Silent Gods

Time had stretched like a shadow lengthening on a wall.

Ksenia had been in the clinic for six weeks. Six weeks of sleepless nights, of crises that faded like waves breaking on the shore, of days that followed one another like beads of

a rosary no one counted anymore. Her body — which had endured hunger, thirst, the desperation of the desert — was now slowly learning to stand on its own without the help

of anything.

The monster inside her was not dead. But it had fallen asleep. For now.

Cassandra's visits had become a ritual, marked with almost military precision: every afternoon, between one investigation and another, an hour stolen from the FOID to sit

beside that narrow bed, to watch the bruises fade week after week until they disappeared completely, to listen to Ksenia recount, with an ever-steadier voice, the small progress

of each day — a whole night slept without nightmares, a meal finished without having to fight against the nausea of a body readjusting to functioning on its own.

But the evenings, the ones they were used to, belonged to another life.

---

Cassandra had been at her desk since before eight, the guitarist's file open before her, the now-cold coffee forgotten beside the keyboard. Leo had left her a report on possible

correspondences with ancient Mesopotamian cults linked to suffocation spirits — a fragile lead, but the only one they had.

She was absorbed in those pages when there was a knock at her office door.

— Director Hale, you have a visitor.

Cassandra looked up, ready to say she had no appointments that morning — and stopped mid-sentence.

Rhea was on the threshold, a brown paper bag in one hand, the other resting casually on the doorframe, as if this building full of federal agents and files on impossible murders

didn't intimidate her in the least.

She wore tight black leather pants that outlined every line of her body, and a short Nirvana shirt that left a strip of skin exposed at her hips — enough that, when she leaned

slightly forward to cross the threshold, the edge of black lace underwear peeked above her waistband, a detail Rhea didn't seem at all concerned about hiding.

— You forgot lunch. Again. — She lifted the bag, a crooked smile on her lips. — So here I am, your catering angel.

Cassandra rose from her chair more slowly than necessary, the file on the table forgotten for an instant.

— You didn't have to come all this way.

— The office is two blocks from the shop. — Rhea set the bag on the desk, and in doing so, bent slightly, the neckline of her shirt opening just enough to reveal, for a fraction of

a second, the small gleam of a piercing at the height of her left breast.

Cassandra averted her gaze with an almost physical effort, her eyes returning to the file on the desk with an urgency disproportionate to her actual interest in those pages.

— Cassandra.

— Mh?

— Lunch. — Rhea indicated the bag, one eyebrow raised, the shadow of an amused smile at the corners of her mouth — the same smile that knew perfectly well what she had

just caused, and didn't seem at all displeased.

— Right. Thanks.

Cassandra opened the bag more to give her hands something to do than out of real appetite. Rhea sat on the edge of the desk, one leg swinging lightly, her dark eyes fixed on

her with an attention that held nothing casual.

— How's the hunt for the New Jersey guitarist monster going? — she asked, her tongue briefly passing over her lower lip in a distracted gesture, enough for Cassandra to

notice the small metallic gleam of the piercing set there.

— We don't know yet. — Cassandra's voice came out more uncertain than she would have liked, and she forced herself to focus on the file instead of the figure sitting a few

centimeters from her.

She took the folder with the victim's photos, almost out of habit, and slid it across the desk before closing it. But as she did, a photograph slipped out and fell open on the desk,

right in front of Rhea.

The guitarist's face, smiling, probably taken months before he died — a close-up from a social media profile, dark hair, an eyebrow piercing.

The change in Rhea's expression was imperceptible to anyone who didn't know her as Cassandra knew her. But she saw it: a slight tightening of her jaw, one blink too many,

her hand stopping mid-air above the lunch bag.

— Rhea?

— Nothing. — Rhea looked away too quickly, and took the photo with two fingers, as if it burned, to hand it back to Cassandra. — It's just that... I knew him. Vaguely.

— Vaguely.

— Cass.

— Rhea, if you knew him, you need to tell me. — The professional tone had returned, sharp, that of Director Hale more than the woman who two minutes earlier couldn't

breathe normally. — It's not a question, it's protocol.

Rhea ran a hand through her hair, a nervous gesture that rarely belonged to her.

— I met him a while ago. It was... a complicated night. I was still with Piper at the time.

The name fell into the room like a stone into still water.

— Piper. — Cassandra said. — Still Piper.

— I never told you about it because I knew you'd get angry.

— I'm all ears — Cassandra said with an authoritative tone.

— He and I... it happened one night. A mistake, stupid. Piper found out. I never told her — she found out on her own.

Cassandra felt something cold slide down her spine.

— Rhea, I want the details — Cassandra said, her voice low, sharp, the kind of tone she used in interrogations. — All of them.

Rhea closed her eyes for a second, a slow breath that seemed to cost her physical effort.

— I was out of my mind.. We had sex — she said, her voice flat, as if reading a report she didn't want to look at. — And while he was thrusting... I was getting high.

The words fell like dry blows. Cassandra felt her blood stop for an instant, her fingers tightening around the edge of the desk.

— You what? — Her voice came out lower than she intended, almost a whisper.

— Yes, Cass. I was getting high while he... — Rhea paused, her fingers drumming nervously on her thigh. — I had taken stuff even before. He didn't know. He thought I was

just... present. But I was already elsewhere.

— When were you planning to tell me? — Cassandra's hand slammed on the table with a sharp thud, the files jumping, the guitarist's photo sliding away.

— Cass, I swear... — Rhea opened her mouth to continue, but Cassandra didn't let her finish.

— Were you planning to tell me? Or was I supposed to find out on my own, like Piper? — Her voice trembled with barely contained anger.

Rhea stood up, her hands trembling. — I didn't lie to you, Cass. I didn't tell you because I knew you'd...

— I'd what? — Cassandra stood up as well, and for a moment she seemed much taller. — That I'd overreact? That I'd play Director Hale? That I'd get in the car and take you to

the station for an interrogation? — She took a step forward. — That I'd be scared, Rhea? That I'd be scared that you were still doing that shit?

— This time you don't get away with it — Cassandra finished.

Rhea didn't answer. She couldn't.

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Cassandra's phone vibrated on the desk, and the bubble burst.

— I need to take this. — Cassandra passed a hand over her face, as if to brush away something she had allowed herself to feel for a moment too long. Her voice, when she

spoke again, had returned to that of the Director. — See you later. I'll stop by the shop.

It wasn't an invitation. It was a warning.

Rhea slid off the desk with a stiffer movement than usual, her casual grace from before completely gone.

— See you later, then.

She paused at the door for an instant, turning slightly. Cassandra didn't look at her. She already had the phone to her ear, her eyes fixed on the guitarist's photo still open on the

desk, the profile smiling from a past Rhea had tried to bury.

Then she disappeared into the corridor, leaving behind only the echo of a scent of ink and vanilla, and Cassandra, who before answering the phone, had to take a full second

just to remember how to breathe normally.

---

The late afternoon sun filtered low through the tattoo studio windows, tinting the walls covered in flash art and photographs of past work in amber. Cassandra hadn't stopped

there by chance, and she hadn't even tried to make up an excuse. She had left the office, her hands tight on the steering wheel, and now she was there, on the shop's

threshold, with a question that had been boiling in her throat for a full hour.

Rhea was finishing cleaning the worktable, the radio low in the background. She looked up, and whatever she was about to say died in her mouth as soon as she saw

Cassandra's expression.

— Cass...

— Why did you never tell me? — Cassandra's voice was low, but sharp as glass.

— What was I supposed to tell you? That I got high while he was fucking me, or...

— Stop it, Rhea — Cassandra raised her voice.

— You don't understand, do you — Cassandra took a step into the shop, the door closing behind her with a jingle too cheerful for the moment. — A man is dead, Rhea.

— I didn't know if it was relevant —

— You didn't know if it was relevant? — Cassandra's laugh was brief, without an ounce of humor. — I'm the Director of the FOID's operational division, Rhea. I decide what's

relevant. You just had to tell me.

The bell above the door rang with a more hurried jingle than usual, and Cassandra forced herself to shut her mouth abruptly, her jaw tight, as five young people — three men

and two women, all in their twenties — burst into the shop with voices already too loud for four in the afternoon.

— Rhea! — The tallest of the group, hair shaved at the sides and a tattoo on his neck that Cassandra recognized as Rhea's work, spread his arms. — We missed you at the

last round, you know?

Rhea quickly passed a hand over her face, a clumsy attempt to compose herself, and forced a smile.

— I've been busy.

— The Blackthorn Rot are playing at the Marrow tonight — said one of the girls, hopping slightly in place, completely unaware of the tension vibrating in the air like a taut

thread. — Grab your jacket and come with us.

Cassandra remained still near the counter, arms crossed, watching the group with cold attention. She recognized those faces — the boy with the can in his hand, arrested eight

months earlier along with an accomplice for possession of ritual artifacts stolen from an unauthorized dig in New Jersey. The other one, the one with the shaved hair, involved in

the same circle, gotten off with probation.

Something inside Cassandra tightened, cold and hard.

— Come on, Rhea. — The boy with the can approached her, his breath already smelling of alcohol. — We'll cover everything for you tonight. Like the old days.

— Not tonight. — Cassandra's voice cut through the air before Rhea could answer. It wasn't a request.

— Rhea is not leaving the house tonight — she continued.

The group turned in unison toward her. The boy with the can narrowed his eyes, trying to remember where he knew that face from — and Cassandra saw the exact moment he

did, the way his smile faltered slightly.

— Can we talk for a second? — Cassandra didn't wait for an answer. She walked toward the back of the shop, her voice leaving no room for replies. — Now, Rhea.

Rhea reached her a few seconds later, pulling the curtain closed that separated the workspace from the back room with a brusque gesture, her arms crossed over her chest.

— You can't come here and treat me like this in front of them.

— And you can't hide things from me — Cassandra lowered her voice, but not its intensity, her eyes burning. — You can't keep me in the dark about Piper or what you do to get high, dammit.

— All you had to do was tell me, I'm not just anyone, Rhea. I need to protect you.

— Protect me from what? — Rhea's voice rose, cracked. — From myself? From my past? From everything I was before I met you?

— From someone who might want you dead! — Cassandra took a step forward, frustration and fear mixing into something almost unrecognizable. — Do you realize? If it really

is Piper, if she's really behind all of this, then you're the next target, Rhea.

— Then maybe the problem is you, Cass, not me! — Rhea raised her hands, exasperated. — You can't spend your life treating every person I know like a suspect just because

your job made you paranoid. I need to go out, to breathe, to be something other than the emotional babysitter who lives with you and Ksenia waiting for everything to fix itself!

The silence that followed was worse than any shout. Cassandra felt Rhea's words hit her in a place she hadn't expected, something deeper than simple concern for her safety.

— That's not what you are to me — she said, her voice now low, almost trembling.

— No? — Rhea looked at her, eyes bright but jaw still tight, determined not to give in. — Then tell me what I am, Cass. Because honestly, in these months, I've never really understood it either.

Cassandra didn't answer. She couldn't find the words — or perhaps she found them, but the fear of speaking them aloud, there, in that moment, was greater than anything else.

Rhea waited a moment too long, then shook her head slightly, a bitter half-smile on her lips.

— That's what I thought.

She turned, pulling the curtain aside with a sharp gesture, and went back toward the group still waiting by the counter, her voice recomposing in an instant into a light, cheerful

tone, as if nothing had just happened.

— Give me ten minutes — she said to the group. — I'll go change and meet you.

— Rhea, you're not meeting anyone. Tonight we talk about it at home — Cassandra said, already turning toward the curtain.

She left the shop without looking back, the bell above the door ringing once more, almost mocking in its misplaced cheerfulness.

Reaching the corner of the street, she pulled out her phone and called Leo, her voice still tense, her pace not slowing.

— Leo, I need a drone in front of Rhea's shop. Hidden, so it can't be seen from the street — no one is to know, not even her.

— Director Hale, what—

— Just do it, Leo. — She stopped for a moment, her eyes fixed on the shop window behind her, where Rhea's silhouette still moved between the counter and the group. — I'll explain later.

She ended the call without waiting for a reply.

---

The shop was dark.

The neon signs of the shop next door cast a pinkish, intermittent light across the closed windows, and for a long moment nothing moved — only the distant hum of traffic on

Bedford Avenue, and the irregular flicker of a sign that buzzed and sputtered.

Then, a key turned in the lock.

The sound was almost imperceptible, the gesture of someone who knew that door well enough to know exactly how much to lift it to make it open without creaking. The figure

slipped inside and closed it softly, remaining still for an instant in the dark, as if listening to the shop breathe.

There was no need to turn on the lights. She knew that space by heart — the counter on the left, the worktable in the center, the walls covered in flash art that, in the dark,

looked only like shadows layered upon other shadows. She had spent time in there. Before everything changed.

Her fingers slid along the edge of the worktable, paused on the needle drawers, opened and closed them one by one with an almost ritual respect, like someone visiting a

sacred place that had fallen from grace. In the air, the smell of ink and disinfectant still lingered, and beneath it, fainter, a residue of the vanilla perfume Rhea always wore.

The figure stopped in front of the wall of photographs — years of work, of clients, of smiles captured under the flash. A hand rose and brushed the glass of one particular frame,

without taking it down, without breaking it. Only a touch, slow, almost tender.

Then, from the jacket pocket, a clear plastic bag emerged.

Inside, something dark moved against the plastic with every motion — a lock of hair, still tied with a thin elastic band. Beside it, wrapped in a handkerchief, a small metallic

object that caught the reddish light of the sign outside for an instant: a guitar pick, engraved with initials. D.M.

Danny Marsh.

The figure bent beside Rhea's worktable, lifted the false panel at the bottom of the third drawer — the one Rhea used to hide cash payments from clients who preferred to stay

off the books — and placed the bag inside with an almost surgical care. A second, smaller bag containing white powder beside the larger one. Then she closed everything.

She stood still another moment, her head slightly tilted toward the back room curtain, toward the exact point where Cassandra and Rhea had screamed at each other not long before.

A sigh.

— Still you — she whispered, her voice low, almost affectionate, addressed to no one, or perhaps to a memory. A photo of Cassandra and Rhea pinned to the wall, both smiling and happy.

A last look at the wall of photographs, at the life Rhea had built for herself in that space full of light and ink and people who loved her without knowing what had come before.

Then the figure turned toward the door, her steps silent on the wooden floor, and left with the same care with which she had entered.

The key turned again in the lock.

Outside, the sign of the shop next door continued to flicker, pink and then dark, pink and then dark, like an irregular heartbeat — the only witness to what had just been left

sleeping in the dark of the shop, waiting to be found.

---

The FOID morgue, 11:10 PM.

Cassandra stood before the steel table, her arms crossed so tightly they hurt, while the medical examiner — Dr. Ahn, glasses pushed up on her forehead, mask lowered

beneath her chin — pointed with a cold-light pen at a precise spot on the cadaver's bruised throat.

— Look here. — Ahn enlarged the image on the screen beside the table, a microscopic magnification of the wound's edge. — It's not a burn from a rope, nor from heated wire.

The edges are too sharp, too clean. It's a cut. A cut made with something very thin, very hot, and moved with a repetitive, almost mechanical motion.

— Mechanical how?

— Like a needle. — Ahn looked her straight in the eye, knowing exactly what that word would trigger. — A tattoo needle, heated to an extremely high temperature and run along

the throat at a speed no human hand could replicate without a tool.

The noise in Cassandra's head — the one that for weeks had faded only when Rhea ran her fingers through her hair — returned, deafening.

— A tattoo needle — she repeated, her voice flat, controlled with an effort that cost her every single word.

— Modified, probably. No commercial machine reaches those temperatures. But the basic technique... — Ahn hesitated, then decided Cassandra deserved the truth without

filters. — The basic technique is that of a tattoo artist. Someone who knows the gesture, the wrist, the pressure.

— And then look at the scalp, a lock of hair is missing, cut at the base. Very illogical.

Cassandra didn't answer. She stared at the cadaver's neck, at the section of the head where the hair was missing — no longer Danny Marsh, the guitarist of a Jersey band, but

a collection of clean, cauterized edges that were drawing themselves before her eyes like a signature.

She pulled out her phone with a sharp gesture and called Rhea. One ring. Two. Three. Voicemail.

She tried again. Voicemail again, Rhea's recorded voice — light, almost cheerful, "Hey, I'm at work or ignoring my phone, leave a message and fuck off" — which at that

moment sounded like an insult.

It was past eleven. Rhea should have been home for a while. She should have called, texted, should have reached out one way or another after what had happened at the shop.

Not a word. Not a message. Nothing.

— Director? — Ahn watched her, the cold-light pen still suspended in midair. — Are you all right?

Cassandra didn't answer immediately. She felt the anger rising up her throat like something physical, something that tightened her chest exactly in the spot where, hours earlier,

she had felt wounded by Rhea's words. But this was no longer just anger over a fight. It wasn't jealousy, it wasn't fear of being left alone in an apartment too silent.

It was terror disguised as fury, because fury at least could be controlled.

A tattoo needle. A craft. A gesture that only those who live by it know inside out — the pressure, the wrist, the speed. Rhea wasn't answering her phone. She was somewhere

among strangers and alcohol.

— I'm fine. — Cassandra's voice came out cold, sharp, that of Director Hale and no longer the woman who had left an affectionate note on a kitchen table that very morning. —

I want a list of all tattoo artists with active criminal records in the last five years in New York and New Jersey. I want the files on my desk within an hour.

She put the phone back in her pocket with a brusque gesture, her knuckles white.

She left without waiting for an answer, leaving behind only the hum of the neon lights and Danny Marsh's body, still on the steel table, with its burned signature still carved into his throat.

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