𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘, 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚖, 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝;
Studio 54, with it's lush decor and velveteen carpets.
Studio 54, with it's illicit drug running and high end prostitutes.
Studio 54, with it's blood-soaked drapes and elaborate murder scene.
Detective Dirk Langley had been called to the scene - a gory display of wealth and depravity, three decapitated heads frozen in permanent screams amidst expensive champagne and pounding disco music. Each one different; Victim number one, a human man, late twenties, redheaded and freckled, handsome but not intimidatingly so. Number two, an elven woman, dark-skinned with opalescent eyes, doused in golden jewellery. The third, a Leonin, boasting a half-mane weaved with emerald green framing a sleek, androgynous face.
Each one dripped grizzly crimson onto the carpet, the life of each seeping into the floorboards below, a permanent stain despite their temporary existence. It was the sort of crime that Detective Langley despised - One borne of greed, of opulence and excess, the sort of crime that would never be redeemed, not borne from any great passion, or even a twisted revenge... Just the sick, desperate wanting of some fat cat, bored with his average existence and craving a fresh excitement at any cost.
It was a waste. Of life, of fancy carpet, of Detective Langley's time.
They'd never catch the perpetrator. He'd be someone buried in legalese and protective yes men, the kind of rich that prevented any justice from reaching the lofty heights of impossible penthouses and monolithic megacorps. They'd arrest some nobody, an intern, the lunch runner, somebody who'd take the fall, regardless of whether they were willing to or not. They'd rot behind bars, while the cruel and unjust continued to run the city, a damned metropolis built on the backs of the poor and the graves of the fools just stupid enough to get in their way.
Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2023: https://tinyurl.com/3re46n99
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