The old train cut through the fog like a whisper lost in the wind. Rain streaked the windows, smearing the reflection of distant lights across the cracked glass. Beyond the blur of countryside, a church bell tolled. Once. Twice. Then it vanished beneath the hum of the rails.
A creaking slide broke the silence.
"Could've at least opened that before you lit up," Hans said, the stale smoke beginning to thin.
Marcus scoffed from the opposite bench, one boot propped up near Hans. "What, you afraid of cancer, old man? You, of all people?"
Hans ignored him and sat down.
"You see, an investigator like you…" Marcus took a long pull, then stubbed out the cigarette. He blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. "Just screams 'smoker.' It's the look."
Hans's eyebrows lifted as he opened his tablet. "Oh? What led you to that conclusion?"
Marcus's eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned Hans in the flickering light. "You know, for a man pushing forty, you've really committed to the 'lived-in' look. Sixty called—it wants its face back." He paused, smirking. "Is the worn leather coat and beaten-up hat part of the whole 'tragic past' vibe, or are you just hiding from the rain?"
Hans didn't look up from his tablet. "Are you done?"
"Not quite. I'm still deciding if the scar by that grey eye makes you look tough or just unlucky."
"Aren't you quite the observant one." Hans continued scrolling.
Marcus snickered. "Well, they call me an investigator for a reason." A proud grin spread across his face.
"They give you a badge for that?"
The grin vanished. "What are you implying?"
Hans stopped scrolling, eyes lifting from the screen to meet Marcus's. "Even after all that observation, you're still wrong."
"Oh really?" Marcus leaned forward, irritated. "Do enlighten me. Where did I go wrong?"
Hans let the tension hang in the thinning smoke.
"That I do not smoke."
Marcus clicked his tongue.
Moments passed.
"You know, they said it was a family. Father, mother, son, daughter. All dead. Bodies lumped together in the house." Marcus broke the silence. Hans remained focused on his tablet.
"Sounds like your average hit-and-run to me."
Marcus sighed. "Bah. What a retard. To think leaving all the bodies after a massacre would leave no trace." He glanced outside at the fog-drenched fields. "And to think it's all the way out here. What luck." He muttered under his breath.
"You think it's that simple?" Hans asked, eyes still on the tablet.
"It's always that simple. Psychos snap, get mad at everything, start killing people. Or what—got a better theory, Mr. Investigator?"
Hans sighed. "Did you even read the full report?"
"Uh, y-yeah?" Marcus's voice faltered as he glanced out the window.
Hans shook his head. "Whatever. I already did."
"And?" Marcus leaned forward, eager.
"Let's just say I wish your explanation was the correct one."
A moment of silence stretched between them. The train rattled on, carrying it through the fog. Only the rain spoke.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Someone was at the doorway, slowly approaching the pair.
"Spare change, good sirs… may the Gods watch your path… please…" The beggar's voice was a whisper of prayer, fading beneath the steady grind of the train's wheels.
Marcus's lip curled. He dug into his pocket, jingled a coin between his fingers, then smirked.
"Ah, you're one of those people. Say all the prayers, wish for blessings. But you, yourself, refute them."
The beggar stayed silent. Hans did too, though his jaw tightened.
"Imagine if you made a contract. You wouldn't be living in this pathetic state." Marcus stood. The beggar stepped back to give him space.
"Please, sir… I only ask for-"
Before he could finish, Marcus reached out and tapped the man's forehead with two fingers, hard enough to sting.
"Here's your blessing. From me." He pressed again, mockingly, like a priest's anointment turned cruel. "Maybe next time, the Gods will give you a spine."
The beggar flinched, trembling as Marcus leaned back, grinning.
Then came the sound of a hand slapping down—firm, controlled.
"Enough."
The older detective's tone didn't rise, but the weight behind it filled the space between them. His gaze met Marcus's. Cold, steady, unyielding.
"You're wearing a badge. Try not to act like you bought it."
Marcus scoffed. "Relax. Just having some fun. Not like he'll remember anyway." He rubbed the hand that had been hit, ego bruised more than skin.
"He'll remember," Hans said quietly. "People always remember cruelty. Especially when it wears a uniform." He reached into his pocket. "Get yourself something warm at the next stop."
The beggar's hands shook as he took the coin. He murmured a prayer and shuffled away, his voice fading down the corridor, replaced once more by the grinding wheels and rain.
Marcus watched, smirking. "You and that bleeding heart. You'll drown in it one day."
Hans sat back. "Better that than choking on my own pride."
"Ha! Keep talking like that and people will think you're one of them."
Hans looked out the window, watching the fog swallow the light. "Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing."
Outside, the train howled into the fog, carrying them both toward the dead.