Chiaro had arrived at the scene minutes ago, staring at the fool of a man lying amidst his own blood and humans with lively souls and dark blue uniforms. They were in Atticus’ living room, a brightly-lit and high-ceilinged room with light marble floors and off-white walls. The furniture had all been overturned and slashed with a sharp object, stained with what seemed to be soot. He had felt the fallen angel’s presence from far away, and could only hope the man would leave him alone. But as his luck would have it, the newest bane of his existence arrived, stinking of alcohol. He had a grin on his face as though the entire world was suddenly an elaborate joke to him. But he could sense something more. Something dark, as dark as the deepest unlit corners of Hell. But it was pushed away, a bitter thought in the back of one’s mind. Chiaro sighed.

“Quite.” He said. “Quite is an understatement. Obviously someone isn’t happy with these brothers. If one is dead, the other may be next. That, or they’re trying to implicate me in their deaths.” He paused, turning his gaze to the sky. “Ah, reminds me of Hell. Not a friendly place to begin with, but especially hostile when one is suspected of murdering the highest-ranking devils. Still…” Moving forward, he crouched and studied the face of Atticus. It was well disfigured, as though he had been beaten with a heavy, blunt object. His clothes were ripped and bloodied. As the lingering police gathered in groups to discuss removal of the body and cleanup of the house, Chiaro took the chance to move aside the man’s slightly curled dark brown hair from his neck. Something was etched, or burned, into his neck, that of a crescent moon.