Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Is it really necessary…"

"You know the rules." The cupboard-shaped guard crouched in front of the tall guy - his palms were carefully patting down his legs for hidden weapons.

"Terence, baby, I might get turned on." A crooked smile twisted the guy's thin lips as the guard reached his thighs. Terence reflexively twitched, barely noticeable, but didn't stop, continuing his hands-on search.

"I could shoot you right here, smartass." Terence straightened up and, with a sharp move, spun the guy so his back faced him, forcing him to put his hands behind his head. The guy only laughed softly.

"I like it rough, but you're not my type, so relax."

"You really get on my nerves…" The guard sighed. Finishing the check, he placed all the found weapons into a small safe by the wall. There were three throwing knives, a silvery Sig Sauer, and two fully loaded magazines. Their owner turned back to Terence, waiting with his arms spread wide.

'Well, are you gonna let me through now? Or should I drop my pants so you can be sure I'm not planning to kill anyone here?"

"Let his ass through.” Terence nodded to his two partners blocking the passage, and they stepped aside, eyeing the visitor with indifferent looks.

"If I find out someone touched my stuff, I'll shove the knives up their asses," the guy threw over his shoulder as he slipped through the doorway.

He found himself in a semi-basement room lit by weak sunlight from a small high window and one narrow fluorescent tube. The place smelled a bit of mold and stale air.

“Didn't you think of finding a more comfortable office?” The guy hunched, made a face, and, without waiting for an invite, walked across the room toward a desk by the window. The man behind it was lazily typing on a laptop, peering at the screen through thin-rimmed glasses.

"I could make it cozier with a stuffed version of your head. How's that idea?" The man looked up from the computer, his gloomy gaze settled on the guy who had plopped down into the chair.

"I know you'd love to stare at my gorgeous face till the end of your days, but I don't think it's worth it," the guy said with a slight sneer, smoothing down his messy dark hair.

"I didn't call you here for jokes, Gerard." The man took off his glasses and set them aside, pulling a thin cardboard folder from the top drawer of his desk. With a soft rustle, it landed on the tabletop, making the papers nearby flutter. "Everything that needs to be done is inside of this folder. I think this will be the toughest job you've had so far."

"So far it doesn’t look like much…" Gerard flipped through the pages in the folder. He even smiled, imagining how soon he'd ride off into the sunset with a pile of cash he'd get for the job - but his smile died as soon as he reached the middle of the folder. He read and re-read two sheets several times, trying to find the catch, then looked up at the man.

"You've lost your mind." He pulled out one page and waved it in the air. "I'll go down for this when they catch me!"

"You’re supposed to be rotting behind bars already, remember?" The man snorted, flicking a lighter he'd taken from the desk and lighting a cigarette. A stream of bitter smoke drifted into the air. "But you're not."

"That's too much!" Gerard jumped to his feet, throwing the folder back on the desk. “I'm not doing that."

"Sit." The sharp, commanding tone sobered him, and Gerard slowly sank back into the chair. "No one's asking you. The sooner you do it, the better for you. If it goes well, you'll take a cut and you can be free as the wind."

"Really?" Gerard frowned skeptically, looking at the boss and trying to figure out if he'd heard him right. 'Like, totally free?'

'Yes.' The man nodded, slowly drawing on his cigarette.

"And what if I rat you out to the cops?' Gerard squinted. The payoff was too good to trust at face value.

"Then you'll share a cell with me. And trust me, I'll take care of you there." The man leaned forward on his elbows. “Get out.”

The chair creaked as the guy stood up and strode out of the room with the folder under his arm. All his cockiness evaporated at once, so he silently grabbed his weapons, shoved them into his pockets without thinking, and bolted outside, ignoring Terence's jab aimed at him. Only when the fresh air hit his face he felt his heart pounding up in his throat.

Chapter Text

"Seven!"

The sharp slap of a fist on the table made everyone in the room tuck their chins and lower their eyes guiltily. "Seven fucking fools who couldn’t pull off a simple job!"

For about twenty minutes now, Police Chief Richard Wilson had been tearing his subordinates to shreds. His department had always boasted a high clearance rate, so every failed operation felt like a personal insult. He'd already received a pointed dressing-down from the county commissioner this morning for yesterday's botched raid, and now he was determined to share that mood with the officers responsible.

'We're not the first to be unable to catch this guy…" an uncertain bass came from the far end of the long oak table that filled most of the room. The chief exhaled slowly through his nose, closed his eyes, then leaned a little to the left to get a better look at the tall, dark-skinned man of about forty.

"Johnson, were you running the operation?"

"Yes, sir…"

"Yes, sir," Wilson mocked, clenching his lips until even his thick moustache trembled. "I think those lieutenant stripes are too big for you - failures like this are unacceptable!"

"But, sir…" Johnson began, but the chief cut him off with a gesture.

"Shut your mouth. I don't want to hear it! I just don't understand how you let that snotter get away. Do you even realize who we're dealing with now?"

"But he only stole a car…" Officer Brown, a young man sitting to Wilson’s left, looked back and forth between the chief and Johnson in genuine surprise. Wilson silently counted to five to avoid snapping at him; Brown had only been at the department for a few months and had shown decent results, so the chief treated him a little more leniently than the others. Before Brown could say anything else, another man's voice cut in.

"This isn’t just a car, Brown." Frank Iero straightened in his chair and leaned forward, fingers interlaced on the table. He was probably the only one who could interrupt the chief that casually. He pulled a sheet from the plastic folder, almost completely filled on one side in pen, and waved it in the air. "Here's a claim from Tom Peterson about an theft of a car and a half-million dollars from the office left on my desk an hour ago. That guy makes your annual income in a week, and he's one of the country's top lawyers. His connections reach all the way to the White House and can have us all thrown to hell if we don't bring him the skin of the bastard who walked out with his cash."

"Who keeps half a million in the office?" Brown blurted, jaw dropping. The bulletin they'd been given yesterday about the response only mentioned a stolen BMW SUV. Frank snorted, smiling indulgently, and tucked the claim back into the folder.

"If you ever have to defend a politician so they don't go to jail, you'll be handling cash sums like that," he said.

"I don't get it…" A ripple of laughter ran through the patrol officers. The whole department treated Brown like a younger brother because of his age; he'd only just turned twenty-three when he'd been hired, and he often reacted to things with wide-eyed shock. But he was clever and tenacious, had already been pulled into rapid-response teams, and was gaining experience fast.

"You need to understand this: if we don't find that bastard, our asses will be buried so deep we'll feel the heat of the Earth's core," Wilson sighed. "I'm assigning the investigation to Frank, so everything you've seen or know about this guy - report it to him in written form within an hour. Now get out of here!"

Chairs creaked and hurried footsteps sounded - nobody was keen to stay another minute alone with the furious chief, then run to the pharmacy for a tub of Vaseline. Wilson and Iero stayed in the office; Iero only chuckled to himself, watching the failed cops rush out.

"Frank, you understand the importance of this, don't you?" When the door clicked shut behind the last patrolman, Wilson folded his hands on the table and looked intently at his subordinate.

"Of course," Frank nodded, slowly tapping his fingers on the folder. "If it really the guy we think about, half the West Coast is after him. It won't be easy, but it'll be interesting."

"Peterson already gave a description and they put together a composite - you'll get it tomorrow. That should help." The chief leaned back in his high-backed chair, thoughtfully rubbing his moustache.

"I doubt this man would just go around showing his face," Frank snorted. "Nobody really knows what he looks like yet, so the composite probably won't do much - but I'll do everything I can."

"I'm counting on you."

"As always, chief." Iero winked at him, shoved his things under his arm, and stood up. "We'll make it look good."

***

"Buzz off, furball…" Frank gently pushed away the ginger cat that stubbornly rubbed its furry cheek against his leg, hoping for a treat it had never once received. It was still a mystery to Frank why this cat had so much affection for him after all these years, getting nothing in return but curses and the occasional shove. He didn't even know who the cat's owners were or how it ended up living in this building at all. The cat let out a soft, reproachful purr, then backed off and sat down on the neighbor's doormat, lazily licking its front paw. Frank finally dug his apartment keys out from the depths of his leather jacket pocket and, jingling them loud enough for the whole floor to hear, unlocked the door.

Frank Iero's life could easily be called solitary. For years, he'd lived alone in a small bachelor apartment on the edge of the city, using it mostly as a place to crash after long shifts, spending nearly all his time at work. He had no friends, had broken up with his last girlfriend a few years back, and his coworkers never asked him out for a drink after hours. His fiery yet cold temper was to blame for that. Despite holding the rank of police captain and being one of the best detectives in the district, Frank was never anyone's favorite. Most people kept their distance, knowing he could easily throw a stapler at someone or verbally bury them six feet under with his endless supply of creative profanity. Technically, he was supposed to have an assistant, but they came and went faster than coffee cooled down - not many could handle his constant nitpicking or the wrath that came from brewing a bad cup of coffee. Any attempt at small talk or connection from others was instantly shut down. To everyone, Frank was that grim, closed-off guy who probably enjoyed spending his evenings in the morgue, hanging out with corpses after autopsies.

Once inside the apartment, Frank kicked off his shoes, sending them tumbling into the corner of the hallway, and made his way to the small kitchen - his stomach had been howling like a wounded whale for hours. The fridge greeted him with its steady hum and the clink of a beer bottle on the empty side door shelf. Three eggs were dying next to a couple of sausages and a bunch of greens.

"Not much…" Frank muttered, clicking his tongue, and sighed as he pulled out the few available ingredients. Sure, he still had time to make a quick run to the supermarket nearby, but his stomach demanded food here and now. Hastily cooking some scrambled eggs, Frank devoured them standing right over the stove. Only when the hunger subsided, he left the dirty dishes on the table and head to the living room, which also served as his bedroom and an office.

Frank wasn’t a stickler for tidiness in anything outside of work. Therefore, the only place where everything stayed in a perfect order was the large desk by the window, where he sometimes worked if he hadn't finished it at the department or woke in the middle of the night with a sudden idea. He even had a small corkboard there for hanging various notes, newspaper clippings, or printouts from the Internet. Of course, he wasn't allowed to take investigation details outside of his office, but some things still needed to be processed at home, though for an untrained eye, finding connections in all the information would be rather difficult. 

On the wide sofa, which also functioned as his bed, a blanket was piled up, and two pillows lay at opposite ends, untouched since morning. Frank didn't bother making the bed every morning, considering it a pointless waste of time since his army days - though he had left service over ten years ago. He had often had to leap out of bed, dress in thirty seconds, and rush to a crime scene, so he dismissed bed-making as unnecessary.

Frank hanged his jacket over a chair and left his police badge on the desk next to the laptop, and then flopped onto the sofa, stretching out and relaxing. Habitually, he reached for the TV remote on the coffee table and turned on a music channel. It was a near-daily ritual; the old punk tunes from the TV speakers helped to clear his mind after a day of work. Closing his eyes, Frank exhaled slowly, resting his hands behind his head, and listened to the light guitar riffs, giving his brain a moment of rest.

He almost dozed off when he heard a commotion at the front door, followed by the trill of the doorbell. Frank didn't immediately register it - the sound was so rare - but it rang again a minute later. Annoyed at the interruption, he muttered a curse, got up, and shuffled to the door, thinking he should hang a “Beware of Dog” sign. Through the peephole, he saw a skinny guy with glasses, shifting nervously from foot to foot. The guy wasn't familiar, but Frank forced a somewhat friendly expression and opened the door.

"Oh, hi," the guy said timidly, smiling when he saw the apartment owner. Frank only nodded.

"Sorry to bother you, but my brother and I are moving to the apartment next door," he nodded toward the door on the right, "and he's at work right now, so I need some help carrying a few things… I thought maybe…"

“I was going to go to sleep,” Frank interrupted gruffly. The idea of hauling someone else's stuff up to the third floor didn't appeal. But the guy looked so thin and frail that he sighed and added, "Alright, but let's do it quick."

"Thank you so much!" The guy's smile widened as he adjusted his glasses. "I’m Michael, by the way. Mikey."

"Frank," Iero replied reluctantly, shaking the new neighbor's hand, hoping this would be their first and last meeting. Or at least, that their paths would rarely cross.

Five minutes later, Frank was standing with Mikey outside near a taxi, unloading several bags, a box containing a collapsible shelf, a couple of flower pots, and a hamster cage - the hamster burrowed in the bedding, only its nose visible. Mikey tried to be helpful, attempting to carry the heaviest items himself, but failed, so they decided to do two rounds, which cost Mikey extra cash as the taxi driver refused to wait.

The first round brought in the bags and hamster. Frank rarely interacted with neighbors; most people, learning his line of work, tried to exploit him, so he kept contact to a minimum. Today was different. As Mikey dashed around placing things in the apartment, Frank stood in the doorway holding the hamster cage, watching the sunlit room. Unlike his gloomy place, this one had two rooms, and the windows faced the sunny side - the apartment bathed in pale pink evening light. Frank was aware that the apartment had been empty for about a month, its previous owner having sold it and left the country. It looked cozy, at least because the furniture remained, or so Frank thought - it was unlikely that guy had carried it all himself. On the second round, they lugged in the bulky box, placing the flower pots on top.

"Thanks, Frank," Mikey said, wiping his forehead and surveying his belongings. "My brother won't be back for an hour, and it's getting darker, so your help was perfect."

"No problem," Frank nodded, stepping back toward the entrance before the pleasantries could turn into an invitation to stay.

"Want some coffee or tea?"

"No, thanks. Early start tomorrow. I'd rather sleep."

"Got it. Well, offer stands," Mikey shrugged.

"Sure, see you later." Frank quickly left, hearing a "goodnight" as he passed the threshold, rushing back to his apartment as if the new neighbor might chase him to force him to join the tea. Once back in familiar walls, Frank exhaled and headed straight to the living room, ready to crash face-first into the pillow. His kindness quota for the day had been maxed - and exceeded.

The next morning began for Frank with a visit to Tom Peterson’s office. While the forensic specialists examined the premises for a second time for any evidence, Frank sat on a small leather couch in the lawyer's office, jotting down everything Tom said.

"How did it happen that the robber was alone in your office?"

"He was checked by the security before being allowed in. I only arrived five minutes later, right after finishing negotiations," Peterson replied irritably, lifting his head with its neat hairstyle and brushing an imaginary strand of hair from his face. "This person had been coming to me for weeks posing as a client. I never imagined he'd rob me!"

"Who else knew that you'd be handed that sum?" Frank made a note in the margins and looked at the lawyer. The man was tall, thin, with sharp features, slightly vulture-like. It wasn't surprising his career advanced quickly - he had the personality to match. Even Frank, despite his own complicated nature, felt uneasy next to him - let alone with the pompous judges and placid jurors Peterson worked with.

"Only Scott and I," Tom nodded behind him, where the entrance was blocked by his bodyguard. Hearing his name, the man barely turned his head, listening. "He's beyond suspicion. Don't even think about it, detective."

"I'm obligated to check every possibility," Frank said, ignoring the stern tone. "I'll talk to him afterward."

"He's been my head of security for over ten years, never made a mistake…"

"But he did this time," Iero noted with a satisfied smirk he didn't try to hide. "Nothing personal, I'm just doing my job."

"I noticed how wonderfully the police handle their duties," Peterson grunted, casting a sideways glare at the forensics expert squatting across from him, examining the opened safe.

"If you mean those idiots who wrecked your car, my condolences," Frank said casually, jotting something in his notebook. "I see those idiots every day."

"You have a sense of humor, Mr. Iero," Peterson's face flickered with something like a smile, softening his features for a moment.

"Let's get back to the robber. Tell me the whole story with mister Dupont."

"Oh he came to me just over a month ago," Peterson sat more comfortably, fingers interlaced on his knees. "Claimed to be a political refugee. He provided all the documents, which of course I verified. Such a person really exists - registered as a French citizen from Brittany, owner of a large restaurant chain in Paris and other major cities. Also holds shares in several American companies. He had a conflict with the local Parisian government, which froze all his assets and threatened his family. He needed help unlocking them and moving his family here to the U.S. We had several consultations, for which he paid well. Overall, he was no different from my usual clients."

"As far as I know, your services are in high demand, and you prioritize clients, right?" Frank thoughtfully chewed his pencil, watching the lawyer. Peterson nodded. "How did this Frenchman end up on your approved list?"

"Um…" Peterson seemed embarrassed for a moment. "A few days before his visit, a good friend of mine called asking for help. So I made an exception."

"Can you give me your friend’s number?" Frank wrote down the digits. "How did he get into your car?"

"That I would like to know from you, detective. I hear you're a real expert; this shouldn't be a problem for you."

"If you show your car keys to our specialist, I guarantee you'll get an answer soon," Frank gestured to one of the forensic experts, to whom Peterson handed the car key fob for the stolen SUV. Frank's phone vibrated briefly in his jacket pocket, distracting him.

"Oh, here’s the photofit. This is your client, right?"

"Tear the hands off your artist," Peterson grimaced at the monochrome image on the smartphone. "I didn't pay attention to details, but here he looks like a lamb."

"And in reality?" Frank looked at the sketch again. The man was about thirty-five, round-faced, short blond hair, brows furrowed over the bridge of his nose.

"Sharper cheekbones, I'd say," Frank noted in his notebook. "Looks older."

"Anything special about his behavior?"

Tom pondered, rubbing his chin. "He spoke with a distinct French accent… slightly mannered, but moderate. Nothing special. Although, in one meeting, I thought he might be overdoing the makeup a bit."

"Makeup?" Frank couldn't hold back a chuckle, glancing sideways at the lawyer.

"Yes, his eyebrows were definitely drawn on."

"Interesting…" the detective muttered to himself, smirking.

"Captain, we've finished the inspection," a thin young man in oversized glasses approached, removing his work gloves. "No fingerprints, no signs of a break-in. The safe was opened with its own code."

"Have you opened the safe in front of Dupont before?" Frank asked Peterson.

"Yes, but it's under the desk, how did he…" The lawyer looked at his oak desk, then at the large glass-fronted filing cabinet behind him. "That son of a bitch!"

"For a lawyer, you're far too careless, Mr. Peterson," Frank sighed, gesturing to the young man, who left, calling his partner to put away tools. Within a minute, the case notes lay on Frank's lap, and the forensic specialists left.

"With your permission, I'd like to speak to your bodyguard and the guards who checked Dupont on his last visit. Alone." Frank added, understanding Peterson wouldn't leave himself. The lawyer rolled his eyes but exited, yielding to his bodyguard.

***

"No traces, nothing… "Frank murmured, rifling through printouts from the security cameras, shifting slightly in his office chair. After speaking with all the witnesses at the lawyer's office, he had an approximate puzzle of events. Dupont gained Peterson's trust over a few visits, observed the safe code in advance, and simply swapped the money case with one he brought.

But questions remained. How could this man know about such a large transfer? How did he know the money would be in that particular case? How did he get into Peterson's car if it opens with an electronic key, which the lawyer never lost or shared? Who was he?

"Mr. Iero, may I come in?"

The timid voice interrupted Frank's thoughts, and he flinched. Few dared barge into his office, much less interrupt him while working. Frank slowly lifted his head, focusing on the unfamiliar boy at the door. The boy smiled broadly, clutching his backpack strap nervously.

"I didn't order a clown; the circus is down the hall," Frank measured him with a cold gaze, noting the boy's voluminous curls, which indeed resembled a clown wig. The rudeness stunned the boy, but he brushed it off and stepped forward.

"My name is Ray. Ray Toro. I'm here for an internship," he extended his hand, trying to approach, but Frank's sharp gaze pinned him in place.

"You're in the wrong office, student," Frank snorted, turning his chair back to the desk.

"But it says here…" Ray fumbled through his backpack and pulled out a notebook, flipping to a bookmarked page. "Here… Frank Iero, Police Captain, Sixth Department, Room 12. That's you,” he looked at the nameplate on the desk: "Captain F. Iero."

Frank clenched his teeth, reminding himself the kid was innocent. It was just that his colleague, the pudgy Lieutenant Rhodes, who handled new employee orientation, had decided to play a prank and hadn't warned him about the latest attempt to saddle him with a law student.

"Fine…" Frank turned back to his desk, ignoring the boy, and grabbed the desk phone, dialing the lieutenant. A cheerful voice answered after a few rings.

"Frankie, I see you've met Ray, right?"

"What the fuck, Rhodes?" Frank hissed, barely containing his irritation. "Got nothing better to do?!"

"You’re the only one in the department without an assistant," Rhodes replied, smacking his lips into the receiver, making Frank even angrier.

"Unlike you, I can get off my ass and do my job!"

"Iero, I've known you forever, and your antics don't work on me. Ray's top of his class, wants to be a forensic scientist. Give the kid a chance."

"Take him to your office. Let him shuffle papers!" Frank gestured in despair, unaware the curly-haired boy had shrunk slightly, slowly backing toward the door.

"Iero, it's the chief's order," Rhodes laughed. "He thinks you need an assistant."

"I'll speak to him myself!” Frank snapped, throwing the phone back on the receiver. Ray was about to open the door when Frank barked:

"Stop!"

"I just… thought…"

"Don't care what you thought," Iero rubbed his forehead, standing. "Afraid of corpses?"

"Uh… no," Ray said, astonished, looking up at the detective. The man was a head and a half shorter, yet still intimidating.

"Good. Get me a strong americano and meet me outside in five minutes. We're going to the morgue."

"But…"

"Four minutes!" Frank called from the corridor, leaving the new assistant alone. Ray hurried after him, trying to recall where the coffee shop was on the way to the department.

Chapter Text

Shopping malls are humanity's greatest invention - at least for those who want to blend into the crowd. Sure, walking through the main entrance without being noticed is tricky, but that's what side doors are for. One of those doors was exactly where a tall figure with a guitar case on his shoulder slipped inside.

"Hey, man, what've you got there?" The observant security guard, crisp in his freshly ironed suit, tore himself away from flirting with the blonde receptionist at the info desk when he spotted something suspicious entering the building.

The red-haired guy barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes - not that it would've been visible behind his dark shades - but he obediently approached and unzipped the case, showing the slim neck of an acoustic guitar.

"Going to the music store. Needs a fix," he said, tapping a small crack near the top of the fretboard.

The guard pulled the case open a little wider, peeking inside, but all he saw was a wooden body.

"Go ahead."

As the guy walked away, he caught the guard's voice on the radio, reporting that a visitor with a guitar had entered and been checked. A faint smirk curved the young man's lips.

He headed up to the second floor - where the actual music shop was. The spacious room had one wall covered in guitars and the other cluttered with all sorts of instruments. Behind the counter stood a clerk named Patrick, humming some tune while rummaging through a big cardboard box. He looked up the moment his visitor entered, gave a quick nod, and gestured for him to follow.

They stepped into the back room, packed with boxes but cozy enough to fit a black leather couch, a mirror, and a small fridge with a microwave on top. Another guy sat on the couch, eyes glued to his phone screen. He looked up when the others walked in.

"Gee, finally. I thought they got you."

"Not a chance, Pete." Gerard snorted, tossing him the guitar case. Patrick pulled on a pair of white gloves before taking it and setting it on a side table. Gerard slid off his sunglasses and ran his fingers through the bright strands on his head with a sigh - the synthetic wig itched like hell after hours under the sun. "These security guys are brain-dead."

"Yeah, well, thanks to those morons, we're still breathing," Patrick muttered, giving a soft click as he lifted the fake guitar top. The upper body and neck came off smoothly - inside lay a beautifully crafted hiding place for one single thing: a PSG1 sniper rifle with a scope, the one that had sent an Italian diplomat to the afterlife about fifteen minutes ago. Patrick switched on the desk lamp, the weapon glinting against its soft silver lining.

"Your part is on the bottom," Gerard said, peeling off his dark hoodie before turning to Pete. "C'mon, get your clothes off. I have only three minutes."

"Oh baby, you're so fast," Pete chuckled nastily, but did as told and got up.

"Save it for someone who cares. I still wanna shoot your balls off for what you did to Mikey," Gerard shot back, his cold tone and dead-serious glare shutting Pete up instantly. They swapped clothes - Gerard slipped into Pete's Misfits tee and denim jacket, trading his combat boots for light sneakers, while Pete became a near-perfect copy of the man who'd walked into the store minutes ago. Only the wig gave him trouble as he tried to fit it properly in front of the mirror.

Gerard tucked his favorite pistol behind the waistband of his dark jeans, then stepped closer.

"Reminder: Boss will send a car to the next street. And this…" He crouched, quickly pulling a folding knife from Pete's boot pocket, "…I’ll be taking that, thank you very much. Try not to die."

Sliding Pete's dark sunglasses onto his nose, Gerard left the room without looking back, leaving the other two behind.

He walked across the floor casually, pausing now and then near the shop windows, pretending to browse. Then he rode the escalator down, weaving through the crowd. By the time he stepped outside, the faint wail of police sirens echoed in the distance. Half a minute later, two SUVs with flashing lights tore around the corner, racing toward somewhere else - while Gerard was already just another face in the sea of people.

***

"This is CIA and Interpol business, Chief. You sure it's got anything to do with my case?"

Frank had been listening to Wilson’s voice on the line for several minutes now - the man was going on about another murder. This time, the victim was some Angelo Morello. From what the chief said, Frank only gathered that the guy had flown in from Italy to meet with members of Parliament, supposedly representing some charity organization. None of the details Wilson gave him seemed to match the case Frank had been working on for the past few days, though his boss kept insisting otherwise.

"I wouldn't be so sure if it weren't for the meeting that Italian had scheduled with our Tom Peterson tonight. The shooter's a pro - the bullet came from quite a distance, roughly seven hundred meters. They're still looking for him, but I'd suggest checking security footage from nearby hotels and malls. You might dig up something useful. My gut says Peterson's money theft was just the beginning."

"Sounds like someone's been watching too many spy movies." Frank snorted, lighting a cigarette as he walked. He'd been on his way home when the chief called. His mysterious thief had basically vanished into thin air, which was driving the detective insane - the bastard was like a mole, hiding from every camera in the city as if he'd tunneled underground.

Frank had spent the past two days at the department, watching endless surveillance footage from the streets around Peterson's office, trying to catch even a glimpse of his target. Luckily, his assistant showed up just in time - Ray was the one who first found where Peterson's car had been abandoned. Truth be told, Frank only sent the kid there to get him off his back, to keep him busy with some dull work, but Ray took it seriously and, within a few hours, found a narrow alley where the SUV had been parked.

An hour later, both men were standing by the vehicle, waiting for the forensics team to arrive. Ray eagerly helped the techs to look for clues, following every instruction without complaint. The only valuable finds were a few light hairs on the headrests and some shoe prints. The marks on the floor near both the driver's and passenger's seats looked like they'd been left by army boots. That led Frank to believe what he'd suspected all along - the thief wasn't working alone. There was no way that fake "Dupont" could've cracked the car's electronic lock in seconds by himself while still in Peterson's office.

After gathering the new evidence, Frank and Ray went back to the station and dug into the footage again. This time, they were reviewing everything from the moment Peterson entered the parking lot until the car theft - trying to figure out who actually broke into the BMW. But one day wasn't enough, so the search spilled over into the next.

That same day, Frank got the forensics report. Out of all the hairs they found, only one matched a DNA sample in the U.S. police database. Turns out, one of the thieves had popped up a few years back during a small bank robbery in Oklahoma.

After going through about a dozen reports from different officers, Frank learned that the culprits had never been caught. The descriptions in the witness statements were vague - tall men, masks hiding their faces, dark clothes. One of them hacked into the bank's computer system in under a minute, while the other - an exceptional marksman - had managed to shoot through a moving car's windshield from about ten meters away, using a Mateba revolver, which was notoriously hard to control when firing on the move. That kind of precision took serious training - and a pair of hands steady as stone.

The shot hit the driver in the shoulder, costing the police the few seconds they might've needed to catch the robbers. Remembering that detail, Frank had to admit - maybe Wilson's theory wasn't total nonsense after all.

"I'll deal with it tomorrow, Chief. Honestly, my eyes are crossing from all the damn footage." Iero exhaled a puff of smoke and flicked the cigarette butt into a trash can.

"You'll have an admission in your inbox. I’ve already arranged it."

"I swear, one day I'm just gonna move into the damn department…" Frank heard only a raspy chuckle and then the line went dead.

Lost in thought over everything he'd learned, the detective made his way home. Piecing things together in his head, he climbed the stairs to his floor - and nearly tripped over a figure crouched by a neighbor's door.

The guy, facing away from him, was muttering curses under his breath while his keys clattered against the lock loud enough to wake the dead. Clearly, the new neighbor was having trouble getting in. Frank stifled a laugh and cleared his throat softly to announce his presence. The young man jumped at the sound, startled, almost dropping his keys.

"You must be Mikey’s brother?" Frank remembered the new neighbor mentioning a brother heєd never met in the past few days. Not that Frank was itching to make friends - he couldn't have cared less who lived next door as long as they left him alone. This guy didn't look like he wanted a warm neighborly welcome either; his face showed no fear, only thinly veiled irritation. He resembled Mikey, but a bit shorter and with darker hair. So Frank got his answer, and the guy returned a quick, assessing once-over look from head to toe.

"If you ain't a locksmith who can open this damn lock, we ain't got much to talk about." he said.

"As you wish." Frank shrugged and walked past the neighbor, deliberately pulling out his own keys and, with no trouble at all, unlocked his apartment door, waved a hand in farewell and closed it with a heavy click. "What a brat..." Muttering under his breath, Frank shrugged off his outerwear and headed straight for the bathroom to freshen up. His head was starting to boil, and he dreamed of stepping under cold water.

Through the roar of the shower, Frank heard the doorbell ringing. At first he ignored it, as usual, but when it rang a second and then a third time he couldn't take it. Hastily toweling off and throwing on fresh clothes, he went to the door, getting angrier with every second.

"Is this some family joke - ringing the bell like that?!" Frank exploded at the guy on the other side of the door.

"First of all, hello, I'm Gerard." the guysaid, holding out his hand. Quickly realizing there'd be no handshake, he closed it into a fist and tucked it behind his back. Frank measured him with a cold look, silently waiting for an answer. Gerard sighed and raised both hands. "Okay, I just wanted to ask if you happen to have any tools to open that lock?"

"If the hands come from your ass, no tool will help." Iero snorted, eyeing the man's thin wrists - hands more like a musician's or an artist's.

"You’re probably Frank? Mikey said you're very kind and considerate." Gerard arched an eyebrow, sarcasm clear in his voice. "If you're so clever - here." He handed the neighbor the keys. "Show me how to open the door. If you don't manage it, you'll pay for a locksmith."

"Fuck off." Frank nearly choked on his outrage. Gerard barely hid his smile.

"I'm just asking for help. Neighborly help." he shrugged.

"Neighborly? Ask the landlord - he can pay for a new lock."

"Well… this is my apartment now." Gerard feigned surprise, raising a brow. "Of course I was warned that the neighbors here aren't exactly… friendly."

"If I open that damned door for you, you and your brother stay away from me for good, deal?" Frank rubbed his forehead exhaustedly. He'd been worn thin over the last few days and didn't have the patience for chat.

"Deal," Gerard nodded and handed Frank the keys, then leaned his shoulder on the frame to watch the operation. He already had an idea what Frank was like from his brother's words, but the man proved to be far more aggressive in person. While Frank fiddled with the keys, Gerard peeked carefully into the apartment, scanning the hallway and the part of the room visible from the doorway. Seeing nothing worth noticing, he went back to watching.

"Houston, do we have a problem?" Gerard leaned over Frank's shoulder, who still couldn't turn the key.

"Yeah, one of you two definitely has hands up their ass, because this lock"s jammed from the inside, it seems." Iero sighed again and tossed the keys back to the neighbor. "I can tolerate you guys a bit longer, but I can't get this crap open."

"Then I suggest we call someone trained for it," Gerard replied, catching on and pursing his lips with annoyance while pulling out his phone. "You don't happen to know the number for the local utilities service?"

"Nine-one-one. Ask to be connected to the psychiatric unit." Frank snorted, and without waiting for a reply, disappeared into his apartment. Gerard barely chuckled and dialed a saved number.

"I need an hour, hour and a half," he said shortly, as soon as he heard the voice on the other side. 

In thirty minutes, Frank was just about to sit down and relax in front of the TV after dinner when the sudden sound of the doorbell nearly made him jump out of his seat again.

"I swear, I'm gonna rip that damn thing off!" he groaned, dragging himself to the door. He counted to five to keep from snapping, then yanked it open. "What is it this time? Earthquake? Flood? Starving kids in Africa? The psych ward wouldn't take you back? What?!"

"Nothing of that." Gerard was leaning casually against the wall, holding a small grocery bag that jingled faintly with the sound of glass. "I figured our introduction didn't exactly go smoothly. And since I'm stuck here for another hour, I thought we could give it another shot."

"What the hell is your problem?"

"I just don't like coming off as an asshole. So how about we crack open a couple of beers?" he gave the bag a little shake. Frank did want a cold drink, but the guy's cocky tone rubbed him the wrong way.

"Nice idea, thanks for the offer." Frank nodded with a fake smile and, in one quick motion, snatched the whole bag out of Gerard's hands. The bottles clinked dangerously. Frank waved goodbye, shut the door right in his face before Gerard could react, and walked off feeling pretty pleased with himself. In the kitchen, he shoved the dark green bottles into the fridge, pulled one back out, and headed to the living room with a smug grin to enjoy his evening.

***

Mikey came home around eight, just as the city was sinking into twilight. To his surprise, the door was unlocked, which immediately sent a wave of unease through him. Dropping his backpack by the entrance, he crept down the hallway, hand resting on the small gun tucked behind his belt. The apartment was silent. Seeing no signs of a break-in, he exhaled, letting go of the weapon. Frequent change of appartments had become a normal part of their lives over the last few years, but after one close call with the cops thanks to his own carelessness, Mikey had learned to treat every new place with caution. He turned back toward the entrance, and noticed a note on the small side table. The messy, uneven handwriting was unmistakably Gerard's: "New lock." Beside it lay a shiny new key. Concise as always.

"Idiot." Mikey muttered, slipping the key into his shirt pocket. That explained why the door was unlocked, otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to get in. But the question remained: where was Gerard?

It didn't take long to find him. Through the half-open bathroom door, Mikey saw his brother's slumped figure sitting in the tub, head bowed. He just shook his head - better not to interrupt. Gerard always did that when he needed to clear his mind, and Mikey respected it.

Gerard had been struggling with anxiety for years. It had caused enough damage to his life, and by extension, Mikey's, so they both learned to live with it. It wasn't always like that. There was a time when things were normal, when they were just two kids going to school and messing around with their hobbies. For Gerard, one of those hobbies happened to be visiting a therapist - not that it helped much in the end. Everything changed after that one incident that flipped their world upside down.

Gerard went back to his old "coping method": hurting himself in secret. Whenever someone found out, he'd insist he was fine, that things were better, that he had it under control. But the truth was, his meds were running out fast, as were the money and the strength to keep pretending. Once, he nearly died, and only survived because a random stranger called an ambulance after finding him bleeding on the street. Mikey made him swear never to do it again.

For a while, Gerard kept his word. Then they met Boss. That man dragged them into a different kind of mess: small robberies at first, but at least they finally had money. Boss kept them safe, kept their records clean somehow. Life almost started to look normal again. Until the first time Gerard killed someone, and his mind shattered all over again.

He remembered the promise to his brother and looked for a "safer" way to handle it. After every job, he'd come home, turn the shower on scalding hot, and sit under it for hours, burning his skin raw while crying until he couldn't breathe. Mikey would stand behind the locked door, listening helplessly. Once, it nearly killed him. Their old place had terrible ventilation, and Gerard, who'd had asthma since he was fifteen, nearly suffocated from the steam. Mikey barely saved him with a steroid shot he kept for emergencies.

They later found a good doctor who treated Gerard for almost a year. The diagnosis was grim: his anxiety had evolved into a more severe disorder, requiring stronger medication and therapy they could barely afford. Boss covered the expenses. Not out of kindness, but because he needed his perfect killing machine. The drugs turned Gerard into exactly that: detached, cold, efficient. Mikey was terrified with the way his brother spoke about their "targets": emotionless one second, breaking down the next.

The money was good, but the cost was unbearable. Eventually, Mikey snapped and confronted Boss: either he stopped sending Gerard on murder jobs, or Mikey would go to the cops. Of course, that would've landed all of them in prison, but the threat worked. The assignments slowed down, though Boss never truly let them go. He led a double life, which only the brothers knew about, and that secret gave them leverage. Still, Mikey understood they were trapped. Only Boss had the power to keep their identities hidden. Without him, they'd be done for.

They went back to smaller crimes like stealing cars, robbing places, but every now and then, Gerard still had to pull the trigger for Boss. And every time he did, he'd come home and disappear into the bathroom again, steam pouring out under the door. The only rule Mikey insisted on was that the door stayed open, and Gerard obeyed. Over time, they'd both learned how to survive his breakdowns.

Tonight was one of those nights. Mikey let him be and went to make dinner. Gerard appeared twenty minutes later, pulled out of his trance by the clatter of dishes. He greeted Mikey with a faint smile and a pat on the shoulder, pretending nothing happened. Mikey played along, ignoring the red marks on his brother's back and his bloodshot eyes, focusing instead on the sound of his breathing. No wheezing - good. That meant no hospital tonight. It had become an unconscious habit: listen first, judge later.

"Wanna eat?" Mikey asked as Gerard, now dressed, sat cross-legged at the table. Gerard nodded. Mikey set down a plate of pasta and vegetables, then took a seat across from him. "Bon appétit."

***

“…I think he liked you better than me.”

"You just don’t know how to be nice."

"Oh yeah? Maybe I should've offered to blow him right there in the hallway?" Gerard arched a brow, smirking. After dinner, they'd moved to the living room: Mikey in a big chair with his laptop, Gerard sprawled on the couch flipping through a random book left behind by the last tenant. Pretending life was normal was their way of staying sane. Sometimes they'd just sit together, chatting about nothing, reminding themselves they were still human.

"That's not the same thing as being nice." Mikey said, looking over his glasses.
"Seriously?" Gerard sighed, turning his gaze to the window, watching the sunset bleed across the skyline in shades of fiery orange. Mikey shut his laptop, set it aside, and moved to sit next to him. "He's a cop, Mikey. And I'm a killer and a thief." Gerard said quietly as his brother slipped an arm around his shoulders."It's the first time I've shown my real face and name to anyone. It's… complicated."

"We've been through worse. We'll get out of this."

"But she's not coming back…" Mikey froze at his whisper for a moment and then squeezed Gerard's shoulder tighter.

"No, but we can start over. Boss promised."

"He also promised not to touch her. He won't let us go. I feel like I'm playing Russian roulette - it's either him or me."

"There are empty chambers too, remember? We've got to get lucky sometime."

"Mikey, I swear to you, this will be my last job. If he doesn't let us go, I'll kill him myself and rot in prison."

"You have my back, always." Mikey chuckled softly, giving him a little shake. "We'll be fine."