London, November 1st 2150
The apartment was quiet, except for the steady drip of a broken tap, each drop a reminder of everything falling apart, a constant, rhythmic drum inside his skull, that he could not escape as he lay on his apartment’s sagging sofa. He pulled his coat over his head, burying himself in its stale darkness, hoping for the sleep that would not come. The scent of real whiskey, not that synthetic stuff drifted through the air as it tempted him back to the kitchen, a temptation so strong that it was only a matter of time before it drove him to his feet. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, its chime a discordant clash in the oppressive silence. He pulled his coat more tightly around him, wishing the noise would stop, but the door slid open with a groan.
He listened to the footsteps enter the apartment, which came closer to him. Suddenly his coat was abruptly yanked away to reveal his sister standing over him, with a look of stern disapproval. He knew what was coming; they had been through this many times over the past year, and he regretted ever giving her access to his home.
“Well,” she said, in that unmistakable tone only a big sister could master, a blend of worry, accusation, and reluctant relief. Michael did not respond. Instead, he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he thought about the bottle left in the kitchen. With a groan of frustration, she went to the apartment window. She left the lights off and waved her hand, causing the glass to shift from an opaque, ice-like texture that barely allowed any light inside to a transparent pane. The room was suddenly bathed in the flow of the London skyline, where towering skyscrapers reached hundreds of feet into the air, adorned with neon banners and glowing monitors displaying advertisements and local businesses. The abrupt shift in light overwhelmed Michael’s alcohol-addled brain, making his headache feel like an explosion inside his skull. He collapsed to the floor, struggling to shield his eyes.
Michael slowly got to his feet, avoiding his sister’s eyes as she disappeared into the kitchen. He knew her routine by heart now, the way she would open the cabinets with too much force, the tight clink of glass against the sink. He hated it, hated her for it sometimes, but the shame always outweighed the anger.
“Have you taken your pills,” she accused, standing by the kitchen door, though the answer was already written in the untouched bottle on the table. She leaned against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable excuse. Michael scanned the room, his gaze fell on the small, silver dispenser within arm’s reach mocking him with its presence. He had not taken them because they never worked, never kept the black dog at bay, he preferred to deal with the creeping anxiety with whiskey, so he could have peace for a few hours.
“Every time I come here… you just,” she stopped, catching herself before the words spilled out. The edge in her voice softened, but only for a moment. “It feels like I’m just talking to a wall. I don’t know why I bother.” He heard her voice break from the kitchen, and the splash of liquid, the familiar gurgle of whiskey poured down the drain. A surge of guilt threatened to take him over, like a tide pulling him under, as she came almost every day trying to help him and he threw it in her face, pushing her further away. He wanted to tell her to stop, to yank the bottle out of her hands and drown out the pain he felt. But his limbs felt heavy, paralyzed by the guilt that sat like a stone in his gut. Suddenly, the monitor on the wall flickered to life pulling his attention. An incoming message. His sister's silence from the kitchen let him know she had not heard, he was about to wait for her, but took this as an opportunity. Before she could reappear and resume her scolding, the face of a police officer filled the screen.
“What is it?” Michael asked, squinting at the unfamiliar face. The officer looked young, his cheeks freshly shaved, a neat buzz cut barely covering his scalp. A rookie, Michael thought.
“Can I come in, sir?” The officer’s voice was polite, but unusually disciplined for a rookie. Michael hesitated, feeling the weight of his sister’s stare from the kitchen doorway. She stood there, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. Her expression made it clear she would rather the officer did not interrupt the scolding.
“Enter,” Michael said, his voice thick with reluctance. The door unlocked with a soft click and opened.
The officer stepped inside, and the moment Michael laid eyes on him, his mind went to work, processing information like a machine, absorbing every detail. He was tall, much taller than Michael, strongly built, with muscle definition that was obvious even beneath his uniform. Not an ordinary rookie after all, Michael thought. Despite the officer’s youth, there was something in his eyes, something hardened by experience. A thin scar beneath his right eye hinted at a rough past, a past that felt more military than police. Michael had seen that look before: a soldier, still carrying invisible wounds in that stoic way many soldiers do, without complaint.
“Pulling recruits from the military now?” Michael asked, his tone more observational than curious. The officer stood stiffly, his body language rigid, betraying the tension underneath.
“I’ve been ordered to pick you up. There’s been a murder in Trafalgar Square.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. The officer’s words confirmed what he had already suspected, a soldier turned cop, still too tense, too alert.
“What’s your name?” Michael asked, watching him closely.
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“Erikson. Jay Erikson,” he replied, his posture unwavering, as if bracing for something.
“And why do they need me?” Michael asked, his voice faltering slightly. The words tasted bitter, forcing him to acknowledge his current state. “I’m on sick leave.” He did not want to go. Every fibre of his body urged him to refuse. The idea of staying here, with his sister hovering over him, lecturing him for another hour, filled him with dread. His thoughts raced: the guilt, the nagging, the endless reminders of how far he had fallen. And then there was the alternative, a murder scene, far away from this suffocating room. A chance to slip away, grab a drink, and escape the judgment in her eyes. The murder scene suddenly seemed like the lesser evil.
Outside, the city pulsed with light, despite the late hour. The London skyline was a labyrinth of illuminated signs, holograms of impossibly beautiful people, and flashing ads for the latest movies and distractions. Michael turned away from the window, his eyes stinging from the brightness, a reminder that the whiskey still coursed through his veins. He could have taken something to clear his head, wipe away the lingering effects of the hangover, but he did not. He deserved the discomfort. Erikson sat in silence behind the wheel, focused on the road, offering no conversation. Michael preferred it that way, no forced pleasantries, no awkward attempts to connect. A sip from the flask tucked in his coat brought a brief relief from his thoughts. The ache in his head began to ease, but his muscles remained tense, tightening with each passing minute as they neared the crime scene. He knew who would be there. The faces, the forced politeness, the way they would tiptoe around him, offering words they thought might ease his pain. He wanted none of it. Their sympathy only deepened his resentment. As they weaved through the towering buildings, the steady stream of traffic began its descent toward the ground, like the city itself was pulling them down into its depths.
He did not need to glance out the window to know they had arrived. The piercing red and blue lights flooded the car’s interior, flashing in rapid, dizzying patterns. He flinched, closing his eyes against the harsh brightness that seemed to cut through his skull. The car slowed to a stop, its gentle halt only heightening the sense of dread twisting in his gut. He knew what awaited him, the awkward glances, the half-hearted attempts at compassion. Nearly a decade spent working with these people, and now, here he was, an outsider in a world he once commanded. Erikson glanced back at him, and in the officer’s eyes, he saw an understanding that only came from having suffered. He turned away, refusing to let it settle in. Erikson stepped out first, moving around to open Michael’s door. Before following, Michael took one more pull from his flask, the burn of whiskey grounding him for a moment. Reluctantly, he slid out of the car, the weight of his hesitation pressing on his shoulders as he fell into step behind the officer, feeling the familiar but unwelcome sting of reality closing in.
The street buzzed with activity, officers darted between clusters of potential witnesses and crime scene investigators, with their machine counterparts combing the area for clues. Michael pulled his coat tighter around himself, instinctively wanting to hide, to disappear into the crowd. The last thing he wanted was to be recognized. Reluctantly, he followed Erikson through the swarm of uniformed bodies until a familiar voice called out, halting them both.
“Glad you could make it,” came the half-hearted greeting. Michael looked up, his stomach knotting at the sound. Standing in front of him was Detective Alexander Marshall, an old veteran of the force and his mentor. His face was etched with scars and the deep lines of a man who had seen too much. His eyes, sharp as ever, studied Michael with the same piercing gaze he reserved for suspects under interrogation. The weight of his scrutiny made Michael’s pulse quicken.
“You can go,” Marshall said, waving the younger officer away. He stepped closer to Michael, his voice dropping to a low murmur so no one else could hear.
“You’re drinking again.” It was not a question, and Michael knew there was no point in denying it. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to pull out his flask and take another sip right there.
“Yes,” he muttered, avoiding the old man’s gaze. Marshall sighed, his expression softening slightly, though the tension lingered.
“I’m sorry to drag you out here like this, but if there was any other way…” That caught Michael’s attention. He glanced up, confusion cutting through his nerves.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Come with me,” Marshall said, his tone heavy with something unspoken. Without another word, Marshall led him toward the police barrier, the yellow tape marking the boundary like a dividing line between the ordinary chaos of the city and the grim reality waiting beyond. As they crossed the boundary, the noise of the street was cancelled out by the barrier, the air inside the crime scene thick with a different kind of tension.
A pair of detectives and a coroner’s officer stood over the body. Forcing himself to look, Michael saw a young woman, dressed in party clothes, a short skirt and revealing top—lying on her back. It was not until he stepped closer that the pool of blood surrounding her came into focus. He edged between the detectives, his eyes scanning the several wounds on her torso. At first glance, they appeared to be knife wounds, jagged slashes across her chest and stomach. Almost by instinct, his mind began working, analysing the scene. Her fingers were smeared with blood, with a missing nail, a clear sign she did not go easily. The random placement of the punctures, the sheer brutality of the attack, suggested a lack of control, a frenzy rather than precision. He knelt down, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the stale smell of sweat in the night air. As he leaned in, he noticed the faint trails of tears dried on her face. She had been terrified, and ultimately powerless against the savage violence that claimed her life. The reality of her suffering settled heavily on him. After a few moments, Michael rose to his feet and turned to Marshall, confusion flickering across his face. Murders happened in London all the time. It was the cost of living in the city, and after years of doing this job, the deaths had become routine, losing their sting. Just another case.
“Why am I here?” Michael asked, the question heavy with frustration. Without a word, Marshall handed him a small card. Michael took it, his brow furrowed as he studied the plain black rectangle. One side bore the image of a clown, the word Fool printed beneath it in bold letters. Frowning, he flipped the card over, and froze. His heart skipped a beat. There, written in neat, unmistakable handwriting, were two words: Michael Wyatt. His own name. He blinked, staring at the card, a sudden weight of anxiety crashing down on him. His pulse quickened, and a cold sweat began to form at the back of his neck. The card felt heavier in his hand now, as if mocking him. What did it mean? Why was his name here?
“Michael?” Marshall’s voice seemed distant, barely breaking through the fog of confusion. Michael’s eyes returned to the image of the fool, its painted face grinning up at him, taunting him in the eerie silence.