The bar wasn't often missing it's bartender but in those few rare times a year that it was, Max found himself curled up in the plush leather chairs that decorated the space around it. His favorite seat was right against the edge of the bannister, overlooking the hefty drop down to the lobby below. Only a slender golden railing protected him from the fall and something about the height made him feel safe. With his feet situated firmly beneath him, Max's hands moved idly over the deck of playing cards in his grip. A cigarette rolled between his lips, steady smoke curling upwards towards the ceiling. He shuffled and reshuffled the deck, watching red and black dart in between one another in an impossibly perfect pattern that was never the same twice.

Max's eyes flickered to the empty reception desk, where a certain boy should have been but was off doing god-knows-what once again. A tight knot twisted and yanked on his stomach, traveling up into his throat until he was forced to turn back to the cards. Probably with the detective. They hadn't spoken in days. Playing goody-fucking-two-shoes to some halfwit cop looking for a corpse that's long gone. Being angry was easier than admitting that his skin longed for the spreading warmth that Timon's fingertips always left across him, or the subtle taste of raspberries that tainted his tongue with memories of the living.

A quiet bell marked the arrival of the elevator, followed by footsteps against the cold tile floor. Max hardly looked up, too busy letting the cards dart between his hands and flutter outwards like a bird trapped in his fingers. But black boots and a deep blue uniform crossed his periphereal— then closer as the officer approached. It wasn't worth it to stop, even if he stopped watching the darting numbers for a moment longer than he wanted. "I don't remember talking to you before." The voice was a warm one, earnestly curious and yet Max had never felt more nauseated in his entire life.

"There's a good reason for that," he snipped. "I don't talk to cops."

"Why?" Without invitation, the detective planted himself in the chair across from him. Oh god, he thinks he's found something. Legs crossed, fingers folded together, his eyes studied Max heavily as he leaned forward. "Got something to hide?" Max's jaw stiffened, concentrating harder on the cards as he flipped them through his fingers.

"Chair's taken," he answered coldly. The queen of hearts was stuck to the jack of spades, sealed together by something that resembled old blood. Slowly, he peeled them apart and watched flakes of red dust his jeans.

The detective shifted only slightly, gaze still steady on the boy in front of him. "By who?" he asked. "I don't see anyone." As if telling a secret, his voice dropped suddenly, face close enough that Max could breathe smoke into his eyes. "You know what I do see, though? A no-smoking sign on the front door."

For the first time, Max looked up at him, cigarette still hanging from his lips. "You gonna take it from me?" he challenged.

The cop chuckled, shaking his head ever so slightly. "What's your name?" he asked, dropping back into the seat fully as the cards spread across the table between them.

Max's reply was instant. "Justin."

"Justin what?"

"Justin Yermouth."

There was a twitch, a moment's pause, and then he pressed again. "You look a little young to be here by yourself." A sea of blue divided Max from the officer, numbers hidden by the sturdy wood.

A sigh whistled from out of his nostrils as Max collected his deck card by card, sliding them one over the other until they were safely back in his pal. "My mom's upstairs letting the bartender snort cocaine off her tits," he answered dryly. "Want me to be up there instead?"

"You like those cards, don't you?"

Max's hands stalled, then stopped, his gaze finally flickering upwards to meet the eyes of the detective. They were a warm green, knowing and vibrant— and alive. The badge on his chest read 'Woods' in black letters. The longer he looked, the deeper the ache in his fingers became. With each rise and fall of the detective's chest, a deep-seated hunger clawed a little more desperately for attention inside of him. It's been too long. Gravedirt and dust lined the inside of Max's throat, making him all but blind to the scents and tastes of the earth. Even the coppery familiarity of blood was becoming faded and weak. Timon's face flickered in front of his vision, taunting him with the first vibrancy he'd felt in ages.

His tongue darted across his lips. "Let's play a game," Max offered. With one hand, he pressed the stack of cards against the table face down. There was intrigue in Officer Woods's eyes, something shallow but real— a hope that he was breaking through. "We draw cards from the top of the deck. First person to draw a higher number three times wins."

There was a pause, a moment's reflection while he mulled over the offer. "Sounds fair enough, as long as I can ask you some questions too." The scoff that left Max's lips must have been answer enough, because he reached for the card at the top of the deck. "What's your real name?" the detective questioned, laying an eight of clubs on the table for all to see.

"Max." The answer was curt and quick, followed by the flip of a card and a nine of diamonds and the words, 'You lose."

Officer Woods pulled his second card, this time taking a moment to study it before he revealed its face. Fingers drumming against the leather armrest, Max struggled to keep his patience in check. "Were you at the party that night, Max?" A king of spades. Fuck. He reached to pull a card, letting three spades stare him in the face. "I win."

Grinding his teeth together, he shook his head before answering. "I was in the penthouse." Once again, two cards were drawn. A five and a seven. "You lose."

"Is that where your mom lives?"

Max's hand hovered above the deck for a moment too long, caught off guard by the question. Luralie isn't my mom, he wanted to argue, but his tongue was nailed to the roof of his mouth.

The two men shook his hand, writing down his poisoned words on stark white pieces of paper. If you cut him open, Max wondered if his conscious would be the same color. If somehow these mediocre truths could make up for the black tar running through his veins. It was only after they left, driving away and leaving him alone in the lion's den, that he saw her reflected in the glass behind him.

"Shit." The swear came so easily, tumbling off of his tongue as he stumbled forwards, spinning around to face her disapproving scowl. Luralie's hair had come unpinned from whatever sloppy updo she'd attempted that day. It hung in her face loosely, framing the hollowness in her cheeks and illuminating the darkness in her eyes. Only a pane of glass separated him from the cold air of the outside, but he'd never felt more isolated in his life.

Max's heart beat heavy and fast in his chest, shoulders rising and falling as he balled his hands into fists. He could hear his pulse hammering in his veins. He knew she could hear it too. Softly, Luralie took a step closer. "Maxwell—"

"What?" Anger and fear had already reached a boil in his chest, bubbling over into bitter words that hissed with venom. "You want to tell me what deep shit I'm in?" For a moment, he could have sworn he saw her composure crack just slightly. It was as if she felt a flicker of compassion, a flicker of worry, for the frightened animal in front of her. But even then it was gone too soon, lost in an unshakable poker face as his body trembled. "You think I don't already know?"

"No." The word crumbled around him as he yanked his card free of the deck, flipping it over. The queen of hearts stared up at him, old blood still crumbling away from her smudged corner. Max's eyes flickered over to the jack of spades placed across from her. "You lose," he said hollowly. Somehow, there was no thrill in the victory.

Get your shit together, Max. This is what you wanted. A pseudo smile cracked his lips as Max cast his eyes over the edge of the balcony. "Want to hear something funny?" he asked, stretching out like a contented cat before he stood. Without waiting for a response, he began to recite, sweeping the cards back into the stack. "There once was a man from Bonaire." Officer Woods stood along with him, the golden railing glittering behind him. "Who was doing his wife on the stair." It took two seconds for Max's fingertips to become bloody, a caved in skull revealing nothing but rotting flesh and shattered bone beneath it. Amusement quickly turned to fear. Blood bloomed like a rose where his fist wrapped around the detective's collar. "When the banister broke, he doubled his stroke—"

Max shoved him backward over the edge, longing to hear the delightful crack as his spine met the marble floor below. But he held on, just for a moment longer, to see the terror in his living eyes. "Wait—"

"And finished her off in midair."

"Max!" Timon's scream broke through the poem, destroying all concentration Max might have possessed. The blood ceased. The horror show faded away. His eyes darted to the floor below, to the tufts of strawberry blonde curls and the petrified eyes staring up at him as he held a man's life in his hands. Fuck. I can't.

A simple pause was all it took for him to lose the upper hand. Officer Woods retaliated, forcing himself back onto his own feet as he slammed Max's body into the table. His chin snapped against the wood, but where there should have been pain— laughter took its place. Cold handcuffs wrapped around his wrists, jerking him forward as he relieved a scene too common. Take me away, he wanted to say, but as the detective forced him down the stairs he could do little but watch Timon's parted lips and frightened eyes watch him leave.

But as soon as the cold outside air touched Max's skin, the cuffs vanished. His feet could not step outside of the boundaries of the Rosette. Time flickered. Space shuddered. And Max was alone once more, standing in a vacant hotel room as he watched the officer on the street below drive away with empty cuffs.