Summary: A city of light and dark, shadow and lies. A string of chilling murders, brought to light. Amidst the blood, gore, and arson, investigator Kurogane Suwa finds himself drawn in by the suspect, secretive blonde-haired-blue-eyed Fai D. Flourite.

Warnings: Blood and violence. Homosexual pairings (read: CLAMP pairings). KF with other CLAMP pairings. A little dark, with a generally depressing setting. Arson, murder, crime and scapegoats.

A/N: I know. I know! I have too many chaptered fics going on at the same time!

The clocktower looms over the city, a solemn figure standing tall and upright amidst the grey buildings and little sparks of light. The ornate hands tick away. 56. 57. 58. 59.

11: 58.

The curtains flutter around the open window behind him, and the streets crawling across the city are empty and dark, awash in the sickly pale light of the street-lamps. Below, the alleyway is darkened. A small lamp sprouts from the alley's wall like a sinister gargoyle, flickering weakly. The pitch blackness a little further down the alley is lit suddenly by a little spark of a flame. In that instance, a face of a man is set alight, eyes hidden in dark shadows. A cigarette glows dimly in front of him, but there is a gust of wind, and the light dies. There is low cursing.

11: 59.

He leans his forearms on the railing of the fire escape in front of him, and watches the man turn away from the entrance of the alley, hunching over his cigarette as he attempts to light it again. A click of a lighter, probably out of gas judging from the spluttering flame. Another spark. The light dies, and there's more cursing. There is again one last spark, like a star extinguished far too quickly, and the clock-tower begins its knell. Midnight.

Stars, hide your fires, he thinks as he swings himself over the railing. His trenchcoat, black as the night surrounding, billows up around him as he falls, falls, falls.

He lands neatly, silent as a cat behind the man. The lamp shines a dying spotlight on the dirty cobblestone between them. He straightens up gracefully from his crouch, staring unblinkingly as the man stiffens, and turns slowly around. The man is slightly hunched into a defensive posture, and his eyes are narrowed, trying to make him out in the darkness, his face suspicious and wary. He scans that face, that terribly familiar face; a nose too large—more a beak than a nose—a large jaw, and a thick neck to match, face pockmarked with little craters, and a deep line in between his dark brows from a scowl too many.

John Marrows. Age 31. Unemployed with previous charges for assault, robbery, and harassment. A terrible smoker.

"Who the hell are you?"

He steps forward, into the light. The man reaches into his coat for his gun, but finds that he's left it at home. He takes out a mugger's knife instead.

"Are you trying to mug a mugger?" the criminal scoffs as he grins, a feral baring of teeth, "What's with the hood? This isn't a horror film."

Reaching up, the man fists his black gloved hands in the material of the hood, a black cloth draped over his head—an executioner's hood. He watches the other's face unblinkingly as he slowly lifts it off.

John Marrows staggers backwards, stumbles, falls to the ground.

"You—it can't be…" he whispers, horrified, "You're dead! You're dead!"

He scrambles backwards in terror, knife and lighter forgotten on the floor as his would-be assailant advances silently, out of the light and into the darkness, features melting back into shadows. Blank eyes shimmer in the darkness like the terrifying eyes of a beast, fair hair alight from behind like a fiery lion's mane, or the flaming halo of a vindictive asura. The assailant crouches, like a beast about to pounce, and picks up the abandoned knife, pocketing the lighter. The knife glints menacingly, and John yells and kicks as black-leathered fingers tighten around his ankle, pulls.

A scream resounds in the alley.

The knife glints overhead, red with blood, stabs down again, again, again, into his gut. A slow, but inevitable death.

The crumbling apartment buildings on either side of them are unnaturally quiet. There is no one coming to the windows. No one wants to know. No one wants to know.

The assailant lets up for a moment, stands up. John scrambles desperately around him, crawling for the entrance of the alley. There is a short rustling behind him, then the sound of liquid splashing over the floor.

"Help…" he sobs weakly, life's blood leaving a grisly trail of gore and violence behind him, "Help…"

He can feel the gaping wound in his gut, a slice so long that he feels that his entrails might come tumbling out, over the cobblestone, to join the blood, trailing gruesomely behind him like the legs of a jellyfish. Gloved fingers grab him by the ankle once more, drags him back along the bumpy floor. He whimpers as his wounds scrape against the cobblestone, gritty with dirt and sand. He is flipped over to face that terrifying familiar face again, expressionless, unblinking. Liquid sloshes over him, and he shields his face from it. The smell of kerosene permeates in the darkness.

"No," he croaks, as his assailant, his murderer, begins to splash the kerosene from a can, over the walls, over the ground, very carefully not getting on himself, "No, no, no!"

The knife glints one last time, and then the man brings it down upon him, right between his legs.

The silent streets echo with the sound of a final chilling scream, dragged on and on and on, an animal sound of agony and torment. There's a loud crack, and the sound cuts off abruptly into a gurgle.

The assailant stares down unflinchingly at his victim. John Marrows clutches at his broken ribs, at his mangled groin, at his broken arm, at the wound sliced up his belly like a fish gutted. His eyes are empty, unseeing with pain and fear. He leaves the man on the floor along with the knife in puddle of his own blood and entrails, pulling the hood over his head and sloshing the kerosene sloppily over the floor and walls as he makes for the lights ahead. He stops at the threshold between alley and main road, half lit by the street-lamps that brighten the pavement, and half shrouded in the shadows of the gory alley. He tosses the empty can back into the darkness, then reaches into his coat for the stolen lighter.

The alley bursts into flames, flames licking across the floor and up the walls like lightning. It takes only a second before the agonized screaming starts anew.

He tosses the lighter into the flames, after its owner, and turns away. As he darts up an overflowing dumpster, he hears the sirens begin, mingling with the screams and the crackling of the flames from across the city; across the city—the brighter half of it. There's no doubt that they weren't called here by the residents in these parts. No one wants to know. He catches hold of the bars of a fire escape, swings himself up, over. Finally, he stands on the ceiling of 174 Handrivel Lane, a line of fire licking up the side of the building, and looks over the city.

From the other side of the city, the side of the city that glows with lights and life, the red and blue flashes of police cars crawl slowly towards him through the shadows—moths to a flame.

A/N: Ahem, I'm not sure whether the violence here is alright for the more squeamish people, so yeah. I'll tell you now that Fullmetal Alchemist gave me nightmares, and this didn't scare me, so I didn't think it would be that bad. But in case it bothers you, I think you'll be happy to note that the other chapters will probably not be violent at all. And I'M SO SORRY READERS OF MY OTHER UNCOMPLETED CHAPTERED FICS. I just keep getting these ideas, and I just have to write them! And the thing is that Catharsis and Moths (this) are likely to be shorter chaptered fics in comparison to From the Ashes, and I'm using these two to battle the writer's block I have right now. I'll try to update more regularly for From the Ashes, considering that its gonna be pretty long, but I can't promise the same for Catharsis and Moths, as they are both my weapons against writer's block. This fic was actually inspired (inspired, because this fic doesn't quite follow that prompt) by a prompt on the clampkink meme. Oh, and there's actually a lot of social dynamics and politics going on in the city, there's a great "class" divide here (note "the other side of the city") which I will cover a little more in the next chapter. Which should be up in a little while. New readers should note that I will be going overseas next week, so there'll be a short two week hiatus in all writing. But chapter 1 (this is the prologue) should be up before I leave.

Anyway, in the next chapter, Kurogane grouses about the social dynamics, and identifies Fai as a main suspect. Because the police are seriously lost, they need to show that they're doing something, and he can't bring himself to name Yukito (so innocent) or Kakyou (can't even leave his bed) as suspects. Fai is the "most suspicious" guy they've got, so he's got to do. Le gasp. Will Kurogane be able to find the culprit? What is Fai hiding? Is Kurogane gonna prove Fai's innocence? Is Kurogane gonna fall for Fai? Read on to find out the answers! (Except for the answer to the last question, because everyone knows the answer is yes.)

Lastly, review! Reviews are the ultimate weapon against writer's block, and I can't describe the feeling one gets from seeing the review count go up by even one. Also, I'm trying for a setting a little bit more noir than I usually write here, so please do tell me if I succeeded.