Butterfly Storm {MINOR REVISIONS}

22 || Games

～·～·～

Olsworth started up at the ceiling of his room. White, with faint yellow splotches from the duration the apartment was closed in darkness. Sheets tossed and disturbed, traffic jarring senseless noise through the window he left open last night, Olsworth breathed out stale air.

He was officially stumped. No new leads. No mysterious call from either the woman or the black burner. Forensics still hadn't returned to him about the evidence he'd gathered. And for the Yankees hit home run, the plates he ran off Wolfe's—frustratingly nice—car last night were fake. And knowing the bastard's methods, he would've swapped them out for a different set as soon as he got home.

Home. Wherever the fuck that was.

Fuck that, man. He's untouchable! Olsworth sat up with a grumble low from his chest. Aren't you supposed to be dead?

Warm hands dragged against his face, freeing another weighted breath. Olsworth peered through his fingers, spying the digital clock on his chaotic bedside table. The burning red numbers read, 6:24. He tiredly shut his eyes. How I hate mornings. Especially running on only five hours of sleep.

Olsworth groggily heaved himself out of bed, standing in just his boxers. Dawn leaked through the window to the left of the bed slapping in the middle of the tiny room. The queen mattress took up more space than the room could afford, but—aside from his car—Olsworth needed a sense of luxury somewhere.

He noticed his reflection in the floor-length mirror, a slender piece he shoved into the corner. His eyes wandered over each line of definition he gained through blood, sweat, and tears. At least he had one thing going for him. It could make him scoff in derision. All it took was a divorce worth four years and two years of self-reflection after that with a cig hanging from his mouth.

Crossing the room for the closet, Olsworth grabbed out his duffle, a worn black bag with its brand stamping the fabric in patterned lines. Okay. Gym first. Then shower. Work. And Kellogg's bacon and waffles.

~

"I'm sorry, Ols, but your guy's dead. Must've got caught in the crossfire."

Olsworth kept replaying that night in the subway. He knew his informant, Luigi Russo, was alive—how else did he roll onto his stomach after he tasered the shit out of him? Luigi was alive, right up until first responders arrived. An autopsy confirmed it was a precise gunshot to the back, through the heart by an unregistered firearm that could've been bought from anywhere in the country.

It wasn't all that fucking shocking, and it meant only one thing; he was dealing with a meat eater, and the detective had a fair guess on who.

He didn't recognize the man with cobalt blue eyes and raven-black hair. His presence felt too ominous for Olsworth's liking. Humphrey could've easily used an unmarked silencer pistol and acted clueless when breaking the news. The stocky man was the more unsuspecting choice. Everyone saw him as family—father, uncle, brother—which made for the perfect cover.

Olsworth paused from Luigi's autopsy report file sitting on his desk. His attention traveled up and scanned the precinct. Gray-speckled vinyl tiles, steel columns, desks lined in an orderly fashion, it was something out of a monochromic simulation. How much does a kidney sell for these days?

He turned left where the kitchen was. Depressing as always, but exactly where the stocky man was. Olsworth noticed Humphrey would stand there, staring at the picture-riddled wall for no more than five minutes almost every third day. A lot did, but not as much as the officer in question.