This is not a story about a hero. There are no more heroes here. This city... this city has swallowed up happiness like a leech in a mortuary. There are no good things left. Even the sky is crying tonight.

Emmett stands on the corner of an abandoned factory, its walls still covered in soot after years of use. He has been standing there so long his shadow must be part of the scenery now. A permanent mark of his passing. His face vaguely lights up as he takes another drag of his cigarette. The vile taste of it calms him down.

This is the place. It has to be. There is too much left to lose. He crumples the note in his hand, shoving it back in the pocket of his trenchcoat. Hidden from sight, but never from mind. The letters, roughly torn from the Sunday Papers by a maniac with no moral ground, are imprinted in his memory. The folded corner of the A. The pasty smell of the E. He knows he should feel angry, but there is no emotion left. When a man loses his daughter, only the emptiness howls.

This was the place. It had to be.

There was a lot of possibilities for the presence of that man, so no need to analyse them all and fall into a state of stale. He'll deal with whatever comes to him... to save him. Dahl looked at the man from the corner of his eye. It was 22:47. "Are you a cop ?" Let's rule out the most urgent possibility. In case the police was already aware of his case.

No, he replies dryly. His throat is parched. That last cigarette had been one too many. Emmett rubs his throat as he looks at the young man in front of him. You're not either, I assume. Why are you here ? Right down to business. There was no time to waste.

Him too ? This was a strange turn of events to be sure. Emmett had not known what to expect, but this surely defied all expectations. The messages looked nearly identical. Why did his say 10:50, though, and his own 11 ? How old ? Emmett asked, as if the tragedy of the disappearance was not enough yet.

HRP:

Emmett entered with him. The rain no longer fell on his shoulders, but the factory was anything but dry. Some water still seeped through the ceiling, dripping down at irregular intervals on random moldy spots. The thought of his little girl being tied and gagged in a damp place like this chilled him to the bone. No one is here.

He was suprised to say the least when the man followed him instead of waiting 23h, was it a good idea to not follow the rules of a psychopath ? Dahl was an anarchist to the bones, but it was another story when his little boy was part of the equation. But then again, he might have acted the same way if he was ine the man's shoes. He looked around, then took out his flashlight. "Let's make sure." He carefully approached the shelves on the right.

Emmet mirrored his actions on the other end of the room. He had not thought of bringing a flashlight. His lighter would have to suffice. The flame shook like a newborn lamb, but it worked enough to see. Nothing out of the ordinary so far. It must've been 5 minutes already. 10:55 PM. Why was nothing happeni— BANG. Something heavy fell behind them on the factory floor.

He turned around quickly, his flashlight fixed on the strange thing that fell down. A white thick blanket, closed with a greenish rope. The rope was still attached to the ceiling. He approached it with an insteady breath, the worst case scenario already twirling in his head. He was praying all the gods that ever existed, hoping that there was nothing organic in it. He looked at the man, then tried to untie the rope - with his trembling hands and erratic movements, it wasn't easy. "you got... you got something sharp on you ?"

VOICE OVER :

4,5 lines is more than 4 and I'm in a punishy mood sooooo... challenge accepted ? Your next message will have to be composed in rhymes. That is : last word of first sentence needs to rhyme with last word of second sentence. Third with forth. Etc. Good luck, buttercup  

His brain was stuck between working lightning fast and being stuck in a never-ending loop of slow motion images of his daughter. How tall was his girl ? How heavy ? Would her body make a thud like this ? Would her body fit in a blanket like that ? Every fiber of his being wanted to scream "No" to the questions. Not her. Anyone but her. But the truth is he couldn't say for sure. He wordlessly stepped forward with a pocket knife and cut the ropes.

The moment the ropes were cut, Dahl heard the echo of a metallic grinding sound. But he barely had the time to identify it when he turned around. The thing was hurtling down at them and looked more than one hundred pound. He hurriedly (and dramatically) jumped to the side, taking the mysterious man with him on the ground.

HRP:

Emmett wordlessly removes a handkerchief from his pocket, handing it to his fateful companion while keeping his gaze on the corpse. That man would need to wipe the puke away. He was also contaminating the evidence. She's been dead a while. Her stench could hardly be ignored. A fresh corpse didn't smell like this. He crouches near the body, removing the tarpaulin that covers her and starts inspecting the body like he's done it a couple of times before.

He slowly took the handkerchief, mostly to protect his nose from the smell. Then crouched again, examining thoughtfully the body, but also the man that seemed quite used to bodies. Dead ones that it. "You said you weren't a cop."

I'm not. He offered no further explanation. Clearly this wasn't necessary. Emmett went at it alone. He always did. That's a loner's curse. After years of building up walls, you end up never letting anyone in. Trust was a precious commodity, and Emmett had none left... You know this woman? He finally glanced it the gentleman's direction. A means to an end. He had to ID this woman.

You'd have known if I did. Is he playing the detective card ? If so, he is still a cop for Dahl. And maybe for the kidnapper too... but... if he truly had his daughter kidnapped, that wouldn't make sense. Wanting to know more about it, but knowing how thorny that subject can be, he avoided. For now. The lady was wearing a dresse "sorry for that." he let out nonchalantly while lifting the fabric ... there was something written on her stomach : don't report me.

"Don't report me" ? Emmett read out loud. What is that supposed to mean ? He was more confused than ever. Someone was toying with him (he glanced at the other guy) ... with them. If was looking for clues, but only found one red herring after the other. It was a waste of time. The man stood up. If you don't know her, I'm gonna find someone that does. Did.

Why. Why would he ever want to— You have to. It was like a whisper in the wind. Yes, he did have to. Emmett worked alone, he always had, but this time the stakes were different. They were higher. He despised "teamwork", but perhaps... perhaps this time it would be necessary. As long as he didn't slow him down at least. Cutting ties would be easy. Shades of Black on 31st & Turner. Don't be late. Emmett says with stern look. They'd meet at the bar in two hours.