PSEUMINO, VENTO AUREO.

✦.⁺ odds.

═ ☆. WHAT WERE YOU SUPPOSED TO wear to a potential murder confession? You had no idea. You just wanted to be taken seriously, so you'd opted for dark, slim-fitting clothes. Nothing too colourful or attention-grabbing. You were meeting the sculptor for answers, not a fiesta. The minute you opened your door for Mista, you discovered he'd made the exact opposite decision.

"What are you wearing?" you and Mista asked at the same time. And with the same slightly deprecating tone.

"You look like a funeral bearer," Mista sniffed.

"And you look like you went berserk at a garage sale."

Which wasn't to say Mista looked ugly. His oversized bomber jacket had dozens of pins and patches on it—bands and logos Mista was into. He'd thrown it on over a dark graphic tee, an electric blue belt holding his jeans low over his hips. The outfit should've clashed with Mista's arrow cap, but somehow everything came together. It looked pretty damn good, if you were being honest.

"Mm, no, I look good as hell," Mista said. "I won't be around forever, so might as well wear what I want. I'd tell you to change, but I was serious about being back before lunch. Come on." He waved for you to follow him, drawing your attention to the gold chain link bracelet on his wrist. Mista's red zebra-patterned sneakers tapped out a steady beat as you headed for the elevator and then down to the student parking lot.

"I hope Trish was joking about the state of your car," you said, following Mista. His car had a few years on it, but you still recognized it as one of the higher-end models that cost as much as your tuition.

"A few food wrappers never hurt anybody. You're driving, so don't throw a hissy fit." Mista tossed his keys over the top of the car, you barely snagged them in your fingers.

"What? Why?"

Mista got into the passenger seat. "Bucciarati gave me some more info on the florist before I left. I can't read it while I'm driving."

You only found one candy wrapper on the driver's side, which you flicked into Mista's lap. You readjusted the seat and rearview mirror before inserting the keys into the ignition. Mista put an address into the GPS, and you were off.

Mista pulled up the info from Bruno on his phone and began reading it out loud. "So the guy we're going after is named Scolippi. He lives on the seventh floor of his apartment—thank god it's not the fourth—all by his lonesome. Neighbours say he's pretty quiet. And his sculptures must suck because there's nothing of note about them."

Mista flashed a picture of Scolippi for you to see. You took in his tense green eyes, purple hair and dark eyeliner. Your brow wrinkled.

"The florist's daughter could've done better."

"That's what I said," agreed Mista, turning his phone back around. "And he doesn't really seem like a murderer, either, but what do I know? Honestly, I feel kinda bad bothering him like this."

"What are we supposed to do once we meet him exactly?"

Mista shrugged. "Rough him up a little, get him to talk. If he does confess to killing the daughter, putting him in a wheelchair should be enough to satisfy the florist's vengeance. We can just call the police after that."

You made a face. "We're not really going to do that."

"Probably not. But Bucciarati and Giorno gave us the green light to use force if necessary. Artist guys like him tend to keep quiet."

You noticed a tense undercurrent to Mista's words. When he didn't continue speaking, you looked over to see him frowning at his phone, his leg bouncing up and down.