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Bruce asks Henri to teach him when the man is still in his hospital bed. Predictably, he refuses.
“I’m a manhunter, boy, not a babysitter,” he says derisively, “Besides, don’t you think it’s a bit audacious to ask anything from me right after I got a bullet in my gut because of you?” he asks with a condescending smirk, his dark eyes looking for any sign of discomfort that he could enjoy. He finds what he seeks, but Bruce refuses to leave, obstinate pride yet again making him ignore his uneasiness. That same obstinacy makes him come the next day, and the day after.
When Bruce visits, Henri prefers to keep quiet, breaking silence only to shut Bruce up with a reminder of whose fault it is that he is injured. He knows this fact makes Bruce’s insides twist, and he’s not above twisting them further, poking the bruise gleefully just to see the pained look in his eyes. Bruce knew Henri would try to drive him away, make him leave with his tail between his legs, but he still wasn’t prepared for the way the man made his ribcage ache with leaden guilt, worming under his skin despite Bruce’s best efforts.
“The fact that my words bother you is as good an indicator as any that you should not be here, on this path, in the first place,” Henri sneers on the sixth day, finally getting fed up with the bland food and stench of bleach and leaving the medics’ care way too early. “Go back to your butler, boy, before you get your tender little heart broken.”
‘ Can’t break what’s already broken ,’ Bruce thinks to himself, images of smooth white dots and fluid red on the rough black asphalt stuck on repeat in a dark corner of his mind, playing on even when he is not paying attention, a white noise of gunshots. The words of his oath are as fresh in his mind as the day he spoke them.
He keeps coming to Henri’s office, bringing coffee and donuts in hopes to win the man over. The man takes the offerings, but gives back nothing. He lets Bruce stay, but pays him as much attention as his withering ficus. There is no job for Ducard to busy himself with currently, so he spends the time looking for something to scratch his boredom with on the world wide web.
It goes on like this for a few days, Bruce idly going through the books Henri has on his shelves, while the man pretends that Bruce is just a giant fly as he kills time in front of his boxy PC monitor, and then one evening Bruce goes out to bring them a late lunch once more and returns to Ducard finally taking Bruce’s photos off his cork board and throwing them on his desk haphazardly to replace them with different pictures.
“Oh,” Bruce says, carefully putting their drinks on the table, “New case?”
“Mhm,” the man hums affirmatively, too concentrated on the images of multiple young women to realize he’s answered.
The ladies seem distantly familiar, like an actress he saw in a supporting role. He comes closer to Henri, squinting at the board, trying to find those faces in his memory catalog. They bring forth associations: cosmetics, jewelry, perfume, brand names, runways, clothes. He pulls on this thread and it leads him to recognition - he saw a few of these girls on the covers and advertisements of magazines that Lucie made him read. She said that understanding the fashion world is an important part to being a burglar, that clothing choices often reveal more about the person than they intended, that recognizing an obscure brand garment was one of the best ways to recognize wealth. Though their little course of fashion history was more style than person focused.
Now that he recognizes a few of them it’s not hard to notice that all other girls are models too, their thin forms and taste telling as much.
After looking at the photographs for a few minutes, trying to recover names from memories, he asks from behind Ducard’s back, making the man jump at the sudden sound.
“What happened to them?”
“Jesus fuck!” he curses, frowning at Bruce. “I forgot you were still here.”
He turns back to the pictures, staring at them for a moment before speaking.
“The cause of death has not been established so far, however the main theory is poison. Nine young, healthy… or as healthy as this industry allows… What was I saying? Ah, right. Nine young, healthy women don’t just drop dead from heart failure all at the same time. It’s almost certainly poison. They found nothing in them, so it must be a poison that leaves the body fast .”
Bruce gets a distinct feeling that the man isn’t really speaking to him, and instead is just thinking out loud.
“The main problem with this theory is that the detectives at the PD cannot figure out how they got this poison inside. All of these girls died in a span of a few days, and at least one of them didn’t leave her house for a week before passing. The food and drinks at their homes were also tested; no traces of any known poison there as well. Then there is the problem of what they have in common. Sure, they are all models, but that’s a very large group, especially here, in Paris. Some of them crossed paths when working for the same brands, but none of the large brands collaborated with all of them-”
“Rana,” Bruce supplies.
Ducard turns to him, raising his brow. “What?”
“Rana. It’s a new local brand, their logo is a golden frog. They just started on the market. I’m pretty sure at least four of these women participated in their advertisement campaign.” Lucie said their yellow leather jacket with black accents would look great on him. She quite liked their products in general. “I think it’s worth checking if others did as well.”
The older man looks at him for a few moments in apparent disbelief, which, frankly, stings - Bruce just helped him deal with the Foundling, could the man stop doubting him for a second?! - before turning away from the cork board and wordlessly striding towards his PC. Bruce follows.
Henri opens his browser and starts going through different fashion forums, scouring them for information on the Rana photoset. Bruce leans over his shoulder, peering into the monitor as well. He looks as the man scrolls past page after page of discussions, until he notices one of the photos he remembers from that ad campaign and a link to some personal blog. Without thinking, he leans in further, taking the mouse without warning and clicking it. It leads to a sort of public diary where the author posted all scans of the photoset.
“This is it,” he says. There, on the scans, are the nine murdered models. But there are also a few women he didn’t see in Henri's photos. “But why only these girls? Did the killer simply dislike them in particular? Decided to spare the others?”
“Or they simply didn’t take the poison,” Ducard said, and only then does Bruce realize how severely he is invading the man’s space. Instantly, he backs away, choosing instead to prop his hip against the desk. “If it’s someone from the brand, then the question is, how did they poison them? The photos were printed 2 months ago, the shooting must’ve happened even earlier. I doubt there is a poison that could work this slow and still make them all drop at the same time. And again, no poison was found in their food, delivered or not-”
“Doesn’t have to be food,” Bruce muses out loud. “Could be a poison that works through skin contact.”
He sorts mentally through all the different poisons he has read about, trying to figure out what it could be, when he suddenly notices that the older man has been staring at him sharply, his chin propped up by his hand, eyes going slowly up and down his figure. The gaze makes his skin burn, and he swallows under its intensity.
Finally the man’s eyes meet his, the prolonged eye contact making Bruce more and more uncomfortable with every passing moment. Then his eyes lower to land somewhere on the younger man’s chin in contemplation.
“Fine.”
Bruce frowns in confusion. Seeing this, Ducard rolls his eyes and answers.
“I will teach you. But not for free. I don’t have time for charity.”
Bruce feels his own eyes widen in surprise, but then promptly pulls on a little friendly smile. ‘ Fucking finally .’
“Sure thing. Just give me a number.”
Henri smirks at this, finding something amusing in his words, mustache puffing a little when he scoffs.
“I don’t want your money, boy. Your butler has been quite generous with that.” He leans back into his office chair, squinting at Bruce with something akin to mischief in his eyes. A devilish spark.
Bruce frowns again, even more confused. What else could he want? What else could Bruce give ?
“What is it then?”
“Your mouth.”
Bruce feels his chest grow tighter, constricting his breath, as the meaning gets processed by his brain. He couldn’t possibly imply-
“What.” He doesn’t even realize he is whispering.
“Your mouth. On my dick. A blowjob, if that’s clearer for you. Head. The price is you, on your knees, sucking me off until I blow my load down your throat,” he says, purposefully dirty, seeing perfectly well how each word makes the younger man’s skin crawl.
Bruce’s blood first runs cold, then starts boiling. He clenches his jaw, lips pulled back in a fierce snarl. It’s not that he has never done this before. He too did a bit of fooling around back in high school. But the idea of selling this… service in exchange for- for anything, really, makes him feel queasy, weak and light-headed, his legs turning into cotton, like he is about to vomit. When he speaks, his voice more resembles a roar than human speech.
“How dare you even suggest -”
“I’m the one that sets the price here, darling. If you don’t accept my offer, well–” Henri has the audacity to look bored, examining his nails while offering Bruce to sell himself, “-you are free to go find another man that has both the detective skills to teach and the knowledge of where to find other teachers. Or you can search for the best of the best by yourself. Let’s see how that works out for you.”
Bruce pushes away from the desk, turns around and walks to the door with long, fast strides, fury incarnate. He puts his hand on the handle-
“Say ‘hi’ to your butler,” says the mocking voice from behind him. “He will be happy to see you back early.”
And he doesn’t forget to slam the door shut on his way out.
Bruce is lost. He has no idea how to even begin searching for another teacher, and has nothing left that he can learn on his own. His thoughts keep circling back to Henri and the knowledge he has to offer, and then revolting when recalling the man’s preferred form of payment. The idea alone makes him dig his nails into his flesh, trying to scratch the filthy feeling away together with skin.
He has been prowling the dark streets of Paris for the past few days, searching for trouble, his lack of direction making him restless, and restlessness in turn making him reckless. He was finding people to exchange punches with more nights than not, returning to the little place he found for himself at the crack of dawn, dripping blood all over the doormat’s “Smile!”
He wanted to try and get to the bottom of the Rana case, Ducard or not, but soon realized he lacked both information and skill. He has no access to any of the files and no one would talk to him about it. No one but-
No.
He shoos the thoughts of the man away as he once again broodily stalks dark alleys behind bars, hoping to find a problem or a few to solve. He knows, has known for years, that nothing distracts him from unpleasant feelings squirming in his chest quite as well as pain does. After all, it's hard to think clearly about anything when there are spots in his vision and ringing in his ears.
Maybe he does have a masochistic streak after all.
He does find what he was looking for: two burly men are bothering a petite young woman, one of them getting progressively more bold and handsy. It’s easy enough to pull their attention away from her with a simple, "Hé, foutez-lui la paix, bande de connards!"
Escalating from there into a physical confrontation is an easy, well-practiced deal.
Bruce’s lip is seeping red, his eyes still blurry from the way he hit the back of his skull against the concrete wall. Both men are knocked out cold, when the girl approaches him to express gratitude and ask if he needs help. She tells him the ambulance will be here soon, that she called the medics during the fight.
Her face seems familiar, but Bruce’s mind is muddled from the blows to his head, and he can’t quite place her. It doesn’t matter, as he would refuse help either way.
With a nod, he stumbles back towards his apartment, having just found and taken his tried and true sleep medicine. When he comes home, he crashes in his bed still clothed, his bruises lulling him into a dreamless sleep.
Her face and name, - Cécile Bonheur, - find him the very next evening, when he finally wakes up, on the page of his daily newspaper. Now that his world is not tilted, and his hearing isn’t filled with the sound of blood rushing through his veins, he easily remembers that this was one of the models that participated in the Rana advertisement campaign.
And whom her boyfriend found dead this morning. Dead from heart failure.
He spends a whole day doing nothing but simmering in his own guilt, mulling over and over how he could have saved her, if he just recognized her sooner, if he just fought better, if he just-
If he stayed with Ducard, they would have already found the culprit. There is no denying that they worked well together. Bruce might not have the detective skills yet, but he knows a myriad of different little subjects that he can put to use when guided by Henri. If not for his selfish pride, this girl would still be alive.
Is his dignity worth a life?
Bruce decides that it’s not.
He can’t allow himself to continue his self-pity fest. Waiting any longer means putting innocents in danger. ‘ Just suck it up already .’
He walks out of his flat in the evening, not even noticing the light drizzle. His palms are sweaty and shaking when he turns the key. Bruce holds himself from turning back as he waits for the elevator, anxiety telling him he forgot to close a faucet, or turn off the iron, despite knowing for a fact he didn’t. He checked everything thrice before he left.
Walking down the street feels surreal, his mind not quite connected to his body, thoughts drowned out by the sound of his pulse. He hits a red light on every crosswalk, each delay testing his resolve to follow through with his decision. He watches droplets slide down the traffic light, almost forgetting to cross the road, and nearly gets hit by a car in punishment. Bruce walks into a dead end two times, his mind too preoccupied with what he is about to do to pay attention to where he is going, his legs working on autopilot.
He becomes aware of where he is only once he is standing before the gray office door, hand numb on the handle. Bruce is frozen in place, looking at it but unable to turn it, his nerves spiking, prickling in his chest. He takes a deep breath to ready himself, yet still does nothing but slowly deflate back.
Just when he almost talks himself out of it, the door is pulled open. Henri looks down at him in a mild surprise and then his lips slowly pull into a smirk.
“Hello, sweetie. Came to pay?”
Bruce clenches his jaw, unable to meet the man’s eyes, and gives a stiff nod.
Ducard gives him a grin, grabs the lapels of his jacket and drags Bruce in.
‘ I shouldn’t have chosen slacks ,’ Bruce thinks distractedly as he settles on the floor before the office chair. His jacket is folded neatly on one of the chairs, leaving him in his blue dress shirt. The berber carpet digs into his knees uncomfortably. Henri raises his brow at him when he just sits there and looks at his lap.
“Need a special invitation?”
Bruce swallows with difficulty, wetting his suddenly dry mouth, before reaching with graceless fingers for the man’s fly. He struggles with the belt long enough for Henri to get impatient and deal with it on his own, and then pull his soft cock out.
With bated breath, Bruce touches his dick, feeling it twitch under his fingertips. Slowly, he moves his trembling fingers down and then up again, his touch feathery soft, gentle, timid. It’s not enough for Henri, who grabs his hand and makes it close into a tight fist around him. This way Bruce can feel it slowly filling with blood, the thrum of it against his palm. He doesn’t listen to the man’s pleased humm, tries to not pay him attention at all, just strokes it hurriedly until the cock is half-hard, before leaning in and taking the tip into his mouth, ignoring the salt of precum on his tongue.
“Wait, wait,” Henri puts his broad hand onto his hair, pushing him off, “No need to rush so much. Show some love first.”
Bruce glares up at the grinning man, but does as he is told. He touches his lips slowly to the head, giving it a kiss, and then licks a stripe up the length, pausing for a moment to suck lightly at the thin skin of the base, suffocating in the man’s odor. He spends some time lapping at it all over, getting it wet and dripping, peppering kisses here and there even as he feels bile burn his throat. He stubbornly swallows it down and continues, feeling the man’s hand tighten around his locks.
“That’s right, boy,” Henri exhales when Bruce sucks right under the head, getting pre smeared all over his cheek. Ducard thumbs at the wet spot and smears it further, smirking, “This look suits you.”
In petty retaliation, Bruce lets his teeth scrape against the man’s cock. The next moment, he is yanked away by his hair, his cheekbone stinging from a sharp slap.
“Stop being funny with me, slut,” Henri snarls at him, “You need me more than I need you.”
Bruce doesn’t get the luxury of respite before Henri’s thumb is pushed into his mouth and between his teeth, pulling at the corner of his lips uncomfortably. The cock is pushed none too gently into his held open mouth, the tip bumping into the back of his throat and making him gag. He scowls at the man through the fog of unbidden tears.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Henri grits out, before slowly pulling his thumb out. His other hand is still on the back of Bruce’s head.
Bruce takes a second to back away slightly from the intrusion, adjusting to it, before hollowing out his cheeks. He uses his hand to cover the part that doesn’t fit in his mouth, stroking in rhythm with his sucking, intent on getting this over with as fast as possible. He tries taking it deeper, but the choking feeling makes his heart rate skip in a spike of strangling fear, so he chooses instead to bob his head shallowly.
“Knew you could be a good boy for me,” Henri sighs in satisfaction when Bruce lets his cock bulge out his cheek, treating it like a lollipop.
The comment makes Bruce’s breath hitch, a wave of heat rolling down his spine and making his face redder. Mortified, Bruce hopes Henri doesn’t catch his reaction. Thankfully the man seems ignorant of the effect his off-hand comment had, his eyes closed in bliss. His chest rises heavier, and his hand is tightening in Bruce’s hair again, making him let out a smothered whine he can’t quite swallow.
The sound makes Henri open his eyes to look down at the younger man between his thighs, and Bruce feels his skin burning from the fiery lust of the look that's caressing him. Ducard pulls on his curls lightly, testing the waters.
“You like that?”
Bruce defiantly holds his gaze and doesn’t let out a sound even as his ears go red. Henri smiles, “I’m not surprised.”
He pulls harder, guiding his head lower down his length, another hand cupping Bruce’s jaw. Bruce allows him to move his head as he pleases, and places his hands on the man’s thighs, letting him do all the work by himself. He carefully keeps his teeth out of the way, as his mouth is used. Soon, Henri starts thrusting his hips as well, moving on from the almost lazy pace.
He gets more careless, shoving his dick harder and deeper, making Bruce choke on every stroke. Tears of exertion once again fill Bruce’s eyes, wetting his flaming face. He taps Henri’s thighs, but the man either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, forcefully stuffing Bruce’s throat. Bruce pats the man’s legs more urgently, feeling panic rise in his chest at the lack of air, but to no avail - Henri just pushes in to the hilt and keeps him there with a steel grip.
Bruce doesn’t feel the hot liquid pumping down his throat, nor does he hear Henri’s deep moan, doesn’t comprehend anything beyond the fact that he can’t breathe, that there is not enough air and he can’t get more, he is choking on something and can’t get away from it, he is choking and someone is holding him and he can’t breathe -
There are dark spots in his vision and his heart is racing when the air finally rushes back into his lungs, and he can’t do anything but gulp it greedily. He is distantly aware that Henri has grabbed his shirt and pulled him up and on top of his desk, too busy coughing to stop the hands unbuckling his belt.
He finally comes to when he feels calloused fingers prodding at his clit, and he suddenly realizes that Henri is crowding him against his work table, that he is mouthing at his neck, that his slacks and boxers are around his knees, hobbling him, and that one of the man’s hands is on his naked pussy.
“Wa-wait!” Bruce gasps and pushes with shaky hands at Henri’s broad shoulders. “We didn’t- That wasn’t-” He doesn’t get to finish as the other captures his lips in a brutal kiss, stealing the oxygen he just regained.
Fingers are rubbing and pinching insistently on his clit, almost bruising in their demand. Bruce can feel his nerves reluctantly responding to the harsh touch, thorns of pain and pleasure coiling slowly in the base of his pelvis. Ducard does something wicked with his fingers and Bruce feels his own whine vibrate in his throat.
Henri cruelly bites his lower lip, and at the same time pushes his middle finger inside. Bruce is soaked: his mouth is wet with blood, his eyes - with tears, his cunt - with rising desire. Everything is too much and he still doesn’t have enough air for his brain to function properly. He can’t quite wrap his head around what is happening and how he got there, can only feel a second finger steadily shoves in besides the first one until it yields.
It’s too much, fingers too thick, intrusion too painful, Bruce’s budding arousal not nearly enough to negate the discomfort. It’s been awhile since he touched himself, too focused on his training to pay attention to his baser needs, neglect making his hole too tight. The stretch burns, making Bruce jerk away from the man’s hands, but Henri pulls away from the kiss to lick instead at his nipple - when did he unbutton his shirt?! - and the sweet feeling makes the ache abate. Bruce still tries to squirm out from beneath the man, but he just pushes him harder into the wood.
At least he can breathe again, and the man stopped hurrying so much. Henri’s digits are slowly but surely opening him up, thumb playing with his clit, as his other hand is leaving bruises on Bruce’s waist with the force of his grip. The man sure has had plenty of hands-on experience, curling his fingers just so . It makes the fight slowly drain out of Bruce, replacing it with need. He is still conflicted, but his delirious mind whispers to him that getting a handjob out of this isn’t that bad of a deal, even if it’s not what they had previously agreed on. With every moment he finds it harder to remember why it’s a bad idea.
Ducard doesn’t allow him to get too lost in thought, now using both hands on his cunt. One hand is playing with his clit, pulling and pinching and stroking in tact with the other’s building pace. Pleasure is overwhelming, and almost on instinct Bruce tries to close his thighs to protect himself from the too intense stimulation. Henri frowns at him.
“Be a good boy-” with one arm he pushes his thighs up towards his chest and then returns to his ministrations, “-hold them there for me.”
Again, these simple words flow through Bruce like molten gold, encasing his mind further in hazy lust. He can’t stop his moan, doesn’t really try to. It makes Henri smile down at him - Bruce doesn’t have the faculties to understand if it’s indulgence or condescending he sees on the man’s face - and fuck his wet hole more vigorously.
“That’s right, you are being such a good slut for me.” He pushes the third finger in, careful this time. “I knew you would be. So tight. So pretty. Can’t wait to ruin you.”
Bruce isn’t listening to the words, too caught up in the way the three thick fingers are pushing his walls apart. He can feel his crest approaching fast, and can only whine and whimper in agreement with whatever it is Ducard is saying.
It doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Oh, sweetie, you are gone , aren’t you? You’ll agree with anything I say, won’t you?” Henri smirks, his grin growing wider when he hears a gasp of agreement. “You are a whore. Dirty whore, selling your body for a dream that can’t come true. You don’t even need this. You have more money than you can spend in a lifetime and yet here you are, letting me use your body however I please for nothing .” He speeds up his movements. “And you are enjoying this .”
Bruce reaches his peak in that exact moment, slick gushing all over his partner’s hand and desk, limbs trembling. Henri continues thrusting through his orgasm, until Bruce relaxes in a shivering puddle.
In his groggy post orgasmic bliss Bruce lets Henri move his unresponsive body however he pleases. He feels the man roll him over onto his stomach, his stiff legs back on the ground. He can’t quite find his purchase and would have slid off the table and onto the floor if not for the firm hand on his hips.
He feels grateful for the support for exactly three seconds, because on the fourth he feels the blunt tip pushing against his still wet entrance.
“No!” Bruce cries out, trying to push the man away, hit him, scratch him up, but he is too tired and weak, and this position doesn’t offer much freedom of movement, and his legs are still restricted by his slacks. His blood runs cold when he feels the head slip into his stretched hole. “Stop!”
The man pays his struggling no attention, slowly but inexorably pushing deeper and deeper until he finally bottoms out with a satisfied groan. The weight and drag of his cock is like sandpaper on Bruce’s overstimulated flesh. He sobs, in frustration and anger.
“This wasn’t the deal,” he growls, voice hoarse.
“Oh shut up, you whore. Stop pretending you don’t like it. You just came all over my fingers for fuck’s sake,” the man says derisively, and starts a harsh pace, as if to make a point. “I’m pretty sure you will love this even more.”
Bruce doesn’t have the strength or the will left to continue fighting, too exhausted and sensitive, so he lets the man have him, and hopes that it ends quickly. He feels resignation settle in his aching heart. This isn’t how he imagined his first time would be. But those dreams seem quite stupid now. After all, everything that’s dear to him is always taken away.
Ducard sets a hard and fast tempo from the start, clearly worked up and chasing his own high. His rough thrusts keep nailing Bruce into the hard surface, and he is sure there will be bruises where his thighs are repeatedly hitting the edge of the desk. He is still in his refractory period and feels nothing but an uncomfortable stretch and a raw pain in his overworked nerves. He feels like crying, but his eyes are dry.
Bruce looks absently around the office, trying to find a distraction that can keep his mind occupied for long enough, and his gaze lands on the cork board. There the photos of the victims are still hanging. ‘ That’s right ,’ Bruce thinks, ‘ This is why I’m here. To help them. I have to bear this. Think of this as a test .’
This thought is the straw he clutches at that helps him ignore the discomfort and the pain and the anger and the sadness and soldier on.
That is, until he feels Henri’s movements start to falter.
“Wait! Henri, not inside! I’m not-” Bruce feels the thick and warm cum filling his pussy, “-on birth control...”
Ducard is hunched over him, breath heavy and slowly regaining his senses. He pushes his sweaty hair out of his eyes, stumbles away and shoots Bruce a tired but satisfied grin.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Couldn’t help it, you felt so good. Just buy the pill, I will reimburse you tomorrow.”
“No need,” Bruce grits out and unsteadily stands upright as well. He refuses to look at the man as he hastily pulls his clothes on. He feels the man’s come drip out, staining his boxers. The feeling makes him itch, and he wants to go to the office bathroom and scrape it all out until he bleeds, but he wants to leave this accursed place even more.
“See you tomorrow, boy,” he hears from behind him as he limps into the night, his neatly folded jacket forgotten.
The thud of the door closing echoes in his little apartment, draining him of all the energy he had left in him. Bruce slides down the wall and onto the doormat’s “Smile!”, his hand clutching his Plan B pill in a death grip. He feels strangely empty, all emotions drowned out by the soreness and fatigue. There is nothing left of the storm that was raging in him not even an hour ago, only a freezing void and the desire to scrub his skin off.
He doesn’t know how long he sits on his dirty rug, but eventually he crawls over into the scalding shower and runs it until the water goes cold, and then runs it some more, until it becomes hard to flex his limbs. He wonders idly as he watches the water stream down the tiles, if his assumption was right. After all, if you can’t break what is already broken, why does it feel like shards are ripping his skin open?
He doesn’t bother with bringing coffee and lunch the next day; he barely convinces himself to go at all. He can’t stomach anything anyway, the only thing sustaining him are the thoughts of Cécile, of her untimely death, and of catching whoever did it. It makes him push through the nausea, aches and dread that he feels crushing him more and more with every step back to that damned place.
He stands before the office, and once again feels frozen, hand on the handle but unable to turn it. Seconds tick by, and he stalls, terrified of what will happen once he is inside. He almost turns around and leaves when the gray door is pulled inside, and Henri smiles down at him, his shameless eyes checking out his form.
“I liked the slacks better,” the man comments, before stepping aside to let Bruce in. Bruce doesn’t respond.
The first thing he notices is the cork board. The photos are new.
“Oh,” he says. “New case?’
“Mm? Ah, yes. The heiress of a business empire is missing, our job is to find her. What we know so far is-"
“What about the Rana case?”
“Rana? That’s old news. I solved the case two days ago. Turns out the designer was jealous over the photographer that took the photos for the ad campaign and sent the models clothes covered in a modified form of batrachotoxin, seemingly as a gift for participation. She was a huge frog nerd, you should have seen her house–”
Bruce doesn’t hear the rest, his hearing filled with white noise. Suddenly, he feels like crying.