asia-frances

Latest Posts by asia-frances

We are not talking about Raúl Esparza's version ENOUGH.

his voice, his movements, EVERYTHING.

especially this. that's all. i have nothing to say.

CONCLAVE (2024) + LETTERBOXD REVIEWS

We could fix each other

"I can fix him" -my mum (unironically too)

Alarm für Cobra 11, S14E07 Rock ’n’ Roll (2003).

Hotte and Dieter got some cute moments here :D

Rafael Barba - 17x22 - Intersecting Lives

You guys have to read this ongoing masterpiece

Objection! Part 8

Rafael Barba x fem!Carisi!reader

6.1k word count

Summary All you wanted was to be a lawyer like your big brother Sonny. So what happens when you get a job working under the famous ADA Rafael Barba

slow-burn, colleague to friends to lovers

Authors Note: Drunks me has decide this chapters goodd to go blame the whiskey if its nots also blame the whiskey for any abd spellin and grammar drunk me is also not sorry for the cliffffhnager.

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

The squad room was unusually still, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the silence like an ominous soundtrack. I sat at a desk, staring at my phone, willing it to buzz with something—anything. A message. A clue. A sign. My knee bounced restlessly under the desk, and my hands clenched into fists. Each passing second felt like a lifetime, every tick of the clock a painful reminder that Y/N was out there, alone, and I wasn’t doing enough to bring her back.

The air felt heavy, thick with tension that no one dared to break. Amanda was seated at her desk, her hands hovering over her keyboard as if typing might somehow help her forget the helplessness in the room. Finn leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. Olivia, always the calm in the storm, stood near her office, her arms folded as she scanned the room, likely calculating her next move. But it all felt distant to me. My focus was singular: the phone in front of me that refused to deliver answers.

Then the sound of heavy, purposeful footsteps storming into the room shattered the stillness like a thunderclap. Sonny.

His face was flushed with anger, a storm brewing in his eyes as he practically threw the door shut behind him, the loud slam making everyone flinch. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days—disheveled, tense, and radiating a kind of fury that no one wanted to be on the receiving end of.

“What the hell is wrong with all of you?” he shouted, his voice cracking under the weight of raw emotion. “Why are you just sitting around? Why aren’t you out there looking for my sister?”

Olivia stepped forward, her tone calm and steady as she tried to defuse the situation. “Carisi, we’re doing everything we can—”

But Sonny wasn’t having it. He cut her off, shaking his head furiously. “Don’t ‘Carisi’ me, Captain! My sister is out there with some psycho, and you’re all just standing here like it’s another day at the office!”

His eyes scanned the room wildly, seeking someone to lash out at, someone to blame. And then they landed on me.

“You,” he snarled, his voice dropping to a deadly edge as he pointed a trembling finger at me.

He crossed the room in quick strides, his fury like a physical force that slammed into me before his words even reached my ears.

“This is all your fault.”

I stood, meeting his gaze, my body tense. “Sonny,” I said, my voice low, a warning.

But he didn’t stop. His hands collided with my chest in a hard shove, forcing me to stumble back a step.

“If you’d done your damn job—if you hadn’t failed Anya—Y/N wouldn’t be in this mess!” he shouted, his voice raw with grief and fury. His words cut deeper than any blow, hitting a part of me I’d been trying to bury under determination and focus.

His chest was heaving, his hands balled into fists at his sides. The rest of the squad watched in stunned silence, no one daring to step in just yet.

“You were supposed to look after her, Barba! That was your job!” His voice cracked, tears glistening in his eyes as his anger started to morph into something more desperate.

“I know,” I said quietly, the weight of my guilt making it hard to speak louder.

But Sonny wasn’t done. He stepped closer, his face inches from mine, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss.

“If Marco hurts even a hair on her head,” he said, his voice trembling with both rage and fear, “you’re a dead man, Barba. You hear me? A dead man.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for me to respond.

I couldn’t.

The guilt was already eating me alive, and Sonny’s words felt like a knife twisting deeper into an already festering wound. I looked down, unable to meet his gaze, my jaw clenched as I tried to keep my emotions in check. The weight of his blame—and my own—threatened to crush me.

Finally, Olivia stepped forward, her hand resting gently on Sonny’s shoulder. “Sonny,” she said softly, “we’re going to find her. But this isn’t helping.”

He shook her off, taking a shaky step back, his chest still heaving. “You better,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper before he turned and stormed out of the room, leaving an oppressive silence in his wake.

I stayed rooted to the spot, my fists clenched at my sides, my eyes fixed on the desk in front of me. The words echoed in my head—your fault, your fault, your fault.

Before I could find my voice, the door opened again, and two uniformed officers walked in, dragging a man between them. Marco. His smug expression was infuriating, even as his dishevelled appearance betrayed that he’d been through hell.

“He turned himself in downstairs,” one of the officers said.

“Get him in interrogation,” Olivia ordered, her voice sharp.

I watched as the officers dragged Marco into the interrogation room, his head held high, his movements casual as if he were walking into a meeting instead of a police station. My blood boiled with every step they took. From the other side of the two-way mirror, I stood frozen, watching every calculated move he made. Marco leaned back in his chair with the smugness of a man who believed he held all the cards, his posture lazy, his lips curled into an infuriating smirk.

Olivia and Finn entered the room, their expressions hard as steel. They were seasoned, unshakable, but even they seemed tense as they faced the man responsible for Y/N’s disappearance. Olivia wasted no time, her tone icy as she cut straight to the point.

“You want to tell us where she is?” she asked, each word like a dagger aimed to pierce his composure.

But Marco didn’t flinch. He didn’t cower or hesitate. Instead, his smirk widened, his dark eyes gleaming with something sinister. His gaze shifted past Olivia, locking on the two-way mirror. It was as if he could see through it, his expression a challenge aimed directly at me.

“I’m not talking to you,” he said with infuriating calm. “I’ll only talk to Barba.”

The words hung in the air like a bomb ready to detonate. My fists clenched so tightly at my sides that my nails bit into my palms. I felt the heat of my anger rising, my pulse pounding in my ears. Through the glass, Olivia turned to glance at me, her hesitation flickering in the subtle furrow of her brow.

Before she could make a decision, I acted on instinct. Without waiting for approval, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room felt stifling, the tension pressing down on me like a physical weight. Marco’s eyes lit up as he saw me, his smirk growing into a predatory grin.

“You want to talk to me?” I asked, my voice tight with barely contained rage. I stood at the table, my hands gripping the edge so hard I thought the metal might bend. “Fine. Let’s talk. Where is she?”

Marco leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table as if he were about to share a secret. “Oh, Rafael,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “Always so direct. Haven’t you learned by now? It’s never that simple.”

I slammed my hands down on the table, the sound reverberating through the room. The force rattled the chair Marco sat in, but he didn’t flinch. I leaned over him, my face inches from his, my fury barely leashed.

“Enough games!” I barked. “Tell me where she is!”

Marco’s composure didn’t waver. If anything, he seemed to enjoy my outburst, feeding off the anger radiating from me. He tilted his head like a teacher addressing a particularly slow student. “You like scavenger hunts, don’t you?” he asked, his voice deceptively light. “I left you some clues. Why don’t you put that sharp mind of yours to work?”

I wanted to wipe that smug look off his face, to force him to see the gravity of what he’d done. My voice rose, sharp and biting. “You’re wasting precious time!”

For the first time, his smirk faltered, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, and his grin returned, but it was colder now, sharper.

“No, Rafael,” he said, his tone darkening. “You’re wasting time. The longer you stand here arguing with me, the more water fills her final hiding place.”

His words hit like a sledgehammer, each syllable echoing in my head. Water fills her final hiding place. The room seemed to tilt, my breath catching as the full weight of his threat sank in. Every second was precious. Every moment spent here was a moment closer to losing her.

“What did you say?” I demanded, my voice barely above a whisper, my hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the table.

“You heard me,” Marco said, his smirk returning, but his eyes were darker now, filled with cruel satisfaction. “If you want to save her, you’ll need to start with my things. They’re locked up downstairs. Tick tock, counselor.”

His taunting tone was the final straw. Without another word, I turned on my heel and stormed out of the room, my heart pounding like a drum. His laughter followed me, low and menacing, a ghostly echo that clung to me as I sprinted down the hall.

Every second mattered now, and I wouldn’t waste another.

The moment Marco mentioned Y/N’s life hanging in the balance, a fire ignited inside me. Every second wasted felt like a betrayal to her. My feet pounded against the linoleum floor as I sprinted toward the evidence lockup, Sonny just steps ahead of me. His desperation mirrored my own, his frantic pace proof of how much he cared for his sister.

By the time I reached the evidence room, Sonny was already there, his hands moving with frantic precision as he rifled through Marco’s belongings. His face was a storm of emotions—anger, fear, and determination all vying for control. He barely acknowledged my arrival, snatching up the evidence bag containing Marco’s personal items.

“We don’t have time for this,” Sonny muttered under his breath, more to himself than to me. Without another word, we turned and bolted back to the squad room.

The others barely had time to clear the desks before we dumped the contents of the bag onto one of them, sending papers and small objects scattering across the surface. The noise of the chaotic search filled the air—keys clinking against the desk, papers rustling, receipts crumpling under impatient hands. The tension was suffocating, the silence broken only by Sonny’s muttered curses as he rifled through the mess.

I tried to focus, my hands shaking slightly as I sifted through the random items: a worn leather wallet, a set of keys on a chain with a gaudy souvenir keyring, a handful of receipts, and a few crumpled scraps of paper. None of it made sense. None of it screamed “clue.” My pulse pounded in my ears, the seconds ticking by with cruel indifference.

Then Sonny froze, his hands stilling mid-motion. His eyes locked on the wallet, a look of realization dawning across his face. He yanked it open and pulled out a folded piece of paper tucked into one of the inner pockets.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice sharp with urgency as I leaned closer.

Sonny unfolded the note with shaky fingers, his eyes scanning the handwritten words. “It says, ‘Your next clue can be found where Y/N buys Rafael’s morning coffee.’”

For a moment, I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Where she buys my coffee? I—I don’t know where she goes.”

Sonny scoffed, frustration flashing across his face as he tossed the wallet onto the desk. “Of course you don’t. She’s been doing it for months, and you haven’t even noticed.”

The jab stung, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Sonny grabbed his coat, the movement abrupt and filled with purpose. “I do. She always gets it from the same place because they sell her favorite cannoli. Come on.”

Before I could respond, Sonny was already heading for the door, his pace quick and his movements sharp. Olivia grabbed her jacket, sparing a glance at me as she followed.

“Let’s move, Barba,” she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.

I grabbed my own coat and hurried after them, sparing a brief glance back at the rest of the team. Amanda, Finn, and Nick were still in the squad room, their expressions a mixture of frustration and determination.

“Keep sweating him,” Olivia called over her shoulder as we left. “We’ll find her.”

The hallway outside felt colder, the sterile fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows. Sonny’s steps echoed ahead of us, his pace nearly a jog. The determination in his stride mirrored the fire burning in my chest. Wherever Marco’s sick game was leading us, I’d follow every step of the way—because failure wasn’t an option.

…

The tension in the car was suffocating as we sped toward the café, Sonny gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His frustration bubbled over, his voice sharp and accusing as he vented.

“You don’t know where she buys your coffee? Seriously, Barba? She does it every day! You didn’t think to ask? To notice?”

I wanted to argue, to defend myself, but the truth stung too much. I stared out the window, ashamed. “I didn’t ask her to do it,” I muttered, though the words felt hollow.

“You didn’t have to,” Sonny snapped, his voice rising. “You’re just oblivious! That girl would go to the ends of the earth for you, and you wouldn’t even notice. And now, look where we are.”

His words hit like a gut punch, but I didn’t have the luxury of letting them sink in. Y/N’s life was at stake, and dwelling on my shortcomings wouldn’t help.

The car screeched to a halt in front of the café, and Sonny was out before it had fully stopped, slamming the door behind him. Olivia and I scrambled to catch up as he barged inside, holding Marco’s photo up like a badge.

“Have you seen this man?” Sonny demanded, his voice cutting through the hum of the café.

A barista behind the counter paused, her eyes flitting from the photo to me. “Are you Rafael Barba?” she asked, her tone uncertain.

I stepped forward, my throat tight. “Yes.”

Wordlessly, she handed me a coffee cup. My name was scrawled on the side in sharp, black letters, and beneath it, a note in Marco’s handwriting: “Enjoy this at the table closest to the window. Best view in the house.”

I stared at the cup, my stomach churning with unease. “Keep it,” I said, setting it firmly back on the counter. The thought of playing Marco’s twisted game made my skin crawl.

Sonny and Olivia were already at the window, scanning the street outside for anything out of place. I joined them, my eyes darting over the view: the passing cars, bustling shops, and scattered pedestrians. Then my gaze landed on the florist across the street, its display bursting with vivid blooms.

“It’s there,” I said, my voice firm with conviction.

Sonny frowned, skeptical. “How do you know?”

I pointed to the florist’s display. “Magnolias. Y/N’s favorite perfume is magnolia and honeysuckle. That florist has magnolias right out front. It has to be there.”

Sonny didn’t wait for further explanation, and neither did I. The three of us bolted across the street, dodging honking cars and shouted curses from drivers. The air was thick with the sweet scent of flowers as we reached the florist, and we immediately began combing through the arrangements.

I shoved aside bouquets of roses, daisies, and lilies, searching for something—anything—that stood out. Sonny did the same, muttering curses under his breath as petals flew in every direction.

“Cosa stai facendo?” a furious voice suddenly bellowed in Italian, startling all of us.

An elderly man emerged from the shop, his face red with anger as he gestured wildly at the mess we were making. Sonny stepped forward, his tone urgent as he switched to rapid Italian, showing the man Marco’s photo.

“Avete visto quest'uomo? È importante, ha mia sorella,” Sonny pleaded.

The man’s scowl deepened, but after a long pause, he disappeared back into the shop. Moments later, he returned, holding a small bouquet of magnolias and honeysuckles. Attached to the stems was a card.

Sonny snatched it and unfolded it quickly, his hands trembling. He read aloud, “Congratulations on getting this far. I promise the rest won’t be as easy. Your next clue requires some required reading. CSL.”

“CSL?” Sonny repeated, his voice rising with frustration. He crumpled the card in his fist. “What the hell does that mean? There’s gotta be hundreds of libraries and bookstores in the city! How are we supposed to figure out which one?”

“Marco’s clues have been tied to Y/N,” Olivia interjected calmly. “Think. What library or bookstore would be important to her?”

Sonny groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know! She loves reading, she’s been to dozens of places—”

My mind raced. Marco’s game wasn’t random. Every clue so far had been calculated, designed to taunt us and waste precious time. Suddenly, Sonny spoke again, his tone more focused.

“We should go to Y/N’s room,” he said. “Maybe there’s something there. A book, a receipt, anything that could lead us to a specific place.”

I hesitated. The thought of tearing apart her sanctuary, her private space, felt invasive. But there was no other option.

“Let’s go,” Olivia said, already moving toward the car.

We piled in, the silence heavy with unspoken fears as Sonny drove us back to Y/N’s apartment. Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of the clock ticking down pressing harder with each passing moment.

…

Sonny stormed into his apartment ahead of Olivia and me, his frustration palpable as he pushed the door open and headed straight for Y/N’s room. I followed, not knowing what to expect but feeling an ache in my chest I couldn’t shake.

The moment I stepped inside, I was surrounded by her. The faint scent of magnolia and honeysuckle lingered in the air, her favorite perfume. It was subtle but unmistakable, and it sent a pang through me. Her room was uniquely hers—organized chaos that told a story in every corner.

Three towering bookshelves lined one wall, each one crammed full of books. Some were neatly arranged; others had stacks leaning precariously or lying flat across the tops of rows. A mix of genres, from legal thrillers to battered fantasy paperbacks, filled the shelves, alongside small trinkets that made the space so undeniably Y/N.

There were figurines of owls, a tiny Eiffel Tower, and a vintage globe no bigger than my fist. A jar of sea glass sat next to a framed photo of her and Sonny, both grinning like they didn’t have a care in the world. I stopped to look at it for a moment, the joy on her face a stark contrast to the fear I knew she must be feeling now.

The desk was cluttered but purposeful—papers, notebooks, and pens scattered across the surface. A lamp with a floral shade cast a soft glow over the space. A coffee mug sat on the desk, still half-full and abandoned in haste.

The bed, a queen size with a simple gray comforter, was unmade, the covers tossed back as if she’d just rolled out of it. A stuffed animal—a well-loved bear with one eye missing—sat propped up on the pillows. It was the kind of detail that felt so personal, so intimate, that it made my throat tighten.

Sonny tore through the room with urgency, pulling books off shelves and flipping through them for hidden notes. He yanked open drawers in her desk, scattering pens and papers across the floor. “There has to be something,” he muttered, frustration evident in every motion.

Olivia joined him, opening the wardrobe and sifting through the neatly hung clothes. She checked pockets, rifled through shoeboxes tucked on the floor.

I moved to one of the bookshelves, running my fingers over the spines of the books. “She has so many,” I murmured, almost to myself.

“She loves to read,” Sonny said without looking up. “Always has. If you paid more attention, you’d know that.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I crouched to check the lower shelves, trying not to think about how well Sonny knew her or how much I didn’t.

I opened the bedside table, finding a stack of journals and a flashlight. The journals were tempting, but I couldn’t bring myself to violate her privacy like that—not yet.

“Check the desk again,” Olivia said.

I stepped over to it, brushing my fingers over the coffee mug. It was still warm. She must have left it there this morning before this nightmare started.

Sonny cursed, pulling a pile of papers from the bottom shelf of the last bookcase. “There’s nothing here! No library card, no receipt, nothing.”

I leaned back against the desk, frustrated. The room was in disarray now, her things scattered everywhere, but we’d found nothing useful.

“I don’t know where she goes for books,” Sonny said, his voice breaking slightly.

“She has to have mentioned something,” Olivia said.

Before Sonny could respond, Olivia’s phone rang. Finn’s voice came through the speaker as she answered.

“Any luck on your end?” Finn asked.

“No,” Olivia admitted, running a hand through her hair. “We’ve torn her room apart and come up empty. You?”

Finn put her on speaker, and she repeated the clue. When Nick’s voice cut through, my stomach twisted.

“Centre Market Place,” he said. “Secondhand bookstore, below street level. Y/N took me there once to buy a present for Zara. She calls it her secret hideaway.”

“Of course, Little Italy our Nonna use to take her there all the time, it was their special place,  I can’t believe I forgot about that” For a brief moment joy flashed across Sonny’s face but was quickly replaced by determination.

Of course, Nick knew. He’d been there with her, shared that part of her world that I hadn’t.

“She never told me about it,” I said quietly, more to myself than anyone else.

Sonny glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “Well, now you know. Let’s go.”

I followed him out, the scent of magnolia and honeysuckle still clinging to me as we left her room in disarray. The thought of her stuck somewhere, terrified and waiting, pushed me forward. I wouldn’t stop until we found her.

…

Sonny drove like a man possessed, weaving through the dense New York traffic with a reckless precision that made my pulse hammer in my ears. The city blurred past in streaks of light and color as he pushed the car to its limits. My hand gripped the handle above the door tightly, knuckles white, but I said nothing. Sonny’s jaw was set, his focus unbreakable, and I knew better than to distract him. It wasn’t just the speed or the sharp turns that had my stomach in knots—it was the fear. The fear that every second slipping through our fingers might be one we couldn’t afford.

We skidded to a stop in front of the bookstore Nick had mentioned, the tires screeching loudly enough to draw annoyed looks from passersby. The building itself was understated, its entrance a narrow, weathered staircase descending into what looked like the basement of an old brownstone. The sign above the door was small and almost easy to miss, its hand-painted letters reading Rare Finds Books.

The moment we stepped inside, the air changed. It was warm and smelled of old paper and leather, with faint hints of coffee wafting from somewhere deeper in the maze-like shop. Shelves stretched in endless rows, towering over us, each crammed with books of all shapes and sizes. Some areas seemed impossibly tight, the shelves so close together that two people couldn’t pass through at the same time. Hidden alcoves featured overstuffed armchairs and small tables, inviting readers to lose themselves in a story. Despite its modest exterior, the store sprawled beneath the street above, an intricate labyrinth of literature.

“This place is a maze,” Olivia muttered, turning in a slow circle as her eyes scanned the towering shelves. “How are we supposed to find anything in here?”

Sonny’s expression was grim but determined. “CSL. It’s gotta be C.S. Lewis. Y/N loves his books—always has.”

His confidence spurred us into action. We split up without hesitation, scanning the shelves for anything bearing the familiar name. It didn’t take long to locate the section dedicated to C.S. Lewis. The shelves were packed with his works: The Chronicles of Narnia, Mere Christianity, The Screwtape Letters. Gold and silver lettering gleamed on the spines of hardcovers, while well-loved paperbacks showed the wear of countless readings.

Olivia and I dove in, pulling books from the shelves and flipping through their pages. I worked quickly, my fingers trembling slightly as I rifled through covers and dog-eared pages, searching for any sign of a clue. The tension in my chest grew with each empty book I replaced, the clock in my head ticking louder with every passing moment.

Then Sonny froze, his hand hovering over a single book on the shelf. “That Hideous Strength,” he murmured, pulling it down carefully.

I looked over at him. “Why that one?”

“It’s the last book in a trilogy Y/N’s been reading,” Sonny explained without looking up. “She’s been searching for this one for months. I’m sure of it.”

He opened the book, flipping through its pages with purpose. Midway through, a small slip of paper fluttered free, landing on the floor. Sonny snatched it up quickly, his breath hitching as he read it aloud.

“‘Eight clues to go, but will you make it in time? Your next clue will require a steep climb.’”

Olivia frowned, glancing around as though the next clue might be hidden in plain sight. “A steep climb? What does that mean?”

Sonny’s jaw tightened. “It means we don’t have time to waste. Let’s move.”

He dropped the book unceremoniously onto a nearby table and strode toward the door, muttering under his breath about steep climbs in the city. Olivia and I exchanged a quick glance before hurrying after him.

But I hesitated. My gaze drifted back to the book, its edges slightly frayed, the cover bearing the faint marks of countless hands. Something about it tugged at me. Without thinking, I picked it up and carried it to the counter.

“I’ll take this,” I said, pulling out my wallet.

The cashier, an older man with round glasses perched on his nose, smiled faintly as he rang it up. “Good choice,” he said. “Lewis always has a way of speaking to the soul.”

I nodded absently, tucking the book under my arm as I turned to leave. I didn’t know if we’d find Y/N in time, but I clung to the hope that we would. Christmas was only a few weeks away, and if she made it through this, I’d find a way to give her the book. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a small piece of normalcy in a nightmare that felt never-ending.

I jogged to catch up with Sonny and Olivia, the book pressed tightly to my chest like a talisman against the uncertainty ahead.

…

Back in the car, the atmosphere was tense, the air thick with frustration and urgency. Sonny gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white, as he and Olivia volleyed ideas back and forth about what "a steep climb" could mean. Their voices overlapped, each growing louder as their frustration mounted.

“Could it be the Empire State Building?” Olivia suggested, glancing at her phone as she pulled up a map. “It’s a climb, and it’s iconic.”

Sonny shook his head sharply. “Too public. Marco’s been keeping this quiet. It’s gotta be something personal to Y/N.”

I sat in the backseat, clutching the book I had bought for her, my mind racing. The clue had to mean something tied to Y/N—every step so far had been personal, connected to her routines, her likes, her life. Then it hit me.

“What if it’s the courthouse?” I said, my voice cutting through their argument.

Both of them turned to look at me, Sonny’s frown deepening. “The courthouse? Why would it be there?”

I leaned forward, gripping the back of the front seat. “She’s there almost every day. It’s a part of her routine. The steps could easily be considered a steep climb.”

Sonny’s eyes flicked to Olivia, annoyance flashing briefly in his expression, as if he was frustrated he hadn’t thought of it first. But then his jaw set, and he nodded. “Alright, let’s check it out.”

He hit the gas, the tires screeching as we sped toward the courthouse. The familiar city streets whipped past, the growing ache in my chest tightening with every block. Time felt like a physical weight pressing down on me, each second a reminder that Y/N could be slipping further away.

The moment we arrived, we were out of the car and sprinting toward the courthouse steps. The towering building loomed over us, its columns and grandeur as imposing as ever. We scaled the steps two at a time, the burn in my legs barely registering through the adrenaline coursing through me.

At the top, a man leaned against the railing, his clothes tattered, a worn backpack slung over his shoulder. He straightened the moment he saw us, his sharp eyes locking onto me.

“Hey!” he called, his voice rough but clear. “You Rafael Barba?”

I stepped forward, my chest heaving. “Yes. Did someone leave a message for me?”

The man nodded, digging into his pocket. From the folds of his jacket, he pulled out a crumpled $50 bill. “Some guy gave me this. Told me to wait here and say, ‘Water liberty seat.’”

“Water liberty seat?” Sonny repeated, his voice rising with frustration. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The man shrugged, pocketing the bill and wandering off before we could press him for more information. Sonny threw up his hands in exasperation, pacing back and forth along the top step. “This is ridiculous! How the hell are we supposed to make sense of that?”

Olivia placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Sonny, we’ll figure it out. We just have to stay focused.”

But I wasn’t paying attention to them. My mind was already working, the words tumbling over each other in my head like puzzle pieces sliding into place. Water liberty seat. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t a riddle—it was a description.

“Battery Park,” I said, my voice cutting through Sonny’s muttering.

Sonny stopped mid-pace, turning to face me. “What did you say?”

“It’s Battery Park,” I repeated, more firmly this time. “Y/N eats lunch there sometimes when she’s working late. She told me once she likes to sit where she can see the Statue of Liberty. ‘Water liberty seat’—it fits.”

Sonny blinked, his frustration giving way to dawning understanding. “That’s... yeah, that’s gotta be it.”

Olivia nodded, already heading for the car. “Then let’s move.”

We were running again, my legs burning as we pounded back down the courthouse steps. The sense of urgency clawed at me, each step feeling heavier, each second more precious.

As we raced through the streets toward Battery Park, I couldn’t shake the thought gnawing at the back of my mind: time was slipping through our fingers, and we couldn’t afford to lose another moment.

…

Sonny slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt in front of Battery Park. Before the engine had fully died, I was out of the car, my feet pounding against the pavement. My focus zeroed in on the bench, the one Y/N always sat on, the one I’d overlooked so many times before.

The bench faced the water, perfectly positioned to catch a view of the Statue of Liberty. I dropped to my knees beside it, ignoring the curious stares from passersby. My hands groped underneath, searching for something, anything, out of place. My fingers brushed against the edge of a crinkled paper bag, wedged in a spot so hidden it was almost invisible.

“Got it,” I muttered, tugging the bag free and sitting back on my heels. Olivia and Sonny crowded around me as I opened it. Inside was a neatly wrapped sandwich and a single folded piece of paper.

The note was maddeningly vague, written in Marco’s infuriatingly smug handwriting: “You know where to go.”

Sonny snatched the note from my hand, scanning the words as his frustration boiled over. “What the hell does that even mean?” he shouted, crumpling the note and hurling it into the trash along with the untouched sandwich. “This guy’s screwing with us! We’re running around the city while Y/N—” His voice broke off, and he turned away, pacing angrily along the sidewalk.

I sat on the bench, the weight of the situation pressing down on me like a tidal wave. My head dropped into my hands as I tried to piece together Marco’s twisted logic. He wouldn’t leave something vague without expecting me to figure it out. It wasn’t random; it was deliberate.

The steady rhythm of the waves caught my attention, pulling my gaze toward the water. For a moment, the chaos around me faded. The answer wasn’t in the note—it was in Marco’s mind. Every step of this game was a taunt, a deliberate jab at me. This wasn’t about Y/N, not really. She was the bait, a pawn in Marco’s personal vendetta.

I stood abruptly, the answer snapping into focus. “The DA’s office,” I said, turning to Olivia and Sonny. “It has to be the DA’s office.”

Sonny stopped pacing, his frustration giving way to determination. “Why the DA’s office?”

“Because this about Y/N,” I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my chest. “It’s about her. Every clue has been personal, tied to her life, her routine. The DA’s office is the center of it all—it’s where he wants me.”

Without hesitation, we piled back into the car. Sonny floored the gas, the tires screeching as we tore through the city streets. Inside the car, the tension was a living thing, suffocating and thick. The blare of horns and shouts of frustrated drivers barely registered over the pounding of my heart.

Sonny broke the silence, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, his voice low but edged with anger. “Why Y/N? Why did Marco go after her? Why would he think she’s your weakness?”

His question hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Olivia shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. Her gaze was heavy with sympathy, but I looked away, unable to face it.

I knew why. We, Olivia and I, both did. But the words stuck in my throat, the admission too raw, too close to everything I had ignored for far too long. Y/N was targeted because of me—because I had let her into my life without considering the danger that came with it. Marco saw her as my weakness, the one way to make me pay for what he thought I’d done to him.

But I couldn’t say it. Not now. Not with Sonny’s anger simmering and Olivia’s quiet understanding pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t lift.

“I don’t know,” I lied, my voice barely above a whisper.

The silence in the car was deafening after that. Sonny’s jaw tightened, and I could feel his frustration radiating off him, but he didn’t press further. Olivia glanced back at me again, her eyes soft with unspoken words, but I kept my gaze fixed out the window. The city blurred past, the familiar streets a reminder of how close we were—and how far Y/N still seemed.

As we approached the DA’s office, my chest tightened. The closer we got, the heavier the weight on my shoulders grew. Marco had dragged us here for a reason, and I could only pray we weren’t already too late.

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IN THIS ESSAY I WILL BE TALKING ABOUT MICHAEL SHEEN AND HIS HEART WRENCHING FUCKING FACE. AND THE AUDACITY HE HAS FOR BEING SUCH A GOOD FREAKING ACTOR AND HOW DARE HE PLAY HEARTBREAK LIKE THIS I CANT HANDLE IT-

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For a variety of reasons, I got into a bit of a rabbit hole about Richard's guitars, and my brain went "oh I know someone who will probably have opinions on this" so essentially, if you feel like it, pretty please talk RZK guitars to me? Favourite? Retired one that needs to come back? (Though I probably already know the answer, that fancy black one?)

Allrighty, buckle up because this is gonna be long. After much consideration I have decided to split it up in two parts because I don’t think I can make it fit into one post that is still vaguely tumblr appropriate, and I really wanted to do it some sort of justice. I still feel like I don’t. But oh well. Full disclaimer, I am NOT a guitarist, but I lived with a few, two of my best friends are pro players and I’m a sponge so I kind of soaked some bits and pieces up over the last 15 years. But in case any lost guitar hero finds this and disagrees with me over the finer points of tone wood: I know honey, I oversimplified, and I am wrong. I tried? 💜 for easier read I formatted everything specific to Richard’s guitars normally and anything general about electric guitars in cursive.

My main sources besides watching about a 100 a month of guitar tube videos (that is youtube for guitarists) with my ex, my main sources will be this interview and this.

Richard Z. Kruspe (of Rammstein and Emigrate)’s Guitars - In Order of Appearance, Part 1/2

Diamant (Les Paul Style)

“I traded the acoustic for a guitar called Diamant, which was like a Les Paul version in East Germany.” - RZK

Now I’m skipping the acoustic he started out with, because it’s basically impossible to know what that was, and go straight into the electric. Now presumably, it would have been something like this, a soviet build Les Paul rip off. The irony is that these still go for several thousands up on reverb today for being historical and collectors pieces. The thing is, that while anything east build might have used cheaper materials, I would assume this thing isn’t worse than any of the beginner/intermediate models sold today, if not better, and kids all over the world do decent stiff with those.

Something general about electric guitars is that you don’t really so much play the guitar, you play an entire system. The instrument doesn’t make the sound, it only influences it. You play a guitar - but you even more so play the amp. Which makes this a bit tricky, because an e-guitar is a slab of wood and a copper coil, and amps are way more complex. You can make the exact same guitar sound so many ways. Still - there are tendencies. The fact how and why and to which degree the shape and wood of a solid body (a guitar without a hollow wood piece) influences the sound is highly debated and can get a bit esoteric sounding to sane people non-guitarists, but there are some differences in how the general set up and build of the guitar changes things, and tendencies how they are traditionally outfitted. Les Paul style guitars are normally humbucker guitars, Stratocasters and Telecasters normally are outfitted with single coils. Usually a guitarist can switch - between using the bridge, the neck, or both (or more) pick ups and depending on where the pick up is located they pick up different frequencies, different aspects of the sound. Humbuckers produce a richer, deeper or fuller sound than single coils. Very roughly speaking, think the Stones vs. Metallica.

Fender Stratocaster

“Then in East Germany, we had this imagination to get one of the great guitars, to me it was always the Fender Stratocaster because it was the Jimi Hendrix guitar. I didn’t know anything about pickups or humbuckers or whatever. So there was this guy that I met in a café in my old hometown and he was buying all these books because he could get all the books out through customs and he would store them in my apartment. So we became kind of acquainted. He would come over and pick up the books. So one time he came over and I asked him if he could get me a guitar and bring it over. In East Germany, if you exchange money from East to West it would be like 1 East mark and 20 West mark. SO everything I had, I changed it to West Mark and I gave him the money and I gave him the money and asked him to please buy me a Fender Stratocaster. I gave him the money and I didn’t hear anything for like three months, nothing. I wasn’t able to call because we didn’t have phones and stuff like that – it was a different time. So I thought fuck, I gave him 1400 west mark and now he’s gone and never coming back. [...] Then my imagination was so high, I thought the guitar would just play by itself and I wouldn’t really have to do anything, which I found out was bullshit. I was really happy that I had the guitar but it wasn’t really the sound that I had in mind.” - RZK

The first time I heard that story, I literally went “no, no, no, don’t be stupid, don’t give him your money, you won’t even like that guitar, stupid, lost dumbass.” I can not, for the life of me, imagine him play anything other than humbuckers. He apparently does use single coils for some things today again in the studio, but still, it’s so obviously wrong. He did play one again sometime during the late 90s, but I couldn’t find anything on the pick ups he used with that, but can hardly imagine he kept the original, unless he needed it for a specific sound maybe in one or two songs. I get it though. For many, many people the Fender Stratocaster is THE guitar. Jimi Hendrix is the main reason for that, but it’s also the countless idols that picked it up after him for the same reason, people who ended up plastered on the walls of angsty teenagers in their own right. This totally has to do with the whole amp thing aswell. You see your idol play that type of guitar ... but it’s not even half of the sound, and it won’t sound the same. Maybe probably they changed the pick ups, they have an effect rig, the spend hours fiddling with the knobs on an amp you can never afford. It’s never the same. Which is why ...

Fender Telecaster Black Gold

Then I had a guitar that I was very fond of. It was an older black and gold telecaster – there weren’t very many of them made at that point. I put a Seymour Duncan Jeff Beck SH-4 in there, like a humbucker. I remember it was like my beauty guitar and I needed someone to put that pickup in and I was with Paul and he had more experience with that stuff than me so he would get out a hammer and a chisel and he start banging away on it and I was like ‘Fuck! Fuck! Don’t do that!’ but we put the thing in there and it was one of my favorite guitars” - RZK

... this one first didn’t really make sense for me for him. It’s even more a classic single coil guitar than the Strat is, and it only really started making sense for me when I learned he Paul indeed put a Humbucker in there. It’s a stunningly beautiful guitar, and weirdly non-modern for him. I don’t know why and this is completely instinctual on my part, but I find it fitting he played it during that time after the wall came down, which seems to have been a rough time for him generally, it seems like a somehow super emotional guitar, this relic. Telecasters were some of the first electrics ever build, it’s such a pioneer, but it’s also one that alot of punk bands used, possibly because they were old and cheap in the 70s and noisy and people customized it and put other pick ups in. The whole putting a chisel to it and adding a humbucker into it is such a “I’m gonna make whatever I have fit for me, and I’ll love it” move. If you look at it, a double coil pick up is really something you have to force to go in there, you really have to break it open. There is also this:

“... and then I think I had to sell it because I needed drugs or something. I was really sad that I sold it because I was at a very low point in my life.” - RZK

If I would get the chance to do one thing only for him to thank him for his music, I would go back in time to that Richard who is just sad about selling that guitar and hug him, and tell him he doesn’t need to worry, because they will name guitars after him in the future. It breaks my heart so fucking much. But of course, it’s what opens the doors to what happens next, which is ...

ESP 901

“That led me to my very first convention in Frankfurt. With guitars, it is like with women, you have to fall in love. Sometimes you get a guitar and you fall in love later but there has to be some sort of connection with it. So I was walking around that convention and I saw that guitar hanging at the ESP stand. It was a 901 ESP Sunburst and I was looking at it because it was such a beauty. And I was walking around for hours – they probably thought I was some weird guy who wants to steal the guitar. I bought that guitar and that’s how I got connected with ESP.” -RZK

He might have fallen for it because it is pretty, but it did come with a ESP double humbucker set up, with an added condensator to muffle up the sound, although not yet an active one (more on that later). It was a 90s metal guitar, one of those things marketed to the Metallica generation, something loud and heavy and full. Also, and this is where I will put in another general insert, there is something else about the choice of electric guitars that we haven’t talked about yet.

Now, I’ve discussed that you can push or pull the sound of a electric quite far in one or the other direction with what pick ups you use, what effects, what amps. But what this ignores is that especially standing up a guitar is a really shitty asymmetrical piece of equipment. And what that does to your body is that it needs to fit you, your hands, and your playing style. Some people prefer it chunky, others like sender. Guitarists, especially the 80s shredders, like to talk about a “fast neck”, which is another one of those things that get slightly esoteric, but which usually means a slimmer neck and slightly bigger frets, that need less way for your fingers to press until the string gets stopped. Someone who plays very bendy blues might dislike that and prefer something to dig in their fingers more down to the fretboard to get more control over how they bend the string. There are different neck profiles, there are different neck lengths, and all of it contributes to how comfortable someone might find their guitar.

I am mentioning this, because until today, Richard’s guitars are build very similarly to that ESP 901. His Eclipse Model is a tad different (again, more on that later), but the one he uses the most, the RZK I, has the same neck scale, similar frets, and that comfortable ESP slender neck. Even the shape seems to be inspired by turning it upside down. He has said in interviews that he hasn’t got very strong hands, and it makes perfect sense to me. I bought my own electric (again, more on that later) purely because I wanted to own one and not even so much because I ever had any real ambitions of learning to play it, but my friends at the time (10 years ago now) forced me to try out alot (!) of models (despite me knowing what I wanted), and the only guitars that I tried that had slimmer necks were Ibanez guitars, which in turn were wider. Ironically Frankfurt is my hometown, so the place to try a lot of different models is That exact convention Richard went to, and I haven’t skipped a Musikmesse in the last 15 years. I was at atleast one were Richard was too (I just didn’t care at the time, yikes), and it somehow greatly pleases me he found “his” guitar at that particular convention. Things have changed in recent years, but electric guitars always were in Hall 4.01, with ESP being left of center in the middle, and I don’t know, I can just see him walking in circles around it, and it makes me so emotional for him because it’s what musicians do at that place. It’s really loud, everyone is playing, there is someone better noodling around at every corner, and it can be quite an intimidating setting I think. And every year you see that one kid coming back and back again to that same stand, staring at that one guitar until they finally work up the nerve and ask to try it (or the staff takes pity on them and offer). And it’s the same everytime, they think “oh god they must think I am crazy” but really, nobody does. Everyone in that hall who owns a heart knows what those dreams are made of, and all it maybe does inspire is a “oh god, I hope that one makes it”. I digress. I think it’s more common now to look for different neck styles and companies started caring about it, but especially coming from Fender and Gibson guitars, that neck is honestly just very, very nice for weaker hands.

This is where I will stop, because it makes a good moment for a break and this post is honestly getting too out of hand otherwise. There will be a part 2 - where Richard starts using active pick ups, starts playing my favorite guitar in the whole wide world (and stops playing it), and finally, set up his own signature.

This is him with that 901 though: when he must have had it pretty much brandnew, while he used it, and right before he sold it.

Paul, what are you doing?