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The Study of Night Three am. Maz Marsh continued, as he had been doing so for past hours, entering countless lines of mathematical formula into his pc. Each line he composed dug deeper and deeper into his favourite puzzle, teasing and yet yielding up its secrets at the same time. “So...if...” Maz muttered softly to himself, nodding his head in time to the beat of an album playing at low volume. Pinching his lower lip between his finger and thumb, he frowned, hand poised as his thoughts faltered a little. Windows open to get some fresh air...he could hear voices, footsteps along the street. “Maz.” A familiar voice, a staccato knock, and his door opened. “Sherry, your room is next door.” Maz's voice held more than a note of complaint as his fun-loving neighbour stumbled, and flinging himself on Maz's bed, mumbled, “Coffee, for God's sake.” “Sit up - “ Maz manhandled the blond, “ - You're not going to be sick all over my bed again.” “I told you, Maz, I was given something bad –

Prince From Another World “Another one!” Sherry Stern cried out, jealously, “Let me see! Oh, wow...” Wistfully, and one hundred percent sure that it looked a million times more sophisticated on his pale slender ring finger than it might on the same finger of the recipient's broad-knuckled hand, he held the sparkling engagement ring up to the light, aware of its owner's eyes on him as he did so. The owner did not seem to be so delighted with his latest jewel as Sherry did, and merely gestured to have it returned. “Ohhhh...” Sherry dropped into a chair at the table, beside said owner, his pale green eyes still on the costly bauble, now on the other's left ring finger. Together with the amount of stones crammed on a silver band and the tanned broad finger of the hand, it looked fab, Sherry had to admit. “What number is this?” “Four.” The down-turned dark blue deep set eyes reflected no sparkle from the ring; he seemed more inclined to fold his arms and hide it. “Is...is that bad?”

Christmas Eve Sniff. Sniff. Sneeze. Blow. Sneeze some more. Sniff. Throw tissue on floor. Sherry Jones sighed gustily, or as well as he could with his tubes full of ready mix concrete. Instead, it brought on a coughing fit. Groaning, when he could draw a breath to do so, Sherry looked around his apartment. Considering it was two days before Christmas, his place looked like he was either just arrived, or leaving. Not celebrating a holiday. To be fair, at this stage in the calendar, he was usually gone. Skiing, yachting, toasting on a beach...as a six-figure model, Sherry could usually have his pick. This year, however, his bad cold had made social media shut him down. Sherry had to agree, however, that he would be terrible company, and had promises of future fun piling up unread choking his inbox. Staring beadily at the tv, Sherry almost missed the sound of his doorbell. Hauling his six-foot frame up, he shuffled to the door. Through the spyhole, he saw a dark-haired guy, holding a