With the early morning sun just rising above the horizon, the newly awakened sky began to show shades of orange that slowly faded into blue. Making his way down from his quaint room above the Black Magic cafe, was a blonde-haired young man, whose eyes were full of purpose and determination. He was fully groomed, dressed, and ready for the day before even the sun was. After all, he knew that today marked the beginning of something very important.

The morning crowd of the cafe was light, seeing as most people wake up about an hour later than what the young man does. With nothing really in his way, and his trusted blue notebook in hand, he approached the service counter where Tom stood, cleaning a glass cup with a rag.

“Ah, Zander, good morning,” Tom said with a smile. “Sleep well?”

Zander took a seat at the bar, placing his notebook next to him. “But of course,” he replied. “You have been too kind with your hospitality.”

“I feel as though I haven’t been kind enough,” Tom chuckled. “But you’re welcome. Any friend of Fang is a friend of mine.”

“I was actually curious about that. How do you know Fang? Through Libra?”

“No, no,” Tom replied, putting his hands up in a defensive manner, “I’m not associated with them.” He then turned slightly, walked over to a rack of glass cups, and placed the one he was drying on it.

“Oh really?” Zander said, leaning in a little bit over the counter. “Because when we talked about staying here, Archard spoke as if he knew you well.”

Tom stopped for a second before turning completely around to fold the rag he was using. “Well…I should’ve been more clear,” he responded. “I’m not directly associated with them. I’ve known Archard for most of my life—even before all of this Libra business. We’ve been friends for a long time, but I don’t participate in any of that mob nonsense.”

“I see,” Zander said, narrowing his eyes. “Let’s circle back around to my original question. How do you know Fang?”

“Oh yes, yes, of course,” Tom said, now facing Zander. “My bad. I forgot to answer that part. I suppose that’s one of the downsides of growing old.” He chuckled to himself and then reached down for a bottle of water. “Do you want any?” he asked, gesturing towards Zander.

“No thank you.”

“Quite alright.” He then took a drink. “Fang is someone that I know because of their…um…family.”

“Family? I haven’t heard anything about their family.”

“Well,” Tom hesitated, “then it’s not my place to talk about that kind of stuff. Let’s just say that their family is…complicated. And because I knew their family, I managed to connect Fang with Archard, which is how they met.”

A thought popped into Zander’s head. It was both a feeling and a question—although the question was more abstract than fully formed. The feeling, however, that tickled the back of his head could only be described as instinctual mistrust. Of what and why it popped up in his head, were things that he did not know. And because of that, he decided not to press any further until he could sort that thought out.

“Anyways,” Tom said, walking to a different part of the counter, “is there anything else I can do for you?”

Zander opened his notebook. “Yes, actually, just one last thing.”

“What is it?”

“The Slayer,” Zander flatly said.

Tom stopped in his tracks and stood still for a few seconds. He then slowly turned towards Zander. “What specifically?” he asked.

“Like how many confirmed cases there are, what manner they kill with, what they look like, and so on.”

“I-I’m sorry, I really have any knowledge about those kinds of things. All I hear is the hearsay that comes into my cafe.”

Zander wrote some things down in his notebook, and without looking up from it, he asked, “What things do you hear?”

“Um,” Tom hesitated, “just your standard things. Theories that range from the Slayer being a politician or a famous prisoner, to the Slayer’s motive being purely about fun. These are things that mean nothing.” He then took a slow breath. “May I ask why you’re asking these things? Are you working for Libra.”

Still writing in his notebook, Zander didn’t answer right away. Once he finished the page he was on, he looked up and pushed his glasses up. “Not for, but somewhat with—In parallel, you might say,” Zander answered.

Tom’s eyes twitch ever so slightly. That was something that Zander immediately clocked. In addition, Zander noticed the slight acceleration of his words. None of those things pointed in any specific direction, but they were things that he noticed nonetheless.

“Well,” Tom said, “I’m sorry that I don’t really know anything.”

Slightly leaning in, Zander asked, “Not even about who you think the Slayer might be?”

“I’m sorry,” Tom responded, “I have no idea who he might be.”

“That’s alright, I appreciate what you’ve done so far.”

That nagging thought in his head flared up once again, this time larger, but more subdued. He noted that, and before closing his notebook, he underlined something that Tom had just said.

“Have a good day Tom,” Zander said, closing his notebook. “I have some more research to do”

Getting up out of his chair, Zander walked to the front door. Before exiting, he looked back to see Tom still glancing at him with the sides of his eyes. With that noted, Zander left Black Magic and continued to walk through the city.

For the next ten hours, Zander wandered all throughout the west side of the city, talking to anyone that he could find. While he didn’t have much success with finding people that walked out in the open, he did manage to spot some groups that were clustered within certain buildings—like restaurants, clothing stores, and some supermarkets. Even then, however, those groups were small, making those buildings still seem deserted compared to the shopping districts back home.

He approached every person that he saw and asked them all about the Slayer. Most said the same few things—that they are a murderer and that the police abandoned them—and the rest seemed apprehensive, at best, to say anything to Zander. With each strikeout, he tried to slightly shift the wording of his questions, both to get different answers and to get more people to talk to him.

The first person that told him something that made him bring out his notebook was an older lady, probably in her seventies, who wore baggy attire and a slim hat on her head. She was one of the most vocal people that Zander had met, and her willingness to speak her mind was something he had only seen in one other person.

“I’m just sayin’, this whole thing is just fucked,” she said with a slight twang to her voice, “and I’ve seen some shit.”

“I completely and wholeheartedly agree,” Zander replied. “But it feels like nothing is being done about it.”

Taking her hat off to fan herself, she countered, saying, “Ah, I don’t know about that. Archard has been doin’ good around these parts, and he says that he’ll take care of it. I mean, who else are we supposed to trust? The police?” She let out a hardy laugh.

Zander mimicked her laugh and enthusiasm, although he himself did not genuinely feel it. “True, true,” he agreed. “Maybe it’s just me, but it just feels like this problem has been going on for such a long time.”

“Nah, not really,” the woman said. “At least not with everything else.”

“What do you mean?” Zander prodded.

“Haven’t you been payin’ attention, kiddo? This whole Slayer crap has only been going on about as long as them gang wars or whatnot.” She then looked up and chucked a bit. “And you youngsters make fun of me for having bad memory.”

Zander threw his hands in the air in a playful manner. “Ah, that’s right,” he said. “How could I forget? I suppose I should respect my elders a bit more.”

“Damn straight,” she laughed. “Welp, I gotta get back to my husband before he throws a temper tantrum. He’s more of a child than a whole daycare.”

“Well, I appreciate your kindness.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetie.”

And with that, they parted ways, just as the sun was starting to depart from the visible sky. The clouds started to take on more of a purple color, while the sky deepened its orange saturation, pushing away the blues of the midday. Even with the day coming to an end, Zander wasn’t yet satisfied with his findings. There was still one more area he wanted some clarity in before resting for the night.

Although he tried talking to many different people, not a single one wanted to answer his next line of questioning. Most people gave him aghast looks or stumbled their way through telling him that they were done talking to him. It was a strange thing for him to witness. There was no possible reason as to why this, of all things, was tripping people up. He tried to rationalize it in his mind, but only a few stray strands of thoughts remained.

Eventually, much to his dismay, he did manage to spot someone that might be able to help him. There was a man sitting on the ground in an alley. He wore black, ripped clothes, and wore a beanie that covered most of his head. Occasionally, there would be puffs of smoke that surrounded him. Although Zander hesitated for a second, he eventually decided to approach him.

Walking up to the intersection of the open streets and the alley, Zander said, “Excuse me.”

The sitting man continued to look straight at the wall on the other side of the alley and smoke the mechanical device that was in his mouth. His face was slightly grizzled and definitely unkempt, highlighted by his patchy beard that seemed greasier than a fast-food grill.

Clearing his throat, Zander said, once again, “Excuse me, sir.”

This time, the smoking man slowly turned his head over towards Zander and looked at him.

“Huh?” the man asked. His voice was as rough as gravel, and its raspiness sounded like he just woke up.

“I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me,” Zander said. “I was looking into the particulars around the—”

“I don’t wanna talk to you,” the man interrupted. He took another puff of what he was smoking. “I thought all of yous left a while ago. Didn’t think I’d still have to deal with a bunch of feds.”

“I see,” Zander said. “I’m not with any sort of police force. I’m actually working for Archard, so if you wouldn’t mind telling me—”

“Even worse,” the man said. “I got nothing to tell you. So kindly fuck off.”

Zander took a few steps back and raised his eyebrows. He rarely resorted to using the godfather’s name, because of how risky it was, but he always managed to get some sort of favorable response when he did. For someone to just disregard it, and even hate it, was something that he was not prepared for.

Taking a deep breath of confidence, Zander approached the guy again, saying “Listen, I’m just trying to find out things regarding the Slayer.”

“Oh, so now we’re just lying, huh?” the man responded. “Also, I told you to leave me alone.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been completely forthright with you.”

The man sighed. “You really won’t get it unless I tell you, huh?” He then gestured for Zander to sit down directly across from him. When Zander hesitated, the man said, “Come on, we don’t got all day. If you want what you came here for, sit the hell down.”

Quickly Zander sat with his back against the wall. He brushed off the small patches of dirt that flew up on his nice clothes.

“So what were you—” Zander started to ask.

“Listen to me,” the man cut him off. “You can’t go around asking questions like that, kid.”

Recoiling a bit, both in confusion and offense, Zander asked, “What do you mean? They’re just questions about common knowledge.”

“Wow, you really don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

Taking a another smoke, the man said, “Well for starters, you can’t go around using that fucker’s name when you’re not actually in the damn mob.”

“Do you mean Archard’s?” Zander asked.

“Don’t say it out loud,” the man said, rolling his eyes.

“How do you know I’m not with them?”

“‘Cause no in Libra gives a fuck about the Slayer, or at least it doesn’t seem that way.” He then cracked his neck. “They say shit about caring, but the truth is that they won’t do anything about it.”

“Ok? And I still care about it. So if Libra won’t do anything about it, then why not tell me what I want to know? I want to figure this thing out.”

“First off, thanks for finally telling me the truth,” the man said. “I knew you weren’t part of the mob.”

Zander blushed for a moment and remained silent.

The man then continued his thought. “But anyways, you’re being too naive about this whole thing. Don’t you find it strange that no one else is looking into this? And isn’t it even weirder that the only people that say that they are haven’t done anything?”

“I suppose so, yeah,” Zander agreed. “But maybe that’s because no one has had the confidence to look into it.”

“You’re right,” the man said, “because anyone who does have the confidence ends up disappearing.”

Disappearing? Zander thought to himself

There was a weight to those words. Something about what he said sunk deep into Zander’s heart. They pulled at the strings that connected to his mind and to his inner thoughts of suspicion. But more so than any of that, what the man just said triggered that suspicious thought that’s been lingering in the back of his head.

There’s something here. There's a thread starting to form now.

Zander stood up as his mind began to race with newly formed thoughts that he had to start parsing through. He looked back at the sitting man and said, “Thank you for sharing that. I have some work to get done.”

Before he managed to get away, Zander felt someone grab his arm. Looking back, it was the man. The man looked Zander in the eyes with a deadset expression and said, “Don’t look any further than this if you value your life. But if you are, then good luck.”

“I know,” Zander solemnly and confidently stated. “I knew the risks of what I was doing before I ever came here.”