It was someday in September, Marcus King didn't really know, but neither did he care. The day didn't start good and he was in a foul mood. His obnoxious alarm clock woke him up an hour before he actually needed to be awake, and his annoying brat of a neighbor decided to have a sleepover, keeping him from his precious sleep until ungodly hours.

Everything that could go wrong that morning managed to get worse, and suddenly, Marcus knew exactly what day was. September 19th. Checking on the calendar to be sure, the poor artist cursed under his breath.

A curse, he thought, just like every damn year, it can only be a curse. September 19th was just a bad day. Every year. Since he was born, actually, even when he was born, and now the result of that premature birth was an asthma pump laying in the bottom of his bag. All his birthday parties managed to be a disaster, if it was the cake or the clown, something would always go wrong. Safe to say the boy was traumatized.

Marcus was cleaning the coffee that he had spilt on the counter, when his phone blew off. His mother's picture popped into the phone and he just let it ring, enjoying the ringtone and missing his mother, even though he was not in a mood to speak to her in the moment, her happy tone would make him angrier. He absolutely hated his birthday.

With a clean kitchen and a full with burnt toast stomach, it was time to leave his cozy apartment and head off to work. Saturdays were the busiest days at the shop, lots of drunk people wanting to profess their undying love for one-night-standers.

Surprisingly, the walk to work was a success. With no car hitting him this time, he was proud of his carefulness regarding his surrounding. Marcus reached inside his bag, grabbing the keys and forced them inside of the old lock. Turning his wrist, the door remained the same. No "click" noise or anything like that. He tried once again and got nothing.

Yanking the key with anger, the door ricocheted, opening its way inside the shop. Marcus

was certain that he had locked the door last night, just like Guy asked. Grabbing what they called the "emergency bat", he entered the parlor with light steps, guiding his way through the darkness. Slowly, he turned the lights on, one by one, in each and every room, doing a complete search in all of them.

Saving the best for last, he tip toed in his studio direction, praying for it to be like it was before. He tried the handle. The door was locked, and that was not his doing, it was a rule to never lock the studios.

Marcus King was about to shit his pants, but the rising anger got the best of him. How dare someone invade his privacy? That was his studio. It was his sanctuary, a place where he created memories for himself and many others. That place was his life, and he wasn't going to let no one taint it.

Only when he opened one of his hands, the one holding the keys, he realized his palm was bleeding. The blooded key was the one to open his studio and he was anxious, almost as if it was a sign. With one hand holding the bat, and the other taking care of unlocking the door, his only option was to kick it open.

The smell that hit him, made Marcus gag. It was a pungent nauseating smell, nothing like he had ever felt before. The lights were off and from the dim light coming through the gap where the door used to be, Marcus could see a foot. It was sitting on the main chair, where he had tattooed many people.

He raised the bat, thinking he could take down anyone with that old piece of wood, and walked further inside the room.

His breath was coming out short and ragged and he knew that he would have to take a hit from the pump to try and make it go back to normal. Anxious hands found the switch of the lamp sitting besides the chair and soon enough the whole place was washed in yellow light.

Marcus King was a strong man. Marcus King was someone you could rely on. But as Marcus King stood there, face tainted with warm tears, painful sobs escaping his trapped mouth, all he thought was how he needed someone to rely on, too.

----------------

School wasn't that bad, but Jordan felt like a heavy weight was lifted from her shoulders as she woke up on her own, with the bright sun shinning and birds chirping; the epitome of a Saturday.

Lindsey Bennet could be found in the living room, relaxing her everlasting nerves over a cup of tea and a good book, while Bethany Neville enjoyed the silent warmth of the oven, looking over her cookies and icing her cupcakes at the same time. The little house finally complete and in peace. Finally alive.

It was a cold day, per usual in New York City, but the sun was out to grace them with its natural heat; Jordan's favorite kind of day.

"Good morning, people." Jordan sang happily, stealing a fresh baked cupcake from the batch.

"Good morning, dear." Lindsey said closing her book and smiling over her little sister.

Jordan couldn't help but gawk at her sister. Lindsey Bennet notoriously known for her beauty and her talent, but during her seventeen years of existence, never had Jordan seen her sister so mesmerizing.

Wearing a tank top and sweats, Lindsey could make any men go down on their knees. Her skin was glowing, illuminating her eyes; her beautiful face outlined by rebel strands of her fiery hair and lips pulled into a perfect smile. It was more than normal to say that Jordan envied her older sister.

"Come here, monkey." Lindsey said patting the sofa. Jordan chuckled at the nickname, something their mother used to call her all the time.

Choosing to sit on the most comfortable place, the young girl plopped herself on her sister's lap, snuggling on the familiar and, honestly, motherly body. "Someone's needy, I see."

Feeling Jordan nod again her shoulder, Lindsey laughed a bit, hugging her sister tightly. It's been so much time since they could snuggle up against each other on a cold day and talk about stuff. The reporter has been so busy, with the case and the paper that she just wished her boss would give her a break.

"Well, better call Marcus." Lindsey said sighing dramatically, squeezing the poor girl, not really wanting to let go, ever. "I bet he could take care of your problem."

Embarrassment took over Jordan's body, turning her red from head to toes. "Stop."

Laughing along with their grandmother, Lindsey kept mocking her sister, until the younger girl lost her patience. With her eyes shinning with mischief, Jordan smirked. "You are one to talk, aren't you? What about you and Lincoln?"

Trying her best to keep composure, the red head woman looked down at her sister. "What about us?"

"Ooh, so there is an 'us', already?" Beth said while doing a high-five with Jordan.

Lindsey's face was almost the same color as her hair. "Stop it, you two." she asked pleadingly. "There is nothing going on between me and the detective."

"Are you sure?" Jordan asked.

"Yeah."

And just like that the house went back to how it was. Each one minding their own business in their own corner, but somehow, all together.

The peace was so great that when the phone rang, all the three of them jumped. Jordan was the first to reach out and take the irking device, thinking a few seconds about not accepting that call, but Lindsey was faster, walking away from her sister.

"Hello?"

They couldn't make it out what the person in the other end was talking, both Bethany and Jordan relying on Lindsey's body language. Her body was tense, and she had a frown on her beautiful face. Something bad happened.

"Who is it?" Jordan asked, even though she knew who it was.

"Lincoln."

"Where is he?"

"In the tattoo parlor."

With those four words, Lindsey almost made her sister faint. He was at the parlor. Was Marcus there? Guy? Were they okay? Running to her her boots and not even caring to change from her pajamas, Jordan grabbed the phone, marching to her trench coat.

"We are on our way." her voice was harp and hard, giving no room for discussion.

"Jordan, don't co-" the call had ended, and looking to the living room, where they were a few minutes relaxing, she could feel the tension taking its place on the house. Lindsey had opted for the pajamas look too, and Beth was already at the door, walking was fast as she could to the car.

The ride was silent, as foresaw, but there was something more. The little buzzing in the back of their minds, that nagging feeling that keeps them hectic and shaken. To break the silence and get a better understanding of the situation, Beth decided to speak up.

"Speak." she said looking sideways to Lindsey, not wanting to take her eyes off the street.

"A few days ago Lincoln asked me to put an APB on a missing person, he said he emailed me the informations. But the next issue is just due to next week, so I didn't even glance at the thing." she said breathing deeply. "Now, it looks like they've found the person. In Marcus' studio."

"What was the guy doing there, did he say something?"

"No." Lindsey whispered. "Marcus found him this morning, dead, on his chair."

"Fuck." Jordan murmured.

She knew how hard it was to deal with that, seeing a dead body always takes its tool on the mind. Usually people repressed that memory, but Jordan didn't know how they did that. For her, the image was like a neon sign. Every time she closed her eyes, there it was, right behind her eyelids. Whenever she fell asleep, it would be like a broken movie. Playing the scene over and over again.

She hopped, for his sake, that Marcus King was stronger than her.

Arriving the dreaded tattoo parlor, Jordan jumped out of the car. Her body trespassed the isolation tape, skillfully going under it and dashing through the gap between two security officers standing in the doorway.

Their screams were muffled by the sound of a very angry Lincoln Hawthorne, appearing out of the hallway in the backs.

"Who the fuck doesn't have cameras in their studios?" he snapped angrily at Guy, who was just standing there calmly.

"Me. It's an invasion of privacy to both the artist and the client." he said with a gruff voice.

Probably ready to answer something rude and vulgar when he saw the girl standing behind the cashier counter. "Jordan, I told you not to come."

"Why the hell not?" she answered back, walking over him. "Where is Marcus? And the body?"

"Mark is at my studio, pretty girl." Guys said hugging her hello. "And the body is in his studio."

Nodding, the girl slowly walked to the hallway, looking firstly to her right, where she knew that the body was laying, ready to be investigated by her curious and wondrous eyes, but then Jordan looked to the left, thinking about her weeping friend and in a devastated state, hoping to find peace of mind somewhere.

Jordan's hand moved to their own accord, reaching out for the handle, and twisting it slowly, not wanting to disturb anyone. There were a lot of people around, mostly from forensics, examining it and taking so many pictures that they looked like a bunch of tourists sightseeing.

The first thing she saw was the foot. It was pale white and probably cold. The body had been put there a few nights after the murder, she decided. Taking another step forward she could see an ankle. A very familiar ankle at that, with a very familiar band around it. It was so familiar, that leather band, that Jordan still remembered giving it to him on his sixteenth birthday. The huge grin on his face and the provocations of it being feminine, so he decided to wear on his ankle.

A loud piercing scream echoed in the place, startling people all over the parlor. Lindsey came running, looking desperately for his sister, finding the same kneeling down in front of a dead body, curling all over it, sobbing her lungs out.

"No fucking way." Lindsey whispered, approaching the young girl. Jordan was absolutely haywire. "No fucking way!"

Lincoln Hawthorne entered the room to see a tragically beautiful scene. Both sisters hugging each other, crying on their shoulders. Crying over a dead body.

Crying over Mark Davis, their best friend.