[h2][b][u]Mistakes Were Made[/u][/b][/h2][h3]Next door to Holly Knight's apartment
11:30 PM[/h3]
[hr]
"Argh, [i]le fils de pute.[/i] Stupid lock."

The Frenchman grumbled as he mangled his fingers (read: entangled his fingers in) with his key-ring. After a second of fumbling, he found the right key, jammed it into the slot and headed in to comfort and, well, home. The day, and by extension the night, had been exceptionally long for him. Unlike his neighbour who could clock off at a reasonable time, he had to stay behind to make sure his work was done just right. After all, he was the only chief medical examiner in the precinct, and with crime levels at an all-time high, he was neck deep in work processing the number of bodies that came through his morgue every day. It was driving him up the wall with how overworked he'd been in recent days, even with an assistant that he'd been given graciously by whatever higher-ups he had.

As he ambled into his apartment, he closed his door and locked it, testing the knob and jiggling the door to make sure it was properly locked like it always was. Then he tossed his keys precisely into the small bowl perched on the chest of drawers next to the door (where it'd always been) and hung his thick coat on the coat rack next to it. His satchel went onto the couch and the first thing he went for was the thermostat that he turned to his usual, comfortable 24°C. Not too hot, not too cold, especially in eastern France. After which he made his way into his kitchenette and poured himself a cold, stiff finger of whiskey on the rocks. Then, with his drink in hand, he stood by his apartment window and stared out at the city. He could just barely make out the sound of sirens in the distance, a constant companion to him ever since he'd joined the police department, seemingly the city's siren song to the masses, a reminder that Loom was a dangerous city; one you should never attempt to traverse at night.

Today was no different; he'd gotten through two (or three, the hours and bodies blurred) autopsies and post-mortems for two (or three) new cases, along with writing reports for two more that he had to submit by the next day at the latest. And the worst part was that he had to be early tomorrow to finish up, submit the reports, then start on the two (or three, [i]merde[/i] he was getting old) new reports before he could even take a break.

At least he'd come home at a respectable time. Sometimes his neighbour Holly would come home even later, her keys rattling in her lock waking him from his slumber occasionally when her job called her away at unearthly hours. They were both law enforcement, so it was expected, but a part of him wished that, maybe, they'd both get a break one day. Holly was his only friend, after all. Someone he could trust enough to not feel like a total [i]d'idiot[/i] if he asked her out for dinner and a drink.

After a while of mulling over his own thoughts and his whiskey, he retired to his bathroom for a hot shower, then to his bed, where he fell into a silent, blank sleep.

[hr][h3]3 AM[/h3]

The sounds of a struggle woke Jean-Phillipe from his slumber. His senses kicked into gear before his body did, alerting him of what was happening; a fight, Holly screaming, something heavy falling over, caused by her body impacting it. A new, unfamiliar person attacking her assailant, judging by the near-animalistic (and slightly muffled) growling through his wall. Groggy and still half-awake, the Frenchman jerked himself out of bed and dragged himself over to the door, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes as he unlocked his door and peeked over at his neighbour. No surprise, the door was ajar and wood chips and splinters littered the floor.

That woke him up.

"[i]Merde-[/i] Holly?!"

In his fuzzy bedroom slippers, he rushed into her apartment to find her sprawled out on her sofa, which was upturned, and a mysterious younger man struggling on top of...something else entirely. Two thin slivers of shiny metal jutted from the bigger silhouette's back, no doubt weapons of some sort, which made JP look around for the nearest one for him. He caught sight of her coat, holster still attached and pistol still within, and reached for it, a hand pulling the heavy black handgun from its leather receptacle and pointing it at the two struggling men on the floor, both hands now clasped firmly around the grip. With one hand, JP flicked the off-white plastic hallway light switch into the 'on' position and mustered his best police voice.

"[i]Je suis la police![/i] Freeze!"

Only after shouting this did he remember that he, unlike her, did not have training with a firearm. Or even own one. And, as quietly as he could, he swore.

"[i]...merde.[/i]"