know enough to see you're screwing things up for those kids," Frank said lowly.

"What the hell are you even talking about?" Gerard strains, wiggling around in Frank's grip.
Gerard winced as Frank's grip tightened, his eyes reflecting both defiance and pain.

"I know what it's like to be to be used and then tossed aside like you're nothing," Frank
growled. Gerard's eyes widened, a flicker of realization crossing his face. Gerard strained
against Frank's hold, "And what, you think you're better?" Gerard shot back, his voice edged
with frustration. "If I'm not looking out for them, someone worse will come along and take
advantage. At least when I'm in control, I know they are safe."

Frank's expression hardened, his gaze unwavering. "Control isn't protection, Gerard. It's just
another form of imprisonment. You're not saving them; you're trapping them in your own
cage. A golden cage, but still a cage."

"I got them off the street," Gerard hissed, "I gave them a place to stay. They're two immigrant
delinquents; Bill can barely speak a sentence in English, and you know as well as I do what
happens to kids like them in the system. If they end up in foster care, they'll get split up. Or
worse, they'll run away, and who knows where they'll end up then," Gerard growled.

Frank felt the muscles in his face twitch. He eased his grip slightly, allowing some distance
between them. "It's like you said. They're just kids, Frank," Gerard continued, his tone softer
but still filled with urgency. "I didn't want them to end up as statistics or lost in the system. I
offered them a chance--a choice to survive, to have some semblance of control over their
lives."

"Look," Gerard sighed, "I didn't plan for this. I never wanted them to be in this situation. But
it's the best I could offer them right now. I don't know what they told you, or who they made
me out to be, and maybe I deserve it. Hell, I probably deserve a whole lot more. But this is
the reality of it. They help me with my cases, and I compensate them. It's a transaction, sure.
But they get a roof over their heads, and food in their bellies, and they're not out there
fending for themselves in a world that wouldn't hesitate to chew them up and spit them out.
I'm not their dad, Frank. I'm not their savior. I'm just a man."

Frank eased his grip on Gerard, the tension in the room gradually subsiding. Both their chests
heaved against each other. Frank, although still simmering with frustration, took a step back.
"You might not be their dad, but you're the one responsible for them right now. They're kids.
 They spend their money on stupid shit like weed and alcohol and drugs. I doubt they've been
eating properly either."

Gerard's eyes flickered with a mixture of guilt and concern. "They're not my kids," Gerard
mumbled, more to himself than to Frank.

Frank shook his head, a blend of exasperation and genuine concern etched on his face.
"Whether you like it or not, you're involved in their lives. You can't just turn a blind eye to
their well-being. They're not just pawns in your cases, Gerard."

Gerard and Frank lock eyes in a tense silence, the unspoken conflict lingering in the air.
Gerard finally looks away, breaking the gaze. "This symbol - I still can't place it. I want you
to go to the police station. Ask about the journalist..."

Frank scoffs, irritation evident in his voice. "No. Fuck you."

Gerard, undeterred, continues, brushing off his coat. "All his personal effects will be
impounded. Get hold of a diary - or something that will tell us his movements."

"I'm not your errand boy," Frank begins to retort, his frustration flaring up again.

Gerard sighs, a hint of exasperation in his tone. "For God's sake, Frank, I'm going to check up
on those kids that you care so much about! So, can you please do this one thing for me?
Please. I'm trying. I really am, but you make this so damn difficult."

The plea in Gerard's voice lingers in the room, adding a layer of vulnerability to the
otherwise strained atmosphere. Frank, torn between resentment and concern, takes a moment
before grumbling a reluctant agreement. "Fine."

Gerard, satisfied with Frank's begrudging agreement, strides towards the door. He opens it
with a force that matches the tension in the room. Before leaving, he glances back at Frank, a
mixture of frustration and exhaustion in his eyes. With that, he steps out into the hallway, the
door closing behind him with a decisive thud.

Frank is left alone in the room, the echoes of their heated confrontation still lingering. The
weight of Gerard's words about the kids and the unsolved case hangs in the air, creating a
tumultuous mix of emotions within Frank. He exhales heavily, realizing that, despite the
clash of wills, they're both entangled in a web of complexities that neither can easily escape.

Chapter End Notes

Are Gerard and Frank about to become begrudging dads? Hmmm...Maybe LOL. I took
the OG Raz character and gave him a sob story and a brother because like...yeah,
Sherlock consults with the homeless, but isn't he like putting them in danger when he
does so? Idk, I just took that and ran with it. Adding to the Frank lore though, which
about to go crazy in the future. Also, Gerard is a very flawed human being. Does he
have a little bit of heart? Just a teensy weensy bit. NEXT UP: Loads more of boring
investigating boooo! But alas it is essential to the plot.
 CHAPTER FOUR
Chapter Summary

Some investigating gets done. Bill and Tom become temporary detectives; and then
some shit goes down AKA this shit gets DARK fast.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

GOING TO SEE VAN COON'S PA... -GW

Frank pockets his phone, watching as Inspector Walker roots through through a file of
evidence. "Your friend..." Walker began, his tone carrying a tinge of disdain.

"Hey - whatever you say - I'm a hundred percent behind you," Frank affirms, crossing his
arms. The police station is alive with activity, with many uniformed officers pressing past
Frank as they rush in and out of the station. A forgotten cup of coffee balances precariously
on Walker's desk, and a cell phone flashes with various texts.

"He's an arrogant SOB, isn't he?" Walker remarked, brown puppy eyes flickering up at Frank.
He flipped through another file, the static raising strands of fringe up.

"Oh," Frank said, "That was mild. People say a lot worse than that," Walker smirked and
extended an item toward Frank—a pocket diary. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? The
journalist's diary?"

Frank took the diary, a fat personal organizer, and opened it. Nestled inside was an airplane
ticket, revealing the airport name printed as 'DALIAN.' He tilted the diary towards Walker in
thanks. Walker waved him off, eyes darting back to his phone when the screen flashed a
name again, vibrating against the desk.

"Girlfriend?" Frank asked, raising an eyebrow.

Frank's inquiry prompted Walker to blush slightly, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
"Uh, no, not a girlfriend," he admitted sheepishly, averting his gaze momentarily. "But, uh, I
did meet someone recently. We planned to go on a date tonight," he confessed, his tone tinged
with a mix of excitement and nervousness, "But with this case and all..." He shrugged.

Frank raised an eyebrow at Walker's admission, a hint of amusement playing on his lips.
"Must be quite the talker if they are blowing up your phone like that," Frank remarked, a
teasing tone lacing his words.
Walker chuckled softly, "Yeah, you could say that," he replied. "The guy is practically glued
to his phone. Seems like he can't go five minutes without checking it."

"Ah, I see," Frank nodded knowingly. "Well, I suppose that's just how some people are
nowadays, Inspector" Frank thought of Gerard and Ryro, and how their fingers seemed
stapled to their phone keyboard.

Walker nodded in agreement before adding, "You-you can just call me Jon. No need for
formalities right now."

"Got it, Jon," Frank replied with a grin. "So, tell me more about how you met this guy.
Must've been quite the encounter."

Jon leaned back in his chair, a reminiscent smile spreading across his face as he recounted the
story. "Met him at a bar, actually," he began. "I had just finished a long day at work and
decided to stop by for a drink. Funny thing is, he was a bit standoffish when I went up to get
myself a drink. But then, he overheard me talking about being an inspector at NYPD, and
suddenly, he turned on the charm."

Intrigued, Frank leaned in, "Really? What changed his tune?"

"He seemed overly interested in whether I had a gun or not," Jon revealed with a laugh. "I
guess being a cop added a certain appeal for him; danger or whatever. We hit it off, and one
thing led to another. Turns out he works for a music producer as an assistant," Jon looked up
dreamily, before shaking his head, "Anyway, he's the reason my phone's been buzzing like
crazy. We planned to grab a bite tonight, but with this case..." He trailed off with a shrug,
expressing a sense of regret.

Frank nodded understandingly. "Life of a detective, huh? Always on the job. Well, I hope it
works out for you," he said, offering a supportive pat on Jon's shoulder.

Jon sighs, looking upward, "Yeah, me too."

-----------------------

Frank collides with someone on the sidewalk near Chinatown, finding himself steadying the
person as they stumble. Gerard looks up, hand clutching a small receipt in his hand as he
grinned wildly once he noticed that it was Frank.

"Van Coon brought a package here the day he died," He said excitedly, "Whatever was
hidden inside that suitcase. I've managed to piece together his movements using scraps of
information..."

"Gerard..."

"...credit card bills and receipts. He flew back from China and came here."

"Gerard."

"Somewhere in this street. Somewhere close. I don't know where."

Frank pointed opposite of the street, stopping Gerard's rambling. "That shop over there."

"How can you tell?" Gerard questioned, his keen eyes focused on Frank. In response, Frank
held up the journalist's diary, the pages containing Lukis' handwritten notes about the address.
"Lukis' diary. He was here. He wrote down the address," Frank explained, a sense of
accomplishment evident in his voice.

Gerard's eyes widened with realization. "Oh."

Frank, pleased with himself for finding the answer so effortlessly, shared a triumphant glance
with Gerard. Gerard scowled, flicking his hair out of his eyes, "Oh please stop looking like a
cat that just got the cream. It's not clever if it's staring you in the face."

Frank chuckled, undeterred by Gerard's scowl. "You're just mad that you don't get to show
off."

Gerard doesn't reply, darting across the street to the old Chinese emporium known as THE
LUCKY CAT. The exterior exuded an air of antiquity, with a golden cat in the window that
playfully waved at the passersby. Frank cursed under his breath, bounding after him until
they were met with the entrance. The entrance boasted a display of classical ceramic figures,
surrounded by paper lanterns, Chinese fans, and sashes strung around the door. Gerard swung
open the door, striding inside.

Upon entering THE LUCKY CAT, the atmosphere changed dramatically. The shop, though
tiny, was immersed in a dingy and dirty ambiance. A faint fluorescent glow illuminated the
space, revealing a layer of dust settled over everything. It became evident that no one had
purchased anything here for years, and the once-vibrant emporium now seemed frozen in
time.

The door chimed as Gerard and Frank stepped inside, greeted by the soothing melody of a
Chinese news station playing on an old radio.

Seated behind the counter on a small stool was an old lady wearing shaded glasses. The
shelves held an enchanting display of statuettes—Buddhas exuding serenity, geishas frozen in
elegance, and classical warriors frozen in stoic poses. The statuettes, crafted from cheap
stoneware, boasted hues of green and ochre glaze, creating a visual tapestry that hinted at
tales untold.

Incense wafted through the air, mingling with the subtle scent of dust that clung to the
shelves and statuettes. A dish of oranges, also covered in a fine layer of dust, added a touch
of color to the otherwise muted ambiance. An altar adorned with miniature figures of Gods
and Guardians stood as a testament to the spiritual essence that permeated the space.

Lucky Chinese cats, their paws waving in a hypnotic unison, adorned every available surface.
The room echoed with the rhythmic dance of these feline figurines, each one a harbinger of
good fortune. The items were all labeled with prices in Chinese. Gerard lifted a small stone
figurine, exposing a small square beneath the thick layer of dust.
"You want Lucky Cat...?" the Chinese shopkeeper inquired, eyeing up Frank with money
signs in her eyes.

"Er, no thanks. No," he muttered, his attention wandering around the eclectic assortment of
items on display.

The shopkeeper persisted, lifting a lucky cat from the shelf. "Ten pound. Ten pound. I think
your wife she will like," she insisted, her voice carrying a hint of persuasion.

Frank's gaze drifted across the shop, and then something caught his eye—a symbol on a label
that seemed oddly familiar. He nudged Gerard, who had been observing the prices scrawled
on the little tickets.

"Gerard, look... On the label there..." He pointed out, his voice filled with a growing sense of
realization.

Gerard's eyes honed in on the symbol, recognizing its significance instantly. "I see it," he
acknowledged, his mind already racing with connections.

Frank drew the connection aloud, his voice tinged with excitement. "The symbol. Look. It's
exactly the same as the cipher..." The handwritten price tag bore a symbol identical to the one
found at the library and the bank. Gerard and Frank exchanged knowing looks. Frank gave a
polite farewell to the shopkeeper, and the two exited the shop to observe the rest of
Chinatown.

Row after row of restaurants adorned the bustling street—The Golden Pagoda, Plum Valley,
the Crispy Duck—all contributing to the vibrant tapestry of Chinatown. The air was filled
with the savory aroma of various cuisines, enticing passersby to indulge in the diverse
culinary offerings. Market stalls lined the thoroughfare, showcasing vibrant vegetables and
fruits. A man skillfully trimmed bok choy with a machete, adding a touch of theatricality to
the mundane task.Amidst the lively scene, a girl working in a Chinese herbalist shop threw a
bucket of water onto the pavement, initiating the rhythmic sweep that was a familiar sight in
the neighborhood.

Frank and Gerard strolled down the street, their eyes scanning the shop windows. The
symbols on display seemed to repeat—a pattern emerging from the chaos. Price tags at the
deli, the blackboard outside the grocers—everywhere, Chinese characters adorned the
surroundings.

Numbers, numbers, numbers...Gerard, engrossed in his observations, suddenly slapped his

head in a moment of realization. "It's an ancient number system—Hang Zhou. These days
only street traders use it," Gerard declared breathlessly.

The Chinese grocer's shop, like many in the neighborhood, displayed prices in both the
ancient Hang Zhou number system and the more common Arabic numerals. They paused at
the grocer's window, examining the price tags.

"They were numbers! Written on the wall at the bank and at the library! Numbers in an
ancient Chinese dialect!" Gerard exclaimed.
Frank focused on one particular symbol. "It's a '15'. Look. What we thought was the artist's
tag—it's a number '15.'"

"And the blindfold. The horizontal line. It's a number as well. It's the Chinese number '1',
Frank!" Gerard smacks Frank, excitement and understanding lit up their faces.

"We've found it," Frank beams.

The Chinese grocer emerged from his shop door, clearly displeased that they were swapping
the labels on his food. He swiftly grabbed the labels back, expressing his frustration at the
disruption.

Amidst the commotion, Frank's attention was drawn to something familiar—a woman
wearing black sunglasses, a black headscarf, and a black coat. She seemed to be discreetly
taking a photograph with her mobile. A sense of recognition flickered, but by the time Frank
took a second look, she had vanished. Frank stared at the spot hard, letting out a deep breath.

Frank and Gerard slumped down into plastic chairs at a dingy cafe across from THE LUCKY
CAT. Gerard scribbled '1' and '15' on the back of a serviette.

"Two men travel back from China. They both come straight to the Lucky Cat Emporium.
What did they see?" Frank asks, rubbing at his chin.

Gerard, deep in thought, responded, "It's not what they saw. It's what they brought with them
in those suitcases."

"You don't mean duty-free."

The waiter brought food, a sausage sandwich for Frank, and they waited for him to leave
before delving deeper into their conversation.

Gerard leaned forward, "Think about what Jepharee told us. About Van Coon; about how he
kept afloat in the market."

"Lost five million," Frank recalled.

"Made it back a week later. This is how he made such easy money," Gerard explained,
leaning back again.

Frank blinked, and took a bite out of the sandwich, "He was a smuggler."

Gerard nodded, eyes following the drop of grease that raced down Frank's finger. "A guy like
him - he would have been perfect. A businessman, taking regular trips to Asia. And Lukis too
- a journalist, writing about China. They smuggled something out. The Lucky Cat was the
drop-off."

Frank swallows hard. "Why did they die? It doesn't make sense... If they both turned up at the
shop and delivered the goods... why would someone threaten them and kill them after the
event? After they'd finished the job?"
"What if one of them was light-fingered?" Gerard proposed.

"How d'you mean?"

"One of them stole something—something from the hoard."

"The killer doesn't know which one of them took it! So he threatens them both," Frank
finishes, licking his thumb.

However, Gerard's attention had shifted. He was now staring out of the window across the
street, his mind engaged in a different line of inquiry. "Remind me: when was the last time it
rained?"

---------------

Outside THE LUCKY CAT, Gerard focused on examining the door to the flat above. The bell
indicated it belonged to 'SOO LIN YAO.' On the doorstep, they discovered a telephone
directory still in its plastic bag, torn at the corner, and standing against the door. He ripped
open the bag, revealing pages swollen with rainwater. "That's been on the step since
Monday," Gerard muttered. He rang the doorbell, but there was no response.

"No one's been in this flat for at least three days," Gerard remarked, a sense of urgency in his
tone. Darting down the side of the building, he entered a side alley, with Frank hurriedly
following.

"They're away on holiday. So what?" Frank asked.

Gerard, glancing up, noticed the wide-open window of the flat and the scaffolding at the
back. Ignoring Frank's skepticism, Gerard leaped onto a dustbin, hauling himself up on the
scaffolding. As he reached the first-floor flat's windows, one was wide open. Without
hesitation, he jumped inside.

"Gerard!" Frank hissed. He follows Gerard.

Gerard landed inside, a bit unsteady, but he quickly regained his composure. On the window
ledge is a vase. Gerard almost knocks it over, but catches it just in time, steadying it. A
fastidiously clean little studio flat. Good taste, but no money to indulge it. Feminine touches
adorned the space—dried flowers, embroidered cushions, and a Chinese screen.

But the place is cold - no one has been here for days. Frank observed the remnants of daily
life—washing up drained dry on the draining board. The washing machine's cycle had long
ended, leaving damp clothes in contrast to the bone-dry laundry hanging on a clothes horse in
the corner. The flowers in the vase were sagging. Gerard opens the fridge, and Frank,
standing beside him, sniffs the milk—gone sour.

Gerard, seemingly oblivious to Frank's presence, strides purposefully to the mantelpiece.

There, an old photo captures the image of a Chinese baby girl and baby boy embracing, with
fingerprints marring the glossy surface. Gerard glances back at the window, noting a small
puddle of water on the floor beside it.
"I'm not the first," Gerard mumbles.

Frank looks up from the fridge, "What?"

"Someone else has been here. Someone broke into this flat." He touches the puddle of water,
realizing, "He knocked that vase, just like I did."

Gerard eagerly searches the carpet for depressions in the pile, finding hazy impressions of
shoes. Examining the footprints, he deduces, "Size eleven. He was tall. But not heavy."

Following the footprints to the mantelpiece, Gerard looks back at the photo with fingerprints.
The intruder had held it.

"Long, thin fingers. Our acrobat," Gerard concludes. Gerard, still absorbed in his deductions,
glances back at the window, pondering, "Why didn't he close it when he left?"

Frank felt a chill go down his spine. "He's still in here," Frank realizes.

Gerard looks up from where he was looking behind the screen, "What-?" The intruder acts
swiftly. A swift blow to Gerard's head, and he collapses to the linoleum floor. Frank reacts
instinctively, lunging at the intruder to prevent any further harm.

The intruder slips a piece of laundry around Frank's neck, pulling tight and dragging him to
the carpet. Frank desperately tears at the cloth, feeling it bite into his neck. His legs flail in a
struggle for release. His hand fumbles for his gun, but is quickly pinned to the floor by black
boots. The bones in his hand grind together, and Frank is sure that the man has broken at least
two of them.

"You should not have come here," The man hissed, baring his teeth when Frank landed a neat
kick at his thigh. Frank grunts in pain, the pressure on his neck intensifying as he struggles
for breath. The intruder's cold warning sends a shiver down his spine, but Frank refuses to
yield. Summoning all his strength, he manages to deliver another kick, this time catching the
intruder off guard.

The grip around his neck loosens slightly, allowing Frank to gasp for air. His hand, still
throbbing from the assault, searches for any possible advantage. Spotting a nearby object, he
grabs it and swings it at the intruder's head. Wooden spoon. The makeshift weapon connects
with a satisfying thud, forcing the assailant to release his hold.

Frank rolls away, brandishing his gun from his waistband. But when he blinks away the black
dots in his vision, the man is gone.

Driven by adrenaline, Frank rushes to the open window, his gaze scanning the alley below.
The man has vanished, leaving no trace of his escape route. Frank curses under his breath,
frustration etched on his face. He reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing against a small,
folded object. He pulls it out, examining the tiny black flower in the dim light.

Gerard, recovering from the blow to his head, groans and struggles to stand. "What the
fuck?" He curses, holding his head. Gerard watches, as Frank holds the delicate creation
between his fingers. Frank turns it over, examining the intricate folds and craftsmanship.

Frank, still panting from the struggle, turns to Gerard, concern etched on his face. "Are you
okay?" he asks, his voice laced with worry.

Gerard winces, massaging his throbbing head. "Yeah, yeah, I'll live," he mumbles. "Did you
see his face? What the hell happened when I got knocked out?" he demands.

Frank glances at Gerard, a bit hesitant. "No, I didn't see his face. He moved too fast. And
when you got knocked out, I—well, I reacted. Tried to keep him from doing anything worse."

Gerard's concern deepens as he takes in the red ring around Frank's neck and the popped
blood vessels in his eyes. He steps closer, examining the marks left by the makeshift garrote.
"Frank, are you okay? That looks bad," Gerard says, his voice edged with worry.

Frank rubs his throat, wincing at the touch. "I've had worse," he rasps, attempting a
nonchalant tone.

"Bullshit," Gerard retorts, his eyes narrowing. "That man strangled you. That's why you're all
bruised up, and your voice sounds like you swallowed glass."

Frank avoids Gerard's gaze for a moment but eventually meets his concerned eyes. "Yeah, he
got a good grip on me. But I'm fine, seriously."

Gerard isn't buying it. "Fine?"

Frank smirks, trying to lighten the mood. "I've survived worse, Gerard. Trust me."

Gerard, however, remains stern. "Surviving doesn't mean you're not hurt. Let me take a look
at your throat."

Frank rolls his eyes but doesn't protest as Gerard gently inspects the bruised area. "See? Just a
little roughed up. I'll be back to normal in no time," Frank insists.

"See to it that you do," Gerard says seriously.

Frank raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye. "You really do care, huh?"

Gerard rolls his eyes. "Don't get sentimental on me. I just don't want your obituary to start
with 'Military Man Dies From a Sore Throat.'"

Gerard and Frank stumble out of the front door, looking worse for wear than when they
arrived, and Gerard points to the name on the bell, "Soo Lin Yao. We need to find her."

"How exactly?"

"Start with this." He retrieves a note from the doormat, reading, 'SOO LIN. PLEASE RING
ME, TELL ME YOU'RE OK. ANDY.'
Gerard turns the paper over, revealing an old envelope bearing the label NATIONAL
ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM.

----------------------

"When was the last time you saw her?"

Andy Galbraith has short curly brown hair, wide dark brown eyes, and ivory skin. His baby
blue button-up is crisp, concealed by a light brown sweater that he layers over top of it and an
emerald green tie. The man is lanky, wringing his hands out in front of him as he observes the
two men standing in the room.

"Three days ago. Here, at the museum. This morning, they told me she'd resigned. Just like
that. Left her work unfinished," Andy replied, biting his lip.

Gerard scanned the surroundings—the Empress' mannequin, the Jade exhibition, the wall of
Benefactors' names. He then honed in on a crucial detail.

"What was the last thing she did on her final afternoon?" Gerard inquired, narrowing his
eyes.

Andy gulps, and gestures for them to follow him. "It's easier for me to just show you."

He leads them to the museum storeroom, shrouded in darkness. Andy opened the door, and
switched on the main light revealing broken antiquities, limbs, and torsos; unveiling statues
wrapped in dust sheets. He pointed to a Chinese cabinet in the corner. "There. She does this
demonstration for the tourists—a tea ceremony. She'd have packed her things away and put
them there," he explained.

Gerard noticed an untied statue with a rope coiled on the floor and the dust cover removed.
Striding over to the statue, he observed it closely. A Greek marble with no head. Gerard's
gaze lowered to the body of the statue, where in yellow paint, was the same Chinese death
cipher. Gerard frowned, turning around quickly and pointing at Frank. "We have to get to Soo
Lin Yao."

Andy furrowed his eyebrows, stepping closer. "What? Why? Has something happened to
her?"

Gerard's expression was grave as he turned back to Andy, his mind already racing with
deductions. "Not yet." Gerard's words hung in the air, ominous and foreboding. The urgency
of the situation pressed upon them, and without wasting any time, Gerard and Frank swiftly
left the museum storeroom, leaving the broken antiquities and the eerie shadows behind.

As they stepped into the crisp air outside, Frank took a moment to gather his thoughts, falling
into step beside Gerard. The streets outside the museum were alive with the energy of New
York, yet an underlying tension resonated between the two men.

"That cipher-it means he's planning to kill her next," Frank said, his voice low and serious.
Gerard nodded, his eyes scanning the surroundings as they navigated through the city streets.
"That's why we found him in that flat - he was waiting for her."

"Mr. Way!" A small voice rang out behind them. Gerard and Frank turned around towards the
soft pitter-patter of feet, recognizing the dirty hoody and battered shoes adorning Tom and the
spiky black hair of the boy whom Gerard called Bill. Bill shot Frank a dirty look, hovering
slightly behind Tom.

"What is it?" Gerard inquired, his eyes focused on the twins.

Tom, the more confident of the two, stepped forward. "We found something," he began,
glancing at Bill for reassurance. Bill, however, remained silent, his gaze fixed on Frank.

Gerard motioned for him to continue.

"In the Subway tunnels," Tom continued, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pockets, drawing
Frank's eye to the distinct clink of a paint can. "I've found something you'll like." Bill
remained silent, his eyes darting between Frank and Gerard.

The group followed as Tom led them through the bustling streets of New York, eventually
descending into the depths of the subway system. The air changed, growing cooler and filled
with the distant echoes of passing trains. Navigating through dimly lit tunnels, they
eventually reached a section covered in layers of vibrant graffiti.

"In here," Tom said, guiding them toward a particular wall adorned with an explosion of
colors and intricate designs--street art from hundreds of different authors.

"If you wanted to hide a tree, then the best place to do it is a forest, wouldn't you say?"
Gerard mused. "People would just walk past it, not knowing—not able to decipher the
message."

"There."

Tom pointed to a huge tag. Underneath, remnants of yellow zinc paint were visible, just a few
tantalizing splashes left exposed.

"They've been here. The exact same paint," Gerard declared. Turning to Frank, he instructed,
"Go up onto the railway line. Look for that same color. If we're going to decipher this
language, we're going to need more evidence."

Frank nodded, but his attention shifted back to the two boys, who were standing nearby,
watching the scene unfold with curious eyes. Gerard noticed Frank's gesture and the
unspoken question lingering in the air—what were they supposed to do about them?

Of course, the practical option was to send the boys back to the likely cold and moldy
apartment. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the city lights were beginning to
illuminate the streets, casting long shadows on the pavement. Then again, who knew what
trouble they could get into in the night?

Gerard exchanged a glance with Frank, a silent conversation passing between them.
"Hey," Gerard called out, approaching the twins. Tom looked up from where he was eyeing
up space on the wall, pointer finger already rested delicately against the nozzle, "It's getting
late. You should head back home."

Bill shot a defiant look at Gerard, seemingly unhappy with the idea. He muttered something
to Tom in their native language, and Tom responded in turn. Bill crossed his arms, a stubborn
glint in his eyes. "We help! We good at this!"

"Maybe... we just go with you? We won't bother you, just watch. Learn," Tom amended,
trying to find a compromise.

Gerard, not thrilled with the idea of playing babysitter, couldn't hide his reluctance.

Bill, picking up on Gerard's resistance, scowled. "We help! Not babies."

Frank, sensing the tension rising, stepped in with a reproachful expression directed at Gerard.
"Gerard, they want to help. Let them come with us. We can keep an eye on them, and who
knows, they might be useful."

Gerard, slightly irritated, muttered a sarcastic remark under his breath, "Great, just what we
need, a couple of sidekicks."

Frank shot him a disapproving look. "Don't be rude. They're offering their help, and we could
use the extra eyes. Plus, they're eager to learn. It's a win-win."

Gerard's frustration surfaced, and he muttered something under his breath, his tone less than
diplomatic.

Frank shot him a glare and Gerard sighed, realizing he needed to tone down his brusqueness.
"Fine, but don't get in the way. Stay close and keep quiet," he grumbled, a reluctant
acceptance in his voice.

The twins exchanged a glance, seemingly satisfied with the compromise. "Deal," Tom
agreed, a hint of a smile breaking through his determined expression.

Frank turned to Gerard with a mischievous grin. "See? Problem solved. They can be our little
detective apprentices." Frank leaned in, whispering to Gerard, "We can drop them off at home
after. It's just for tonight, and it might make the investigation easier with extra hands."

Gerard scowled. "I'm taking the quiet one," He hisses back.

Frank chuckled softly, shaking his head at Gerard's gruff response. "Suit yourself," he replied
in a low tone, before turning back to the twins with a warm smile. "Alright, Tom, you're with
me. Bill, you're with Gerard."

Tom nodded enthusiastically, a bright gleam in his eyes as he joined Frank. "I know all the
good spots, swear. I practically run these tunnels."

On the other hand, Bill shot Gerard a defiant look, his arms crossed. "I good helper. You see,"
he declared with a determined expression.
Gerard rolled his eyes, realizing he might have just signed up for a challenging partnership.
"Yeah, yeah. Just keep up and don't touch anything you're not supposed to," he grumbled,
already feeling a headache coming on.

-----------------------------------

As Frank carefully maneuvered through the makeshift homes along the railway tracks, Tom
followed closely, eyeing the scene with a mix of curiosity and caution. The dim light cast
eerie shadows, and the homeless inhabitants grumbled at the intrusion.

"Er... 'Scuse me, can I squeeze past you?" Frank politely asked, navigating the narrow space.
The homeless people eyed him warily.

"This is my place," a homeless man grunted defensively.

"I just want to look at that wall... Can you move a little bit?" Frank requested, hoping for
cooperation.

The man, however, had a different idea. "Five dollars."

"What?" Frank asked taken aback.

"You want me to move. Five dollars," the homeless man reiterated.

"Oh c'mon, man. Cut us some slack," Tom whined, shoulders slumping.

Frank gave him a cutting look that said 'be quiet' and Tom straightened up.

"Okay," Frank agreed reluctantly, reaching into his pocket.

"Ten," the man demanded suddenly.

"What happened to five?" Frank questioned, bewildered.

"Too quick to say 'Yes'," the man shrugged, holding his hand out. Frank dug through his
wallet, making a mental note to request a refund from Gerard later. The man shuffles out of
the way, and Frank uses his phone to illuminate the area. Nothing. And he's out of ten
dollars.

Feeling a bit swindled, he suddenly felt a tug on his sleeve. Tom points excitedly at the
railway line, a faint drip of yellow paint on the tracks—a thin trail leading into the darkness.
"This wasn't here this morning," Tom explained, his voice a hushed whisper as they followed
the faint glow of the yellow trail. They followed the path, turning corners until he stumbled
upon a revelation. Illuminated by a dull street lamp bulb, a wall stood covered in ciphers.
Eighteen yellow symbols are arranged in nine pairs, resembling mystic ancient runes or, in
this case, Chinese numbers. Frank studied them closely, running his hand over the symbols,
marveling at the discovery.

Eager to share his findings, Frank reached for his phone to call Gerard, only to find himself
in a no man's land with no reception."Dammit," he muttered, frustrated by the lack of
communication. Quickly, he flicked through his apps to reach the camera and snapped a few
angles of the wall.

He turned towards Tom, "Alright, he can't have gone far. Think you can keep up?"

Tom smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I can keep up, old man."

Frank and Tom hurried along the railway tracks in search of Gerard. Frank and Tom sprinted
back along the railway tracks, the yellow symbols on the wall fading into the distance behind
them. Frank's sneakers pounded against the concrete, and Tom matched his strides
effortlessly.

Eventually, they spotted Gerard's silhouette in the distance. "Gerard!" Frank called out,
waving to catch his attention. Gerard turned towards them, his expression questioning.

"Gerard. We found it!" Frank told him breathlessly.

-----------

Gerard, Frank, Bill, and Tom stood before a once graffiti-covered wall, now blank and black.

"I don't understand. It was here," Frank muttered, voice echoing in the tunnels. "Twenty
minutes ago. I saw it. A whole load of graffiti," Frank explained, reaching out to touch the
wet surface.

Tom nodded fervently in agreement, "Lots. We saw it. Me and him. Everywhere. Looked
like a fucking Jim Sanborn piece."

Gerard shot Tom a disapproving glance, and Tom amended, "Looked like Jim Sanborn threw
up on it."

Bill, his patience waning, crossed his arms. "So what? We just stand here and stare at black
wall?"

Gerard held up a hand, silencing Bill. He walked closer, touching the paint himself.
"Someone didn't want me to see it," he concluded, his gaze fixed on the now obscured wall.

With a sudden intensity, Gerard grasped Frank by the head, planting both hands firmly on his
friend's skull.

"Ow! Hey, Gerard! What are you doing?" Frank protested, trying to pry Gerard's fingers off.

"Shush, Frank. I need you to concentrate. Shut your eyes!" he commanded, clamping Frank's
arms to his sides and spinning him around in an attempt to induce a trance-like state.

"What? What for? What are you doing?" Frank asked, bewildered by the unorthodox
approach.

"I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture it. Picture what you saw. Can
you remember it?" Gerard pressed on, his mind already racing ahead.
Frank, complying with his unusual request, nodded. "Sure. Yeah."

"You can remember the pattern?" Gerard sought confirmation, urgency in his voice.

"Yes, definitely," Frank affirmed.

"How much can you remember?"Gerard probed, his grip on Frank's head tightening.
"Look, don't worry," Frank reassured, his voice steady, attempting to dispel any concern that
may have crossed Gerard's mind.

"Because the average visual memory is only sixty-two percent accurate," Gerard interjected,
raising his eyebrows and pulling their faces close together. He presses their foreheads
together as if he is trying to transfer the memory from Frank's head to his own.

"Oh, well, I remember all of it," Frank replied, looking at Gerard cross-eyed.

"Really?" Gerard arches an eyebrow.

"At least I will if I can get to my pockets," Frank shrugs, "I took a photograph."

Gerard released his grip on him, allowing Frank to retrieve his phone. With a quick flourish,
he presented a photograph to Gerard. Gerard swiped Frank's phone from him, quickly
flicking through the gallery of angles that Frank had acquired. "Yes, oh yes. This is brilliant!"
Gerard moaned a reaction that left Frank momentarily baffled. He noticed the wide-eyed
stares from the children nearby, their innocent curiosity piqued by Gerard's rather dramatic
display.

Feeling a bit awkward, Frank decided it was time to redirect their attention. He gently
grabbed the shoulders of the children, offering a reassuring smile. "Alright, you two, let's
head home. It's getting late."

Tom stifled a yawn, wrinkling his nose. "We stay up late. We're allowed to because we're old
enough."

Frank bit back a smile at Tom's attempt to assert his autonomy. He wanted to treat them like
grown-ups, respecting their choices, but they were, after all, still kids – albeit intelligent ones.
"Of course, you're old enough. My bad," Frank said, adopting a tone of understanding. "But
you know, even adults need their rest. Keeps the mind sharp for all the important things you
guys do."

He gently guided them along the dimly lit street, his footsteps echoing in the quiet night. The
children, though eager to assert their maturity, couldn't hide the occasional yawn or tired
shuffle of their feet. As they walked through the chilly evening, Gerard soon found himself
tailing after them. The cold air nipped at their faces, and Frank couldn't help but feel a twinge
of guilt. The idea of taking them home lingered in his mind, but the kids were adamant about
going to their own place.

Upon arriving at their house, Frank couldn't help but notice the less-than-ideal conditions.
The house was still a bit on the gross side, and the cold seemed to seep through every crack
and crevice.

Frank hesitated, concern etched on his face. "Are you sure you want to stay here? I mean, it's
not exactly the coziest place, and it's freezing."

"This our house," Bill sneers, already toeing off his boots. "You don't like it, leave."

Frank sighed inwardly, sensing the defensive tone in Bill's words. He understood that they
were protective of their space, and their autonomy, and the last thing he wanted to do was
intrude. Still, the concern for their well-being nagged at him.

"Hey, I get it. Your house, your rules," Frank said, attempting to strike a balance between
respect and responsibility. "Just make sure you bundle up and keep warm, alright? It's getting
colder out here."

Bill, still wearing a scowl, grunted in acknowledgment. He threw the flannel blanket over his
shoulder, curling away from the door. Frank turned to leave, yet, before he could step away,
Gerard, who had been observing from a distance, approached with a thoughtful expression.

"Tom, Bill, any more of those ciphers, I want to know. Yellow paint, I want to know. If you
so much as hear a whisper; I expect a call," Gerard instructed. Frank's brows furrowed in
disapproval.

Feeling a surge of frustration, Frank was about to interject, ready to voice his concerns about
the twins' involvement. However, before he could utter a word, Tom, seizing the opportunity,
chimed in, "And what's in it for us, huh?"

Gerard rolled his eyes, "Besides a roof over your head? A blind eye to your drug habits, your
status as runaways and illegal immigrants, and your involvement in petty crime?" Gerard's
words hung heavily in the air, casting a stark light on the twins' precarious existence. Tom
and Bill, though familiar with the unspoken terms of their arrangement, couldn't help but
exchange uneasy glances.

"And let's not forget," Gerard added, his gaze shifting between the twins, "that you are
forever in debt with me. Everything you achieve, every opportunity that comes your way, it's
because I've facilitated it. Don't forget that."

Frank's anger simmered, and he grabbed Gerard's arm as he turned to stalk out.

"Gerard, this isn't right. They're just kids, and you're..." Frank began to protest, his tone
carrying a mix of concern and disbelief.

Gerard, unfazed by Frank's objections, met his gaze with a steely resolve. "An asshole? A
dick? Call me something new. Please, say something interesting for once."

The dismissive tone in Gerard's response stung, leaving Frank momentarily taken aback. He
hadn't expected such a callous retort. The frustration that had simmered within him now
evolved into a mix of disappointment and hurt.
"They're not pawns, Gerard. They're people, and they deserve more than being treated like
disposable assets," Frank insisted, his voice bleeding with a blend of conviction and hurt.
Frank's eyes bore into Gerard's, disappointment etched on his face. "I know you're better than
this, Gerard. You don't have to be so cold."

Gerard, unflinching, retorted, "If you think I'm better than that, then maybe you don't know
me at all." He ruffled his coat, sniffing at the air. Gerard's gaze shifted toward Tom, and a sly
smile played on his lips. "Besides, Bill has us all squared away, don't you, Bill?"

Frank, still processing the exchange, turned his attention to Bill, who was squirming under
the blanket. Frank furrowed his eyebrows together.

"Bill," Gerard continued, reveling in his arrogance, "did you find something interesting in
Frank's pockets?"

Tom shot a glare at Gerard but said nothing. Gerard, seemingly enjoying the moment, gasped.
"Oh, this is always exciting," he turns towards Frank, "You see, Frank, it's a two-man job.
Tom, he's my eyes. He sees everything," Gerard explained, a glint of crazy in his eyes.
"Loud, everyone suspects Tom, but that's the beauty of it. He's my eyes on the streets,
catching every detail, every nuance. People notice him; they can't help it. He's the whirlwind
that distracts, the one who draws attention away from the real workings. He's got a knack for
getting under people's skin, making them forget to watch their wallets or pay attention to the
shadows."

"Bill," Gerard began, "He's my ears, attuned to the whispers and murmurs of the streets. Bill
doesn't need to draw attention to himself; he's the one who listens, who gathers information
without raising suspicion. He's like a ghost, moving silently through the crowds. You don't
notice him until it's too late. He's the one who slips in and out unnoticed, leaving no trace
behind."

Gerard's gaze flickers to the blanket. "He's light-fingered too, a pickpocket with a touch as
delicate as a whisper. While all eyes are on Tom, Bill works his magic, retrieving what we
need without anyone being the wiser."

"I met these two at the Metropolitan," Gerard began, his tone laced with disdain, "Dirty,
skinny, able to fit into small spaces like rats in the shadows. Tom came up to me, all cocky
and smirking, like he owned the place. His brother, Bill, standing silently beside him, barely
making a sound."

"They were very quiet about it," Gerard recalled, "until Tom started rambling about how the
art I was investigating was fake. He went on and on, like a know-it-all. He knew exactly how
it was a fake, down to the smallest detail. I looked away for a moment, and when I glanced
back, they were gone. Along with my wallet," Gerard's lips curled into a sneer, "I found them
eventually, hiding like rats in the sewers. I threatened to turn them over to the police. Then,
Tom told me that Bill hears whispers about me, about my..." he gives a sardonic smile toward
Frank, "Habits. And then, as if to add insult to injury, Tom had the audacity to give me advice
on the case I was working on."
"I hunted them down, not just to get my wallet back, but because I saw potential. I offered
them a deal — work for me, help me on cases, and in return, they get a place to stay and
payment for their assistance. And of course, I kept quiet about their less-than-legal situation.
They agreed, of course. They always do."

Gerard ignores Frank's stunned look and stalks up to Bill. Bill's body trembles. With fear?
Unconcealed rage? Frank isn't sure. "These aren't children, Frank," Gerard declared coldly,
his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "They're predators, plain and simple. They
don't care about kindness. They don't need a parent. They'll take your kindness and rob you
blind." Without missing a beat, he demanded Frank's wallet back from Bill, his gaze
unyielding as he asserted his authority over the situation.

Bill reappeared from under the blanket, hair sticking up with static. He digs around in his
pocket and slaps it into Gerard's hand. "I was going to give back, later," Bill growled, cheeks
pinked with anger and humiliation.

"Sure, you always do. Albeit lighter," Gerard shrugs. He passes Frank's wallet back to him,
"Keep whatever was in his wallet. Probably isn't much. I could've given you more, but you
got greedy." He addressed the twins with a cutting remark, "Kids are always greedy. It makes
you a liability."

The boys flinched at Gerard's words. Gerard, fueled by a mix of irritation and a sense of
control, stormed out of the room. Frank, however, seized the moment and gripped Gerard's
arm hard before he could leave.

Their eyes locked in a silent standoff, a clash of wills and emotions. For a moment, the room
held its breath. Then, Gerard ripped his arm away, the door slamming shut behind him,
leaving a lingering echo of unresolved tension and the bitter taste of Gerard.

Frank bit his cheek hard to hold back the slew of curse words that wanted to tumble out of his
mouth. He turned towards the kids, who averted their gazes away from him.

Bill tucked his knees to his chin, a stray tear falling from his eye and trailing his eyeliner
down his cheek. He stubbornly wiped it away, suffering through a quiet sniffle. A struggle to
keep composed around an adult. So young.

"I'm not..." Frank rocks on his heels, "I'm not mad about the wallet thing guys."

"Was going to return it, promise," Bill reiterated, his tear-streaked face reflected a
determination to maintain some semblance of control.

Frank didn't know what to say, gulping something thick in his throat. He hesitated before
asking a question that hung heavily in the air. "Did Gerard come and see you guys...uh,
earlier?"

Tom looked turned his glare from the ground toward Frank. "No, he didn't. Why?" He
sneered, "Did he tell you he would?"
 As the tension lingered, Tom decided to break the silence. "Mr. Way breaks his promises a
lot, you know," Tom remarked, a hint of bitterness in his tone. "He doesn't care. It doesn't
affect him. Only us. You heard him; rats in a sewer. Except it's not a sewer now, is it?" He
cocks his head, "I guess we've been upgraded to lab mice now. I wonder when he'll kill us
dead."

Frank's throat tightened, grappling with the weight of their words.

Bill, with a touch of sadness in his eyes, added, "Mr. Way was supposed to be a good guy, but
he just like everyone else. He just like them." Another sniffle, and Bill curls himself under his
blanket.

Feeling a whirlwind of emotions churning within him, Frank struggled to maintain his
composure in front of Tom and Bill. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the turmoil
threatening to overwhelm him. "I'm sorry," Frank murmured, his voice barely above a
whisper. "I didn't mean to... I just thought..."

His apology hung in the air, a feeble attempt to bridge the gap between them. He reminded
them to reach out if they needed anything, his voice tinged with genuine concern. The boys
were silent; Tom glaring down at his socked feet and Bill's thin shoulders visible shaking. He
shut the door with a soft click.

As he left, the weight of the conversation pressed down on him like a leaden cloak. The
nausea churned in his stomach, and before he could make it far, he doubled over and vomited
onto the ground, the physical manifestation of the turmoil raging within him.

The walk home felt like an eternity, each step weighed down by the burden of his conflicting
emotions. When he finally reached his doorstep, he retreated to the solace of his room,
locking the door behind him.

Alone in the darkness, Frank chain-smoked, the smoke curling around him like a shroud.
Each puff offered a fleeting respite from the overwhelming sense of betrayal and
disillusionment that threatened to consume him. He felt adrift, lost in a sea of uncertainty,
with only the smoke-filled haze of his room for company. He heard Gerard knock once, and
he ignored it.

Once more.

Silence.

Chapter End Notes

Y'all, as I said. Gerard is not a good person--like very morally gray. Does he use people?
Absolutely. But worry not, Frank is going to kick his ass next chapter. This may or may
not include threatening him with a gun LOL. Bill and Tom will return (like that marvel
reference?) but obviously, they need some space. It'll be a little surprise YAY, because I
love found family dang it, so everybody is going to be forced to eventually read my
schmoop. But first, Frank has to melt Gerard's icy heart. NEXT UP: Frank kicks
Gerard's ass. They find Soo Lin. Oh and also, Gerard, please pick a struggle. You can't
be unfeeling and jealous! A.K.A. Frank goes on a date!
 CHAPTER FIVE
Chapter Summary

Gerard knows...or does he? Patrick wants a good night's rest and one day without
Gerard. Gerard and Frank track down Soo Lin.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

The next morning arrived, tension still thick in the air. The early morning light seeped
through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. Gerard stood in front of a collage
on the wall, a printout of eighteen Chinese symbols taking pride of place. Beneath each
symbol, he had scribbled number translations in glitter pen. His hair was greasy--greasier
than usual--draping over his eyes from the amount of time he had brushed it back with his
hands. His other hand fiddled with a thumb tack. Frank tried to pretend that he wasn't
watching the sharp end to make sure it didn't puncture any skin.

Frank nursed a cup of coffee in his chair, observing yesterday's newspaper behind his
eyeglasses and scowling down at the ring of coffee on the print that must have come from
Gerard's mug. Frank dumped it down the drain when he found it unattended, making intense
eye contact with Gerard when he caught him. Dark rings surrounded Frank's eyes from lack
of sleep; he spent the night chain-smoking and jumping at every vibration that emitted from
his phone, thinking of what he could have done differently. He typed and retyped his blog,
and then shut his laptop whenever it became clear that he was just repeatedly typing 'bastard'
over and over again.

"Always in pairs, Frank. Look," He muttered, pointing to a series of numbers meticulously

painted next to the tracks."

God, I need to sleep, Frank thought, rubbing his tired eyes.

Gerard continued his deduction, "Why paint it next to the tracks? Thousands of people pass
by there every day..."

Just twenty minutes...

"Of course! He wants information," Gerard exclaimed. "He's contacting all his people in the
underworld. Whatever was stolen - he wants it back. And it's somewhere here - in code. We
can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao. We need to find Soo Lin Yao. She holds the key to
unraveling this code, and time is of the essence," Gerard declared, his eyes gleaming with
determination.

Frank sat slouched in the worn-out armchair, his attention seemingly fixed on the cracked
ceiling. Gerard's impassioned words echoed through the room, but Frank remained silent, a
deliberate act of defiance.

Gerard, frustration etching his features, turned to face Frank. "This is serious, Frank. We need
to find Soo Lin Yao, and your cooperation would be beneficial."

Frank continued his silence, his expression unreadable. The tension in the room escalated as
Gerard's glare bore into him. It was a battle of wills, each man refusing to yield to the other's
authority.

"Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on
which it is poured. It's like drinking poison and expecting the other person to suffer," Gerard
finally broke the silence, his gaze fixed on the collage. His voice was measured; detached.

Frank huffed out a burst of laughter at a Garfield comic and turned the page.

Gerard didn't do well with being ignored. "You can't ignore me forever, Frank," Gerard
asserted, "Studies have shown that prolonged silence and ignoring someone can lead to
increased stress levels, both for the one doing the ignoring and the one being ignored. It's not
a healthy way to cope with issues. Ignoring problems rather than addressing them can result
in long-term negative effects on mental health, relationships, and overall well-being."

Frank took a sip of his coffee, the unsaid 'Watch me' in his eyes. He fluffed the newspaper
and cleared his throat. "By the by, I'm leaving later. I had Mrs. Stump call McCracken to be
your dummy for the day."

Gerard's eyes flashed with annoyance. "Over my dead body," he growled.

"That can be arranged." He licked his thumb, turning the page of the newspaper.

Gerard turned towards him, glaring. "Are you threatening me?"

"No," Frank drawled, flickering his eyes up, "I would never."

The tension between them thickened, hanging heavy in the air like a stormcloud ready to
burst. Gerard's jaw clenched as he struggled to contain his rising anger. "Come with me. To
the museum," he demanded, his tone bordering on command.

"Hm. No."

Gerard's nostrils flared with irritation. "People will die—"

"People die every day. It's the way of the world. Can't save everyone," Frank interrupted with
a mocking chuckle, his eyes narrowing in defiance. "Besides, aren't people liabilities? That's
what you said, isn't it?" He cocked his head, challenging Gerard to respond.
Gerard's jaw tightened, his frustration palpable. "You're twisting my words."

Frank leaned forward, his tone cutting. "Am I? You said it yourself, Gerard. People are
liabilities. Just pieces on your chessboard to be moved around."

Gerard's eyes flashed with anger. "You don't understand the bigger picture, Frank. You're too
caught up in your own self-righteousness to see the necessity of certain sacrifices."

Frank stood up from his chair, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "What sacrifices? Being
a human being? Having a conscience?"

Gerard's frustration reached its peak. "Fine," he snapped, his voice edged with anger. He
grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, the fabric rustling in protest.

"Oh, don't play the hero now, Gerard," Frank called after him mockingly, "You don't care
about people; you care about control. Using anyone and everyone to get your way."

Gerard halted, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face Frank. In a swift motion, he closed the
distance between them, pinning Frank against the wall with an intensity that matched his
anger. The air crackled with tension as Gerard leaned in, his voice low and intense. "You
think I enjoy this? You think it's easy for me to make these decisions?"

Frank leaned forward, his tone sharp. "I don't think you enjoy it. I think you revel in it.
Control, power, it's like a drug to you, and you'd do whatever it takes to get your fix."

Gerard's grip tightened on Frank's shoulders, his breath hot against Frank's face. "You have
no idea," he hissed. "You know nothing of control. The strings I pull to protect people, to
keep them out of harm's way. You think it's easy to keep the wolves at bay while everyone
else sleeps soundly? It's not. It's a burden you can't fathom."

"You talk about control like it's some kind of game," Gerard continued, his voice tinged with
bitterness. "But it's not. It's a matter of life and death, of protecting the ones we care about at
any cost." His eyes bore into Frank's, intense and unyielding. "This city is a living, breathing
entity, Frank. It needs a guiding hand, a force strong enough to navigate its complexities. I
provide that strength, that control. I make the tough choices others can't to ensure the safety
of those who can't protect themselves."

"They are kids!" Frank blurted out, his frustration boiling over.

"They are pressure points," he corrected, his voice firm. "And just like in any game, when
someone finds your pressure point, they will press and press until you break or bend. Control,
Frank, is the only thing that keeps chaos at bay. In a world where everyone is a pawn, I refuse
to be the one played. You might not see it now, but you'll realize the necessity of it sooner or
later."

Frank leaned forward, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, spare me the dramatics. You're
not the only one with a dark side. The difference is, I'm not pretending it's for the greater
good."
Seeming to give up on reason, Gerard switched tactics and let go of him.

"People will die, and you'll be the reason," Gerard seethed, his control slipping. Guilt.

Frank's laughter cut through the room like a knife. "Funny, coming from someone who's
made a living off the fact that people die," he retorted, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Tell
me, Gerard, how many cases have you solved because someone ended up dead?" His eyes
narrowed, "Your hands are just as stained as mine."

Gerard's expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of something indefinable in his
eyes. "And what did you expect, Frank? That I would be some kind of saint, riding in on a
white horse to save the day?"

Frank's gaze hardened, his resolve steeling against Gerard's defensive retorts. "No, I didn't
expect you to be a saint. But I expected you to have some decency, some compassion for
those you claim to care about."

Gerard's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. "Compassion is not an advantage," he
growled, stepping closer to Frank.

Frank met his advance with a defiant stance. "Maybe not, but it sure beats indifference."

Gerard's expression hardened once more. "Compassion--sentiment is a dangerous thing,

Frank. It makes you vulnerable. Makes you-"

"Human?" Frank interrupted, "It's what separates us from the monsters. It's what keeps us
fighting, striving to be better. Without sentiment, what are we left with?"

Gerard's eyes flickered, a mixture of annoyance and contemplation crossing his features.
"People out there won't spare you because you're sentimental. They'll exploit it, use it against
you. In this world, sentiment can be a luxury, and luxuries can get you killed."

He gave Frank a sardonic smile. "You're naive, Frank. You always have been. This world will
eat you alive if you don't open your eyes."

"I'd rather be naive and hopeful than cold and heartless," Frank pushed Gerard in the chest.

Gerard takes a step forward, pushing Frank. "And what am I?"

Frank's eyes bore into Gerard's, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the storm brewing
beneath the surface. " You're not a monster, but you're teetering dangerously close to
becoming one."

Gerard's jaw clenched, a surge of anger coursing through him. "And what makes you so sure
you won't end up like me?" He retaliated. "Newsflash, Frank, some stains don't wash off, no
matter how hard you scrub."

"You act like you're untouchable, Gerard, like nothing can hurt you. But deep down, you're
just a scared kid who's too afraid to admit he needs help." Frank pressed further, "You're just
a junkie who traded one addiction for another!"
The truth of Frank's words hung in the air, casting a shadow over the room as Gerard's facade
wavered. Gerard's fists clenched at his sides, his jaw set in a stubborn line. "I'm not addicted
to anything, Frank. I haven't touched anything in months."

"Physical drugs? No. But I see the way you chase after danger, after the next high. It's
consuming you," Frank eyed him up and down, "just like the drugs did."

Gerard's frustration boiled over, and without warning, he swung a punch at Frank. The impact
reverberated through the room as Frank staggered backward, his hand instinctively rising to
his face.

"You think you're better than me, preaching about redemption?" Gerard sneered, the
bitterness in his voice fueling the aggression. He shook his hand out.

Frank, nursing his cheek, shot back, "I'm not trying to be better than you, Gerard. I already
am!"

The words seemed to act as fuel to the fire. Gerard lunged at Frank, and the room became a
chaotic battleground. Furniture toppled, and the air crackled with the sounds of their scuffle.
Amidst the chaos, Frank grappled with Gerard, their bodies entangled in a dance of
aggression and desperation. Harsh words were exchanged, each verbal blow landing with the
force of a physical one. Gerard delivered a powerful punch to Frank's midsection and the
room seemed to spin as Frank gasped for breath, momentarily weakened. In a swift and
unexpected turn, Gerard seized the opportunity, landing a solid punch on Frank's jaw. The
force of the blow sent Frank sprawling to the floor, the taste of blood on his lips. As Gerard
loomed over him, victorious in the physical altercation, Frank's hand fumbled for something
in his pocket. In an instant, the glint of metal caught Gerard's eye.

"Is this how low you've sunk, Frank?" Gerard scoffed.

With a quick, desperate motion, Frank pulled out a small handgun, and aiming it at Gerard.
"Oh, I can sink much lower. Trust me."

Click. Safety off.

Gerard cocked an eyebrow. "I'm starting to think this isn't about those kids anymore."

The room fell silent, the weight of the gun hanging heavily in the air.

"Back off, Gerard," Frank warned, his voice steady.

Gerard's eyes narrowed, but he didn't back down. "Put the gun down before you do
something you'll regret."

Frank shrugs, "I really have done much worse." Frank felt blood dribble down his lip, and he
used his other hand to wipe it away.

Gerard's eyes darted all over him and he took a step closer.

Frank's hand remained steady, finger resting delicately on the trigger, "Don't."
As Gerard took a step closer, his eyes scrutinizing every inch of Frank's face, he paused, a
flicker of understanding crossing his features. "This isn't about the kids, is it, Frank?" he
remarked, his voice softer now, almost contemplative.

Frank's jaw tensed, but he didn't lower the gun.

Gerard's gaze softened, a hint of empathy breaking through his usual facade of indifference.
"I thought I had you figured out, but well, you've always been a hard one haven't you?
Always keeping on a brave face," Gerard mused, his voice carrying a note of genuine
curiosity.

"The precision, the calculated moves, the way you handle that gun—it's all second nature to
you. But there's more, isn't there? A past you've been hiding, a history that's left its mark."

Frank's expression remained guarded, but a flicker of acknowledgment passed through his
eyes. He had always been adept at concealing his true self, but Gerard's insight threatened to
unravel the carefully constructed layers.

"You were used, Frank," Gerard deduced, a touch of solemnity in his voice. "A pawn in
someone else's game. They manipulated you, pushed you into doing things you never wanted
to do."

Frank's grip on the gun tightened, a surge of resentment coursing through him. He had tried
to escape the shadows of his past, but they clung to him like a haunting specter.

"I'm serious. I'll shoot," He threatened.

Gerard was close now. Too close. So close that Frank could count each individual eyelash on
Frank's eye; so close Frank could see the light green ring that circled his pupil. He looked
down at Frank, bending his head forward to rest his forehead against the muzzle, chest
heaving. "No, you won't," He says softly, and Frank's hand shakes. "Because that's not who
you are, Frank Iero."

"You don't even know who I am," Frank whispered, voice strained against the blood clot in
his throat, "What I've done, and what I'll continue to do."

Just as the tension threatened to reach its peak, the door swung open, and Mrs. Stump
entered, her eyes widening in shock at the scene before her. "What on earth is going on
here?" she exclaimed, rushing over. Her curls were pinned neatly to her head with curlers,
and she wore a bathrobe over her pajamas. "Patrick said he heard shouting, but I could never
imagine that my boys were up to such antics!"

Gerard stepped back, his demeanor shifting effortlessly. "Mrs. Stump, it's not what it looks
like. Frank and I were working on a case, trying to reenact a crucial moment. Everything's
under control."

Mrs. Stump's face flushed with a mix of relief and concern. "Oh, my stars! You scared me
half to death. Let me get the first aid kit. There's no telling what kind of dangerous stunts you
two are pulling."
As she hurried out of the room, Gerard shot Frank a meaningful glance, silently warning him
to play along with the facade. Frank, still holding the gun, tried to look nonchalant. "Yeah, we
were just, you know, trying to get into the minds of the characters. Method acting, right?"

Mrs. Stump returned with the first aid kit, eyeing them both with suspicion. "Well, next time,
keep it down, will you? You're not the only ones living in this building. People have a right to
a peaceful night's sleep!"

Gerard and Frank exchanged a glance, and Gerard cocked an eyebrow. Mrs. Stump busied
herself with cleaning Frank's wounds, fussing over him with a motherly touch that contrasted
sharply with the tension in the room. She confiscated the gun from Frank, scolding him about
the dangers of playing with such things.

"Seriously, Frankie! The safety is off, you goose! You could've accidentally shot, Gerard!"
She chastised him, flicking the safety back on and tucking the gun into her robe pocket.

Patrick appeared, leaning against the doorway with a tired expression, holding a coffee cup.
"Oh, if Gerard got shot, it wouldn't be an accident, Mom," he quipped, his voice dripping
with sarcasm.

Mrs. Stump shot him a disapproving glare. "Patrick, this is serious! Don't joke about these
things."

Patrick rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his coffee. "Whatever you say, Mom. Just try not to
shoot each other, okay? I already see Gerard enough. The last thing I need is to have to see
him on my table," He said towards Frank. He pushed himself off the doorframe and shuffled
out of the room, leaving the adults to their tense aftermath.

Mrs. Stump sighed, shaking her head. "Honestly, you two. It's a miracle you're still alive with
all the dangerous nonsense you get up to."

Gerard cleared his throat, injecting a note of awkward humor. "We'll try to keep the gunplay
to a minimum, Mrs. Stump. Thanks for the first aid, though. We appreciate it."

Mrs. Stump shot him a stern look. "You better appreciate it." With that, she exited the room,
leaving Gerard and Frank to the lingering tension and the aftermath of their confrontation.

Once she left, Gerard turned to Frank. "I'm going to the museum," he stated, a question
lingering in his eyes.

Frank nodded, a silent acknowledgment.

Gerard's gaze bore into Frank's. "You got another gun?"

Frank blinked. "Of course."

"You're coming with me?" Gerard asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and challenge.

"Of course," Frank replied.

------------------------

In the dimly lit museum, Gerard, Frank, and Andy gathered around the glass case containing
the Zisha pots. Gerard's gaze was fixated on the pots, and Frank's was fixated on Gerard. The
air was tense on their walk, both men avoiding the major elephant in the room and putting it
on the back burner for now. Like Gerard said; people would die, and this time, Frank wasn't
behind the gun to stop it.

It wasn't like Frank was actually going to shoot Gerard. Well, probably. Maybe, maim.
Gerard didn't seem to be worried about it since he trusted Frank to retrieve his back-up gun
from his safe. He didn't look over his shoulder when Frank staggered behind him, and he
didn't flinch when Frank lifted his shirt to scratch his stomach above his waistband. It was
weird, mostly, that Gerard didn't seem to have reacted to Frank's violence at all, but it must
have been a Way thing. Neither brother seemed in any particular distress when facing the
muzzle of his gun, which was always a frightening thing since it was all Frank had.

"Two men died after visiting China... The killer left them messages - written in the Hang
Zhou numerals," Gerard mused, his voice cutting through the air. Frank shook the thoughts
from his head, focusing on the situation at hand. He turned towards Andy.

"Soo Lin Yao is in danger. That cipher... it was just the same pattern as the others. He means
to kill her as well," Frank tells Andy solemnly, tucking his hands into his pockets.

"I’ve tried everywhere. Her friends; her colleagues. I don’t know where she’s gone. She could
be a thousand miles away," Andy admitted his words hanging heavily in the air. His hands
flew to his hair, scrubbing away anxiously and sending a few flecks of dandruff onto his
pristine shirt.

Ignoring the conversation, Gerard stared into the distance, a peculiar gleam in his eyes.

"What’s the matter? What are you looking at?" Frank inquired, eyes darting over the spot he
seemed to be looking at--the Zisha pots in the glass case. The pots, previously dull, were
now gleaming, newly seasoned.

Andy opened the cabinet, "Those pots were her obsession. They need urgent work. If they
dry out, the clay can start to crumble. Apparently, you have to keep making tea in them,"
Andy shrugged.

"Last time we came here - only one of those pots was shining," Gerard remarked, a spark of
realization illuminating his features. Frank frowned, running his eyes over the second
gleaming pot.

----------

In the hushed ambiance of the museum, Andy stood at the security desk, holding a complete
written log detailing everyone who had entered and exited through the staff entrance. He
handed it to Gerard, frustration evident in his expression.
"I mean, I know it’s antiquated. But everyone who comes in here has to enter their name. She
hasn’t been back to the museum. Look at the log!" Andy urged, pointing out the last name.

Frank, surveying the surroundings, took note of the museum's intricate layout—a labyrinth of
doors, cupboards, and electrical access tunnels--potential hiding spots and escape routes.

"Maybe she never went away," Frank muttered, and Gerard hummed.

Gerard turned towards Andy, steepling his hands together. "We need your keys," He
demands.

Andy looks at him bewilderedly, "What? Why?"

Gerard groans, holding his hand out, "The museum keys. It's obvious, isn't it?" He gestures
around, glancing at both Frank and Andy and when they don't show any sign of following, he
sighs. "How boring it must be in your brains," and then, "Andy, keys."

------------------------

The darkened gallery was bathed in moonlight, and an eerie silence hanging in the air. A
subtle scratching noise broke the stillness—a metal grille being pushed out of place. Pale
hands grasped the grille, lowering it to the floor. A woman emerged from the electrical access
tunnel, her footsteps echoing on the marble floors.

Entering the Chinese Antiquities Room, she cast a glance toward the Empress mannequin,
shrouded in shadows. The woman, her hands deftly holding a bunch of keys, approaches the
glass case containing the Zisha pots. With practiced precision, she unlocks the case and
carefully lifts down a third pot, preparing it for restoration.

The woman, now seated at her desk, arranges her tools and materials for the delicate task
ahead. A small brass kettle of hot water and green tea leaves are at her disposal. The desk is
cluttered with catalogues, papers, books about ceramics and antiquities, and an A to Z of
New York.

As the woman starts brewing the tea, sprinkling the leaves and delicately pouring in water,
she sloshes the tea around inside the Zisha pot, coating it with the glaze. The atmosphere is
serene, focused on the careful restoration process. And then, like an asshole, Gerard
interrupts the serenity.

"How 'bout a biscuit to go with that?" Gerard's voice nasally voice rings out, breaking the
quiet concentration of the room. The woman turns, her startled reaction causing her to drop
the pot. It teeters on the edge of the desk, nearly rolling off, and the tension in the room
spikes. Gerard bends down quickly, rescuing the pot from its certain death. He gives a tight
smile, "Centuries old. Don't want to break it."

Gerard switches on the light and Soo Lin's face is revealed for the first time, displaying a
mixture of nervousness and agitation. Frank couldn't help but notice the nervous energy
radiating from Soo Lin as he observed her in the dimly lit restoration room. She appeared
petite, with a delicate frame that seemed to carry a burden of fear. Her eyes, wide with
apprehension, darted around the room, and her fingers fidgeted with a strand of dark hair.
Despite the tension, her features held an elegance, and there was a determined spark in her
gaze that hinted at a strength beneath the surface. The dim light cast shadows on her face,
accentuating her high cheekbones and soft jaw. She was rather pretty; she was also very
scared.

"You saw the cipher? You know that he is coming for me," Soo Lin expressed, her voice
trembling with fear.

Gerard raised an eyebrow, "You've been clever. So far you've managed to avoid him."

"I had to finish. To finish this work. But it is only a matter of time. I know he will find me,"
Soo Lin admitted, the weight of her words hanging in the air.

"Who is he? You've met him before?" Gerard walked closer.

Soo Lin nodded, "When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognize his... 'signature.'"

"The cipher?" Gerard inquired, seeking clarification.

"Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu," Soo Lin responded, her voice tinged with a mixture of fear
and recognition.

"The Spider,'" Frank whispered, watching as Soo Line began to unlace her shoe, revealing a
small circular tattoo on her heel – a black lotus flower inscribed in a circle.

"You know this mark?" Soo Lin asked, directing her question to Gerard and Frank.

Gerard's eyes narrowed as he inspected the tattoo. "It's the mark of a Tong. An ancient crime
syndicate. Based in China," Gerard explained, his tone grave.

"Every foot soldier bears the mark - everyone who hauls for them," She explained, pursing
her lips.

"You're a smuggler," Frank said softly, tearing his eyes away from her heel. She nodded,
lacing her shoes back up.

"I was fifteen, living back in China, in the Yellow Dragon City. My parents were dead. I had
no livelihood. No way to survive day to day, except to work for the bosses," She began.

"Who are they?" Gerard asked, drumming his fingers along the table.

"They are called the 'Black Lotus,'" She revealed, "They smuggle alcohol - cheap cigarettes.
No one thinks of searching the pockets of a schoolgirl," In the quiet room, Soo Lin Yao's
voice trembled with a mix of regret and fear as she continued her story. "By the time I was
sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong.
I’m not proud. I’m ashamed of how I lived. But I managed to get out. I managed to leave that
life behind me. I came to New York and studied at night school. They gave me a job here.
Everything was good. A new life," Her voice trailed off, and Gerard nodded.
 "And then he caught up with you." He finished, eyes darting over the room.

"Yes. I hoped after five years... maybe they would have forgotten me. But they never really
let you leave. A small community like ours - they are never very far away. He came to my
flat three days ago. He asked me to help him - to track down something that was stolen," she
said tentatively.

"You’ve no idea what it was?" Frank asked.

Soo Lin shook her head, "I refused to help," she admitted.

Gerard began to pace. "So he sent you the cipher as a punishment."

Soo Lin nodded gravely, "He is ruthless. A fanatic. He would strike down anyone. Even
family - if they betrayed him."

"You knew him well? When you were living back in China?" Frank pried, and Soo Lin gave
a tight smile. "Oh yes," Frank cocked an eyebrow, and Soo Lin released a breath, "He is my
brother," Soo Lin confessed.

The room fell silent.

Chapter End Notes

Dun dun dunnnnnn!!!! Also, Frank should have 100% shot Gerard, but that would
obviously cause complications so I had to restrain myself. NEXT CHAPTER: The
Spider weaves our boys into a web, and Frank gets his flirt on!!
 CHAPTER SIX
Chapter Summary

Books, books, and more books. Frank is haunted by his past. Oh, and Frank is going on
a date.

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

"Our parents died in the demonstrations. 1989. I was four years old. Liang a little older," Soo
Lin repositioned a pot. "Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus
or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet - in the power of the
one they call Shan - Black Lotus General. I turned him away. He said I had betrayed him.
Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting."

Listening intently, Gerard reached into his jacket pocket and produced printouts – the ciphers
from the bank, the library, and the railway. "Can you decipher this?" he asked, handing the
documents to Soo Lin.

"They're numbers," she replied, examining the intricate patterns.

Gerard pointed to specific parts of the ciphers. "Here. The line. Drawn across the man's eyes.
This is a Chinese number '1'."

Soo Lin nodded. "Yes."

Gerard continued, "And this? '15'?"

Again, Soo Lin confirmed, "Yes."

"So. '1' and '15'. What's the code?"

Soo Lin looks at the different numbers, biting her lip. "All the smugglers know it. It's based
upon a book..." Soo Lin began, but the lights suddenly went out, plunging them into
darkness.

Frank's hand flew to his gun, his eyes fighting to adjust to the light change. He cursed under
his breath as they all looked around in horror, unable to discern anyone in the shadows. Then,
a distant drumbeat echoed through the air – a Chinese Dagu drum.

"He's here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me," Soo Lin whispered. Frank drops to a crouch, pulling
Soo Lin down with him. Gerard looks at Frank with that look on his face that says he's going
to do something stupid. Frank gives him a warning look, but Gerard ignores him, jumping to
his feet and sprinting towards the sound.

Frank places one steadying hand on Soo Lin's shoulder, "Gerard, wait!"

Gerard turns the corner, and he is gone from Frank's vision. Frank swiftly flicks the safety
off, retrieving the gun from his waistband. He moves into a defensive position, crouching
behind a nearby statue, and signals for Soo Lin to stay low.

Soo Lin looks at him with wide eyes, fear evident in her expression. Frank gives her a
reassuring smile. "You're fine with me. I'll protect you," he assures her in a hushed tone, his
senses on high alert.

Soo Lin's eyes search his face, a silent plea for reassurance. "Promise?" she whispers, her
voice barely audible over the distant echoes of the museum.

Frank knows the gravity of the situation. He understands that promises amid danger are
fragile threads, easily broken by the unpredictable whims of fate. Yet, in that tense moment,
with the weight of responsibility pressing upon him, he nods resolutely. "Promise," he
affirms, eyes turning back towards the darkness.

The museum's silence is shattered by a sudden gunshot, the sound echoing through the
cavernous halls. Frank tenses. Soo Lin's eyes turn towards him, widening. Frank's mind
works quickly, eyes darting towards the lock near the door. "Listen, I've got to go and help
him. Bolt the door after me," he mutters, not giving her a chance to respond as he sprints
toward the atrium.

He hears the distinct thud of the door closing as he sprints through the darkened atrium, his
keen senses alert to every detail. Moonlight cast webbed shadows on the floor, creating an
eerie atmosphere as Frank navigated his way through. A second shot rang out, and Frank
spotted inky blots of hair against the moonlight. Gerard ascended the central staircase,
alabaster skin catching in shadows.

A third shot sounded, prompting Frank to press forward, determined to catch up to the source
of the gunfire. He dashed up the opposite staircase of Gerard, sprinting through different
galleries as more gunshots rang in his ear. The distant yelling of Gerard echoed from another
gallery, "That skull is two hundred thousand years old. Have a bit of respect for
archaeology!"

Abruptly, the bullets ceased, and Frank acknowledged the temporary reprieve. He heard the
snotty voice of Gerard echo in the silence, "Thank you!"

Frank slowed his pace, listening for footsteps, bullets, or anything except for the silence that
pierced the air. The eerie silence settled in, and Frank realized that the drum, a constant
presence in the background, had finally ceased its ominous beat. Frank combed through the
shadows, chest heaving as a revelation struck him, and a horrified realization crossed his
face.
"Oh, my God," Frank uttered, the urgency in his voice escalating. He darted back the way he
came, propelled forward by a growing sense of urgency. Frank sprinted through the main
atrium, he retraced his path back to the staff office, the darkness still clinging to the space.

Suddenly, he halted, confronted by a grim scene. A lifeless hand protruded from behind the
desk, and in its palm rested a black paper lotus flower. The shattered remnants of the little
Zisha pot lay on the floor, an unspoken tragedy conveyed through the silent tableau.

Without needing to see more, the emotions played across Frank's face, reflecting the weight
of the discovery. Frank gulped, a soft wisp of a whisper playing upon deaf ears.

'Promise.'
-------------

Frank puked in Jon's trashcan when he walked in, and by the grimace on his face, he did not
appreciate it. He had smoked a cigarette on their way over, uncaring for the dirty looks the
cab driver gave him as they sped through the city to the Police Precinct. Gerard's fingers flew
over his phone quickly, eyebrows furrowed low over his eyes and casting gray shadows over
his bright eyes. Frank observed him blatantly, not even bothering to hide his gaze. He blew
smoke out of the side of his mouth, watching it funnel through the cracked window and
disappear into the night.

Gerard glanced up from his phone, catching Frank's gaze. His expression was unreadable, a
mix of concentration and something deeper lurking beneath the surface. Without breaking
eye contact, Gerard spoke, his voice steady.

"Are you going to keep staring at me, or do you have something useful to contribute?"
Gerard's tone was sharp, cutting through the tension in the cab.

Frank shrugged, taking another drag of his cigarette before flicking it out the window. He
watched the sidewalks blur past him and slumped further into the seat.

Gerard looked back to his phone, eyes flickering up at Frank intermittently. His phone buzzed
in his hands once, and he tucked it between his thighs. "Despite what you may think, you
didn't kill Soo Lin."

Frank leaned his forehead against the window, eyelashes brushing the cold condensation.

"Your sentiment didn't pull the trigger. There are things beyond our control."

Frank shook his head, erasing the memory like an etch-and-sketch, and watched as Gerard
pulled Jon's computer towards him, typing rapidly and ignoring Jon's bewildered look. Frank
wiped his mouth, holding back a gag at the brown stain of stomach acid and a peanut butter
sandwich. "How many murders is it going to take before you start believing this maniac is
out there? A young girl was gunned down tonight - three victims in three days. You're
supposed to be finding him..."

Gerard raised a hand to stop the emotional tirade. "Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were
working for a gang of international smugglers. A gang called 'The Black Lotus.' Operating
right here in New Jersey. Under your nose," Gerard declared, his eyes alight with conviction.

Jon looked at the two with tired eyes, hair sticking up in disgruntled points, "Can you prove
that?"

The light in Gerard's eyes said he could.

--------------------------

In the hospital canteen, Patrick Stump was taking a well-deserved break, his clipboard and
lab coat identifying him as someone deeply involved in his work. His strawberry blonde hair
now touched his neck an uncomfortable amount, and Frank thought about how the barber
down the street was going to make a fortune off the men on West 53rd Street once he finally
remembered to book an appointment. He kind of felt bad for the guy. The man worked more
than anyone he knew, and it was showing in the deep stress lines on his forehead, and the
pulsing vein in his neck once he noticed Gerard joined the queue behind him, his usual air of
confidence accompanying him.

"What are you thinking? The pork or the pasta?" Gerard inquired.

Patrick looked up from his plastic tray, neatly snapping it in half and blushing a deep red
when everybody looked towards the loud noise.

Gerard observed the limited culinary offerings and commented, "This place is never going to
trouble Egon Ronay. Probably ought to stick with the pasta - don't want to do roast pork. Not
if you're slicing up human cadavers." He leaned back on his heels, giving Patrick a dazzling
smile of tiny yellow teeth.

Patrick's hand shook at his side as his blue eyes darted all over Gerard's face, "Are you-are
you hungry?"

Gerard waved him off dismissively, "Don't do food when I'm working. Makes you tired when
you digest."

He spots Frank behind Gerard and points at him, "You. Why are you both here?" His eyes
dart down to the bulge in Frank's jeans, and his eyes widen, "What the fuck? Did you bring a
gun into the hospital?"

Before Frank could answer, Gerard grabbed Patrick by the arm and began leading him away
from the self-serve, "Listen, Patrick...Tricky--"

"No. Whatever it is no-"

"I need to examine some bodies under your care. Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis," Gerard
interjected, and then, his nose is back into his phone, "Could you wheel them out again?"

Patrick's mouth fell open, and he checked his clipboard, "Well, the paperwork's already gone
in..."
"You've changed your hair," Gerard noted, picking up a strand of hair with two fingers and
twirling it.

"What?" Patrick squeaked, flushing all down his neck.

Gerard continued, "The style. You used to part it in the middle. And now it's down the side."

Patrick, perhaps caught off guard, responded, "Oh. Yes. Well."

"Suits you better this way."

Patrick looks back down at his clipboard, and Frank raises an eyebrow. Hm. Sentiment.

--------------

In the mortuary, Gerard, Frank, Jon, and Patrick gathered around the examination table.
Patrick had wheeled out two bodies covered in body bags, checking and rechecking the
paperwork before looking up at Gerard. "Pete told me that Mikey knows about the gun
incident."

"Yeah, well, it was merely for a case, so Michael can keep his pants on," Gerard grumbles
swiping his own pair of gloves from the table.

Frank looked between the two crossing his arms, "What? Does he have cameras in our
apartment, too?"

Gerard's lip curled in annoyance. "Michael has a knack for sticking his nose where it doesn't
belong."

Frank raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Kind of like someone else I know," he
said, looking pointedly at Gerard.

Gerard shot him a glare. "I'm investigating, Frank. It's my job to dig into things."

He turned back towards Patrick, "We're just interested in the feet."

"The feet?" Patrick asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

"Do you mind if we just take a look at them?" Gerard asked, gesturing toward the body bag.

Patrick unzipped the bag, revealing the lifeless body of Lukis, adorned with the distinctive
Black Lotus tattoo on his heel.

"Now Van Coon," Gerard urged.

Patrick moved to the next slab, unveiling the body of Van Coon. True to Gerard's
expectations, the same routine repeated itself, with the Black Lotus tattoo prominently
displayed on the heel.
Gerard turned to Jon with a triumphant grin. "So, either these two men happened to visit the
same Chinese tattoo parlor. Or we're telling the truth."

Jon sighed, "What do you want?"

"I want every book from Lukis' apartment. And Van Coon's," Gerard demanded, his focus
unwavering.

"Their books?" Jon questioned, puzzled by the seemingly unusual request.

Gerard nodded. "Yes, their books. It might be the key to understanding the code, and time is
of the essence."

As Jon left to gather the requested items, Patrick shot Gerard a concerned look. "You sure
you're not getting into something over your heads?"

Gerard smirked. "I always do, Patrick. It's where I'm most comfortable."

--------------------

"I think you should smoke."

Frank looked up from his cup of coffee, gently blowing on the steam. "Huh? Why?"

"Because I want to smoke, but I can't, and you want to smoke but you feel like you shouldn't
because you want to get back at me," Gerard snapped.

Frank chuckled. "You give yourself too much credit, Gerard. I'm not basing my life decisions
on whether they annoy you or not."

Gerard huffed, collapsing into his chair and pulling up his sleeve to reveal four nicotine
patches. He peels each one off, leaving little red splotches behind. He scratches at them,
before pulling out another box of them from underneath his chair. He peels them off with
deliberate care, slapping them onto his arm one after the other. Frank raises an eyebrow at the
spectacle.

Gerard sighed, his gaze momentarily distant. "Doctor's orders. Apparently, my lungs can't
handle the abuse anymore," he puts air quotes around abuse, tugging his sleeve back down.
"He was lying obviously," Gerard scoffs, "Michael pulled some strings. He's convinced I'm
slowly killing myself, so he made the doctor tell me to quit."

"Family intervention, huh? Well, at least someone cares about your well-being."

Gerard shot Frank a glare. "Don't get any ideas. I don't need your concern, and I certainly
don't need you playing therapist."

Frank leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Who said anything about being a therapist?
I'm just here to observe the fascinating life of Detective Gerard Way."

Gerard scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You're not observing anything. You're just nosy."
"Guilty as charged," Frank admitted, taking another sip of his coffee. "But hey, at least now I
know why you're so touchy about those patches."

Gerard's scowl deepened. "Touchy? I'm not touchy. I'm perfectly fine."

Frank chuckled. "Sure, Gerard. Keep telling yourself that."

Gerard huffed, sprawling himself out on the cushion and pulling his phone from his pocket.

Frank took a sip of his coffee, contemplating his response. "I think I'm going to quit
smoking."

Gerard's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Frank shrugged. "Figured it was about time. Plus, smoking's an expensive habit, and I could
use the extra cash for something more meaningful."

Gerard's irritation flared. "Meaningful? What could be more meaningful than the pleasure of
indulging in a well-deserved smoke?"

"Maybe living a longer, healthier life?"

Gerard's eyes flashed with annoyance. "You sound like a health brochure. Living longer
doesn't necessarily mean living better."

Frank grinned. "True, but fewer health issues mean fewer annoyances, right?"

Gerard stood up. "What's your angle, Frank? Suddenly deciding to quit smoking out of the
blue. Are you trying to mess with me?"

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Mess with you? Gerard, you're not the center of my universe. I can
make life choices without them being about you."

Gerard shot him a skeptical look. "This has something to do with Michael, doesn't it?"

Frank leaned back in his chair, "Maybe I just got tired of smelling like an ashtray all the
time."
Gerard's jaw tensed, his frustration evident. "You think this is funny, don't you? Quitting
smoking just to spite me?"
Frank shook his head in exasperation. "Gerard, you're being paranoid. Quitting smoking is
my decision, and it has nothing to do with you or your brother."
Gerard scoffed. "You're missing out on one of life's great pleasures."

"Maybe I'm looking for different pleasures these days," Frank replied.

Gerard rolled his eyes. "You're such a bore."

"Coming from the guy with a collection of nicotine patches," Frank retorted.
Gerard's foot tapped rapidly against the carpet before he jumped up. "You ran out of
cigarettes. In the cab."

Frank sighed, giving in to the fact that Gerard had caught on. "Yeah, ran out in the cab.
Figured I'd quit, like I said."

Gerard sighed, as if he had just uncovered a grand conspiracy. "Unbelievable. You quit, and
now you're making me an unwitting accomplice to your nicotine withdrawal."

Gerard rolled his eyes but then reached into a hidden compartment of his desk. He pulled out
a pack of cigarettes and tossed it to Frank. "There you go, satisfy your craving. I can't have
you turning into an insufferable non-smoker on me."

Frank caught the pack, surprised by Gerard's unexpected generosity. "Thanks, I guess. Didn't
know you had a secret stash."

"Yeah, well neither does Michael," Gerard smirks.

Frank reached into the pack of cigarettes Gerard had tossed him, retrieving one between his
fingers. He leaned back in his chair, casually holding the cigarette as he eyed Gerard, who
had already produced a lighter.

Gerard's lips curled into a mischievous smile as he flicked the lighter to life, the flame
dancing in the dimly lit room. Frank leaned forward, and Gerard brought the flame close to
the end of the cigarette, igniting the tip with practiced ease.

As Frank took the first drag, the room filled with the familiar scent of burning tobacco.
Gerard's eyes followed the curling wisps of smoke, and a sense of satisfaction crossed his
features. He inhaled deeply, as if savoring not only the smoke but also the shared moment of
indulgence.

"It's not just a criminal network - it's a cult. Her brother's been corrupted by one of its
leaders," Gerard sinks back into the chair, his face hidden behind the tendrils of smoke.

Frank exhales. "Soo Lin said the name..."

"Yes. 'Shan.' 'General Shan.' In Chinese, it means 'The mountain,'" Gerard explained.

"We're still no closer to finding them..." Frank says despondently.

"We know almost all there is to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces," Gerard
corrects him, tapping a finger against his head, "Why would he go and see his sister? Why
would he need her expertise?"

"She worked at the museum."

Gerard nodded, "Exactly. Valuable antiquities, Frank. Ancient relics of China, purchased on
the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures - hidden after Mao's revolution."
Frank ashed on the floor "The Black Lotus is selling them." Frank's expression darkened in
recognition.

Without hesitation, Gerard grabbed Frank's laptop. This time, Frank didn't protest.

Gerard's eyes focused on the computer screen as it cycled through a series of pictures
showcasing valuable antiquities set for auction. Gerard paused on anything oriental - screens,
ceramics - until his gaze settled on a picture featuring two Ming Vases. The peculiar shape of
the vases caught Gerard's attention.

"The exact same impression that was in Van Coon's suitcase," Gerard muttered. "Check the
dates. Look. Arrived from China a week ago. Anonymous. The vendor doesn't give his name.
Two undiscovered treasures from the East."

"One in Lukis' suitcase and one in Van Coon's," Frank finished.

Gerard nicked his glitter pen from the table, scrawling a list of the objects.

"Here's another one. A month ago. Chinese ceramic statue. Sold for four hundred thousand,"
Gerard pointed out, "A month before that. Chinese painting. Half a Million. All of them from
an anonymous source."

He turns towards Frank, "They're stealing them back in China and - one by one - they're
feeding them into New York."

Frank furrowed his eyebrows and plucked Brian Lukis' pocket diary as well as the print-out
of Eddie Van Coon's computer diary. He circled certain dates and created a list, comparing it
with Gerard's findings. The dates of the Chinese items being sold at auction perfectly aligned
with the times Van Coon or Lukis went to China.

"Every single auction coincides with Eddie or Brian Lukis traveling to China."

"So, if one of those men was greedy when they were in China--if they stole something ..."

"That's why he's come," Frank grimaces, scrubbing a hand down his haggard face.

A knock interrupted their conversation. Mrs. Stump appeared at the door. "Are we collecting
for charity, Gerard? A young man's outside with a crate of books."

Gerard leaped to his feet. "Those would be mine!"

Mrs. Stump moves to the side, letting a plethora of constables funnel through the door with
crates upon crates of books. "Oh, Gerard. I didn't know you were such an avid reader!"

Frank examined the crates as they were brought in, focusing on those labeled Lukis and Van
Coon. He plucked a book from the top, quickly skimming through the first few pages before
tossing it aside. "So. The numbers—they're references. To specific pages. And specific words
on those pages."

Gerard raised an eyebrow, "Familiar with book code?"

"You pick up a thing or two in certain lines of work," he muttered.

Jon entered, holding a stack of papers sealed in an evidence bag. "We found these. At the
museum. Is this your writing?"

Frank took the papers, not even glancing at them as he tossed them into the mess. It was the
pages of scribbled ciphers that he had asked Soo Lin Yao to translate. "We hoped maybe she
could decipher it," Frank explained morosely.

Jon lingered, "Anything else I can do?" He paused. "To assist you, I mean."

Gerard, absorbed in his work, didn't bother looking up as he commented, "Some silence
would be marvelous."

Jon rolled his eyes but took the hint and quietly left the room, realizing he wasn't part of this
particular investigation gang.

The room settled into a focused hush, broken only by the occasional shuffle of papers, the
creaking of crates, and the soft murmur of Gerard and Frank strategizing amidst the sea of
books. The task at hand demanded concentration, which Frank was all too aware of. Frank
meticulously sifted through the crates, locating identical pairs of books and handing them to
Gerard. The consultant examined the books, opening them and scanning the fifteenth page for
the first word. However, each attempt yielded nothing significant. The words were mundane,
innocuous, or occasionally saucy, but nothing that provided a clue.

Gerard sighed in frustration. "The thing about a book code--it has to be a book that all of the
gang members own. And one that they all have access to..."

Just as Frank feels his eyes begin to droop close, the shrill sound of an alarm clock cuts
through the air, signaling that they have worked through the night. The room, now cluttered
with books and papers, bore witness to the intensity of their efforts. Fatigue hung heavy in
the air.

Frank checks his watch, and curses. "Shit," he hisses, "I've got to get to work in two hours."
He stumbles to his feet, sending a flurry of papers in his wake.

Gerard's eyes don't leave the books in front of him, "Ah, the glamorous life of a tattoo shop
receptionist. I'm sure the world will collapse if you're not there to answer the phone," he
remarked indifferently.

Frank shot Gerard a tired glare, flipping him off behind his back as he staggered into the
shower.

-------------

The tattoo studio was bathed in a dim, artificial light as the morning hours stretched on.
Frank sat behind the desk, diligently answering calls and jotting down appointments. The
atmosphere was quiet, save for the distant buzz of the tattoo machines and the occasional
murmur of conversation from the artists in the back.Fatigue began to weigh heavily on
Frank's shoulders. The rhythmic hum of the tattoo machines acted like a lullaby, luring him
into a drowsy stupor. His eyes, heavy with exhaustion, blinked slowly as the minutes passed
by.

As the studio settled into a stillness, Frank's head gradually lowered until it rested on his
folded arms. The reception desk became a makeshift pillow as he succumbed to the call of
sleep.

In his dream, Frank stood in a place that seemed both familiar and foreign. The air was heavy
with an unspoken dread as he walked through a cityscape consumed by shadows. The
buildings loomed like ominous sentinels, their windows devoid of light. The streets were
slick with rain, the lamplights casting distorted reflections on the wet pavement. Frank's
senses heightened as he navigated the labyrinth of narrow alleys and dimly lit corners. He
wasn't alone; beside him walked another figure, a boy around his age.

The other boy's name was lost in the recesses of Frank's memory, and his face was concealed
by a blur. The toe of his Converse flapped with every step, threatening to tear off. The
pungent aroma of damp cardboard and stale urine and distant sounds of traffic invaded
Frank's nose. Frank and the boy's soft steps echoed through the alley, and Frank was
uncomfortable in his skin. He felt too young--adult body compacted into a teenage body.
They must have been fourteen or fifteen. Frank's lungs felt too healthy to have been any
older.

The city was a sprawling canvas of contrasts – the opulence of high-rises and the squalor of
forgotten neighborhoods. It was a place where the privileged flaunted their wealth, and the
overlooked struggled to survive. Frank and his companion, two shadows in the urban
expanse, embraced the anonymity of their existence.

The boy, with a glint of mischief in his eyes, deftly reached into a passerby's pocket,
extracting a wallet with practiced precision. The stolen loot passed between them like a
fleeting secret, a testament to their shared skill and unspoken understanding. The stolen
wallet held a meager sum, but it was enough for them to buy two sodas from the cornerstone
and a handful of a variety of chips that they shared amongst themselves on a rooftop. Frank
watched the sunset, swinging his legs over the edge of the building and throwing the
moneyless wallet down into a dumpster below. He examined the ID and the credit cards,
tucking them gently into his hoodie pocket and promising himself he would shred the ID later
with his mother's dull scissors.

The boy grinned, revealing a chipped tooth that added character to his youthful face. "Not
bad for an afternoon, huh, Frankie?" he remarked. He wiggled his fingers into the chip bag,
plucking two out and shoving them in his mouth.

Frank shrugged.

The boy's gaze shifted to the skyline, the vibrant hues of the setting sun casting a warm glow
over the city. "You ever think about what's beyond all this, Frankie? I mean, we're good at
this, but there's gotta be more, right?"

Frank considered the question, his eyes narrowing slightly. "More like what?"
He shrugged, tossing a potato chip into the air and catching it skillfully in his mouth. "I don't
know, man. Something bigger. Something that lasts longer than a wallet snatch."

Frank's expression grew pensive, and he gazed into the horizon, the distant possibilities
unfolding in his mind. "Maybe. But this is our life. It's what we know."

The boy's grin widened. "True, true. But maybe one day, we'll find something that lasts
longer, something that's worth holding onto."
Frank squinted. "You really think we could leave all this behind? Start fresh somewhere
else?"

The boy's chipped-tooth grin faded into a contemplative expression. "Yeah, Frankie, I've
thought about it. I think about where would we go and what would we do," he admitted,
looking out at the city lights flickering to life. "Maybe find something that's truly ours.
Something that doesn't involve looking over our shoulders all the time."

Frank nodded, and for a moment, the sounds of the city below seemed to hush, allowing their
shared aspirations to echo in the quiet spaces between buildings.

"We'll figure it out, yeah?" The boy says decidedly, grabbing his soda. "Until then, let's keep
being the kings of these streets. Everywhere the shadow touches--that's ours." He holds out
his can as if it were a champagne glass, tilting it towards Frank with a quirk of his brow.

Frank chuckled, a mixture of resignation and determination in his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Kings of
the streets it is." His can clicks against the boy's, and the stolen moment begins to unravel.
The distant thunder transformed into an ominous drumbeat, and the once-chipper grin on the
other boy's face contorted into a mask of anguish. The dream took a haunting turn, and Frank
found himself standing alone in the rain-soaked alley, the stolen wallet slipping through his
fingers like sand.

In his hands, once clean, now stained with sticky blood. Panic surged through him as he
traced the source—a gunshot echoing in the recesses of his subconscious.

He followed the sound to the other boy, crumpled against the damp bricks. The vibrant
energy that once defined him now waned, replaced by the harsh reality of a gunshot wound.
Frank's heart raced as he knelt beside him, hands shaking as he tried to stem the bleeding.

"Come on, stay with me," Frank pleaded, his voice a desperate whisper against the drumming
rain. His hands, covered in the other boy's blood, fumbled with makeshift pressure on the
wound.

"Frankie, you've got to let go," he rasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"No," Frank choked on the word, his eyes wide with terror and disbelief. "I can save you. Just
hold on."

But the boy's gaze softened, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. "Not everything can be
held onto, Frankie. Remember our dreams. Keep being the king of these streets for both of
us."
As the life drained from the boy, Frank's hands clutched futilely at the fading warmth. The
alley blurred, merging with the raindrops that fell like tears. Tears turned to dust, and Frank
ducked.

He found himself in a war-torn city, the acrid scent of smoke filling the air. The distant
echoes of gunfire and distant cries played a haunting symphony. The weight of a rifle
materialized in his hands, and the weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders. He moved
through the concrete building, haunted by faces he once knew, faces that now existed only in
the recesses of his mind. Every step carried the weight of a decision, a choice that altered
lives in irreversible ways.

Beside him stood another figure, face obscured by the shadows, yet the silhouette resonated
with a shared purpose.

"Frank," a voice, low and resonant, cut through the war-torn cacophony. "We've got a target.
Stay focused."

Frank nodded, his eyes scanning the rubble-strewn streets below. The rain, now transformed
into a drizzle of ash, fell like a benediction on the desolate cityscape. He tightened his grip on
the rifle, the memories of the dream's alley still lingering like a phantom ache.

His companion moved with the precision of a ghost, each step deliberate and purposeful. The
rooftop offered a vantage point, a stage for the deadly dance that awaited. As they reached
their position, the distant figure finally stepped into the dim light, revealing the man's familiar
features, his gaze sharp and determined.
Frank felt the cool press of the rifle's scope against his eye, the city below transforming into a
canvas of targets and choices. As Frank peered through the scope, the cityscape below
morphed into the rain-soaked alley of his past. The distant figure, once an anonymous target,
now shifted into the young boy, innocence lost and replaced by the haunting familiarity of the
stolen memory.

His hands trembled as he hesitated, caught between the weight of duty and the ghost of his
past. The voice that guided him now echoed with a haunting resonance, intertwining with the
haunting memory of the boy he had once known. "Frank, take the shot," the voice urged, each
word a dagger in his conscience.

The rain fell like tears, obscuring the clarity of his vision. The pressure on the trigger
mirrored the weight of a choice he couldn't escape. The moment lingered, a suspended reality
where the boundary between dream and nightmare blurred.As Frank squeezed the trigger, the
rifle's report echoed through the war-torn city, and the younger boy crumpled.

Frank turned towards his companion, expecting to see the familiar features of the man.
Instead, he was met with a grotesque sight--his own face, his features contorted in a grimace
of agony, the flesh rotting and decayed. Maggots crawled from his eyes and nose.

A shudder of horror coursed through Frank's body as he recoiled in shock, scrambling

backward in a futile attempt to distance himself from the gruesome visage. The stench of
death filled the air, suffocating him with its sickening embrace.
"Frank," the voice called out, its tone now warped and distorted, dripping with malice. "You
cannot escape your past. Embrace it."

A sudden jolt snapped Frank awake, his heart pounding against his ribcage. Beads of sweat
adorned his forehead, and his breath came in ragged gasps. The tattoo studio, once silent, was
now alive with the buzz of machines and the faint sounds of conversations.

Jamia, the studio manager, stood before him, concern etched across her face. "Frank, are you
okay?" she asked, her voice cutting through the remnants of the nightmare.

Frank took a moment to orient himself, shaking off the lingering effects of the dream. "Yeah,
yeah, sorry. Not very professional of me," he mumbled, running a hand through his
disheveled hair. Sweat gathered on his fingertips, and his fingers trembled.

Jamia paused, her expression softening with affection. "No. Not very," she replied, her tone
gentle yet teasing.

Frank offered a sheepish grin, his exhaustion evident in the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Bit
of a late one," he admitted, his voice trailing off as he busied himself with arranging the pens
and pencils.

Jamia nodded understandingly, her gaze lingering on him with unspoken concern. She
couldn't help but be curious about the cause of Frank's late night, a question that hovered on
the tip of her tongue.

"What were you doing? Keep you up so late?" she inquired, her curiosity bubbling to the
surface despite her attempts to feign nonchalance.

Frank hesitated, his mind scrambling for a plausible explanation. "Er... I was attending a sort
of... a book... event," he offered lamely, hoping his vague response would suffice.

Jamia cleared her throat, "She likes books, does she? Your girlfriend," she prodded, gently
placing a pen back in its holder.

Frank raised an eyebrow, "It wasn't a date," he clarified quickly.

"Good," she remarked. Realizing her slip, Jamia cleared her throat, attempting to regain her
composure. "I mean..." she faltered, her cheeks flushing faintly with embarrassment at her
inadvertent admission.

Frank's lips quirked into a knowing smile, "And I don't have one tonight."

Jamia gives him a small smile, and Frank smiles back.

-----------

Frank rushed into the apartment, suited and booted, a sense of panic in his movements. His
eyes caught on Gerard's lean figure against the window.
"I need to get some air to the brain. We're going out tonight," Gerard declared, turning
around.

"Actually - I've got a date," Frank announced, briskly moving past him to gather his things.

Gerard blinks at him. "What?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun," Frank explains sarcastically,
brushing past him to go towards the bathroom. He snagged his toothbrush from its holder, ran
it under the sink, and squirted some toothpaste onto it before sticking it in his mouth. Gerard
followed him, leaning against the doorframe. He narrowed his eyes.

"That's what I was suggesting."

"No, it wasn't," Frank replied behind the bristles. He brushes his back molars, "At least I hope
not..."

Gerard huffs, digging into his wallet. "Where are you taking her?"

"Movies," Frank replied, matter-of-factly. He spat out the foam, grabbing his mouthwash to
gargle.

"Hardly original. What about this?" Gerard held up a scrap of paper--It was the tiny shred of
a poster that he peeled off the wall from the railway arches boasting a mysterious invitation
to a one-night event in New York.

"Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice," Frank quipped, looking at the paper that
simply read 'CIRCUS' with a box office phone number. Frank capped the mouthwash, setting
it back on the counter before responding. "Circus, huh? Mysterious. Not my scene, but I
guess you're into that kind of thing."

Gerard feigned indifference, flipping the scrap of paper between his fingers. "Just saying, you
might want something more... sophisticated."

Frank chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, I'm a man of simple tastes. Besides,
it's not about the venue; it's about the company, right?"

Gerard's jaw tightened imperceptibly, "I'm good company."

Frank, unfazed, leaned against the counter. " You could always take your own date, you
know."

Gerard's eyes narrowed, and for a split second, an unguarded expression crossed his face.
"Maybe I will," he retorted, almost challenging.

Frank couldn't help but notice the shift in Gerard's demeanor, a subtle crack in his usual
composed facade. "Hey, why not? It's about time you shook things up a bit, Gerard. Who
knows, you might even enjoy yourself."
Gerard's gaze hardened, but there was a flicker of uncertainty beneath the surface. "I don't
need anyone's company to enjoy myself," he stated firmly, though there was a note of
defensiveness in his voice.

"Sure, Gerard. Enjoy the solitary night. But if you ever change your mind, just know that
Jamia might know someone—maybe a girl, maybe a guy—who'd be interested."Gerard
remained silent, his expression unreadable.

"Right, well, whatever suits you," Frank shrugged casually, pushing off the counter. "I'm off
to get ready. Don't wait up for me, okay?"

Without waiting for a response, Frank headed towards the door, leaving Gerard to scramble
up to him, "I've actually already phoned them," He admitted.

Frank glanced back at Gerard, surprise evident in his expression. "You did? Why didn't you
say so?"

Gerard scratched the back of his head, avoiding direct eye contact. "Well, obviously, I'm not
going alone. I thought, you know, might as well make good use of them. They're already paid
for."

Frank narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What's the catch, Gerard?"

"No catch, Frank. Just take the tickets and enjoy your night."

Frank hesitated, scrutinizing Gerard for any sign of mischief. "Fine, thanks, Gerard. That was
actually really nice of you."

Gerard's lip curled, "I can be nice. I can be so nice. Besides, you pulled a gun on me, if you
don't remember."

Frank raised an eyebrow, a wry smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, well, you deserved it."

Gerard chuckled, a low, melodious sound. He pauses for a moment, "Fair enough. Just don't
go pointing guns at people on dates. It tends to ruin the mood."

Frank grinned, the tension between them momentarily forgotten. "Noted. I'll stick to the less
dramatic approach tonight. Thanks again for the tickets."

Gerard nodded, a casual wave of his hand. "No problem. Have a good time, Frank."

As Frank stepped out into the bustling city, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more
to Gerard's gesture than met the eye. Yet, for now, he decided to set aside his suspicions and
embrace the unexpected turn of events.
Chapter End Notes

NEXT UP: Frank just wants to get laid but Gerard is a jealous MF and Jamia is a
SAINT.
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