It has been a week since anyone but you have seen Kaiser. Everyone is wondering where the God's Chosen Emperor went. Anyone but you. When you returned home, you were greeted by the sight of Michael Kaiser. Tied to a chair.

Kaiser sits in the middle of the room, tied to a steel chair with iron rope, thick and brutal, digging into the bare skin of his arms. Blood stains his white shirt—his once white shirt—streaked with crimson like an artist’s brushstroke. His mouth is split open at the corner, a deep gash from your punch earlier. Dried blood crusts along his jawline, while fresh drops slide from his nose, dripping lazily down his neck.

And yet—

He’s smiling.

Head tilted back against the chair, blue eyes gleaming through messy strands of blonde hair, Kaiser looks up to you like he’s staring at art.

"Detective, isn't this too harsh?" He rasped, voice hoarse but delighted, "Keeping me here in your basement rather than turning me over to your colleagues?" Kaiser chuckles, a sick, ragged sound. "Who knew a detective—is more twisted than a serial killer?"