#sandboxwriting

[garticnebula]

Addiction

she lets out a exhale, the smoke leaving her chipped lips as it dances into the wind, unable to do anything she stares and watches, the clear fog slowly evaporating around her, creating a halo of pain around her body. giving the stick a flick she looks at the sky, soft patters of rain running down her face.

Continuing to inhale the only light around her comes from the devilish red hue from her shortened life, that sharp yet addictive pain goes down her throat into her lungs like thorns, her head fuzzy and spinning overdosing but too careless to stop, unable to do anything else but smoke away what remains of her sanity. The stick is halfway done, yet despite that she keeps her lighter close, packet in her other hand she prepares another, waiting for this harmful yes blissful moment to end.

Her head feels like shit, but what else is she meant to do? The only release apart from the bottom of a bottle had turned into an addiction she can't help but hate, despite that she remains unable to live without it, this isn't the life she wanted but the one she created for herself, it looms over her, the white smoke clouding her body and mind, masking what she had truly wanted.

As the rain continues to pour, a single droplet dislights her obsession. the darkness grasping over her body. For a moment, she is by herself, finally able to see clearly despite the light around her vanishing.

Opening her lighter, she reignites the flame, continuing her obsession.

[garticnebula]

The evil king finds out that the party is doing, more and more elaborate and dangerous shit to try to reach them instead of just fucking scheduling some time like everyone else can in his kingdom and leaves to follow them because *how the fuck are these people still alive, WHY are they still alive?!*

Was scrolling through AO3 and found this gem

Enemy to parent is a trope we have to popularise lmao

[garticnebula]

why hadn't I done this sooner.

'You'll regret this!! I swear someone like you should have never bee-' As you slam the door you fix your backpack, bike beside you, you get on and start riding away into the distance, leaving that heartless home.

As you cycle and cycle you go past your life, childhood memories of a life that wasn't yours, one you hadn't wanted yet forced yourself into for the sake of obedience and fear of those around you. the only fondness you have being the cover under your sheets. Even then something so simple only lasted a short while. As you get to the outskirts of the town you look behind you, if only for a moment.

'It's not too late to turn back y'know, she'll be mad but the minimal you'd get is no food for a week. We've had worse.' For a second you genuinely consider the offer, if you brought back booze and said it was for you, at least you wouldn't be hit that night either, not that she wouldn't in the morning.

As you continue to consider the offer, that gnawing headache returns, ever since you 'fell' several times yesterday it hasn't left, and your vision has been blurry but it's alright, some rest will make it past, but it's enough to change your mind, one foot down and your riding down the hill, leaving behind the tumor you've bore all your life. You thought about doing this for several years, always wondering how thrilling and exiting it'd be but right now, nothing. Your only thought is of sleep and food.

You continued to cycle for a few hours, weary with your stomach demanding any form of nourishment. Taking refuge in the forest you stared at for years you hide your bike and eat the leftovers you managed to scurry away, it isn't much but it should help the night at least. pulling out your half-beaten guitar you start to play softly, a old habit to not disturb the house. The guitar is battered chipped and covered in repairs, in the bottom you carved 'Theseus', it wasn't much but it gave you a smirk at time to time, the amount of duck tape and glue used impressed even you with the fact it still played.

It's cold but bearable, your playing slowly lulling you to bed beside a tree, giving you shelter from the rain forming slowly, as your eyes close you wonder had it truly been this easy all along? Why hadn't you done it sooner? And better yet, are you going to be strong enough to not return tomorrow. That thought scares you but as your breathing slows, your mind is drifted into slumber. For now, you need rest.

[garticnebula]

also for those wondering i will be using this to share dumbass thoughts and writing sometimes, it depends entirley on my mood because theyre my funky little guys and ill take no insults on them, but at the same time mmmmmmm wrtigin for people feel god

[garticnebula]

They stand before the judge. No jury. No prosecution nor attorney. Simply them self, facts and the cold truth of their sentence. They tried all their life to escape such things and yet now. Even after all they've done. After all the mistakes they had regret, without a single word. They knew their verdict. They knew the ending that awaited them, the sins of the past where the last thing they wished to ignore and forget.

The judge had announced them guilty, and to forever damnation, and with the verdict now announced.

The blind to the mirror close.

[garticnebula]

omg breastie saaame

[garticnebula]

Tick..

Tick..

Tick..

Click.

The boys arms started to move, his bones and muscles twisting and warping in ways he wasn't used to.

Rip.

Rip.

Snap!

A faint cry and whimper fills the empty halls but despite the soundless whimpers going nowhere, his ears burst from the overwhelming noise, despite this the clock-screw on his back continue to move, the sutures on his mouth and eyes muffled all but the quietest noise he could make.

The strings continued to pull and contort away, ripping and shredding his body in ways he couldn't imagine. The clock-screw being the only thing keeping him alive. This cycle of life and death had went on longer than he cared to count, but every reset only got worse, the time apart only being enough to numb the pain of the last reset, but never fully rid the pain.

The screw continued to turn.

The screw is slowly stopping

Please don't let the screw stop I don't want this anym..

With their last breath the cycle continues.

[garticnebula]

The young girl walked through the forest, humming ever so faintly, the trees providing shade from the sun, with the wind ensuring she isn't too cold. as she continued down the grass path, different types of flowers had started to bloom, some purple, yellow, red, white, spread out asymmetrically where the sun beamed brightest.

She continued onward for around ten minutes, reaching a cliffside above a beach and sea. it was closed off due to inaccessibility, the only real way being to swim/boat from the river beside the highway that, but that was a two hour drive just to simply get here on road, let alone walking or swimming.

As she sat down on the swing she reached into her bag, pulling out a small pink notepad and a various set of pencils that she used to sketch with, she had been working on this view for a few days now and wanted to get every single detail down to even the smallest of rocks that she could see.

'When do you think this'll be finished by?' She looked to the side at a a nameless gravestone, old and withered but she had been keeping it clean and kept upright with some difficulty. she had gathered up some of the local flowers, only taking a handful at a time and placed them beside the tombstone, she did this few weeks or so, making sure there was never a withered flower in sight, the ones that had started to wilt she had turned into an incense she burned whenever she was beside the tombstone.

The nameless stranger had always kept her company whilst she drew. She couldn't explain it but, felt at peace when around it. She considered herself lucky when she found this place by accident after getting lost one day at school, it took her a few hours to even get back but she remembered the way back here after a few tries and some land marks she placed here or there.

Looking up at her now completed sketchbook she turned and compared it to the sight, a near perfect match, all it needed was some more shading and she'd be finished but, the sun had started to set, so she placed her stuff down beside the tombstone which where beneath a tree, providing protection from the elements.

'I'll see you tomorrow, thanks for letting me bother you!' with a hop she got up and walked back into the forest, exited for the next day when she could come back.

[garticnebula]

Tw: Mentions of self harm, themes of depression and a general darker theme than usual.

the soft melody of piano echoed out throughout the boys mind, an endless rhythm of torment he wouldn't be able to escape.

He stared at the shattered mirror, different reflections staring at him, multiple eyes of one fractured being in a state of endless judgement left him unable to see clearly. with the scissors to his right he picked them up..

Vision became blurry, a warm liquid dripped down his cheek before a searing agony, however most of the mirror had vanished, but he could still see those eyes, he could still feel them looking at him, judging. And despite the emotionless face it appeared to be, their smiles and laughs where quiet enough for everyone to hear.

'JUST SHUT UP ALREADY, SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!'

darkness. stillness, and yet the pain still continued, blood now dripping into the boys mouth, coagulating on his nose prevented any form of calm breathe. The faces where gone however the laughter still remained, he couldn't take it he wouldn't take it, he didn't deserve this.

raising the scissors again he plunged them forward he screamed in agony, but this pain was worth it he told himself, he needed to go through this if he wanted it to stop, as he pulled the blade out slowly ripping and tearing could be felt, but the silence was blissful, as if a relief had been washed over him. Despite this, he could still hear the laughter, he knew they where still looking at him.

'I don't want to live like this I don't WANT to be like this, JUST LEAVE ME ALONE ALREADY!!'

silence. Nothingness calmed his mind, that soft ripping, that blissful abyss he now lived in, the only thing he could hear where the sound of his own thoughts, and nothing else. So why, why can he still feel those eyes looking at him, why can he still hear that laughter echoing throughout his room.

Why can I still feel them staring at me...

[garticnebula]

TW: Heavy implications of depression, swearing and other such things. this was a stress write, so I apologise if it is more uncomfortable than anything else I have posted.

I close my eyes as I look around, sitting in my room to try and imagine my own space, how my life looks through my own eyes. Yet all I imagine is sitting down in a car at late night, I'm driving down a highway and the radio is busted, there isn't another car nor thing alive around, the only thing breaking the silence being the rain ever so softly dripping onto the top of my car, I can't see out the windows, only the front, which often gets either clouded or covered in rain, making it hard to drive, I pull my foot off the pedals yet we still go, my hand's are glued to the car, only able to turn left or right. I try and try and try to break free yet, I can never seem to do it.

I can't move, only look out the front window. It stays like this for a few hours before I hear a soft humming, coming from the back seat. Whenever I go to look at the mirror, my eyes are instantly shot back forward. I'm told no peaking, that I don't deserve to see their face, and I'm lucky they're even talking to me, and I should feel the same with everyone in my life yet, I show no emotion, or sign of conversation. The only time I'm allowed to move my hand off the wheel is to light a cigarette for him, and occasionally myself, alongside a cup of cheap coffee. The smoke is thick, and makes seeing out the window even harder. But yet I still drive aimlessly. For what reason? I can feel my hands shaking, my fingertips numb from the cold. Yet I do nothing.

All the whilst I can hear his shit eating grin, or is it a her? I never know, the voice is too monotone, yet raspy. It's so distinct yet I can't ever place my finger on it, I know I've met them, but where. Where did I meet them, Why can't I remember them

Every thought runs through my head like a train, the only thing breaking it being they're laughter, my struggle to place even a point on my questions having seemed to amuse them. They tell me if I've forgotten, it's clear they didn't matter to me as much as I had said, and that Even by forgetting their name, I already broke our promise, yet despite all this information I CAN'T REMEMBER, WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER??? IT'S JUST ONE FUCKING NAME, ONE NAME IS ALL I NEED FOR THIS TO BE OVER THEN I CAN STOP THIS FUCKING CHARADE ON MYSELF BUT NO I CANT EVER FUCKING REMEMBER AND EVERYTIME I GET CLOSE. I LOOSE IT. All I wan't to do is remember again like everyone else does. All I want is to fill a fucking promise I don't even remember, I don't care what it is, I need to fill my end.

As my hand tightens again the wheel, I try to open my eyes but they get heavier.

I'm told I can't leave without their permission, and that I don't deserve to leave, no, no that's not right, I don't deserve nor want to leave. And as much as i hate to admit it, they're right. Even if my head hurts from being here, It's nothing compared to when my eyes are open. So I keep them closed, trying oh so hard to stay here to figure out they're name.

But as soon as I get close. I wake up, on my side, I passed out, and did it as soon as I shut my eyes

A dream, a fucking dream. ALL OF THAT WAS A FUCKING DREAM YET IT'S STILL BETTER THAN THE PIECE OF SHIT WRITING I'M STUCK IN, NO RUBBER TO ERASE ANY WRONGS, NO PEN OR PAPER TO WRITE MY OWN SCRIPT, NO. NO I'M STUCK HERE, FORCED TO WATCH MY OWN STORY AS IF I'M LOOKING THROUGH SOMEONE ELSES EYES.

All I want is for my eyes to be closed, and go back to that dream. At least then, I can predict the writing, and I know the show. If I'm back there, I know the beginning, middle and end. I don't care if it hurts, it's still better than being here, stuck behind a desk with only paper and pen to be my form of answers from people that don't exist and lives I can only dream of having, problems I created in order to make the perfect bittersweet character.

It's funny. I make promises from time to time with people, and yet only four have any meaning to me, and two of them are too far gone for me to ever dream of keeping, yet I still fucking keep hope so that one day they return. And I can fix the mess I made so when they fucking leave again, the goodbye doesn't hurt. If they came back for even a fucking second, I could apologise and actually fucking mean it instead of when it where convenient for me, or when they told me I had to, at least then the goodbye wouldn't hurt so much, at least then that chapter could finally close with words, not an ugly mess of an unfilled page, at least then I could actually fucking tell them that I still love them, and still care for them but no, I had to be a fucking asshole and ruin all of it when I KNEW IT WAS PERFECT, ALL BECAUSE THE STORY GOT PREDICTABLE, SO I DECIDED TO RUIN THE ONE FUCKING THING I GOT RIGHT, AND FUCK UP THE FIRST PERSON WHO EVER CARED ABOUT ME PROPERLY.

It's funny yknow? I where surrounded by people, good people I could call friends yet I had never felt like I weren't alone around them. The only time I feel any form of true

pleasure now is when I'm writing another character, or adding onto my other ones before them, or reading and remembering the joy I felt whilst writing them.

[garticnebula]

I look around, staring at the courtroom around me. The peoples faces covered by perfroming masks, some happy, some sad. I cant make out what they're saying. Only whispers and mumurs.

I look down at myself, scrappy raggs and a chain connnected to a metal pole in the middle of this circus.

My Ankles and wrists where bruised and cut from the harsh metal. My body beaten and bruised from the torment it had been through. A busted eyelid made it hard to see. I look upwards at the judge. Their face unlike the others.

where staring at myself, no thats not right. I where staring at my real self, my own mind casting judgement upon my soul. A hammer slams down on the table as everyone hushes. Now staring forward at the cherry oak desk. My head where racing, and vision still blurry as a guard walks over, cutting my eyelid slightly.

Pain, then blood, then a cloth, and then finally, proper sight. There where someone in the witness stand, a girl with long blond hair, moved to one side, and bright brown eyes. Their skin looked like percaline. However questioning them, where another version of them, looking directly at me. This time, their skin where cracked. As if it where about to shatter.

My head hurt, my ears rang and i couldnt make any sense of this situation. After ten or so minutes of trying to gather my thoughts, and hear even a slight bit of voice, the hammer once again slams down.

The room, from the little i could hear, had went silent. The one word i hear, out of all this mess,

guilty, as the monitor goes flat.

[garticnebula]

Solstice; 226.

I did it.. I found meat akin to that of our cattle. Whilst it's an exotic meat Boar tastes exactly like our neshulta, albeit more juicy and slightly tender. Furthermore eating it raw is more.. displeasing than I remember, however from what I'm aware, the taste buds of this flesh are more akin to cooked meats. Which admittedly was pleasant to try, I'm used to the process, however only to tenderise the meat for children, or to remove poison.

It is somewhat pathetic, is it not? Even the way I feel has changed dramatically. Furthermore these, feelings inside me are so much more.. expressive than I am used to, whilst I keep a calm face, it feels like my heart is a tulpanka, beating and drumming inside my chest, feeling a burning hot mess, or calm, yet I know not how to truly describe these feelings. The only form of clarity I have received is the knowledge I may one-day return home. Yet even that thought is starting to lose hope, yet I continue to venture on, I can't loose hope if I'm to see my loved one again.. I need to return home...

Apologies, this seems to got a little, well. I wish I knew how to describe this, unpleasantness. But regardless, I need to ignore such useless things and focus on my work, not worry about how some idiotic animal tastes. Once I return home I will toast inside of my tavern again by myself, with my books and potions. I need not things like emotion or fondness tainting my mindset. I will return at a later date and inform of my findings.

[garticnebula]

Solstice 225:

Hello again, I have made some new discoveries, and learned some things of which I'd like to share with yourselves, if given the chance; Whilst also explaining some other things about my people.

As stated last time, I'm of a tribe called the Discovax, we're bug-like people stated in your tongue, with attributes akin to that to a spider, whilst having the benefits of both an exoskeleton and muscle, there also comes problems between it. Most children do not survive as they cannot control their own body, usually tearing their muscles apart, the lucky ones would snap their spine and die instantly. Though the ones who do manage, such as myself are incredibly fast learners. We're granted the ability to produce our own poison, or remedy if you so choose. This ensures infighting conflict can be resolved without any major death, though doing so takes a toll on our energy, and we need rest for long periods of time.

Regardless. I have done some.. experimenting with the flesh-walking skin, and made some profound discoveries, whilst incapable of consuming energy via other means such as sunlight nor those around them, they are able to secrete a fluid to which cools their body down, allowing one to run vast distances without ever needing to stop, the only limiter seeming to be ones pain threshold, and the condition of ones own muscle.

Furthermore; the tone in which one speaks is also important, if done incorrectly, you are capable of sounding 'rude' however too much energy and you will sound condescending, your looks and body action are also taken into account, this form of communication is to trivial yet complex. why have they not upgraded to more efficient means; It's as if they are incapable of reading each others thoughts, nor accurately portray them. How did this species survive for so long? And with so few generations..

Their technology is also so advanced and yet.. primitive in the means of which they use them, the concept of putting ones own mind into a machine such as this is saw as impossible, and yet entirely possible with enough resources, of which I've come to learn this planet does not have, and is rather lacking in other more sustainable forms, the only other issue I have however is the amount of in fighting, as if they want to slaughter their own kind for nothing more than their own benefit. Yes war can be beneficial and yet.. they do it so aimlessly.

One good thing I seemed to have found is their cultures and folklore, despite being merely children in my eyes, their stories are nothing short but things to marvel at, a few of the species I recognise, albeit with different names and a few misconceptions, however it is comforting knowing a few familiar things here, maybe I will go out and seek for such beings. to see if they know of a way home out of this wretched body. Another welcome surprise to myself was the availability of things such as books, and more impressively, paper. such a rare material turned into a mere child's plaything. if I must say, it's rather astonishing in my opinion.

I have not yet shared all I've learned, though I believe the next place to look will be animal and plant-life. Such things are vital to learn for emergency and survival situations.

For now, I bid you all Adieu. And I thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Casper Levora.

[garticnebula]

my body where light as a feather, drifting endlessly, this unending chasm of white where as lifeless as my eyes, sunken and as hollow as this blinding lackluster pigment.

How long had I been here? How long had well, eterinity lasted? I sometimes get glimpses to my life before, but how I ended up here escapes me, as if this void itself had entered my very being, sucking out all I hold dear.

I'm aware I had a lover, that much I know to be true, but their scent.. Their look, even their voice vanishes like the wind, forever leaving my train of thought, as trying to imagine a new colour.

I sometimes hear voices in this place, really, I do. This is not a confession of madness or mental sickness, but an observation. It has came to my knowledge that this emptiness is not a where, but a who. A question I am yet to answer, and with every attempt leads to more questions, far more than my brain can ponder at once.

This vast emptiness, it is my desert of sorry and forever lonliness, and yet. Serves also as my companion, my everything. I would even at times go far to call it that of a lover, forever with me, forever by my side, as if a siren had called to me, trying to enhant me with her words and lure me away into her grasps.

And yet despite how much I ignore the sirens' call, I can never truly fully ignore it, Like a cat I find myself curious, often returning to listen for but a few moments and yet that is when I run, trying to convinve myself that it's but its lethal fangs trying to plung hemselves into my neck and drain all I am to make myself but a mere puppet for it to do its bidding till the end of time.

And yet I cannot help but play the devil's advocate, and try to justify its work, sure one may consider this abyss' call one of horror and evil, it is also merely it's own nature, never to understand the defenition of good or evil, only to understand the same goal I wish to do, survive.

And yet I still breath, despite being in the belly of the beast, unconsumed nor torn to shreds, as if I had also been forgotten, like a doll a child has became tired and bored of, a present they would only use for an hour or two, then thrown for the rest of eternaty.

I have noticed other changes too, of course. I find my mind loosing itself, in either distantless wander or spaces for longer periods of time, alongside my senses. As of current i'm incabable of moving my feet anymore. Or am I, and have I merely forgotten the feeling of ground? How long have I been subjected to this tourment, how long have I been moving, or haven't I moved at all?

My mind is racing, and I can only feel the occasional bumping of my heart and yet, I can feel oxygen entering my lungs, like a needle to a baloon they wish to explode with every inhale, my throat feels stiff and my eyes dry. How long has it been since I last blinked? Everytime I do so, atleast when I think I do so, I still see nothing but that blinding nothingness, that lack of even the slightest bit of colour.

Infact, on closer inxpection, I cannot even see myself. What do I look like? What do I sound like? Who am I.. Why can I no longer remember..

Out Of Story; Ok!! I had alot of fun writing this, I was doing a lil something with a friend and the topic of writing about nothingness came up, we had to do 500 words with the condition we couldnt take back anything, the most you could do was like half a sentence, granted I did 608 but we aren't in school so a bit more is A-Ok!! Anyways I highly reccomend all people who wanna write to do sandbox more, writing without prompts or ideas is so much fun, even if it's just me who enjoys this then it's still good in my eyes ^^

[garticnebula]

Solstice 211;

I awoken in a strange new land. not like the one I'm used to, it has been a few weeks since then and I'm yet to report anything, nor make a log, to which I'll do so now.

My name is Casper Levora, I'm a bug-folk, though in this world seem to partake more of a human form. I was 27, and still believe myself to be. My height is 5'6. Regardless, I need to keep track of what's most important.

I come from a land named nertialn, my people were the discovax tribe. A mixture of bug-kin such as myself. Though there were hardly ever five of the same, as for myself. I was a spider-folk. And as the name implies had certain attributes to my brothers, such as an exoskeleton. Though come recently I've since lost that and adapted a kin to a flesh-walkers body.

this place I appear to be in is more advanced than my own, and yet so behind. sights, smells, sounds. All of this is so new and different, so many to see. So many unknown and yet. Each one feels more familiar than the last, as if I've experienced it before.

And yet, these bodies. their forms of communication, so tribal. Have they not yet discovered other more productive means? and their bodies.. so fragile, and yet adaptable. Is this how they survived all these years?

But I need to return to the important questions, such as how I got here, what happened, where are my kin? Can I go home? Where would home be?.. This is far too much to unravel in one mere day, more exploration is needed. However I feel as if this body withers fast, akin to one of a flowers. Beauty incarnate and yet. It's bloom will last for a mere blink. I need to hurry, I will update this soon, for now I bid adieu.

[garticnebula]

It was 21:35, and Detective Johnson had been investigating the murder of a thirty six year old woman named Emily Hambell. She had lived in the streets of Boston for most of her life and had gotten to know a few people due to working in the local bar named The Last Drop. 

She worked as a barista during the dayshift, occasionally doing work for the nightshift to fill in for the other worker, Christopher Endrix. A boy twelve years younger than her, he is known for being a charmer and often flitting with guests to get extra work, though he would often run his mouth to married women and knew when to hold his tongue. 

Johnson walked into the bar. The familiar smell of coffee and whisky had almost immediately filled his nostrils, along with the smell of cigarette smoke soon after. Even with the pleasant smell of coffee, the smoke was almost burning his throat, but he had gotten used to it. Taking off his coat and hat, he placed them beside the hanger as they almost immediately began to drip into the small drain placed at the bottom for such occasions. 

"Detective, welcome. Is there anything I can get you?" 

The old gentleman gave the detective a warm yet formal smile. Alexander Richards was the successor to the bar after his late father had died. 

"Alex, it's a pleasure to see you again. and the usual, please." 

The detective sat down on a stool in front of the barista, placing his phone and notepad to the side. The pages were filled with half-notes and half-scribbles of frustration and boredom. Letting out a small sigh, he looked around the bar, noticing the old barista weeping by his lonesome. 

"Endrix isn't here again, I see. I thought he wasn't a man for sickness." 

Alexander slid the brown-haired male a small glass of whisky with a small ice cube inside of it. 

"He hasn't been here for three days now, nor as he phoned ill. I fear for that poor boy, especially after what happened. "The barista looks down, cleaning the rest of the glasses set aside by customers that had left a while ago. 

"I'm surprised you decided to say open; considering what happened to your last employee, do you not fear someone may be targeting the bar, or better yet, yourself?" 

The barista took a sip of the whisky, which had been banned. He had never liked the police or turned down a good drink or friend. Sure, he could have turned this place in, and for a pretty pocket too, but, well. The old geezer had more than a good drink to offer the detective. 

"I doubt that; you know the rules of the bar better than anyone who may come here. The fact that you respect them is the only reason I let you in, detective. However, circumstances seem to change with time." 

Richards adjusted himself onto the table, pouring himself a smaller glass, and fixed his glasses not long after. 

"If someone truly wishes to take over the bar, then they must be part of the family; otherwise, it is shut down and demolished, along with any information about it." 

Johnson turned to face Alexander, sliding his now-empty glass to the barista. Despite all attempts, the owner had never given out information for free. And Richards knew damn well he'd curl over before he could pry a single word from the man. 

"I see. So it would be safe to assume I could visit your employee's house for the investigation, then? I assume you'd have no worries about that if I gained their consent, no?" 

The man silently turned to face the detective, picking up the glass before refilling it and sliding it alongside to the detective.

"May I ask what you are trying to imply, detective?" Surley, you mean not to say my own employee would kill one of their own? That would go against the law and the rules. We give information to those who seek it for the right price, and we offer people drinks to either try and forget their days or to unwind said days. nothing more, nothing less." 

Richards held the glass but refused to drink out of it. looking the barista in the eye. 

"And yet, during Miss Emily's murder, he claims he was inside the bar, yet none of the locals had seen him, nor had any of the shop owners beside us. Do you not find it strange that he would try to lie, especially considering she was his own blood."

The old man grumbled to himself, though it had been too quiet for the detective to make any sense of what he was saying. 

"I do find it strange, yes. Even moreso, he refuses to answer or pick up his phone, but once again, I must ask why you think he killed his own sister and, better yet, his own applicant." 

Johnson reached into his upper pocket, pulling out a small bloodstained hankerchief. It was white with blue squares going all around it, and in the middle, the embroidery of a teardrop could be seen through the coagulated blood. It was the same insignia the bar used for all of their employees. 

"This belongs to Christopher, does it not?" He slid the full glass back to Richards. 

"Where did you get that hankerchi?" Before he could finish his sentence, Johnson cut him off as Alexander grabbed the glass, poured it out, and filled it with fresh whisky and an ice cube. Giving it to the male. 

"It was on the body of Miss Hambell, covering the blade inserted into her heart. Before I could grab the blade, however, the police had shown up, hence my inability to present it to you." He grabbed the glass, refreshing his throat before he continued to speak. 

"Now then, may you tell me why the dagger that also belonged to Mr. Endrix was inserted into the woman's heart? I could only look, but it had the initials C.E. Finley etched into the handle and blade." 

The barista turned his back towards the detective, polishing off a few of the whisky bottles he kept underneath the bottom shelf. 

"A few of my men had seen Endrix inside the bar during the day shift. He was covering for Miss Hambell; she said she had to go to the doctor and had a date with the man she wished to wed." The barista placed the bottle back, resting his back against the table in front of him, facing the man. 

"Being a gentleman, I of course agreed and gave her the day off under the rules that she would try and double the sales by the end of the week. With her charm, it wouldn't have been a problem, only somewhat tiring for her." 

"During the day, she had been murdered at nine fifteen at night; can you explain his absence for the night shift?" 

"Mr. Endrix had asked me to keep watch of the nightshift for him; he said he had done his rund today and would turn in any overtime he needed to get back into the bar. I wasn't busy, so I agreed." 

The bartender gave a soft chuckle, grabbing his keys to lock up for the night. 

"However, a few associates had told me they saw him entering the brothel two streets down via the backalley at around six; what happened afterward, however, I cannot say." 

"I see, well then. I thank you for the drinks, and I'll give payment via the same method as last time. Is that ok?" 

Richards had locked up all of the cubards at this point, grabbing a small candle to prepare for the night. 

"That's quite alright, detective, and do stay safe. I wouldn't want such a well-paying customer to get hurt now, would I?" He gave a somewhat chuckle to the thought, leaning against the counter. 

"Of course not, good night, Alexander. Thank you for the drinks." 

"Good night, Detective."