Hello my dear comrades!

Here's the next chapter. I'll admit, I surprised myself by getting this one out so quickly after the last one. Well, it's shorter than usual, so I guess it's not that surprising. I just want to hurry up and get to the ball, but I've been following the story day-by-day—sometimes hour-by-hour—since they got there, and jumping to the finale of this Arc seems like it'd be too…hasty.

Edits to the previous chapters are still under way…considering I've been too tired to start them yet. I'll most likely post a list of the chapters that I edited once they're all done.

Ah, well, I sorta got an answer to my last question thing—which no one really had to do, so thanks for trying anyway—and I don't have another one, unless you want to suggest a different idea for the fic-book cover. Anyway, here's my replies!

TwilightSymphonycat

Ah, well, part of the reason that I go into their personalities so much is that I wanted to write original characters into the story. After all, in writing fan-fiction, there's already a personality laid out for them. With inserting original characters, you have to build them completely—at least that's what I supposed. I personally wanted to experiment with writing other kinds of characters, but it seems that's not working so well, going by your review. I'm aware that it seems to be going too slowly. Any tips on improving this?

Their importance to Act 1 is very light: they are siblings to Allen, who was abandoned while they lived in luxury. Despite being blood, they have very different lifestyles, and it goes to show sort of how Allen could've been in contract to who she grew into. Their importance to Act 3 will come with time.

Thanks for your review!

Analanat

*grins* Eh, I'll probably try to not end this one on a cliff. Thank you for your review!

Cutiepie120048

Maaaan, Dark Matter's such a biotch. I'm glad you enjoyed the takeover scene! I was trying to test differences of POV and spoopy feels.

Thanks for the review!

atg (a guest)

Not yet, but it's coming very soon! Also, I toned Kanda's cursing down a bit, hope that helps.

Thanks for the rev!

Alina97

I did Kanda well? Oh sweet! I'm glad you think so, 'cause I kinda feel like I don't always get him right. Yeeeaaaah, ladies had it hard—still do, but at least we have more rights. Also, Marianne's an interesting case…I wouldn't be friends with her if I truly knew her, but her overall outward appearance is well accepted by most. I'm sure a lot of us know quite a few people like that. *rolls eyes*

Glad you liked that part with the inner Noah! I was experimenting a little, so I'm glad that worked out.

Thanks for replying about the song prompt, and thanks for the review!

Shadow Spears

*grins* Yup, I adore a good, blunt Kanda. And yeah, Mari's really bad when it comes to gossip and getting attention. *grins again about the Noah comment*

Thanks for the review!

Shout-outs go to , Taeniaea, god of all,Ern Estine 13624, Lena-luvs-cats, and Guest (a guest) for also reviewing! They are very much appreciated!

Ah, just as a note, to make ANs shorter from here on, I might only reply to your reviews in PMs. I might mention them in ANs, but the full answers would be in PMs sent to the reviewer.

Favs and follows are also appreciated, so thank you guys for doing that, too! Well, time to keep goin'.

Stay shiny! *jazz hands*

-JD

Disclaimer: Whenever I think of my version of Allen's body type, I think of Korra from the LoK. Just sayin'.

During dinner, few words were exchanged by the exorcists, letting the family do all of the talking or gesturing.

Lord Walthamstow was stiffer that night than the previous one, his eye occasionally catching Allen's. Mr. Jeeves seemed careful to not display disapproval at their interaction, but if Allen was good at something, it was reading micro expressions, so it didn't escape her that he too thought she was an odd one. Lord Woodford was as cordial as a brick wall could get. Despite his obvious dissatisfaction with her, and the…talk they'd had before, he wouldn't show his ugly side to his family or the rest of their guests.

He couldn't always hide his stink eye, though. How unfortunate for him that his target didn't quite care enough.

Lady Walthamstow riled herself up into a bit of a tizzy after hearing what Allen had done from Lady Regina, but the girl reassured her that she was fine. Even so, the woman saw fit to rebuke her calmly, telling her to "care for her health". Given, this was something Lenalee told her often, but hearing it come from that woman just soured everything. What more, she continued her whispered lessons, letting her know that more extensive ones would happen tomorrow in preparation for the ball.

Lavi had to gesture to her to not smile so sweetly—others were beginning to tell it was fake.

Lady Marianne was more silent than the night before, more content with watching, though she would look at Allen or Lenalee and giggle lightly behind the back of her hand. Lenalee felt a few things about that, but she didn't let it show, huffing lightly as she kept her cool. Lavi felt sweat bead at his hairline, stuck in between the tension alongside Lady Annabelle. The quiet girl seemed to notice something as well, glancing at Lavi questioningly. He wish he could reply, but shrugged instead.

Any time Annabelle glanced at Kanda, Marianne's giggling would get louder, the girl bending forward a bit to keep her balance in the chair. As usual, Kanda cared little for it, if not got more annoyed by the growing tension.

At least he'd gotten Marcus to stop being such a KY bastard. It seemed like he was finally noticing that things weren't quite as he expected, looking about the room with nervously curious eyes. His gaze would land on Allen a few times, and it seemed that he noticed the discomfort set in her shoulders for the first time since he'd dragged them all there. Gabriel had noticed from the get-go, and he was almost luxuriating in the chaos. For once, he was the happiest face at the table, sans Marianne.

Lavi wanted to summon a portal and get the hell outta dodge.

Lenalee wanted to eat in peace.

Kanda wanted the family to go to Hell.

Allen…well.

Her left eye twitched occasionally as the night went on.

That morning in the wee hours, as the others presumably slept, Allen sat up in her bed, holding a hand over her throbbing eye. She hissed at a particular sting her eye gave her, the organ luckily not trying to come out of her socket like it would before, her right hand clenched in the bedsheets.

She could sense them…

How many were there? Tens? Hundreds? Thousands?

The call to them wasn't as forceful as it had been before, but it did have a pull to it.

She sighed heavily, wondering about the party tomorrow evening. She knew that Lady Walthamstow insisted heavily on her participating in the ball—the dress she wanted for her was to be delivered some time either that day or before nightfall the day of—but she wasn't sure if she should humor her to that extent. She had a job to, and she was more than certain that getting all trussed up in whatever women wore for fancy occasions would be a hindrance.

Her eye throbbed strongly again, and she bent forward lightly.

"I know…I know," she sighed, "Please wait…I can't force this. There's too much at stake…"

Suddenly she felt a presence, but she wasn't startled or anything. She'd gotten better at knowing what the feeling as after a while, Neah no longer needing the girl to look at a reflective surface or dream for the two to speak.

"…I'm sorry."

Allen hissed lightly, the ache flashing through her head, "Sorry…for what?"

She knew she was talking to thin air, but it sort of hurt to keep everything in her thoughts whenever her eye started acting up.

"I can't ease the pain any more than it already has been."

"It's fine," she laughed a little, "Compared to before, this is much better."

"…It's just…I can't talk to him as well as before."

"Hmm?"

She could feel Neah shift somewhere. It was a bit odd to feel it, like it was odd to feel her presence, but it was something she was getting used to.

"I…before, you know how Mana was. How he sometimes is," another shift, "Well, he's…not the same anymore, of course."

It felt like cool water was poured down her head, not so cold to be terrifying, but a relative growing discomfort, "…Yeah."

"He's…not the same brother he was. It's strange talking to him, like he's not quite here. But it's true. He really isn't."

"It's just the curse he left behind, right? His soul's already gone."

"That's mostly right. Mana is still here, like he left a piece of himself in you so you could see what he would, but…some of his sense, his humanity…I'm sorry. I can only calm him a bit by being here."

Allen frowned, "Aren't you always here? You're…" then she paused.

Neah didn't respond, her presence shifting as she waited for Allen to continue.

"You are my memories, aren't you? Or…did you find out that you were something else?"

"…I have…questions. A few concerns that I'm still looking for the answers for."

"Ah."

"But it's fairly safe to say that I am more than your memories."

Allen hummed thoughtfully, her eye throbbing absently.

"I suppose…that's something else I should apologize to you for."

"Why?" despite her body's irritation, she felt comfortable enough to lie back down.

Neah's presence shifted, and her voice became just a little louder, like she'd gotten closer to Allen's ear.

"I've…put quite a bit of pressure on you, making you think that I was your past self, that you had a duty to fulfill based upon some past life of yours. Instead, I question…whether I should be focusing on my goals alone. I do have goals, after all, and I feel like I was forcing you to accept what I wanted to do…"

Allen opened her mouth to speak, but a little voice nagging at the back of her mind told her to wait and stay silent. She listened on.

"I don't really know my relation to you, to myself, to…Neah even. I believe I am Neah, but am I really? What am I at this point? I still don't know…but I do know that I've been telling you that you're something you're not, and I apologize for putting that pressure on you. The children…the Noah. You have no obligations to…whatever I am, or to them."

Allen shrugged, "It doesn't matter."

"Hmm?"

She smiled at no one, "I was going to save them anyway. I'm not sure how I'd do it, but I know I can. I can feel it," she rolled over onto her stomach, her right eye pressed into the pillow as her left kept searching, "I probably almost had it with Tyki, I just need to find the right way to do it."

Neah was silent for a good moment, though her presence didn't fade. Then, Allen felt a tingle travel along her spine and throughout her limbs. It felt strangely calming, and her eye throbbed less.

Perhaps…Neah was feeling satisfied. Was she feeling what Neah was?

"…Thank you."

Allen could hear the smile in her voice before the tingle and the presence faded away.

She dozed off to sleep in the silence of her room, her left eye rolling under her eyelid as it continued its search for wretched souls in need of redemption.

The fingers of her left hand held down the paper, scribbling furiously as the image continued to take shape. She's started drawing that one not too long ago, but sometimes it took longer for the image to be completed, especially if it was important. This one definitely was.

'You're worthless. Why are you doing this again?'

'Pointless.'

'She'll be wearing red. Don't forget it.'

'She's drawing again. She should go work.'

'Can't work, too dangerous, too scary.'

'She needs to stop listening to that thing! It's dangerous! It'll hurt us.'

'Remember the lady in red.'

"Red…lady…"

The woman kept drawing, but she wasn't drawing a lady in red. Instead, there was a train being sketched onto the paper. The area around the corners of the paper were steadily becoming darker with the lead from her pencil. She rubbed at her eyes as the image of the inside of the train faded in and out of her vision.

'Stop drawing that! Something bad will happen!'

'You're putting us in danger. So worthless.'

'Remember the lady in red, but remember the train, too. The train is more important.'

"The…uhm…the…train…"

'Yes. The train, remember the train. You'll meet the first one there.'

'You're getting us in trouble! Stop it, stop it, stop it!'

'Don't listen! It's one of them. It'll hurt us one day.'

'Stop drawing! Stop.'

'You're so stupid. So very, very stupid. Listen to us!'

"…Sh—…shhhhhh…" the woman hissed, "I…ah…I'm…li-ah…listening…"

"Listening to what?"

The woman jolted out of her hurried daze, recognizing that the voice wasn't coming from her own head. Turning in her chair, she set her blank expression blank on her older sister, the woman in her bed clothes, her hair down. She looked several kinds of tired

"…Clarice…"

"Agatha, how many times do I have to tell you to stop—" she paused, catching sight of the thing she was drawing, "…Good God, what are you doing?"

"Ah…ah—uhm…soon…h-here…"

"What?"

"Ah…erh…hmm…"

Clarice's nose scrunched up, "Well come out with it, won't you?"

She didn't look bothered by her sister's irritation, her expression fairly blank even though her eyes showed a sense of hurt, "Mmh…th…mmmh…them…red lady…uhm…"

Clarice sighed tiredly, placing a hand on her forehead, covering the left side of her face. After a moment, she glared down with her other one, staring at her sister's straight face.

"When did you see this woman? Did you leave the house?" she moved forward, "I told you not to leave! You can't do that…you know this!"

"Uh…mmmh…n-o…leave…no…"

The other woman lost her patience, moving forward, "Here, give this to me."

Agatha swiftly moved the paper away from her reaching hand, "No."

"Oh, so you can speak clearly now?" she huffed, "Just—"

"No! Ah…hm…ah-im…important!"

"I don't care how important you think this is! You've got to stop doing things like this, Agatha!"

"No! No!"

Clarice clasped her hands onto her sister's shoulders, nearly shaking her, "Do you understand what this looks like to other people? You look crazy! I was barely able to help you get a job with the Matthews so you could stay by my side, and it was even harder to find a way to have you around me after that...that…stint of yours! Then you just stopped doing anything! How am I supposed to take care of you if you don't help me?!"

Agatha had stopped frowning, staring at her sister as she held her drawing to her chest.

'You've made her mad. Look. You're so useless.'

'She's going to leave us! She's going to let us die on the streets!'

'She's going to treat us like that woman treated Birdy.'

'It's all your fault. All your fault!'

"N…nooo…" she turned her head left, then right, listening to something.

"'No' what? Do you even know what you're talking about?"

"S…stop…no…"

"…Agatha."

She didn't listen, dropping her drawing and utensils on her lap as she put her hands up to her ears, "…St…op….no…t-whis…whispering…y-…yelling…"

Clarice let go of her sister, her mouth dropping open just the slightest bit.

Agatha didn't pay attention to her sister's actions, clenching her eyes closed as dark, reaching hands began to creep along the walls, her hallucinations getting worse with stress. Her hands went from covering her ears to rubbing at them, hoping to scrub away the voices. She even began to groan lowly in her throat, hoping that her own voice could drown out their deep, hateful ones.

She didn't remember when they showed up. It felt so long, like they'd always been there. They came after her language problems. She'd never been able to talk straight. She always understood what others wanted and how she wanted to respond, but she couldn't get it out…the right words wouldn't come to her.

She couldn't explain to her sister that she was sorry, that she didn't want to be the way she was. She couldn't tell her that something was very wrong with her, and she couldn't do anything about it, didn't know what to do about it. She knew her sister tried very hard, she understood very well and she was grateful to her, but she could never get that out to her. Clarice was always working for the Matthews, and always slept long once she returned. She couldn't tell her that she wanted help…she wanted to get better.

The only one who understood was the other whisper. The new one.

The one that came after she met Birdy.

'It's alright.'

Agatha hadn't realized that she'd started crying until it returned, opening her bleary eyes to stare down at her lap. Two tears had dropped onto the drawing. She moaned in despair.

That drawing was important.

'It's alright. A smudge won't ruin the message. As long as you remember.'

'You've ruined it!'

'It will be fine. Remember the red lady. Remember the train.'

"The…uhm…ah…tra-…train…"

'Yes. Remember them. That is all you need to do. You will know what to do when the time comes.'

"…Yes…train…uhm…red…mmm…lady and…uhm…"

"Who are you talking to?" Clarice asked, sounding astounded, almost breathless.

Agatha didn't look up, "Mmh…ah…th-…errh…it…uhm…C-…ub-…uhm…"

She twitched when she felt hands take her own, her watery eyes traveling up to her sister's face. Clarice looked…closed off. Her eyes were half-lidded and empty. She looked tired…

Without a word, she moved her hands down to her lap, letting go when Agatha's hands twitched at her closeness to the drawing in her lap. Clarice stayed bent down like that for a moment before she straightened up. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes.

"…You're mad."

"…Ah…mm…yes."

"You're out of your bloody mind, aren't you?"

Agatha couldn't help but wonder why she felt the need to say it. She already knew this, and Clarice already knew this. This wasn't the first time she'd said this to her.

"Mmh…yes…ah…l-…uhm…language."

Clarice's shoulders shuddered at her statement, and a sardonic laugh escaped her barely open lips. She sighed deeply before she kneeled before her sister, watching as the woman in the chair blinked down at her. She stayed like that for a moment before she looked back up toward her sister.

"You're crazy, and you belong in a hospital…but I've heard of what they do to people like you there. They'd drive you deeper. They'd experiment on you and ruin what little sanity you have left. They'd hurt you so badly, you wouldn't be able to breathe…but I can't do that to you," she clenched Agatha's bed dress, "I won't do that to you."

The voices in Agatha's mind calmed just the slightest bit.

"But…sister, I need you to try. I need you to at least…try to act normal. Just like you did before, while you were still working," she looked a tad hopeful, "I need you pretend to be sane, for both your sake and mine. It was because of how well you worked…how well we worked that we were able to have this house on the grounds after you stopped working. I want…I want us to be happy, but I…we can't unless you try to help me. I cannot take care of you alone, you have to try, too. You understand that, right?"

"Mmmh…y-…mmhmm."

"Then…please…please try. Please."

She held out her hand.

"Please give me the drawing…you've made enough of them as it is."

"…M...mhh…so-…sorry," she placed her hands over it, protecting it, "…the…C-…it…uhm…ah…can't."

"…You mean you won't."

"…Can't."

Whatever patience Clarice had before was lost. She slowly stood to her feet, and without a word, she turned and left the room, silently closing the door behind her.

Agatha remained sitting there, staring at the door for a moment, her face impassive. The voices were beginning to whisper again, but she didn't pay as much attention to them this time. Instead, the images began to trail along the walls.

Words in a language unknown, symbols she knew nothing about…would probably forever know nothing about. They seemed to glow green, their outlines a whitish-golden color as they trailed around, shifting from wall to wall, sometimes over the wood of the door. There were little dark hands that were beginning to creep around as well, and the other dark voices continued whispering, but the light was more important.

She waited silently for instructions.

'Write it down.'

She turned back to her desk, still ignoring the other voices as she turned the incomplete drawing of the train over. She then began to write the symbols on the paper, still not knowing what they were or what they meant.

'You will know what they mean one day. You will meet those who can translate it.'

She nodded, agreeing with it.

Three pairs of heels clicked along the streets of England, her red dress gleaming in the moonlight.

She'd had quite a bit of fun that morning, even with the two slackers following her around. She'd garnered quite the following by other AKUMA, and she had entire groups of them waiting for her call when the time was right. But those two she'd met on the bridge…they saw fit to follow her all the time.

They answered to her every beck and call, found information when she wanted it and didn't feel the need to look for it herself. Sometimes they even pointed out potential victims. In repayment for their services, not only did she not kill them for sport, but she let them kill a few of the people she was going to! How nice of her, right?

Just like old times.

She laughed wryly, deciding what she would do to finish up the night before retiring to make more plans. The woman stopped abruptly, the two others behind her flinching as they came to a stop.

"Hayley, Virginia? Would you two be dears and head back to the room? I've got some important business to attend to."

The two cringed lightly at the names, but nodded, "Yes sir."

They turned around without another word, leaving their leader to do whatever she wished. She sighed happily. She did enjoy their obedience. Speaking of obedience…yes.

It was about time she went and punished that little boy for him impudence.

She grinned, and for a moment she was there.

The next, she was gone.

Lloyd knew the day was coming soon.

He knew he'd been convicted to life in prison, having been an accomplice to murder. He knew that was going to happen the instant he'd been taken in, his mind already set on confessing everything after the ordeal he'd been through. He had already started the path for the rest of his years to be spent in a prison that was hell-bent on forcing him to work for the rest of his life, forcing him to not speak, forcing him to never see anyone's facial features or expressions or hear anyone's voice save for the ones the prison guards and the pastors owned.

He was prepared for that, no matter how lonely it would become, and no matter how desolate his heart would grow. Pentonville, he could handle. What he couldn't handle was the chill that ran up his spine every single time the thought popped up in his mind.

He knew his death was coming. He could feel it.

Sometime after the…incident, he just began feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. He felt like a mouse cornered by a vicious cat, and he couldn't figure out why he felt that way for the life of him. The feeling never stopped growing as time passed though, and he grew more paranoid by the day. Of course, the prison guards wouldn't let his fear stop him from working, and he had to make sure he didn't cause too much of a fuss or he'd probably get punished.

The others sort of chalked it up to him being driven mad by the way the prison was run—constant working, no talking, never seeing any of your inmates' faces. A few men went crazy that way. Sure, he was showing those signs fairly early, but there wasn't really a definable tell for when a person would suddenly go off the deep end.

The only reason the prison guards and the pastors expected this to be the case was because they could tell exactly how much it bothered him. After all, they were the only ones who could see his face.

His hair had started thinning not too long after he'd been arrested, and how he had a small bald spot at the back of his head. He began getting wrinkles earlier than expected as well, and the light he'd had in his eyes before the incident had dimmed and made him look even worse. While the change from before wasn't too drastic, he did look a good five to six years older than he actually was in a few weeks' time.

The ones who saw his face had watched his transformation with awe and scrutiny. The change seemed even more wondrous to the pastors, who only saw him once a week. He'd be amused by their confusion if his imminent death weren't on the way.

He curled up a little tighter on his bed, though it did nothing to help stave off his racing thoughts. He needed to get sleep, for Pete's sake! It was some hour in the morning and he needed to rest!

There was a knock at his window.

He curled deeper into his sparse cover, trying to warm up a bit.

There was another knock.

He hummed lowly, thinking it might be an early morning bird or something.

A knock.

Ah…but when he thought about it, it sounded sort of human, didn't it? Like a hand tapping glass?

A knock

Huh, either way, whoever it was simply needed to move along so he could sleep. He curled up a bit more.

A creaking, scratching sound.

His face scrunched up at that, but he was determined to stay in bed and rest. Whoever was trying to annoy him should go to someone else!

The scratching sound was louder this time.

He curled up deeper, hoping that this would let whoever was trying to get his attention that he wasn't going to give it. He wasn't sure who it was, but he wasn't about to give them the time of day. At least, he'd expected that he wouldn't

This time it grated deeply in his eardrums, the screeching of something against the glass of his window driving him to anger, something he almost thought he couldn't feel anymore.

It had simply become too much. He sat up abruptly, irritated beyond what he'd felt for a while. Grumbling under his breath, the turned to the window and began to speak, despite the rule that they weren't allowed to, and tell whoever was outside of his window to bugger off.

His eyes went wide when he remembered where he was. Sweat began to develop at his brow line when he remembered that his cell was several meters off of the ground.

He nearly pissed himself once he saw who it was.

She grinned down at him from the corner of the window, her face barely visible. For one moment, she looked normal, like a slowly aging woman just looking toward him. The next moment, she didn't look human. Her mouth stretched her face from ear to ear, her skin bunching up in the corners like cloth, her sclera black and pupils white, an upside down black star imprinted on her forehead.

"Hello Lloyd."

Lord Walthamstow sighed as he settled into his seat at the table for breakfast that morning, the slight tinkering of the maids heard from the kitchen. He was rather appreciative of the fact that there hadn't been any interruptions in last night's rest. He could feel energy welling up in him already. All he needed was a good breakfast and he'd be good to go.

He held an open hand up to his butler as the maid poured him a cup of coffee, "Jeeves, the paper."

"…Yes sir."

He glanced up back at the stiff man as he handed him the paper, a certain gleam in his eye, "Why the hesitation?"

"The news today is rather unsavory, sir."

He hummed in absent interest before he turned back, noting the cup of black coffee sitting in front of him. He smiled a little under his mustache, picking the cup up with a careful hand before he relaxed more in his seat before taking a look at the front page.

The cup touched his lips, but his eyes went wide before he tipped the drink into his mouth.

THE GHASTLY MURDERS CONTINUE. Another attack on a brothel. Several found dead.

TERRORISM CONSPIRACIES TRAVEL THE STREETS OF ENGLAND. The police investigate the recent mass deaths.

"…Hmm…that's what you meant."

"Yes sir."

Lord Walthamstow placed his coffee back down before he opened the paper, reading more of the headlines. One in particular piqued his interest, worry settling into his mind.

A CLOSED-ROOM MURDER AT PENTONVILLE PRISON. Mr. Lloyd Frank found dead in his isolated cell, no weapon in sight.

His eyes opened wide at the title. The ol' boy was dead? In Pentonville of all places? Given, he was a thug, following a murder around and helping his destructive and bloody cause, even if he'd confessed everything and several cold cases were closed. Considering what he'd helped, he wasn't surprised that there'd be a few people out for his blood.

But really? Who would take the time to break into Pentonville and kill him? It was a notoriously strong prison. It must've been an inside job.

He was found beheaded early this morning, approximately at 5:50.

So brutal…but he deserved it, quite frankly.

The weapon was not found at the scene of the crime.

Lord Walthamstow scoffed. That was a given. What kind of murderer would leave their weapon at the scene of the crime? It happened a few times before, but ones with a functioning brain would take their weapon with them. For a moment, he considered putting the paper down or finding the weather report, but another line of the article caught his interest as he skipped along the article.

Other cellmates did not see the killer, but heard someone speaking. "I couldn't determine if the person was male or female. Sometimes I couldn't tell if their voice was human. It just kept changing," the police claim the convict in the cell next to Mr. Frank's reports. As such, there still aren't any definable features that can be described about the killer.

That was…strange. He knew about Pentonville, they were all about silence, separation, and hard work. But even if they weren't allowed to speak or see each other's faces, they saw and heard the police that monitored the facility. Whoever the convict was shouldn't have forgotten the difference between a male and a female voice.

Besides, how did the police not catch on to the fact that someone was talking? Were they just not paying attention? It was definitely an inside job. That had to be it. Why else would the police not stop whatever talking was going on? Why else would anyone be a victim of homicide in that prison?

According to the police, the cell door had not been moved all night. The criminals agree: they didn't hear the door move. As of now, facts say that Mr. Frank had been killed inside of his cell by someone who was also inside.

Hah, no one moved the door huh? What poppycock.

The only other clue know by the public about this case is that his window was broken, and glass littered the room near his body. The sound of shattering glass had been reported by the criminals as well. No glass was found on the grounds outside of his cell.

...Now that was new. Why'd they go through all that trouble to cover up an inside job? The broken window wasn't necessary. Also, the outside of his cell? Why'd they search that?

His thought process paused, his hand crinkling the paper.

There was too much effort put into a cover up. The beheading, the glass, everything. Surely someone would've heard him scream, someone would've smelled the blood, and they would've been able to get to him faster.

When he thought about it…they found him that morning, a mere thirty minutes before the 6:20 warning bell for them to wake up and get ready for work. They had to have cleaned up, thus it had to be an inside job…right? The window was broken, and someone had been speaking to the boy in his room…was the glass broken before or after that they spoke? Of course they wouldn't tell the common people all of the details.

But then, why would the other convicts cover for the police? They, without a doubt, would rat them out if they did anything wrong. Of course, the convicts didn't see anything. They were in their cells. They did hear a few things, but it was vague. Perhaps they were being blackmailed?

Hell, why would they even report it?

Something about the whole situation was wonky, even worse than an inside job.

Who would even go through all of that trouble to create such an impossible scenario?

He closed the newspaper with a huff, the maids bringing him his breakfast. With a grateful look, he took a sip from his coffee before he began eating.

All the while, he felt a niggling at the back of his mind, something he pushed off for later.