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Boy, 14, stabs father.

Gang leader murdered in daylight.

Young man sought in revenge killing.

Every headline, every memory, seems written in broken glass on the floor as Billy crawls—glass that bites into his hands and knees.

Wave of thefts close pubs, cinemas in Glasgow.

Thief wanted, linked to murder in Manchester.

The apartment smells of blood. Billy argues with himself that it shouldn’t, that he’s always so careful, so clean, so smart. That he never leaves a real mess.

Rookie detective, 25, killed by supervising Inspector.

Billy rests against the kitchen cabinetry, waiting for clarity—waiting for peace.

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Dominic sinks down into the thief’s grip, exhausted but still thrumming with fear and anger.

“You will be quiet?” the thief murmurs, and Dominic nods.

“Look at him, Dominic ... He cannot face what he’s done. He never can. And he’s never done it in his own home, though he’s certainly had the opportunities.”

Dominic stiffens, and the thief smiles.

“Think how many times he could have killed you ...”

“Never, he’d never—”

“Hurt you?” Dominic feels the hand underneath his shirt, grazing his stomach.

“These are not all mine, little one ... and mine will heal. Your inspector’s marked you for life.”

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Billy leans against the counter, breathing hard. He reaches for Dominic’s painkillers, opening the bottle with shaking hands.

Billy has no reason to think he’s damning himself, attempting this—not after tonight, not after his entire life. He cannot be blamed for wanting to control the only thing left.

His gaze turns to another, more familiar bottle. Its contents warm Billy, easing the way for the rattling, chalky handful in his mouth.

Outside, Dominic struggles furiously against the thief, cursing and kicking, but fails.

“He cannot hear you, little one,” the thief hisses. “And you cannot save him from this.”

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It should not be this easy.

There should be a price, Billy thinks, for what he’s done, but his confusion is no match for his gratitude.

He sees Dominic behind his closed eyelids, sees the ashy remains of them both. If he strains, he can even hear Dominic’s raspy cries.

Dominic sounds lost, hungry, desperate—a whelp left to fend for itself before its time.

Billy believes that Dominic is gone. Any time Billy was granted to save him has disappeared, been wasted. Has been stolen by Billy himself.

In the name of protecting Dominic, he has protected no one.

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Dominic slumps against the window, sobs wracking his body.

“I underestimated you,” the thief whispers. “You would have him live, even knowing everything you do.”

Dominic smacks against the glass, shaking. He can still see Billy’s profile, and his blood freezes when Billy’s eyes close. He chokes out Billy’s name, to no avail.

“Quiet, little one,” the thief growls, but Dominic still bangs on the window, terrified. A hand comes over his mouth, and Dominic bites down hard, launching one elbow into the man’s pelvis.

The thief roars in fury, backhanding Dominic into the stairwell, and Dominic’s pleading cries cease.

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Dominic stares up at the thief, mouth bloodied. The thief matches his gaze, then yanks Dominic back up to stand.

“It doesn’t serve me to let him die now, little one. And I never intended to do so.”

“Then why—”

“Because I wanted you to see, Dominic,” the thief hisses. “Do you know why he’s done this?”

“I don’t have to know,” Dominic answers hotly, and the thief laughs, producing a lockpick from his pocket.

Seconds later, they are inside. Dominic reaches for Billy, but the thief catches him, holds him firm.

“I’ve something to show you first,” he whispers.

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Dominic’s vision is filled with the murdered detective, and he fights to turn away.

“They were friends, too ...” the thief coos, forcing Dominic to stillness. “That detective worshipped Boyd.” He places one hand over Dominic’s mouth again, the other trapping Dominic’s wrists.

“This is what your lover does to friends, little one ... imagine what he’ll do to you.”

Blackness comes, and Dominic cannot tell if it takes him or he gives himself freely. The thief watches until Dominic sleeps before turning back to the kitchen.

He kneels and caresses the inspector’s face, running two soft diagonal lines along Billy’s cheekbone.