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It was a suicide.
Jule knew that.
From the huge metal gate that Edward ridiculously managed to fit in-between the grills to the illegally attained CCTV that showed a woman sitting alone on the floor, preceding a self-imposed fall afterwards, it is without unreasonable doubt that the cause of death is indeed suicide.
It corroborates with the statement of the witnesses, the circumstance of the supposed crime scene, the cryptic social media posts like a scattered suicide letter. They have evidence for it. True, undeniable, unfabricated evidence.
Jule stands up from the crouching in front of the railings and furrows his brows. The puzzle in front of his vision is complete, perfectly and irrevocably so.
The pieces fit each other as if it wasn’t disentangled to begin with. And for Jule, with a case as easy as this, it might have been a full-blown portrait just waiting to be impassively explained like an art display in a museum.
Even so, it nags at Jule. Not at the simplicity of the case, but at the smoothness of how every single detail on their casefile somehow leads to just one straight path—taking out her own life.
Jule doesn't care about this particular woman. How can he? He didn't even know her. And even if he did, his made-up empathy couldn't be bothered if she lived or she died.
He isn't like Fraulein, who values human life enough to betray him. Nor was he Laevateinn, protector and hero to humanity. Especially not Edward Dace whose heart shines like a bright flame of hope to everyone who encounters him.
He tells himself that, and yet an inner part of his deeply buried conscience is itching at him to understand beyond the casefiles and the ink. To see past the cold metal railings and the ground stained with blood. To listen to the fading voice of a woman that the world only paid attention to when life was split on cracked concrete and sorrows smeared in red flowed out of a heart broken not from the fall, but from the world.
‘I hope you think of me.’
The words flew in his vision, but the voice that whispered them was very similar to the child who dreamt of overcoming the skies and the stars accompanied by the scraping sound of stone against bark, two names the world didn’t bother learning etched forever onto a tree.
Jule shakes his head, his hands twitching in irritation and confusion as the memory fades like smoke blown by the wind. Instinctively, he held onto Kiel’s uniform sleeve. His knuckles flexed with how tight the fabric curled under his fingers.
“Futhark, it can't be suicide.”
He hated the way his voice slightly decreased in volume at the end. To anyone, it might have looked like he was musing, but to Kiel, the one person who believed and knew him the most, it was as if he had just blatantly spoken how he was struggling to maintain his usual mask of confidence and composure.
Kiel stilled, his body going taut against his hold. He only spared his hand a furtive glance then went back to Edward Dace who had started speculating about the victim undergoing psychosis that led to her death.
His hand fell at his side, a faint pang tugging at his ribcage. Jule was no stranger to this feeling. After all, pain was the first real emotion he’d learned, the very first one he didn't try to copy.
And oh, how elated young Jule was when he genuinely felt the tightening in his chest, the smell of sharp sulfur stinging his eyes, his ears ringing loudly at the far-away echo of a bullet hitting flesh. His heart hammered at the way his hands hurt at the recoil of a gun being fired, the burn creeping upwards his scrawny arms, his whole body shaking in pain as his mother screamed at him. The word monster repeated over and over again as she lay beside his big brother Corey.
Young Jule didn't fully comprehend the severity of his action, accidental as it may be, because he was too focused at the revelation of feeling such intense emotions when all his life, he had been as empty as a discarded seashell, too broken to be used.
Pain made him feel he was alive. It reminds him to breathe as he chases air in his lungs from having run far away enough to drown out the overwhelming shouts of his parents as they struggle to make peace with their son seemingly being an emotionless psychopathic monster.
Pain is the blanket that brought Jule’s body warmth, the small needle-like thorns pricking and breaking his skin as he sinks further into the shared memories he had of teaching and playing with Nik, as insufferable as the kid may be.
Her parent’s pain was what made him close to Lance and was made known to a world far bigger than what his mind had imagined. A world where blood was more literal than metaphorical. Where anger sings in staccato and grief is named Sisyphus futilely pushing up a boulder. Pain precedes mystery, and it is with a kind of staggering thrill as he realized his intellect is meant for something greater.
Jule knew from then onwards that they were wrong. He isn't empty as he had initially believed. He is not a monster. He is not broken, nor is he a fool to not understand the invisible lines and sacred rules the world seems to religiously follow.
These stupid people just don't see the world that he do. They don't see the flying words or the watchful eyes that appear in-between spaces of a paragraph when reality blends with fiction. Or do they hear the melody of keys being struck by deft fingers as a skilled pianist moves into the interlude, the world suspending for moment without knowing the chess pieces are already being arranged into their respective places as one prepares for the final stage play–the climax that would bring the world to acknowledge William Wyse’s brilliance and existence.
“She’s not acting weird and irrational, but that's a good theory.” William says, finally tuning in to the conversation at hand. His voice was low and firm, a clear sign that whatever he was struggling with was finally resolved. He crossed his arms, his shoulders straight and defiant. At the corner of his eye, Fraulein stares at him, studying him. But William knew his eyes were blank–not the kind where it looked sullen and empty, but one that had built up walls and was careful to not let any intention slip between its closed doors.
Their victim’s death was a manifestation of her pain, a desperate scuffle of forcing the world to its knees and acknowledging she exists. Yet even so, she threw the towel because she wasn’t able to get past the invisible rules and floating boundaries that fate weaved. She was slowly being killed and she let herself fall captive into a ground of dirt and blood instead of fighting the people who hurt her.
Rather pitiable, rather pathetic.
Her action was as fleeting as sudden rain falling from heavy clouds, encompassing in its weight but not heavy enough for it to matter. It was a slight inconvenience, one that stops people on their tracks for a few minutes to shake off the raindrops from their umbrellas before going on with their day, business as usual.
It wasn't her fault, Jule understood that. He wouldn't go as pin blame on a helpless student who only just wanted the world to see and accept her for who she is.
Fate was just too cruel and the world too big for her to topple alone.
Not William Wyse though.
When William plans, he plans a storm, lightning and thunder devastating everything in its wake, destructive enough for people not to easily shrug the cold and dampness off of their shoulders, leaving open wounds and graves to anyone foolish enough to intercept the howling winds in an attempt to turn the tide around.
He makes a statement, gives people the illusion of choice and control, and pushes them back without knowing they are purposefully being ushered towards the role he wanted them to play.
William is different.
“Let’s do this, SMS-style!” Edward gushed. An excitable energy buzzing at the stretched arm in front of them.
He’s different from them.
“SMS style,” calm, deep blue wafted through the air as Laevateinn’s hand rested lazily atop Edward’s own. “Get lost somewhere, fight along the way, then somehow still find the truth behind everything.”
The world tried to put William in a box, and it failed.
“‘Wag naman sana.” Without a single sign of hesitation and doubt, Fraulein placed his palm on top of his friends.
William stared at the hand, all calloused from years of hard labor and sacrifice, the very same hand that had reached out to him from before, but is now slowly slipping away from his fingers.
Time tried to stop him. But William knew fate cannot be stopped.
“SMS style.” William placed his hand gently on Fraulein’s skin. He vaguely heard the ominous sound of a gavel hitting wood as if he was a judge permanently announcing their fate.
It doesn’t matter, because even if the evidence say it's suicide, William knew it was murder.
He will make sure of it.
After all, William Wyse does not surrender.