Page 187 of Morally Corrupt

Whenever my thoughts stray to Adrian, I just try to find something else to take my mind off him. One of the things I've started obsessing over have been tattoos.

Andropov has a few talented artists, and one of them has managed to turn to life my disjointed ideas into a wonderful tale. I've gotten an entire sleeve on my left hand, spreading further onto my back. The tattooist has warned me against getting too many at once, but I've needed the pain to keep going. He's eventually relented after a few threats.

Starting from my hand, a bow spreads across my knuckles, with an arrow sticking out and extending towards my middle finger. Upwards on my arm are different scenes that depict the myth of Hero and Leander. I'd thought it entirely too appropriate since I could see my story with Adrian in them.

Both had been on opposite sides, never to be together naturally. But their love had tricked fate, and they'd enjoyed beautiful moments together as Hero swam towards Leander, guided by her torch. But like all love stories, it ended tragically when the light went out, and Hero was swept away by the waves. And so, I'd failed to protect Adrian, and he'd been swept away from me by his memory loss.

In the original tale, Leander joins Hero in death. The finale of the rendition on my back is still a work in progress… yet I already know how it'll turn out.

I sigh and open the message. Another article. Great. Wonder who died now… Shaking my head, I put the phone down. I try to go back and continue cleaning my guns, but the curiosity is killing me. I eventually relent and open it. When I see the article's title, my eyes go wide, and I drop the phone.

NYPD Chief Commissioner Theodore Hastings was found dead, aged 34.

I blink once. Twice. I take the phone again and read, dread accumulating in the pit of my stomach.

NYPD Chief Commissioner Theodore Hastings was found dead, sources say. The hero who put an end to Jimenez's reign of terror had been suffering from a head injury that led to complications. NYPD and the mayor's office have refused to comment on the issue.

The more I read, the more I feel like I'm losing my mind. It can't be right.

I try dialing Vlad, but he's not answering.

It can't be right.

I google Theodore Hastings, and few other news sources come up with the same information.

Dead.

Head injury complications.

It is true.

I can't process this…

For what feels like forever, I sit on my apartment floor, staring at the walls. Flashes of Adrian inundate my mind. It's slow at first, like a fissure in a dam. But slowly, I'm flooded to the brim, and I can't help it, but my non-existent emotions spill over.

"No!" I yell, throwing my phone at the wall. I grab whatever's closest to me and throw it as well, smashing it to pieces. I repeat the action with everything in my path until my apartment is a pile of broken things, just like me.

Unable to stand there one more minute, I grab my coat and head to Andropov's club.

I can't deal with this. It's too much… feeling.

* * *

The moment I get to the club, I make a beeline for the bar and order an entire bottle of vodka. The bartender doesn't even bat an eye as he slides it in front of me, together with a shot glass.

I pour the first shot and down it. And then a second. And then a third. At some point, I lose count.

One of the Pakhan's brothers Nikolai spots me and makes his way towards me.

"Artemis." His eyes go to the Vodka bottle, and he frowns. "Rough night?"

"You could say," I slur my words.

"Come dance." He tugs on my hands and brings me to the dance floor. I don't know what I'm doing, my limbs just moving about. I thought that alcohol would help dull the pain. It doesn't.

"Make it stop!" I yell, my hands going to my ears. "Please, make everything stop."

Nikolai tilts his head and studies me, slowly withdrawing his wallet and fishing something out of it. It looks like a small tablet.

---