WAST. Part 1⁠⁠

I decided to try my hand at a thriller with a procedural twist. My goal was to explore the contrast: how the same characters behave in a fictional tabletop world versus a reality where mistakes aren't fixed with a re-roll, but paid for in blood.

I’d appreciate any honest feedback on the atmosphere and the character dynamics.

CHAPTER 1: MAINTAINING SYMMETRY

Simon: — I’ve had it up to here with your Sigil hierarchy, Arthur! — his voice was a jagged blade. — I have a plus-eleven bonus to my thievery tools. I could crack this lock with my eyes closed, one hand tied behind my back... using a damn can opener!

Arthur: — Do you even grasp the gravity of the situation?! It’s a magical deadbolt! — he was nearly shrieking, his face turning a blotchy red. — If you fail the check, we’re all getting atomized! The Rulebook clearly states: 'Upon any attempt at physical tampering...'

Simon: — I don't give a damn what it says in your Nerd Bible! — he slammed his fist on the table. — Elias, tell him! I came here to play, not to sit through a lecture on quantum magic in a fantasy setting!

Elias: — Arthur, Simon, please, let’s just— — he tried to interject, but his voice was swallowed by the noise.

Arthur: — 'Nerd Bible'?! It’s the foundation of the balance, you moron! — he stood up, trembling. — Without the rules, we’re just a pack of degenerating apes throwing plastic at a table! If you want to mindlessly mash buttons, go play Diablo, you old asshole

Simon: — Old asshole? — his voice dropped an octave, dangerous and low. — Watch your mouth, kid. Without my 'hacks,' you’d still be in the first dungeon, calculating the probability of a critical failure for every breath you take.

Adrian: — Boys, don't squabble, — he cooed, leaning back in his chair with predatory grace. — Arthur, he has a point. You’re just afraid. Afraid the dice will decide for you, and your book smarts will prove useless against a stroke of plain bad luck. And you, Simon... you’re just lazy. You want to get to 'Grayson D' so badly you’re willing to gamble with our characters' lives? How egoistic. I adore that about you.

Adrian: — Are we even playing in a dungeon anymore? — he paused, his gaze drifting. — Elias, give me your phone. Quickly.

Elias opened his mouth to protest, but the words died in his throat. He looked at Arthur, red-faced; at Simon, radiating restless fury; and at Adrian, who had already snatched the phone to film the circus.

Slowly, almost soundlessly, Elias stood up. The groan of his chair was buried under Arthur’s latest rant. The leader took a step back, then another. He lingered at the threshold for a second before stepping out onto the balcony. The glass door clicked shut, severing the sound of the scandal.

Click.

Elias flicked his lighter. Behind the glass, the silent play continued: Arthur was scribbling furiously, Simon was hunting for his phone, and Adrian sat with a hand to his chin, sipping coffee like a critic at a premiere.

Elias: — Team of heroes, — he whispered to the empty road below.

The city was still. There was only the realization that his attempt to glue three broken people together had spiraled into a catastrophe.

THE PRECINCT

The glass partitions of the office reflected the sterile morning light. Elias walked down the corridor, adjusting his cuffs. A step ahead of him, whistling a tune, was Adrian.

Elias: — Is that Bach?

Adrian: — Which Bach? — he smirked without turning around. — You’re just guessing names now, hoping to hit the mark.

Elias: — One minute. Go ahead. I'll be right in.

Adrian pushed open the office door. Elias slowed down by Arthur’s desk.

Elias: — Morning, Arthur. Give me some good news about the motel. Did the autopsy report come in?

Arthur: — Good morning, Elias. The report is in your inbox. Ballistics are attached separately.

Elias: — Copy that. Has our 'entry expert' arrived?

Arthur: — No. His workstation has been vacant for forty-seven minutes.

Elias glanced at the clock, then at Simon’s empty desk, where a solitary mug sat with a crusty ring of dried coffee.

Elias: — Looks like Simon’s fighting a dragon again. Except the dragon is made of glass, zero-point-seven liters, and the dragon always wins.

Arthur froze. He slowly turned his gaze toward Elias; his eyes were cold and clinical.

Arthur: — I suppose. If you say so.

The smile slid off Elias's face.

Adrian: — Where can I get some coffee? — he asked, stepping out of the inner office.

Arthur: — Machine’s over there. Kane will show you.

Adrian: — Grateful.

Elias pushed open the door to his private office.

Arthur: — Genius of humor, — his low grumble trailed after him.

Five minutes later, Adrian walked in with a steaming cup. Elias already had the file open. In the corner of the document, a small note read:

“Witness #3 is lying. His pulse and gaze trajectory on the CCTV do not align with the firing vector. I have re-checked the calculations 14 times. Error is excluded. The justice system cannot lean on a falsehood.”

Elias: — Look at this. — He turned the monitor toward Adrian. — Arthur’s out of his mind. He’s handing out sentences before the trial even starts. Look at how he decided to cram a living murder into a mathematical formula.

Adrian: — The Avenging Angel of the Keyboard, — he said, his eyes lazily scanning the screen.

Elias: — He wants everything to work the right way, — he replied softly. — But he’s right about that much.

Adrian: — He wants the world to be worthy of his intellect, — he sat down smoothly, adjusting his tie. — But look who’s walking through the door. Chaos in a wrinkled blazer.

Simon stumbled into the office, breathing heavily.

Arthur: — Oh, Simon! I assume Greg just landed a bonus today? — he didn't miss the chance to needle him.

Simon: — Huh?.. — he stared back with glazed eyes.

Arthur: — I’m saying your fifty-two-minute delay held up the work by thirty-three minutes.

Simon: — Yeah, fine... but why that much?

Arthur: — Well, I managed on my own while you were gone.

Simon: — I just hope I don't have to 're-manage' after you later, — he grumbled.

Elias: — Simon, come into my office for a minute. — He pushed the door open.

Night. The area near 'Hepson’s' is drenched in the toxic yellow glare of floodlights and slashed by the red reflection of a traffic light. Adrian stands slightly apart from the general bustle, wearing a long black cashmere coat. In his hands, he holds a clipboard with a report.

Adrian:
— A pair of polished-to-a-shine shoes follows with rhythmic, calm, and quiet steps. Ahead, by the dumpsters, stands Mark. He’s fumbling with his car keys, cursing under his breath. The light from a single streetlamp flickers. The shadow smoothly closes the distance.

— Mark turns around. His face freezes. He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s too late. A hand in a thin latex glove makes two short, almost invisible movements toward Mark’s abdomen. One — and two. Only the dull thud of slicing fabric and flesh is heard.

— Mark exhales sharply. His knees buckle, he instinctively doubles over, clutching his stomach. His head is now at the perfect level for the next step.

— The blade flashes in the lamplight. The third strike — a precise horizontal stroke across the throat.

— Mark collapses onto the wet asphalt. No screams. Only a heavy, fading wheeze. I freeze over the body. I do not search the pockets. I do not take the wallet.

— With my fingertips, I take Mark’s lifeless hand and carefully lay it along his torso. Then, I adjust the victim’s coat collar, achieving perfect symmetry.

— I straighten up, pull out a snow-white handkerchief, wipe the blade, and just as calmly, with the same measured step, I walk away into the darkness, dissolving into the city noise.