Chapter Text
A man was dead.
Not in the typical fashion, though. There was no body, no evidence, no suspects, no proof that a man had died at all. And yet, a man was dead, pronounced that way by his family.
It was far from the only time this had happened in the last year. There was, in truth, a bit of a recurring problem in their city — people reported missing nearly every month, picked up from their daily lives and whisked away by an unidentified source. Searches turned up empty, and families were left broken for months without an explanation.
A single detective had taken it upon himself to investigate these cases, to find correlation where others saw a dead end, and that was Cellbit. He was a member of a small organization of private detectives, hired to help people like those suffering from the serial disappearances. Though it was harsh, and the world was against him, he had gained significant ground in tracking down the missing civilians, as well as unmasking the people behind it.
Because of his constant persistence and his passion for his work, it was unsurprising to hear he had taken on another case quite recently. The details were much the same, practically routine at this point. A person had gone missing, and no matter how much they searched, he could not be found. It brought the tally up to six total cases.
Cellbit had a lot to balance, with the five prior cases consuming the majority of his waking hours, plus the additional smaller cases he had to do to earn money in the meantime. The rest of his organization was not blind to the amount of stress weighing on his shoulders. It had become standard procedure for at least one member of their close-knit team to check up on him from time to time, just to bring him meals or make sure he was drinking enough water.
The day everything started, it was Pac’s turn to knock on Cellbit’s door. He was surprised by how quickly it was opened, and how furiously he was tugged inside. His friend was wide-eyed and heaving for breath by the time Pac’s vision adjusted to the room’s dim lighting. He was careful not to startle the man as he asked, “Cellbit? Have you… slept recently? Have you even gone home?”
“No,” was the immediate answer. Cellbit shook his head, backing away from the door to return to his desk. Every piece of furniture in the room was covered in papers, and red string decorated the wall obsessively. “I’m so close, Pac. So close. I’m just missing something.”
“Is this about the latest case?” Pac cleared a spot on the table and placed the fresh cup of coffee he’d brought atop it. Cellbit nodded, frowning down at an open notebook. “Do you want to walk me through what’s confusing you?”
“It’s not easy to explain,” Cellbit groaned. He slumped into his chair, and Pac took note of the deep circles under his eyes — darker than usual, which meant he was in another one of his fanatic sprees. “This recent case is exactly like all the others, but it doesn’t feel right. I don’t have enough information.”
“What do you mean?” Pac crossed his arms. “You have the police reports and the statements from people involved with the victim, right? What else could you need?”
“No, Pac, that’s the thing,” Cellbit jumped to add. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling out a few graying strands. “I don’t have all the statements. The missing person’s widow still hasn’t given one.”
“Not even to the police? Is there a reason?”
“If there’s a reason, I would have to speak to the widow before I could figure it out,” Cellbit sighed. “Best opportunity is at the guy’s funeral tomorrow.”
Pac straightened. “Tomorrow? Don’t you have that meeting with the commissioner tomorrow? I thought he was going to let you review classified documents. That could take hours. How would you also attend a funeral?”
“I don’t know,” Cellbit admitted. “I would hate to cut either of them short. They’re both important.”
He picked up the coffee and took a long sip. Pac watched his eyes widen as the liquid slid down his throat, and then flick up to him. The drink was set aside with urgency, spilling a few drops on some hopefully less important documents. Cellbit stood, leaning across the desk and grabbing Pac’s shoulders.
“Pac, are you busy tomorrow?”
Pac hesitated. “I have to hand in my own case in the morning, but I am free besides that. Why?”
“I have to be the one to look over the documents to make sure I don’t miss anything, but anyone can get a statement,” Cellbit elaborated. Pac caught on before he even finished. “Can you go to the funeral and speak to the widow for me?”
Pac’s heartbeat skyrocketed. “A-Are you sure? That’s a pretty important job, Cellbit! What if I mess something up and ruin your mission?”
“You won’t,” the other man decided. He gathered up various notes quickly and shoved them into an open folder. Then, he passed it over to his friend. “Just read this and ask some basic questions. You’ve gathered hundreds of statements before — this shouldn’t be anything new. It’s not like it’s an interrogation.”
Pac took the folder, flipping through it with feigned nonchalance. Cellbit hadn’t lied. The task wasn’t exactly hard, and they both knew Pac was a skilled detective — had been in the game as long as Cellbit, if not slightly longer. It was easy to forget that fact when looking at the two men side-by-side, given how smart Cellbit was in comparison to literally any normal human being. Both he and his sister were unmatched, leagues above everyone else. Pac would be lying if he said it didn’t horribly intimidate him.
“Fine, okay,” Pac agreed.
And subsequently, the next day, he found himself standing outside of a cemetery, regretting his past decisions.
He was so close, and yet so, so far. Pac couldn’t get himself to move. Everything about the situation was wrong. He’d done statements before, but usually they were conducted at an office or the police station. Never at a graveyard as a grieving family buried an empty coffin to represent their missing loved one. Never like this.
From his place by the gates, Pac could see distant mourners dressed in black. They were gathered around a priest and a freshly-dug hole in the ground. The headstone was already in place, and the closed coffin was resting nearby. Bouquets of flowers waited in the grass to join the corpse in the ground. It was a solemn, beautiful moment that was supposed to be shared by the people that loved the deceased. There was no room for a nosy detective.
But he’d promised Cellbit he would get this statement. That was the only thing that got his feet to move again — he couldn’t let Cellbit down, not after the other man had worked his ass off to get to this point in his case. Lacking here, with a statement as important as the widow’s testimony, could jeopardize everything.
Pac took a deep breath, willing himself not to step too loudly as he approached. The funeral was well on its way, unlikely to stop for a random passerby. Pac went unnoticed, his dark trench coat helping him blend in with those in attendance. He slipped around the back of the gathered crowd of grievers, and took a spot off to the side of the assembly, positioned strategically to analyze his surroundings.
A dozen or so guests were present, all dressed in black, some with mesh along the front of their hats to hide their tears. The majority of them were young, looking like they might belong better at a rowdy bar than a hushed cemetery. Their fancy clothes helped them blend in the same way they assisted the detective in doing something similar. They could, at least, pretend their presence was natural at such a formal ceremony.
However, brilliantly disguised or not, none of them could hold a candle to the figure positioned directly beside the coffin. If the rest of the guests were pretending, then this was their genuine inspiration. Pac’s eyes widened, finally catching a glimpse of the person he was searching for. For better or for worse, nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight.
There, draped in a floor length black dress, darkened jewels shining from their resting place along a covered collarbone, and a veil cascading over indistinguishable features, stood the widow. Magnificent in comparison to the rest of the guests, looming a head above everyone present, with broad shoulders accentuated by tight fabric — Pac had never seen someone look so right in mourning attire.
While he was busy gaping, the priest had finished his prayers. The attention of the guests was directed easily with a raise of the widow’s gloved hand. Pac waited with baited breath, and surprisingly, the veiled figure began to speak, “Thank you all for coming here today to celebrate my late husband’s life.”
Pac’s posture straightened, shock rippling through him at the deep voice echoing from behind the face covering. His brain needed a full minute to recalibrate, to look at the broad shoulders again, and allow a new realization to overcome him. The widow was… not the kind of person he originally expected.
And well…
It wasn’t exactly a problem. Not in the slightest, actually. No one whose dress suited them that well could ever be a problem, especially not in Pac’s eyes.
Although, this new train of thought certainly was. He needed to stop getting off track.
What had he even been imagining for a moment there? Of course the widow’s voice, or dress, or whatever wouldn’t be a problem to a professional like him. Pac was here on business, and for absolutely no other reasons. He had to focus on what was important.
The widow continued his speech, and the detective forced himself to repeat details of the case over and over again in his head — Missing husband, declared dead, a month of searches yielding no results, no statement from the widow.
“My husband was a busy man. Always working, or out with his friends. He was the life of any party, as I’m sure many of our guests can confirm,” the widow said, head bowed to gaze at the ornate wooden box. There came a bittersweet whisper of laughter from the crowd. “It is with a heavy heart that we put him to rest today, even if he could not join us physically. He was loved, and he will be missed.”
Final send-off now completed, the process of lowering the coffin into the grave began. Pac had the fleeting thought that this family had to be fairly financially stable to be able to afford to bury an empty coffin, especially after weeks of funding the city’s search efforts. He dismissed the notion quickly, though, judging it to be the wrong time to mull such things over.
This whole part of the assembly was a silent ordeal, very peaceful, and ended a few minutes later. With the earth safely cradling the coffin, the flowers were next to be added. The widow went first, as was the typical tradition of these things. He picked up a rather large bouquet of roses from behind the headstone, and dropped them inside the grave.
The resounding hollow thump of their weight against the wood was a haunting reminder of what wasn’t inside the box that day. If it bothered the widow, his reaction was impossible to see through the lace of his veil.
Pac stayed rooted in place as the guests picked up their own respective bouquets of flowers, and shuffled closer to the hole in the ground. One by one, the bundles were dropped, until the man’s memorial was completely shrouded in petals.
Then, the widow gestured for the guests to step aside, and the cemetery attendant slowly started the process of filling the grave with dirt. The veiled man addressed the gathered crowd a final time, “Again, thank you all for coming. It means the world to me, and I know it would’ve meant the world to him.”
Pac watched as individuals bid farewell to the widow, and gradually left the area. Very few stuck around to gaze upon the monotonous shoveling. It was better that they dispersed, though. Pac needed to talk to the person in charge of the entire ordeal, and could hardly do so with guests clamoring to get a word in with him. He stayed firmly rooted to the ground, listening to the shoveling and the muttered condolences all the same.
Eventually, there came a time when the last mourner parted from the widow, a solemn wave shared between them, and they were alone. By that point, even the priest had returned to his church and the shoveler had finished his duty. There was nothing to keep the widow from noticing his presence any longer, and yet Pac still startled when he felt eyes fall onto him.
“Apologies,” the widow hummed. He crossed his arms over his chest, jewels clinking from the movement and veil rippling. “But I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Ah, you would be correct,” Pac said, tongue suddenly numb in his mouth. The full weight of such a commanding figure’s attention was a bit overwhelming, beyond anything he could have anticipated. He struggled to remember how to form valid responses, and was forced to rely on years of detective work to switch his mouth onto autopilot. “We hadn’t met before this, but it was a lovely service.”
“I see. Thank you,” the widow hummed. Pac’s interest piqued as a gloved hand was extended outward. There was a single, gold band around the widow’s finger. It was woefully plain in comparison to the elegant jewels adorning his neck. “Then, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, stranger. I am Fit.”
“Fit,” Pac repeated, savoring the taste of it on his tongue. He took the offered hand, and gently lifted it. A soft gasp escaped the widow as a kiss was pressed to his knuckles. The metal of the ring burned Pac’s cheek where they brushed together. “I am Detective Pac. My sincere condolences.”
There was not an immediate response from the other man. Pac waited, but the silence extended for an abnormally long amount of time. He pulled back, letting his own hand fall back to his side. Fit, however, did not move – simply remained frozen in place, wordless and unreadable.
The detective furrowed his brow, growing a bit worried. “Um… Sir? Are you alright?
“Yes,” Fit blurted, voice raised in pitch by an entire octave. He cleared his throat and crossed his arms back over his chest in an attempt to recover his previous poise. “Yes, sorry, uh–! Condolences are much appreciated. Very nice of you… Detective.”
“Right,” Pac trailed off, still a little taken aback. The widow’s reaction was odd for a polite greeting, but he tried to continue as though nothing had happened anyway, “Well, I’m sorry for intruding on an important day like this, but a colleague of mine is assigned to this case. I came on his behalf to ask a few questions.”
“Oh,” Fit choked out, still a little off-kilter if his tensed shoulders were any indication. “What, uh—? What kind of questions?”
“General questions,” Pac replied, shrugging. He removed a small notepad and pen from his coat pocket. “It seems like no one has been by to collect a statement from you quite yet. Very odd, but the police are completely incompetent, so it’s not unheard of.”
“Huh,” Fit hummed. Slowly, he nodded, and a bit of tension left him. “Yes, I agree. Completely incompetent.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Pac said. “While nothing is guaranteed, getting help from people a bit more experienced might provide you with a little closure.”
“Yes, closure, uh,” the widow’s voice dropped to a whisper, and he stepped forward. Pac tried not to pay attention to how Fit’s height was even more prominent from his new angle, or how the warm scent of perfume flooded his senses with their new proximity, and smiled politely. “Aren’t detectives like you usually hired? Were you, by chance, sent by anyone?”
“Common misconception,” Pac replied, shaking his head. “Members of my organization can be hired, and that’s how we make most of our money, but if a case exists that may also pertain to one of our prior cases, we tend to take a look at that too.”
“I see.” Fit brushed the wrinkles off his dress, and fidgeted with his ring. “I think I would be alright with… giving a small statement.”
“Really?” The widow nodded. Pac brightened, overjoyed and thankful that he wouldn’t return to Cellbit empty-handed. He readied his pen and began simply, “The deceased was your husband, correct?”
“In a sense,” the widow muttered. Pac raised an eyebrow, confused. Fit was quick to amend his strange word choice, “Yes, he was my husband of ten years.”
“Ah, an entire decade spent together,” Pac replied, writing as he went. “It must be odd to be apart from someone you loved for so long.”
Fit turned his head, veil rippling with a huff of laughter — an action that, yet again, surprised the detective. “You could say that.”
“Pardon?” Pac raised his chin, curiosity pricking at his chest.
“If I’m honest, Detective,” Fit hummed, crossing his arms. “My late husband was an absent man. Home as little as possible, with his friends every hour of the day.”
“Really?” Pac’s eyes widened, hearing this information for the first time. It wasn’t written anywhere in the victim’s file that he was a neglectful husband. He took notes and indulged his thoughts a little more, “And you said you’ve been married for ten years? How long has your husband had these habits?”
“The entire time,” Fit said, uncrossing his arms to fidget with his ring. At the sight of the detective’s admittedly blatant shock, he sighed, “Ours was not a marriage made of love. Not for one another, at least.”
“Oh?”
“We were friends for a while before our arrangement,” Fit explained. “When my husband came into possession of a child after his relative died, I offered to help. Marriage made custody easier.”
“You have a child, then?” Pac had read about there being a kid left behind too, but not the specifics. However, there was a distinct lack of any little body running around their feet. “I didn’t think I saw a child at the ceremony.”
“My son, Ramón, is here. He was just very tired.” Fit pointed at a tree in the distance, further into the graveyard than the procession had led them. Below the tree, curled up against its roots, was a tiny figure. There was a white, furry thing blanketing him. “He was up all night crying — could barely keep his eyes open during the church service. I gave him my wrap, and he fell asleep.”
“What a shame,” Pac tutted, his heart twisting with pity for the boy. Present or not, losing a father must’ve been hard on him. Pac was an orphan himself, raised with Mike and no other support, so he understood it to a degree.
“A shame indeed,” Fit trailed off and looked away. The detective took it as a sign to switch topics, figuring discussing his son might be more personal than he was willing to get for a statement. It wasn’t particularly necessary anyway.
“Yeah,” Pac cleared his throat. “So, he was a fairly absent man? Did that affect your ability to report him as missing at all?”
“Sadly,” the widow confirmed, tone twinging with something indistinguishable. “As I told the police during my initial report, when he failed to come home one evening, I barely noticed. It was normal for him.”
“How did you find out this situation was different?” Pac flipped to a new page in his notebook, already having written a good amount.
“Three days later, I realized he had left his coat and hat at home,” Fit answered. “Which he only does if he’s stepping out briefly with the intention of coming home soon – buying cigarettes and stuff like that.”
Pac sucked in a breath. It made sense why the people behind the prior disappearances might go after someone like him. A man who was so consistently flighty that even his spouse was frequently unaware of his whereabouts sounded like an experienced kidnapper’s dream. Pac wasn’t an expert on these cases, but it was safe to assume that Cellbit was going to have a field day with this information. It practically confirmed that the criminals were going out of their way to plan victims.
“Apologies, Detective,” the widow started, drawing Pac from his head. Fit was staring at the tree again, where the figure from before had shifted to sit up. “It looks as though my son is awake. We should probably get home soon. Was that enough of a statement for you? I know I complained about my marital issues for longer than you probably wanted, but…”
“Oh, no! Not at all,” Pac insisted. “Your statement was very helpful. Thank you! If we have any other questions, I will get into contact with you!”
Honestly, it wasn’t really a complete statement — missed a lot of the more basic questions that were standard for matters such as this — but Pac was going to let it slide. The widow was busy fretting over his child and mourning his husband. There was little need to keep him waiting around.
Plus, Cellbit would be able to use the notes from today to formulate more worthwhile questions. They could skip the boring basics should they ever need to meet with the widow again. And that was an option now too! Since they’d officially introduced themselves to Fit, it wouldn’t be as awkward to seek him out in the future.
“Ah, wait,” the widow said, once again interrupting Pac’s daze. His brain was a little too quick to sacrifice every coherent thought whenever Fit spoke to him. “Here.”
The detective wasn’t expecting a small piece of paper to be held out to him. He took it, and saw an address and a phone number printed in swirling black ink — a calling card. The widow had given him a calling card. Pac smiled, tucking it into his notepad. “Thank you! If we need to contact you, this will be so useful!”
“Of course,” Fit chuckled quietly. He reached out, and brushed a hand down the detective’s arm. “Stop by anytime. I have a feeling you and I could become very good friends.”
Pac stared, slack-jawed, as the widow turned without another word and started towards the tree. He could only watch, mesmerized. Fit collected the boy from his spot, shrugged his fur wrap over his shoulders, and together, they left. The detective’s eyes followed their path long after they were gone from his sight.
Suddenly, Pac found himself hoping, a little guiltily, that the information in his notes wouldn’t be enough. He would really, really like to help Cellbit again soon. Whatever that might entail.