Silent Requiem

J stood there, watching Graves with a flicker of recognition in his eyes, though he kept his posture easy, unbothered. It wasn't an act--J had a knack for making the world think he was indifferent, even when his brain was running at a thousand miles per hour.

The man before him moved like a ghost, and for a second, J wondered if he even was a ghost, nothing solid, just an extension of his black coloured shirt. But J didn't flinch. He'd met his share of the dangerous, the dark, the men who thought themselves untouchable.

A slow breath escaped his lips, his eyes scanning Graves like the man was some puzzle piece he was figuring out. Then, after a beat, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You know, for a guy who moves like death," J began, his voice smooth but edged with an irreverent humor that didn't match the tension between them, "you sure take your time." He took a step closer, unhurried, fingers grazing the strap of his bag, "I thought someone like you would've made a statement by now."

His eyes flicked briefly to the man's gloves, then back to his face, almost like he was memorizing the little things that people might otherwise overlook.

"Graves, right?" J continued, tilting his head slightly. "Nice name. Fits the look. Though... honestly, I thought you'd have some kind of dramatic entrance--maybe something more grandiose. A little more flair. Or is that not your style?"

J's words lingered in the air, his stance loose, one hand resting in his pocket as if he were bored. But behind that calmness, there was always something moving--an undercurrent of calculation, of knowing exactly what he was dealing with. His eyes never left Graves, but there was no fear in them, just a quiet understanding that this game? This dance? It was far from over.

His voice was a thread through the air, calculated and cold, not meant to startle, but to provoke. To see how the man would respond, how he would react to being noticed. The man's next move would tell him everything he needed to know.

Graves didn't answer right away. He didn't need to. Words were only tools, and tools could be used as easily as they could be discarded. His eyes flicked to J's face, but this time, there was something darker behind them. An unreadable calm had shifted, just a crack in the veneer, and beneath it--a madness, thin and subtle like a brushstroke before the whole canvas is torn apart.

For a moment, he said nothing. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing against the inside of his coat. He was in no hurry. The world was his canvas, and in his canvas-- J, unknowingly, had just become a part of the scene.

Without warning, Graves flicked his wrist, sending something small, sharp, and glinting spinning through the air. A pen. A simple object. But to Graves, it was more than just a tool--it was a message. It flew in a straight line, like an arrow with its own twisted purpose. The sun's light made its surface shine for a moment. But that was enough.

It landed inches from J's face, burying itself in the dirt at his feet with a soft thud.

On the side of the pen, there was a name etched into the metal, crude, jagged: Smith.

And just as J might have taken in that detail, Graves gave him a soft smile, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Don't forget the names," Graves said quietly, his voice thick with something unhinged, almost playful. He reached into his coat once more, this time pulling a flower from within. It was delicate, a pale white lily, its petals almost unnaturally pure. He tossed it at J's feet, the motion light, effortless.

It landed with a soft flutter, almost fragile in its own right.

"Some things die in silence," he said, his voice now almost a whisper. "Others scream. You should wonder... which one you are."

And before J could react, before the room could settle back into its usual rhythm, Graves was already moving away. Each step was quiet, deliberate--like the calm before the storm.

His steps were too subtle. Too patient. A madness that refused to be hidden. But perhaps that was the most dangerous kind of all.

***

The market system within the institute was nothing short of a maze, a winding collection of poorly lit alleyways and cramped stalls, each hawking goods that ranged from mundane to borderline illegal at the price they were set. It was a place where people with big pockets came, to deal, to barter secrets along with their merchandise. It was always bustling, a hive of desperate energy, but it had a knack for feeling suffocating in the wrong moments.

J cursed under his breath, looking at the file once more.

Good fucking thing I am alone on this. He could imagine the vile tongued Velvet mocking the, with that venomous mouth utter something like:

"Did you find your way, or did you need a little guidance from someone who actually knows how to read a map? Don't worry, next time I'll pack a leash for you."

His sense of direction had always been absolute garbage, a fact that never ceased to frustrate him. Instead of heading toward the market, he'd found himself meandering toward the damn forest--of course. A perfect metaphor for his life. Lost in the middle of a world that didn't give a damn whether he found his way or not. He couldn't care anyway, he wasn't a damn navigator.

His fingers worked absently as he shoved the file back into his bag, the name on the pen still lingering in his thoughts. Smith. It was simple. Too simple. The kind of name that was made for men who weren't worth remembering. These were the kind that made names like Liam and Noah sound original. He wasn't sure if it was a man or a mark, but he had to give this headache a part of his mind later. 

He adjusted his backpack with a grumble, looking over his shoulder for a moment as if expecting Graves to be lurking there, smiling that unhinged grin.

The air in the market wasn't much better--damp, thick, and bitter with the smell of roasted meat, sour alcohol, and the low hum of desperate conversations. J adjusted his jacket collar as he navigated through the chaos, his steps quickening despite himself. The noise and the crowd should've felt familiar by now. But it didn't. Not anymore.

His hand moved toward his pocket again, fingers brushing the pen. Smith. He rolled the name over in his mind, trying to feel something, anything, other than the suffocating weight of his own thoughts.

No matter where he went, there were only two truths that followed him: Everything could be an enemy, and everything could be a weapon.

The sound of a distant laugh broke through his foggy thoughts. He turned to find a vendor, her cart piled high with obscure trinkets. Her eyes flickered over him, curious but dismissive. A few steps away, another man--thin, greasy-haired, with an off-putting air of smugness--leaned casually against a stall, watching J as he passed. He had the eyes of someone who knew too much about being a player in a place like this.

J didn't pause, though. He'd been taught to keep moving, not linger. The weight of Graves' presence was still sitting heavy on his chest, and the name Smith... was it a clue? A sign? Or just a reminder of how little he really understood about what was going on around him?

"Some things die in silence," he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as he passed a narrow alley. "Yeah, sure. I'll bite."

But then he stopped himself with a grin. "And some things die because they don't listen to directions." 

His boots hit the ground in a steady rhythm as he cut through the crowds. People moved around him, some casting side glances, but no one stopped him. No one ever did.

He observed the students moving, continuous and with wicked resolve. Children of important people, or working for them. There were very few that didn't need any support in this environment. And those were the ones he had to watch out for in the future.

But it wasn't time yet. He glanced at his pocket watch and breathed in. 

He glanced around, his eyes landing on a place full of people, their coats out, ties lost, as if the rules didn't matter in that place. His heart felt a calling, for maybe, he wasn't completely lost yet.

There was too much colour here, violent colour. Not the black, grey and white that was common everywhere, even the industrially polluted sky. Sound of jazz, powerful and uplifting. There were students, many of them, drowning in bad life decisions and debt of loans they took to pay the fee for Hains. Alas, they couldn't survive here. 

He walked towards the bar, a man with a ponytail smiled at him, his eyes flashing a knowing look.

The bar was quiet, save for the faint clink of the glass as the man set it down and looked at J, almost as if he'd been expecting him.

J didn't need to ask. There was no need. The man knew. He always did.

"You're late," the Keeper said, his voice low and smooth, like a glass of something aged far too long. It had an edge to it, a warmth laced with something much darker. "But I suppose that's the way things work around here, isn't it?"

J raised an eyebrow, his lips curling slightly. "I didn't know I was on a schedule." He tried to avoid the topic.

The Keeper smiled, just enough to show he understood. He slid a glass of something amber across the counter toward J, the liquid catching the light for a moment, glowing like the last ember of a dying fire.

"No one does. Not really." He spoke with a hint of amusement, but there was a weight beneath it. "But I've got the information you're looking for, kid. And if you know how to listen... well, you'll leave here knowing more than you expected."

"Breaking the rules are we?" J smiled. It was code in Vermis to not go against orders, it could harm the entire HCOS and the organisations standing by it. Even the ruling power, if the confidentiality was broken.

"It's in our resume to break the rules. Let's not take names shall we?" he smiled.

J's eyes flicked over the man. There was an indifference in him, a presence that felt like it could suck all the air out of a room if he let it. The Keeper's eyes were narrowed, almost too inviting, and yet they held secrets J couldn't quite place. Still, J wasn't about to bite. Not yet.

Taking the glass and letting the liquor roll over his tongue. "Before that," J swirled the glass, his eyes staring intensely at the liquid moving, swirling inside. "You have anything on a guy called Smith?"

The Keeper's smile tightened ever so slightly, though it was barely noticeable, like a crease on a well-worn page. "Smith isn't who you should be looking at, kid. There's a lot more at play than you realize. But then again, you wouldn't be here if you weren't already looking for answers."

J leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "And you've got those answers?"

The Keeper met his gaze, his own sharp, knowing. The silence between them was thick, saturated with unspoken words.

"I've got pieces," the Keeper said, leaning in, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "And the way I see it, you've got a puzzle you're desperate to solve. But here's the thing. Sometimes, it's better to leave some pieces missing."

J's lips parted slightly, but he didn't respond immediately. He understood the game. The old man wasn't giving anything away without a price. Nothing ever came free in this world.

"Leave things missing?" J's lips twisted into a snarl. "I don't do missing. I drag every goddamn scrap into the light, and when it's begging for mercy, I'll make it spill everything." He took a sip, feeling the heat in his throat. "I really am not here to play games."

"Don't worry," the Keeper said, his voice still calm, still that silky smooth edge of experience. "You won't be leaving anything missing. But it's not our aim."

J's eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement playing at the corner of his lips. "Not your aim, huh? Funny, the arbiter's always got a game plan—one that involves a whole lot of blood and a whole lot of bodies. But sure, let's pretend we're all here for the same reason. Whatever keeps the lights on."

The keeper's hands shook, his body language changed--threatening.

"Don't take the head's name. That is a rule we cannot break, Price." He said.

J smirked, a cruel glint in his eye, leaning in just a bit closer.

"Rules," he murmured, voice low and dangerous. "Rules are for those who think they can escape the consequences. But here's the thing, Keeper—I don't break rules. I make them... and if you don't like it, well, maybe that's the price of keeping me around."

The keeper gave him a cold and apathetic stare, soon replaced by a business-like smile.

The man finally reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, unmarked envelope. He set it down in front of J, sliding it across the bar like a card trick.

"This," he said, " is the job. Don't do anything nonsensical. Also, our informant in Hains got you something." With a sigh, he picked another glass and began cleaning it, "You will find clues on Smith as well. But be careful. The more you dig, the more you'll start to see how deep this hole really goes. And once you're down there, there's no coming back."

J's fingers brushed the envelope, but he didn't pick it up immediately. He could feel the weight of it--something heavy, something important.

"You think I'm afraid of the hole?" J asked, his voice steady but sharp. "I've been digging holes for a long time, old man. This one's no different."

The Keeper chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Maybe. But not everything's the same, is it?"

With that, the Keeper stepped back, his eyes still watching J with that unsettling calm, like a man waiting for the inevitable.

J didn't say anything else. Instead, he took the envelope, tucked it into his coat, and turned toward the door. As his hand gripped the handle, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at the Keeper one last time.

"Thanks for the drink," J muttered, and for the first time, the Keeper's smile didn't feel quite so friendly.

"Just make sure you remember what I said," the Keeper replied, his voice trailing after J like a ghost. "You don't get to unsee things once you start looking."

J didn't bother to respond. He didn't need to. The silence between them was enough.

The door creaked open, and J stepped back into the dark of Hains, Institute of Santos, the weight of the envelope burning against his chest.