warnings: graphic depictions of gore, murder, blood, corpses and a few implied/not too graphic nsfw scenes.

Act I

Cecil Tinsley was a fairly simple man with fairly unusual interests.

While it was the truth that normality was not his favourite thing in the world after spending a life time scouring for the morbid and strange, he would much prefer mundanity than whatever madness this is.

∆

He had always been a more unique character in comparison to his peers back in school and he was evidently stranger than his elder brother Scott.

There's a stranger hollowness in him that constantly craves for more. More of what he will never know. A void constantly demanding for a greater sense of fulfillment he knew he could never achieve, but too persistent to ignore. The strange emptiness created other shortcomings, like duller reactions to a majority of negative emotions but a disgusting need for positive ones. The demand for affection and attention, the want for praise.

He remembers his lack of fear used to creep the other children out, his fascination with the morally corrupted cursed him as an outcast. His touch starvation making him a difficult child to raise.

He wanted fear, at first. Just a taste of what it felt like to be truly revolted. Hours spent in the library spilt over books about criminals, their methods and their trials. But it quickly morphed into a grotesque fascination, a fixation he was too caught up in to get rid off.

He wonders if the circumstances had been a tiny bit different, if the abyss harvesting in his body had been a little more cruel, would he have ended up like these demons he studies.

Fortunately, instead of allowing his morbid curiosity to turn him into a monster, he had used it healthily and joined the law force.

As more of a detective than a cop.

He didn't really like the other cops.

Too loud, too social, too corrupt.

The blood stained on the hands of the law was redder than any blood spilled by the criminals he's put on trial.

The homicide department was the department he was most fimilar with, working on the field something he had done a few times now.

It fascinated him how seemingly regular people could ever be driven to commit such heinous crimes. The person beside you just with one bad day could go on a murder spree, that bullied little boy could end the lives of an entire classroom, an abused wife could finally had enough. It was horrid and he liked dissecting humans for what they were, what they hid.

After five years of investigation work, he quickly realized that most cases were domestic.

It bored him to death.

Five years of waking up early every day to drive to the station and file paper work daily, writing report after report about a homicide that could be solved without his assistance. It made him restless, a mess with a gnawing emptiness constantly prodding his conscious.

The criminal he had manifested an obsession with was nothing like that, he wasn't easy to catch and when there was evidence, he placed it there himself. He was cunning, clean at the border of morbid, and cocky although he hasn't claimed the murders.

It had been years since starting as a criminal investigator when Tinsley firsts hears about the man who would eventually ruin him.

It was at a bar, low lighting, an eavesdropped conversation between two cops.

He knew for a fact his curiosity had no endings and his attention was difficult to catch.

And that's why his hazardous head had allowed him to get obsessed with Ricky Goldsworth.

The Unsolved Criminal, better known as his alias in media as Ricky Goldsworth, was an infamous serial killer, cryptic and mysterious.

He had allegedly been the offender of more than five murders in the past few months, his choice of weapon all unexpected but always belonging to the victim and cleaned by gasoline or disposed of afterwards.

The same Ricky Goldsworth suspected to be behind the grand heist happening internationally these pass few years, always never leaving a scratch except for the ones he wants there.

The man was infamous in the criminal underworld according to the other criminals he's interviewed. They called him the cunning devil, rich and untraceable with a huge ego and a charming grin to match. None would snitch on the mysterious man, fearing for their lives even behind bars.

Tinsley was impressed, there were few things that could strike fear into the hearts of men who killed for a living, especially men awaiting death row.

The man cunning devil must really be a the worse of them all.

The thing that set Ricky Goldsworth from other homicide cases was that this particular criminal copied infamous true crime cases completely.

He didn't just copy them.

He recreated them.

It was like an art form, every detail the exact same from the original cold case.

The killer had no pattern, no method and no signature. If you didn't believe in Ricky Goldsworth, you'd probably thought it was a bunch of murders that were only similar in location.

The thing was, nobody really knew if Ricky Goldsworth actually existed.

And Tinsley was giddy with excitement to take up the case.

He spent all night scouring the internet until his eyes were dry and heavy with fatigue. The light burned as he engraved all the information he could get his greedy hands on Ricky Goldsworth on his skull.

He couldn't help himself.

Ricky Goldsworth was a puzzle he knew he couldn't solve in a week or two, a cunning man if any of the articles and death threats he had read on have any indication.

The first trace of the Ricky Goldsworth murders had allegedly been a murder of a middle aged man found at a vacant lot on the west side of South Norton Avenue.

The cuts were clean and precise, his corpse had been cut in between the second and third lumbar vertebrae, severing his large intestine at the duodenum. There was ecchymosis along the incision lines and ligature marks all over the man's body.

However the skin was free of any of the killer's DNA, evidence of the killer on the man's corpse cleaned by gasoline.

An obvious recreation of the Black Dahlia case.

There's no doubt it wasn't the criminal's first kill but it was the first public one and it had shocked the people internationally.

First large heist and now murder, he was bring the plague with him, casting mindless havoc wherever he went.

The other thing other than the precise marks that evident that the man had been murdered instead of attacked by an animal of some sort was the carving of the initial 'R' on the man's ring finger under a gold band. The bruising around it and the blood on the ring suggest it had been carved after the man had been killed but before the man had died.

Just like the evidence left at the heists.

There was hurricane of discord and demolition on the loose and Tinsley was determined to be the one to end his reign of terror.

He does manage to.

Just not the way he had expected to.

∆

He spent days pouring over true crime and cold cases articles, a tornado of books and papers surrounding his desk, a product of his own madness.

This restlessness came often and left rarely, a constant drive to figure it out. It left him hungry and fatigued but he needed it.

The dark eyebags constantly lining his madden eyes were not from lack of sleep, but instead, the mania that haunted him until his bones ached. Fatigue was just another product of it.

He was addicted to the chase.

Ricky Goldsworth was a strange offender, his difficulty to keep track made people doubt his existence.

Maybe the first Black Dahlia murder had been Goldsworth, perhaps the others are just copycat killers who vaguely resembled Goldsworth's actions.

The criminal was unpredictable.

Possibly a serial killer without a pattern or a method.

CC Tinsley had to remind himself that Ricky Goldsworth was nothing more than a side project and he should probably go to sleep soon.

He had to protect a few valuables tomorrow anyways.

∆

Ricky Goldsworth, while some people doubted his existence, many others feared him.

One of such people anxious of the notorious homicidal swindler were the Keans, a family of politicians as worried as they were rich.

They had organised a protection against the family jewels whilst they held a gathering in celebration of their eldest son running for a seat.

One of their largest fears amidst a robbery from one of their guest was an organized heist.

And they believed Ricky Goldsworth would be the puppet master behind it all.

When Tinsley's higher-up told him so, he rolled his eyes and scoffed at the rich. His commissioner only sighed and ordered him to just go.

So he went.

∆

Tinsley had never understood these large galas held by the upperclassmen, the swaying of delicate bodies across from each other in bright glimmering shades of gold and silver. A show of power and wealth, a constant competition of meaningless possessions.

There was no prey in this den filled with hunters, just predators waiting to take down the weakest among them.

They were civil tonight, despite their opposions, trying their hardest to be as artificially nice to the Keans.

It honestly made Tinsley sick.

Music played from a band, the violin catching the detective's attention most, the melanchonic weeping coming from the skilled violinist fingers upon thin strings created an atmosphere of those old criminal shows Tinsley had adored as a child.

People danced, feet pinched, all their fabrics expensive and bright among the marble floor. Golds and silvers, shades of bronze and lithium. They shone among each other like the reflection of the sun on a stagnant lake, blurring into each other completely unidentifiable. The perfect night for a grand theft- or even a deliberate murder.

But all these precious metals were dull in comparison to the hues of dark onyx that captured the detective's attention.

Tinsley was pressed against a wall, eyes calculative and noticeably bored. He had tried to flatten his hair for the event, it didn't make much a difference. His suit was a gaudy thing and sligtly wrinkled, buried out from the back of his tiny closet, the trousers rose above his ankles.

He could feel the presence of wealth, the room filled with snakes. He wondered if they could sense he wasn't one of them, if they would sense the dirt under his finger nails or take notice to his dark eye bags. He decided he didn't care much if they could tell his monetary status, he doubts he'll ever see any of them again at the back aisles of Walmart where he buys his neat loafers and ironic gift cards.

His hands pressed against the hall's walls, the paint felt expensive, he scratched patches of it off.

As they fell onto the marble flooring in scales of beige, he could tell the room was off, plagued from the prestigious glamour the privileged had created for the event. There was something dark lurking in the crowd of delicate people, something sharp and dangerous.

He saw a flash of the night morphed into the shape of the man, flickering like a weak flame during cold winter months, one moment there and the next gone.

It was like a drop of ink spilt into a clear pond, obvious and swirling. It mixed around with the crowd, but it didn't fit in.

The detective's attention was caught and he had manifested the image into his temporary obsession for the night to keep himself from boredom.

Cecil Tinsley was a restless man, constantly haunted by the need to keep his active head entertained. He was warned not to create a ruckus and to stay in place.

He quickly discarded the instructions.

For across the room was the charming devil dressed black.

The man at the other side of the sea of upper-class folk mingling had a grimace on his lips. His clothes didn't seem cheap, the tight fit of the sheen fabric seemed to cling on every curve of his figure, implying it had been custom fitted. He stood tall and confident despite his lack of height, sharp features as nonchalant and calavier as Tinsley felt, an inpatient arch to his eyebrow. He did not hide his disdain for the other predators in the room, and in that way, Tinsley knew the stranger was just like him. They did not belong here in the moment, in the crowd of plastic people putting up false fronts.

Tinsley was convinced neither of them ever belonged to any crowd, did not belong regardless of the moment.

And in that moment, Tinsley was enamoured.

The way he leaned on the wall opposite of the detective was casual, giving off his reluctance to be there. But then why come in the first place? The man wasn't talking to anyone else in the sea of people.

If Tinsley had been a smarter man, his first instinct would have been suspicion.

Unfortunately, he was too caught up in the slant of the man's neck as he lolled his head to the side of his shoulder, giving Tinsley full view of his light stumble and Adam's apple.

Enigmatic, the stranger's dark hair was slicked back neatly and his white teeth shone, his nice suit dishevelled in the most attractive way. His tan skin looked warm from across the hall, a great difference from the pale skin of the others surrounding him. He looked other worldly at that moment, Tinsley had no doubt he looked just as ethereal in other moments too. Perhaps all the moments in the entire universe he would always look like a god among people. Constantly radiating Apollo's bright rays and surpassing Aphrodite's charm.

He was beautiful.

Tinsley was helpless as much as he was speechless, his useless organ of a heart starting up a hurricane in the brittle bones of his ribcage.

It wasn't long before the handsome devil noticed him, seeing how obvious Tinsley was drooling at him.

Sultry dark eyes eyed him up and down with a small lift of a corner of his lips, leaving an almost adolescent giddiness in the pits of Tinsley's gut, to be noticed by someone so handsome felt like a dream.

The whispy stranger beckoned him with a side glance, gesturing his hands vaguely towards the kitchens before leaving without a word.

Tinsley doesn't go out much, he isn't sure what this means for him. But god does he follow the man anyways.

∆

Tinsley isn't used to too much attention.

At most, people turn back to look at him because of his ridiculous height.

And he didn't mind it too much, most of the time.

But this careful scrutiny of his appearance made him feel like the prey of some dark creature, and it made him a mess. Russet eyes analyzing every inch of his lofty vessel and setting his skin on fire. He didn't feel worthy of the reincarnation of Achilles's attention but he basked in it anyways.

He walked out to the hallway that led to the kitchens, a small thing compared to the main one but still grand nonetheless.

He wonders aimlessly, his short-circuited head demanding he finds the handsome stranger.

He walks without a thought.

And the first one that comes to mind is 'Ow'.

He gets tripped, his mess of limbs failing around before landing on the plush carpet flooring he knows without a doubt must be vacuumed every day.

A laugh, cruel yet oh so charming, chimes from above him.

The flustered detective looks up to the sight of a beaming man with the most gorgeous smile he has ever seen.

His smile was of that poets would weave sonnets about.

The sun didn't hold a candle to the man's wolfish grin.

And his laugh made the angels sing hymns.

The detective's confused grimace morphs into a goofy expression of pure fondness at the grinning man, his organs set ablaze and his stomach in knots.

This is his own fault for not going out much.

He's sure if he had done so, he wouldn't be falling for the first pretty stranger he sees.

Metaphorically and literally.

"Who are you, handsome stranger?" The man asked, his voice sultry and eyes narrowed, "You don't look half as greedy as the other people in the room"

"Well, I would say the same for you, except you look cunning enough to be half reptilian" Tinsley groused, a crooked grin on his lips, "What's your hidden agenda?"

The stranger rolled his dark eyes and offered the fallen detective a gloved hand. Tinsley accepts and flushes at how easily the stranger manages to lift him up.

It was only when Tinsley finished brushing off the dust, (there really wasn't any, Tinsley wonders if rich people ever had dust) did he notice the other man opening his wallet.

Alarms rang in his head as he watched the handsome stranger look through his few cards. He should've known the other man was a swindler. That was his own fault for thinking without his head.

As cunning as the devil and twice as pretty.

The taller man attempts to swipe back his wallet but the stranger simply avoids him every time despite the length of Tinsley's gangly arms. He had a smug grin as he continued to read out the detective's particulars to the empty hallway.

"Well, Mr Tinsley? A strange last name" the other man teased, eyes scanning through the detective's driver's license, "I intend to get in your cheap pants"

Tinsley feigns an offended gasp despite the heavy flush on his cheeks.

The charming stranger throws the detective's wallet back at his chest, walking away before turning around with a wicked grin.

Tinsley looks at him with widened eyes as he stuffed back his wallet in his suit pocket.

He didn't go out much but he could read what the risqué glower of fluttering lashes meant, the sway of the stranger's hips as he walked off, the invitation written clear as day.

The taller man stuttered, filled with foolish excitement for the obvious implications, all logical parts of him malfunctioning.

"I don't even know your name"

"You will. Soon."

Tinsley gulps and follows the hypnotic man out of the hallway.

∆

They ended up in a nameless motel on an even nameless street.

Cecil Tinsley was a nimble man, constantly calculative, constantly observent.

His restless head craved information, his soul needed details.

It kept him functional, productive.

This time, however, he couldn't tell the time he had left with the gorgeous man, name the car that had driven the two of them to the soddy motel, the city he was in.

But he could remember everything else.

Rough fingers pulling his collar open, his tie hanging around his neck loosely, as soft lips latched onto the space between his collar bone and his shoulder.

A tight grip on his hips, a strong thigh between his legs, a hand up his wrinkled shirt.

A gasp upon being shoved on a creaking bed, the sound of a zipper during a symphony of breathless sighs, a smug grunt of approval.

A satisfied moan, his fingers clutching through gelled hair, warm heat.

An inferno engulfing him, praises in-between groans, the feeling of completeness.

And an empty bed after.

∆

Due to the distractions of an unknown gorgeous man, CC Tinsley does not manage to witness any suspicious behaviour at the gala last night.

Fortunately, Ricky Goldsworth had not stricken last night anyway.

Cecil Tinsley had woken up to an empty hotel room without any discarded clothes on the aged carpet except for his own.

There was no