"What did the call offer you?" Quinn asked for what might have been the third time.

Exhaling through his nose, Tristan quickened his stride. His senses were taking enough of a battering what with the noises and smells of Huxholm's business district clouding like rolling sheets of smog, greying his vision and burning the back of his throat, without the addition of pestering company. He still wasn't exactly sure why he'd agreed to bring Quinn along. Regret sat heavy in the pit of his stomach now. He'd wished for an end to their unlimited persistence, but their endless chatter as they trailed unfalteringly after him might well have been worse than a roundabout argument.

"Come on," they whined, leaning into him as the two of them rounded a bend. A car screeched past, and they merely raised their voice above it, needling Tristan's ears with somewhat painful force. "I'm only asking out of curiosity. No need to be ashamed about it."

"I'm not ashamed," he muttered.

Somehow, Quinn picked out the shards of his low voice despite how he'd attempted to bury them amongst the howl of voices and traffic. Their teasing gaze glinted in the corner of his eye. "Then tell me."

He let out another sigh, wishing he were walking on the inside of the pavement so he could politely elbow his companion onto the busy road. Quinn could probably talk their way out of being run over, he was sure, but at least it would give him time to escape. "How about you tell me yours first?" he settled on.

"Clever. Alright." Their step melded with a skip as they paused to think, the semi-tuneful hum that rode just beneath their breath spiralling upward in pitch. "Mine is a little embarrassing, actually." They shook their head enough to drop loose magenta locks into their face and conceal their expression from the side. "You know how I said I wasn't a fan of school?"

"You actually said you weren't academic, but yes, I implied."

"Yeah, well, you implied right." Their feet tapped the ground harder, refusing to fade out of earshot. "But art isn't exactly an easy career these days. There's this big art school down south that I've been looking into, where I could get loads of valuable contacts, but they'd never let someone like me in." They laughed halfheartedly.

Perhaps Tristan could have prodded them about that painful dedication to one singular career, expressed his doubts about art's dying industry and the lack of value he saw within it, but for once he resolved to bite his tongue. He didn't exactly have much ground to stand on when it came to putting down such single-mindedness. "So you were promised admission to this school?" he asked, careful, polite.

"Yep. A paid scholarship, too." Quinn elbowed him. "There, my tragic tale. Now you."

They swivelled to face the road and stopped, jamming a thumb into the button for the crossing. Across the street, a silver tower stuck upward in the shape of a lacklustre child of a skyscraper, the white paw print Tigertronics trademark stamped onto the outside of the upper floors. If Tristan wished to, he had the opportunity to stall, yet the thought soured. He supposed there was some kind of social fairness that meant trust should be exchanged. If this conversation could be called anything that strayed close to trust.

"It's been nearly two years since I registered myself as a private detective," he said. "In all that time, I've had two clients." He cringed. "One consisted of a missing pet."

Quinn exploded in a snorting fit of laughter. He shot them a sharp glance. "Did I laugh at you?"

"I don't think you know how to laugh, Triscuit." Still, they smothered the chuckles with a hand and patted his side, ignoring his deliberate sidestep. "Sorry, sorry. That sounds terrible. Do go on."

The traffic lights turned amber, approaching cars slowing. The moment it shifted to red, Tristan stepped out, shifting his focus to picking out the tower's entrance rather than Quinn's poor attempt at pity. "I'm not exactly sure what the caller promised me, but I expect it had something to do with getting my name out there, or a potentially important case." He hummed. "Or some help paying my office rent, I suppose."

Quinn breathed out a shaky breath that sounded suspiciously like amusement, though the emotion was masked when he looked over, their lips pinched. They darted in front of him in order to reach the pavement first. "Tell me about it. I guess we're both broke." They hooked a thumb towards the gleaming silver door, framed by narrow white-painted pillars. A little cartoonish tiger had been doodled beneath the doorknob. "You first?"

Offering a nod, Tristan slipped past them and cracked open the door. Blinding waves of light spilled out from inside.

The place had the oddly distinct feel of being designed by a dentist. Pearly white glossed everything -- or at least, it felt like everything when all that broke it up were the vast windows that surely spanned several floors. Brilliant beams cut through the faint blue tint of the windows and spilled out, glinting off the metal bars that walled the trio of balconies above. Despite the vacantly open space, there was a breath of suffocation in the air, a forceful brightness that swirled and pressed inwards. Tristan wrung his hands, his pace slowing as uncertainty nipped at his heels.

A flicked tap to his shoulder jolted his attention from the stretching space above to what lay before him. Quinn shot him a grin, apparently unconcerned by the place's intimidating stature, and slid a few steps ahead. They gestured with their eyes to the reception desk ahead.

Letting out a tight, controlled sigh, Tristan nodded and followed after them. Head up. Shoulders back. Act like you belong. Mantras like that were always a series of lies, filled with itching masks and imaginary cloaks that didn't suit him, but he figured it was worth a try. If people could be swayed by such simple trickery, then a mask was the most useful tool he had.

The desk was blocky and walled by glass, with only a narrowly cut square at its base just to the left of the receptionist's seat. The young woman was furiously typing something on a computer. Tristan rapped his knuckles on the sliver of the desk available on his side and began without waiting for her to look up.

"I'm here to see Kordyn Jha."

The woman cast him a bored glance and hit the enter key. "You have an appointment?"

"Yes," he lied. "At ten thirty."

Keys became clicking drums as she typed. Her features scrawled a frown. "I can't see anything here."

He shrugged. "Perhaps your system is wrong."

Her chair swivelled to face him, something incredulous in her expression that teetered close to a baffled laugh. "This is Tigertronics. Our system is never wrong." She folded her arms, scrutinising him. "You're not exactly dressed like Miss Jha's usual clients."

Offensive tickled Tristan's tongue. He glanced down at his jacket, tugging it an inch further open to reveal the beige shirt underneath. He was under the impression he'd dressed rather smartly today.

"Ignore him," Quinn cut in, carelessly elbowing him out of the way. "He's not very good at the whole, ah, people thing." Leaning on the desk, they propped their chin atop their folded arms. "We're actually friends of Kordyn's."

"Right," the receptionist said doubtfully.

Quinn's hand lifted to cup the side of their mouth, their face tilted forward so much that their nose almost touched the glass. "It's actually a surprise that we're here." Their tone lowered conspiratorially. "It's her birthday, you see. She's trying to keep it low key, but... Well, we think she should get what she deserves."

The receptionist raised an eyebrow, and Quinn's eyes widened in response, pleading. She sighed. "Alright, fine. Just keep it quiet. Her office is on the first floor."

"Thank you ever so much." Beaming, Quinn gave them an overly-ecstatic double thumbs up, grabbed hold of Tristan's jacket sleeve and yanked him towards the staircase. Tristan scanned the receptionist with a dubious glance before allowing himself to be led. At least they were through.

The stairs were as polished as everything else. Quinn danced up them, ever just half a step in front of him, impossible to wholly predict. At least they spoke quietly now. "You're hopeless, you know?"

"I had it under control," Tristan muttered.

"Yeah, right." Their eyes sparkled, a calm, rippling ocean, before the staircase began to spiral and their face tilted away from him enough that he could no longer read it. They'd lied smoothly, without fault, he registered. It was difficult to pick out anything from in amongst the splash of colour and movement and the bubbling rise and fall of Quinn's voice.

The two of them stepped onto the first floor, each step echoing hollowly. A passing man in a black suit shot them both a confused glance before slipping into one of the adjacent offices. Tristan couldn't help but observe that the man wasn't wearing a tie, nor was his collar particularly neat. Was the receptionist going to take offence at his attire, too?

"There," Quinn said, pointing out another door a further few paces down, rounded text stamped onto a plaque above the knob. Tristan pushed his glasses up and squinted.

They nudged his shoulder. "Hey, what are you going to ask her?"

Without replying, he altered his course. Another step brought him close enough to verify that the room was indeed their destination. A narrow window cut above the plaque revealed a spied image of the dark braids woven on the top of her head, shifting with the nodding movement of someone deep in conversation. Tristan snatched the knob and twisted, but met resistance. Locked. He knocked sharply instead.

A strip of Kordyn's face slid through the window's vision as she got to her feet, her back to them and blonde tips to her braids frayed and swinging. A few seconds of indiscernible movement passed before she finally spun to face the door. A couple clicks sounded, and the door flung open.

The moment her eyes met his, Kordyn flinched, her whole body jerking backward. She failed to school away her shock even as her expression hardened. "You."

Tristan stuck his foot in near the door's hinges before she could slam it in his face. "Kordyn."

She bristled, like the very sound of his voice were prickling thorns sunk into her skin. Her gaze narrowed warily as she took a step back. Her fists were curled. "Are you threatening me?" she hissed. "Turning up at my workplace like this?"

He stared back evenly. "All I want is to talk."

"All we want," Quinn interjected, leaning precariously around the doorframe, illogical waves of hair swaying. "We're partners."

Tristan bit back a sigh. "No, we're not." He thought about offering Kordyn a smile, internally cringed, and attempted a casual tilt of the head instead. "May I come in?"

Kordyn lifted her chin. She was as tall as he was and, admittedly, held more of a presence in her striking gold-grey dress, one that hugged her waist and legs tight and yet somehow folded in just the right places to be considered decent. Perhaps it was a talent of hers to always prepare for a party. Even so, there was a distinct fear brewing in her eyes. "No. You can tell me what you want right here."

There was a group of four or five chattering further down the balcony. Tristan flicked at his ear, dragging the sound out of focus, while his other hand delved into his jacket's inner pocket. He drew out a small pad of paper and a pencil, flicked it open to a blank page and tapped the rubber end of the pencil against it. "Have you been thinking about Seth Dawson, Kordyn?"

The chatter quieted; he'd made no attempt to keep his voice down. Kordyn had gone stiff as a board, her red lips pressed in a tight, quivering line.

"Hm." He scribbled a few messy notes, not caring about their exact contents. In reality, he could store it all in his head. The pencil's scratching was for her benefit. Her eyes were copper coins now, identical in wide, rounded shape and in colour.

"Did you know him before--"

"Oh, fine," she grated out, annoyance draping like curtains over her expression as her painted eyebrows drew inward within the instant. "I see the game you're playing." She stepped back and gestured, a snap of a movement, rage and reluctance a stormy mix.

The edges of satisfaction resonated somewhere deep within Tristan. He offered a polite nod and slipped inside, nudging the door closed behind him with a heel. Quinn dived through the narrowing gap just in time, hovering like an eager, malfunctioning shadow.

The office has adopted a similar supposedly modern, open look to the rest of the tower's interior: it consisted of little more than a wheeled chair and a curved white slab of painted wood that served as a desk, flatscreen monitor and paw-marked laptop perched atop it alongside what appeared to be a lipstick and a collection of glitter pens. A picture sat amongst the minimal clutter, too, although it had been knocked flat. Even without its ebony frame atop white, it would've stood out starkly.

Kordyn placed a hand on the back of her chair, but remained tense and standing. Her glare had sharpened in defence. "I'm not falling for this detective act, you know."

Tristan's pencil swayed between his fingers, steadily back and to, a listless heartbeat. "It's not an act. It's my job."

"Then how come I know nothing about you?" Her forward step lurched like a cobra's lunge, viciously accusatory. "Hell, I've lived in Moorwell all my life, and I've never even crossed paths with you in the supermarket."

He shrugged. "It suits me to stay out of sight."

"I can tell." Her mouth drew a delicate sneer.

He couldn't quite assess whether she was intending to rile him or if her persona was naturally prickly, but either way, he had no interest in rising to her poking challenge. Her words slid like water through his mind, an intricate stream for him to dip a hand in and filter through. "You say you've lived here all your life, and you speak as if you expect to know everyone else. So you did know Seth?"

"Only as much as anyone." She blew out a frustrated breath, grip tightening on her chair so that it wobbled. "No, I'm not doing this. You can't march in here and interrogate me like it's your right."

"Let's simply talk, then." He tucked his pad away and ventured further into the room, step drifting. His gaze swept over her desk. "I hear your employer released a new tablet recently?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It doesn't. I'm making conversation." He turned and leaned back, bracing himself against the desk's edge. "I read an article last night about its development. It even mentioned you by name. You must be doing well here, to be in your early twenties and already working on projects like that."

"I'm twenty-seven," she said, though her annoyance wasn't quite so abrasive this time around. "My career is going well, yes. I started as an apprentice here when I left school. Does that satisfy your apparent research into my private life?"

"Conversation," he clarified. His fingers wandered backwards, tracing the desk's nonexistent grooves. "I assume they lend you an assortment of gadgets for working here?"

"Just a laptop and work phone."

"Right." Cool metal prodded his fingertips. A soft whirr vibrated through the touch, the laptop's way of exhaling. He curled his fingers around a smaller object and pulled with gentle force. "Well, it sounds like fascinating work." Fist closed, he pushed away from the desk. "I take it you're recovered from last night?"

"I'm tired." Her gaze, rather fortunately, followed him, all her focus on his face. For a software professional, she was rather lax in knowing where to look for faults. Dark rings not entirely concealed by makeup hung underneath her eyes, blatant in the bright light, gliding into his awareness as if to underline her words. Something haunted hid under there. A lingering ashen feeling, deeper than fear, darker than exhaustion.

She twisted her face aside to hide it, a couple of long, dark braids swinging over her eyes. "I was hoping for at least a morning away from it all."

"But you have been thinking about him," Tristan prompted. "Haven't you?"

The copper blades in her eyes had returned. "I think it's time you got out."

He frowned at her. A stolen object cut into his palm behind his back, leaving an indent as he turned it over. Curiosity simmered in ribbon waves. "Are you married, Kordyn?"

"What kind of--" She bit off the words with a sound near a growl, anger's sharp angles cutting crevices into her shock. "Out. Don't make me call security on you, Tristan."

He didn't like how she said his name, the way her tone rolled too long on the first syllable before carelessly tossing out the last, but he offered no argument. Tactical defeat would do for now. He cast her one last glance, from clenched fists to fitted dress to high heels, before turning sharply and heading for the door. The knob twisted easily. Outside's light spilled in harsher than the office, nearly as irritating as the renewed presence of people.

"Nice to see you, Kordyn!" Quinn called brightly, skipping after him. He'd almost forgotten they were with him, but they followed with the spirit of a dog's wagging tail and knocked the door closed behind them. Tristan got one last view of Kordyn staring down at her feet, relief pouring from her in a visible exhale, before the room sealed her away.

There was nothing more to be found here. He spun swiftly to his left and strode for the stairs.

"That went well," Quinn observed dryly, ever at his heels.

He conceded a nod. "Yes, it did."

They raised an eyebrow at him, and he returned a hard stare, attempting a moment of patience. Only confusion rippled back. Persistent, but not observant, apparently. With a shake of his head, he twisted with the curve of the staircase and tracked out a straight path to the exit, hands settling into his pockets.

"Tristan," Quinn whined, his name scraped out long and flat, a droning song. "This is mean. You found something, right?"

The receptionist didn't stop them on the way out. He slipped back onto the street outside, simultaneously relieved to have escaped and grimacing at the buzz of activity and grinding of car tires, and jogged across the road while he spotted a gap. Quinn sprinted ahead and caught him at the opposite pavement, pouting.

Rolling his eyes, he kept walking. "I didn't think I was that subtle."

"Show me." They jabbed their elbow into the underside of his ribs. When he glanced their way, eyes narrowed, they smiled pleasantly. "Please? I'll stop bothering you."

He held up his right hand and reluctantly unfurled his fist. The USB drive dangled between his thumb and forefinger, plain and silver in all but the red marker-pen heart doodled onto its surface. He granted Quinn a brief second before returning it safely to his pocket.

Quinn gasped. "Thievery? Tristan, you criminal."

"Stealing is a far lesser crime than murder."

They laughed, tripping into him, and he jerked out of the way, puzzled by the strange flush of warmth that wriggled in the pit of his stomach. Pleasant would be a generous word, but another's laugh usually felt like a spiteful ocean, one with tidal waves that pinned him down and filled his lungs with water. Quinn's was bearable. He found he didn't hate it as much as he wanted to.

He released the thought as a long sigh and turned his gaze to the beaming sun. The morning was creeping towards a close, and there was still a lot to be done.

Chapter Wordcount: 3287

Total Wordcount: 15079

I'm enjoying Tristan and Quinn's dynamic very much. Also just Tristan in general. He makes dialogue simultaneously more fun and more painful to write. At least he's about as awkward as I am.

Also Kordyn!! She's a vibe. Look at her actually having a fashion sense.

- Pup