Murray wasn't getting any younger.

When the doctor gave him the ultimatum on his smoking habits, he tore down the shiny plaque with the doctor's name and title bolted next to his office and made it into an ashtray. Nobody told him what to do, least of all a Harvard fuck whose salary was less than what he made in a month. But in moments like these, when he was heaving like a pug on a hot summer day by climbing a few steps up to Henry's foyer, he wished he wasn't such a prideful idiot. He felt his lungs burning up with every shallow breath, and an unnatural wheeze every time he let it out.

Not finding a proper seat in time, he plopped down against the front door, praying to whatever god not to die right there. He wasn't going to make Clara plan another funeral just yet. He reached for his wallet, tucked in his breast pocket, where he always kept a religious stamp of St. Jude Thaddaeus, the patron saint of desperate causes. 

Clara had gifted it to him as a joke — Murray, however, took it deadly seriously, carrying it wherever he went. He was not a particularly religious man, but he was deeply superstitious. The first time he had one of these "attacks", he held onto that stamp as his life depended on it. And it helped, or at least he thought so.

Clutching it tightly, he braced for what was about to come next. He broke into a coughing fit that shook his entire body. His throat was sore and raw, with the coppery taste of blood dominating his tongue almost immediately. With every cough, brown spit projected out of his mouth, making a rust-colored foam on the corners of his lips. He dug his nails into his thighs to try dissipate his pain in any way possible. 

Hands trembling. Cold sweat on his forehead. Feeling weak. Head swirling.

But just as it came, it faded away. Slowly, he managed to breathe normally again. With every injection of oxygen into his system, his head became a little bit lighter. His hands steadied again, if a bit weaker after the fact. Only when he was sure he wouldn't faint did he stand up. His knees threatened to buckle down on him, so he chose to slowly walk towards the nearest chair while hugging the wall. 

The seat barely managed to hold Murray's girth, but for him, it was the most comfortable chair he had ever sat on. He placed the stamp back into his wallet and took out his pack of cigarettes.

Cancer was a common word, commonly tossed around by common people in common situations. How can something so common and mundane take out someone as incredible and remarkable as Murray fucking Prendergast? Ever since he got the diagnosis, Murray decided he was going to leave this earth on his own terms: doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, with no consequences whatsoever. 

According to his doctor, he still had a few months to live — a year, at best, but only if he stopped smoking, drinking, or otherwise not doing anything he liked. But for Murray, a life without pleasure is not a life worth living, so he resigned. He was not going to fight it. It would come when it comes, and that was it. He would be grateful for any extra day he was given, but beyond that, screw the world.

Or at least, that's what he usually thought. That day, he remembered his mortality. Seeing Henry, Clara, and the rest of the guests so heartbroken made him realize he would also leave a heartbroken family behind — A wife without a husband, and a kid without a father. He wanted to throw that pack of cigarettes away. To go back in time and punch himself into submission while he still had a chance of recovery. 

But that was impossible. It was too late. He had signed his death sentence. In a way, Murray was leaving this world on his terms, irredeemable as they were.

When he felt strong enough to stand up, he met up with the rest of the guests in the living room where they were gathered around Henry, who was about to make a toast.

Jacob approached Murray carrying a silver tray filled with Champagne glasses. The yellow foam was almost sickening to Murray, as it reminded him of his spittle. He grabbed one out of respect. Once everyone had a drink in their hands, Henry spoke.

"I know it's highly unorthodox to have a toast at a funeral, but Zizi was a highly unorthodox woman. She never understood why people were so sad at funerals. For her, death was not the end, but a new beginning. Death was not a moment of mourning, but a moment of celebration. To celebrate the life of the people who are no longer with us. Today, I want us to celebrate the life of my one and only love; the woman who decided since she was a teenager to walk the same path as me, through thick and thin. A friend to all those who were friendless, a ray of hope for those who were lost. To Zizi: May she always be in our hearts and minds. Cheers!"

The others could be fooled, but not Murray. He knew Henry better than anyone else. That little speech was not about Zizi, but about him. About how she was his property, his wife, his partner, and how much he lost. Me, me, me.

Zizi was way more than just a partner for Henry: For a long time, she was Murray's only friend. She was the one who introduced him to Clara. She was Zacky's godmother. She was an immutable force that washed everyone in her path with kindness and understanding, like a raging river amid a storm. Seeing her reduced to a sidekick for the world's biggest dick made Murray's blood boil.

For Henry, there was no difference between alive Zizi and cremated Zizi ―They were both decorations for his ego. But Murray kept quiet. It was not the time or the place to say anything. It was not like it mattered; he would be joining Zizi shortly enough. 

But until then, he had a job to do. If not for himself, then out of loyalty to Zizi.

Henry was surrounded by all kinds of bootlickers that Murray was sure never even met Zizi, receiving condolences from left to right. People didn't come to pay respect; they were there to suck up to Henry.

Interrupting a particularly handsy guest, Murray grabbed a hold of Henry's arm, pulling him to an adjacent room.

"Mur, where were you? You missed the toast."

Murray snickered, placing his hands in his pocket. "Nah. I saw the whole thing. Zizi would've been proud."

"I wanted you to make a toast in her honor, too. We can still make it if you like."

"Don't worry. Can't follow the husband. That's like following Queen after Bohemian Rhapsody. Besides, I'm not in the mood for speeches. We have a situation"

Henry took a deep breath. Not even at his wife's funeral could he get a moment of peace. He didn't address Murray, only signaling him to follow to their usual meeting place: the smoking room.

Henry poured both of them a glass of scotch, sitting on the deep chairs at the end of the room.

"You sure you don't wanna stay in the living room? Those bootlickers are gonna wet the carpet if they don't use their tongue."

Henry took a long whiff at the glass. The smokey scent of applewood and alcohol helped clear his head, if only a little. He could see his reflection on the murky liquid. Where was the last time he shaved? He was beginning to look scruffy. For a second, he got lost in his own eyes. He felt he wasn't real, that he was not himself, but another person looking from outside his own body. 

It was Murray's voice who brought him out of his disassociated state. "Okay, look. A cop came knocking a few minutes ago. Jacob called me to deal with it. He wants to talk to you and ask you some stuff."

"I thought they asked everything they wanted to know already. Did he tell you what it was about?"

Murray took a sip of scotch, but almost immediately he regretted it. Everything tasted like blood and bile. "Fuck if I know. I told him to look you up when you return to work. By the way, when would that be? I don't mind being the head honcho for a while, but I like having free time that my office of fuckwads gives me for doing jack shit."

Henry drank the whole glass in one go. He wasn't ready to move on. He couldn't move on. "I don't know, and I don't care. I have no wife, I have no family, and I have no reason to work so hard anymore. You can be the CEO for all I care."

"As much as I'd love to screw you over, it's not up to me. The Board of Directors wants you up and running, ASAP. They need you to close the VA government contract."

Henry grabbed the decanter sitting at a nearby table, filling his glass again with the sweet poison. "Well, thought shit. Not even if the Chairman himself comes down from his high castle to beg me to go back, I won't. Speaking of, I was hoping he would at least come to pay his respects."

Tomas Gomez, chairman of the Geber Laboratories board of directors, was a shrewd businessman, and a cheap bastard. He wouldn't move a finger to save his own mother if he couldn't profit from it in some way. A hardliner and a conservative, he hated both Murray and Henry for their fancy lifestyles. He hated pretty much everybody.

"Old Tommy couldn't make it, but he sent a gift for you. Jacob!"

As if waiting for his cue, Jacob quickly appeared with a briefcase in his hands.

"Him? Willingly giving away something?" inquired Henry. "Did hell freeze over while I was away?

"It arrived in the morning, sir, " said Jacob. "I was given clear instructions to give you this after the funeral, but at Mr. Prendergast's request, I am delivering it now. Also, I was supposed to give you a message from Mr. Gomez."

Placing the suitcase on the same table the decanter laid, Jacob eyed Murray nervously.

"Do I really have to say this, sir?"

"You were ordered to, Jake," said Murray with a shit-eating grin.

"Very well," said Jacob, with a light, embarrassed blush on his face. "Mr. Gomez would like me to tell you 'Get your shit together, White, or I'll do it for you and shove it up your asshole so hard that you'll be a human Pez dispenser.' I'm sorry for the language, sir."

Murray squealed like a pig. Henry was not amused, however. For now, the briefcase on the table commanded most of his attention.

"Go get your gift, kid," said Murray, standing up next to the briefcase.

Henry already knew what was in the briefcase. He had seen it countless times, but he felt compelled to open it, just to be sure. With a loud grunt, he downed the rest of his scotch. He would need it for what was about to come.

Opening the briefcase, his suspicions were found to be correct: an IV bag, a syringe, an intravenous tube, and a vial of clear, yellow liquid labeled "DayDream".

It was pushing six o'clock when Graham finally managed to make it "home". It had been a long day, but a rather productive one at that.

Thanks to his divorce, Graham was left penniless. After couch surfing for a few months, he managed to find a steady lodging with his friend, Anna, who kindly lent Graham her couch for him to sleep in, in exchange for some...services. The pair lived in a cramped studio apartment in an almost dilapidated building. Most of the furniture was either hand-me-down, bought from Ikea, or found in questionable thrift shops. The whole place smelled of musk and humidity. The eggshell-white walls were faded and mangy; in some parts, the paint was peeling away, revealing the brick foundations underneath.

Anna was sitting on the springy old couch that served as Graham's temporary bed wearing an oversized Bruins jersey and pajama bottoms. Her auburn hair was tied in a bun, revealing her freckled shoulders. Her black eyes, shiny and beady, were fixed on the crumbly CRT TV on top of an upturned box. There was some cooking show on, which were her favorite to watch; it was not like she enjoyed cooking, but was in for the drama of it.

Graham tossed his coat away, throwing his body on the couch with gusto.

"I take it you had a pretty bad day, bub," said Anna, not bothering to look at him.

"Got a new case. Remember the woman who crashed and burned on the pike? Gotta check that out now."

"Yeah, sure. Weren't you supposed to be on vacation?" she inquired. On the floor in front of her was a plastic bag filled with all types of treats: chocolates, mints, gummies, and even half-melted ice cream. Reaching into it, she pulled a couple of gummy bears, giving them to Graham.

"Thanks. And yeah, but fuck me, I guess."

"Oh, I can fuck you alright, but not tonight. I wanna pop a few pills before my shift tomorrow. You are on watch duty."

Graham groaned in contempt. "Can't we do this another day? I'm tired and I don't wanna babysit a high toddler."

Anna hushed him like a kid, producing a pill bottle from the snack bag. The off-blue bottle read "Mandrik". The golden G of Glocal Pharmaceuticals shined on the cap of the bottle, invitingly, while at the same time looking like a cheap knock-off. "We have a deal, Graham. Help me on this one."

He had no choice here. One of the few "services" he provided for Anna was to make sure her dealer doesn't get busted, but the main one was taking care of her whenever she got high. It was a small price to pay to be completely honest, but it didn't make Graham feel completely clean.

Anna took a snow globe lying around on the floor while placing a few pills on the coffee table between the TV and the couch. Using the underside of the snow globe, she crushed the small pills into fine dust, cutting two lines with her long fingernails.

"Got a bill or something?" she asked Graham. 

He gave her five bucks that were loose in his pocket, which she rolled to make a straw. In the blink of an eye, she snorted the dust lines, sniffing and puffing the remains while rubbing her nose. She put on a set of headphones that softly blasted some light rock music.

Graham watched intently as her face changed from her usual deadpanned expression to a look of utter bliss. Her whole body tensed up like a stalking cat. 

After a few seconds of ecstasy, she assumed the position of an upturned turtle, clawing at the void as the drug took over her entire body.

He held her arm in a vice grip to let her know he was there. That was the only thing he was required to do, as any other action would disrupt her drug-infused dream.

"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom," she repeated over and over again. Anna was already lost beyond recovery. 

Graham had no other choice than to wait for her to come down. This was a shitty day for him.

His cell phone rang with a howling tone. He had chosen the loudest possible ring-tone and assigned it to the Captain's contact information. Can't be missing a call from the boss.

"Hey, Dunne. How's the funeral thingy?" Captain Lynch said, or rather, yelled, entirely too loud for his taste.

"Didn't get in, obviously. A friend of the family received me outside the house, but I couldn't get anything out of him."

The Captain was chewing loudly over the phone, with some kind of electronic music playing faintly in the background. Was she clubbing? "That happens. Keep pushin'. For now, I gotta tell ya somethin'."

"Wait a sec."

Graham placed his phone between his shoulder and ear, using his free hand to try and reach his discarded coat. He always kept a little black notebook on him to take notes and all those little details that he would otherwise forget. Quickly testing his old plastic pen on the paper, he signaled her to continue.

"Okay, okay. Go."

"The management at The Park Plaza hotel got us a few tapes to watch. Said there was some possibly relevant info there. I want ya to check 'em."

"What do you mean by 'some relevant info'?"

"I dunno. Kinda cryptic. I'm just the messenger." In the background, a male voice called her name, telling the Captain to hurry up. "Look, gotta go. Call me tomorrow. Wanna know what's what."

"Wait!" yelled Graham, eliciting a moaning grunt from the flying Anna next to him.

"What now, Dunne?"

He quickly thumbed through the notebook, landing on the most recent page. "I talked with this guy, William, who was the last person to see the victim alive. Got to have a coffee with him this afternoon. I found some stuff."

The Captain clicked her tongue in disgust. "You can tell me 'bout your date later. See ya." 

And with that, she hung up. He cursed under his breath.

Graham quickly jotted down the info on his notepad, making sure to review what he had learned earlier, but was suddenly pulled away from his concentration. His phone rang again, but not his regular phone this time. It was his burner phone, one he carried around for one thing and one thing only.

"Black falcon ferry terminal, 3:30, bring the piece," read the text. And nothing else. 

It was an order. An order he couldn't refuse. 

His day was going to get a whole lot shittier.