Ten minutes.

Exactly ten minutes since Morgan Blackburn first saw the photograph of Jenna Langston in the case file. The image clung to her mind like smoke, curling around her thoughts and refusing to dissipate.

The squad room buzzed with its usual discordant symphony—keyboards clicking in uneven rhythms, phones shrilling out questions no one wanted to answer, and Detective Reeves muttering obscenities at the coffeemaker as though cursing it might improve its performance. Blackburn sat at her desk, a striking figure of calm amidst chaos, her pen gliding across the page with surgical precision as she filled out evidence transfer requests for Traffic Services.

Outwardly poised, she could have been mistaken for a woman entirely consumed by routine paperwork. But inside, a different current flowed. Each heartbeat seemed louder than the last; each breath carefully measured as though exhaling might release the questions clawing at her insides.

Why had Brynn Cassidy called her and pointed her toward Jenna’s death? What did she know? Had Brynn spoken with Jenna before her untimely collision with three tons of autonomous machinery? Brynn—a journalist whose curiosity was both relentless and inconvenient—had a way of knowing things she shouldn’t. Did she know about their night? About Gasquet? About what had happened between them just hours before Jenna’s death?

Gasquet. The username on BDSMessages, buried deep enough to shield identities even from digital crumbs. It was Jenna’s alias, not Langston’s real name, and Blackburn took quiet solace in that veil of separation. If anyone dared dig too close—or if Brynn pushed too far—Blackburn knew she could still deny everything.

“Morning, boss.”

Detective Riley Cooper appeared beside her desk like clockwork, a stack of manila folders tucked under his arm. His presence broke through the fugue, clouding Blackburn’s thoughts.

“I’ve got those personnel files you wanted from Records,” Cooper said, his tone neutral, professional.

Blackburn lifted her gaze without turning her head fully toward him; her frown was subtle but deliberate, as though deep concentration had been interrupted. “Thanks,” she said with detached efficiency, gesturing absently toward an existing mountain of documents on the corner of her desk. “Put them over there.”

Her hand returned immediately to the file in front of her, eyes locked on the crime scene photos that now stared back with unforgiving clarity: Langston’s body crumpled against jagged asphalt like discarded scaffolding, arms and legs twisted into grotesque angles that defied anatomy’s logic. Blood pooled beneath her temple and painted dark curls that glistened unnervingly under streaks of reflected light—a grotesque halo marking the moment life fled her body.

Blackburn lingered on the photo for half a second longer than intended before snapping it aside.

Next came statements: witness accounts riddled with contradictions that swirled together like oil on water—distinct yet irreconcilable. Two pedestrians claimed they’d seen the car drifting down Oak Street without a driver behind the wheel; another insisted he’d glimpsed “a shadow” moving erratically in the driver’s seat just before impact. And then there was one particularly disturbing claim: a witness who swore the vehicle reversed after hitting Jenna—rolling back over her shattered frame as if under malevolent direction.

What the fuck?

Her pen hovered just above a blank notepad as she began scrawling notes in sharp strokes: car trajectory unexplained… Witness contradictions… Driver question unresolved…

Traffic Services must’ve phoned this one in; their investigative efforts barely skimmed surface-level competency, leaving gaping holes where answers should have been. But then again, they weren’t Morgan Blackburn—and no one else brought results quite like hers.

She rose abruptly from her chair with files secured tightly under one arm and a legal pad pressed firmly beneath it—a picture of calculated determination veiling simmering frustration beneath every movement. With fluid grace honed by years navigating rooms full of egos and unspoken rivalries, Blackburn stepped into Homicide’s bullpen.

The space greeted her with its characteristic disarray—a mosaic of cluttered desks drowned beneath loose papers marked by hurried scrawls and greasy takeout cartons stacked precariously from nights stretched too long into mornings.

“Eyes up,” Blackburn commanded, slicing through idle chatter like steel carving stone. Her voice carried an edge sharper than any reprimand; it demanded attention without raising volume—a skill perfected over years spent tethering chaos into compliance.

Four heads snapped upward instantly at her directive: Sinclair lounged lazily in his chair but betrayed interest through an arched brow; Reeves froze mid-spin atop his swivel seat like he’d been caught mid-act; Cooper straightened reluctantly from his habitual slouch as though trying to escape gravity’s pull; and Dawson—the human embodiment of friction—fussed excessively over an empty stapler he pretended required urgent maintenance.

Blackburn stood still for a moment, allowing silence to coil tightly around them all before loosening its grip when she spoke again.

“This case just dropped onto our desks,” she began, her tone sharp enough to slice through the morning haze. She held up the file for emphasis as she moved into the circle of worn chairs and coffee-stained desks. “Autonomous vehicle hit-and-run on Oak Street this morning. Early. Traffic Services worked the scene for hours, but no word from the M.E. yet on whether it’s a homicide. Doesn’t matter—that’s how we’re handling it. The media will be all over this one thanks to the no-driver angle.”

She slammed the folder down onto Sinclair’s desk with a resounding thud, the sound ricocheting off the walls like a gunshot. A deliberate move—the room stilled instantly, all eyes locking onto her.

“Sinclair.” Her gaze pinned him in place as he straightened slightly, though his trademark adoration shone stubbornly in his eyes. “You’re point on anything tech-related,” she snapped, her voice as crisp as shattered glass. “Coordinate with forensics—find out what you can pull from the car’s hardware and software systems. Get Willow Adler to assist; trust me, you’ll need her.” She tapped two fingers to her temple like a metronome before throwing another task his way: “Traffic Division owes us their incident reports by noon—line-by-line analysis, and I want it on my desk today.”

“Anything else?” Sinclair asked dryly, twirling a pen between long fingers like it was a game he might actually win.

“Yes,” Blackburn said coldly, her voice sharp enough to make him blink. She leveled him with a glare that could pierce steel. “Re-interview every single witness who claims they saw something unusual at that intersection—especially those two insisting there was no driver.”

Sinclair gave her a faint nod, though his lust lingered just shy of insolence as he spun his pen absently, testing how far he could push without consequence.

Blackburn turned next to Cooper, who hunched over under his own weight—the kinds of shoulders broad enough for heavy loads but worn down by years of carrying too much anyway—and shoved another set of directives into his hands without ceremony.

“Cooper,” she began, no introduction needed, not with this group. “You’re on Jenna Langston herself: first step is family contacts—parents if they’re alive; siblings if there are any; coworkers next.” Her tone hardened, steeling itself against hesitation or excuses: “Dig into her online life too—friends, hookups…all of it.”

Cooper nodded once, short and efficient as he scrawled barely legible shorthand across an old lined pad of paper perched precariously atop coffee-ring stains from meetings long past. He glanced up briefly with a question already forming:

“Has the family been notified yet?”

“Call Sgt. Beckett in Traffic and find out,” Blackburn shot back without missing a beat. “Priority one—do it now.”

Her attention shifted next to Reeves—a man who always wore reluctance like armor these days but followed orders all the same—and locked onto him before handing off part two of the messy puzzle they’d been handed this morning.

“You’ll ride with me later today,” Blackburn told him bluntly, her words lined in steel but sparing no room for argument. “We’re heading back to Langston’s scene.” She paused long enough to gauge whether he’d push back; he didn’t—just nodded while scratching absently at his neck with the cap-end of a cheap ballpoint pen still chewing through his nerves.

“We’ll need to secure a warrant for Jenna Langston’s home as soon as possible,” she added simply—but like an iron nail hammered into stone: finality woven seamlessly behind each syllable.

Reeves barely muttered agreement under controlled breath; reluctance flickered momentarily behind weary eyes.

The room pressed on Blackburn as she leaned over Sinclair’s desk, her palms flat against its surface. The slight tilt of her posture was calculated—not threatening, but commanding enough to demand attention. “We’re treating this as a homicide until proven otherwise,” she said, her voice low and steady, each word a deliberate strike. Her words weren’t for Sinclair alone; they were meant for everyone within earshot. “A victim like this? An autonomous vehicle? The press will destroy us if we don’t control the narrative.”

Straightening, Blackburn’s gaze swept across the bullpen. She paused, waiting for someone to oppose her, to throw out an underbaked theory or question her strategy. None came. Instead, pens scratched against paper and keyboards clattered as the team dove into their tasks without protest.

Satisfied, she pivoted on her heel and strode back to her office, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. Her hand hovered over the phone for a beat before dialing Dr. Petrović’s number. She needed more than the skeletal details from the initial medical report—she needed answers.

The line hissed before the doctor’s voice crackled through, marked by the rough edges of fatigue and his thick Serbian accent. “Detective Blackburn,” he greeted. “I’m still working through the initial findings.”

“Spare me what I already know,” Blackburn said, impatience threading through her tone. “Give me something useful.”

There was a faint shuffling of papers on his end before he spoke again. “The victim—Ms. Langston—was struck by the autonomous vehicle at significant speed. Based on the impact pattern, I estimate it was traveling at approximately forty miles per hour.”

Blackburn’s fingers drummed a soft rhythm on her desk as she listened. She could almost picture Petrović’s furrowed brow as he read from his notes.

“She suffered multiple fractures along her left side—arm, leg, pelvis,” he continued. “There is also a deep cranial laceration that reached the skull. But it’s the chest trauma that stands out.” He hesitated, letting the silence stretch just long enough to amplify tension. “Massive compression of the chest cavity… ribs splintered like kindling, one lung collapsed… Some internal organs were severely damaged.”

“And?” Blackburn pressed, sensing there was more.

Petrović cleared his throat lightly, his next words deliberate. “Linear marks on both wrists. Consistent with restraints—possibly handcuffs or wire.”

Blackburn stilled.

“The bruising pattern suggests they were made well before the collision,” he added after a pause.

“How long before?” Her voice was low now—a dangerous undercurrent.

“Hours earlier, judging by the discoloration.” His tone turned cautious but firm. “I’ll confirm specifics after completing my full examination.”

“When will I have your report?”

“Tomorrow morning at the latest,” Petrović assured her before adding in a lowered tone, “But Detective—those restraint marks tell a very different story than an accidental road death.”

“That’s why I’m investigating, Doctor.”

Blackburn ended the call without ceremony and stared down at the crime scene photos splayed across her desk like pieces of an unsolvable puzzle. Her jaw tightened as she zeroed in on one particular detail: those bruises around Ms. Langston’s wrists had come from her own handcuffs—a pleasure at the time, but now a secret she couldn’t afford to let surface.

She exhaled through her nose and leaned back in her chair, shoulders stiff with tension that wouldn’t dissipate no matter how hard she willed it away. One thing at a time, Blackburn told herself firmly. First step: make sure Chief Hayes officially cleared her to stay on this case. That wouldn’t be easy—Hayes was no pushover—but she would handle him when the moment came.

Her eyes flicked to the bullpen beyond her office door in search of distraction and found Dawson slouched at his desk, half-hidden behind a newspaper he seemed more interested in than his work.

Quarry.

Moving with an almost predatory grace, Blackburn rose from her chair and crossed the room silently but deliberately, every step measured and purposeful, like a lion closing in on unsuspecting prey. Adrenaline hummed beneath her skin—not frantic but cold and sharp—honing her awareness down to every detail: the faint scuff of polished soles against tile, muted conversations blending into ambient noise, and Dawson’s oblivious demeanor as he remained hunched over his newspaper.

She let herself feel it—that pulse of controlled energy coursing through her veins—as she drew near. The hunt wasn’t over yet; it had just begun.

Sinclair caught sight of her first. His body stiffened, his throat clearing once—then again—a clipped warning slicing through the ambient noise. Dawson, oblivious to Sinclair’s subtle alert, lounged in his chair, eyes glued to the newspaper in front of him.

“You coming down with something?” Dawson muttered without glancing up, his voice casual.

“No,” Blackburn’s voice cut through the space like a slow blade, smooth and low. “He’s trying to tell you I’m standing right behind you.”

Dawson froze mid-turn of the page, his fingers trembling as he crinkled the paper in his grip. Slowly, he lowered it until his wide-eyed face was exposed—a mixture of shock and apprehension etched into his features. Blackburn moved closer, circling behind him like a lioness stalking an unwitting gazelle.

“Boss,” he stammered as he straightened awkwardly in his seat. “I was just checking for, uh… any media reports on Deonte Mills’s death. You know, in case any witnesses talked to reporters instead of us.”

Blackburn stared down at him, her eyebrow arched—a silent indictment that made Dawson shift uncomfortably in his chair. “A solid plan,” she said coolly. “Except Mills wasn’t playing defense for the Eagles last I checked.” Her gaze flicked pointedly to the bold “SPORTS” header at the top of Dawson’s newspaper before locking back on him.

Dawson flushed deep crimson as realization dawned. He scrambled to fold away the paper but managed to crush it further in fumbling embarrassment. The sound of rustling newsprint seemed deafening in the now-still office air.

Sinclair sat frozen nearby, his eyes darting between Dawson and Blackburn like a spectator at a gladiator match. A flicker of admiration crossed his face—admiration tinged with relief that he wasn’t this round’s victim.

Dawson’s shoulders sagged under Blackburn’s unrelenting gaze. “Come on,” he pleaded weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Cut me some slack.”

Blackburn leaned forward slightly, just enough for her words to hit their mark like daggers tipped with ice. “Slack?” she murmured, her tone dangerous and razor-thin. “Dawson, you’ll be lucky if I don’t snap you in two.”

Her threat lingered heavily in the air until even Cooper and Reeves—seated across the room—deliberately avoided looking up from their paperwork. The tension sprawled out over the bullpen like an electric charge waiting to spark.

“Crime scene photos from Mills’s murder,” she declared after an agonizing pause. “Copies on my desk—now.”

She turned without further acknowledgment and strode toward her office, each step punctuated by an aura of command that silenced any thought of objection. Her silhouette dissolved into shadow as she disappeared beyond the frosted-glass door.

Sinclair exhaled softly through pursed lips as he watched her go—the taut line of his shoulders easing once she was out of earshot. His eyes flickered toward Dawson briefly: pity mingled with quiet relief that it hadn’t been him under her scrutiny today.

The office hummed with a faint undercurrent of tension as Blackburn closed the door behind her. The soft click of the latch echoed, folding the space into silence. Sinclair’s eyes lingered on her hands, his focus unyielding. There was a precision to her movements, the way her fingers curled around the handle—strong, deliberate, yet elegant. Her nails gleamed, perfectly manicured, their meticulous upkeep a stark juxtaposition to the brutality of their line of work. The contrast held him captive, his gaze tracing the interplay of poise and power. A flush crept up his neck as an unbidden thought surfaced; he imagined those hands and felt warmth bloom across his face.

The spell broke when Blackburn disappeared into her office, leaving the bullpen suspended in a peculiar stillness. Dawson sat frozen in his chair, a crumpled newspaper limp in his grasp, while Sinclair’s eyes fluttered, his unfocused gaze gradually steadying on Blackburn’s face. He turned toward his desk, though something in the way his eyes darted back to her hands suggested they’d left more of an impression than he cared to admit.

Inside, Blackburn sank into her chair with fluid ease. The leather sighed softly beneath her weight as she leaned back. Her fingers hesitated above the phone on her desk before moving purposefully to dial Chief Hayes’s number.

The phone rang once—a sharp tone cutting through quiet—then twice. Each chime stretched endlessly before a gruff voice answered on the third ring: “Chief Hayes.”

“It’s Blackburn,” she said evenly. Her voice betrayed none of the storm inside her, though each word carried a subtle weight, heavy with unspoken truths.

“What is it, Detective?” Hayes replied, impatience threading through his tone like static.

Blackburn straightened in her chair, one hand curling into a fist at her side. Her nails bit into her palm—a small point of pain to anchor herself. “The Jenna Langston case,” she began carefully. “The hit-and-run transferred from Traffic Services to Homicide.” She paused before continuing, each word selected with precision. “I’ve realized I knew the victim—met her previously under another name.”

A brief silence spooled out between them. Then Hayes’s voice returned, lower now and measured. “What exactly are you saying?”

She swallowed hard against the dryness in her throat, forcing herself onward despite how bitter the admission tasted. “Jenna Langston,” Blackburn said slowly, deliberately. “I knew her as Jenna Gasquet.” She hesitated for a heartbeat before adding, “We spent the night together.”

“You spent the night with our victim?” Hayes’s voice went flat, dangerous. “Jesus Christ, Blackburn.” A sharp exhale crackled through the line. “You’re telling me you were potentially the last person to see her alive before she was murdered? Do you have any idea what this looks like?”

“Yes,” Blackburn confirmed quietly but firmly. Her eyes closed for an instant as she braced herself against the memory rippling through her mind like an aftershock. “We parted ways that morning. I offered to drive her—”

“Stop. Right there.” His words landed like stones. “This isn’t just about optics anymore. You’re a potential witness in a homicide investigation. Hell, depending on how this plays out, you could end up being a person of interest.” A heavy pause. “You need to recuse yourself. Now.”

Blackburn could hear the Chief rise from his chair and begin pacing his office. She stared at lines of cold text on her computer screen but saw flashes of Jenna’s face in fragmented moments: laughter over wine; screams shared before sleep; shadows passing like ghosts through morning light when their paths diverged forever.

The air in Blackburn’s office was heavy, the blinds drawn tight against the late afternoon light. She sat behind her desk, phone pressed to her ear, her free hand braced against its edge. Her posture exuded control, but her knuckles whitened against the polished wood—a rare crack in the façade.

“I understand the protocol, Chief,” Blackburn said evenly, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “But let’s not confuse procedure with purpose. The protocol is about signing a declaration, not dictating assignments. Do not lose sight of what’s at stake here.” She paused, letting her words hang in the air, each syllable weighted with intent. “This wasn’t just a tragic accident. Jenna Langston was killed by an autonomous vehicle. A car that didn’t just hit her but—if the witnesses are to be believed—reversed to ensure it finished the job.” Her upper lip curled slightly. “That’s every conspiracy theorist’s fever dream made flesh.”

The silence on the other end stretched taut, but she pressed forward, relentless.

“This isn’t just Jenna Langston’s story anymore—it’s what it signifies for us all: for this industry, for this department, for the force itself.” Her tone hardened as she paced to the window, peering out through a sliver of light between slats. “The Stan Raider Group just inked a deal with New Dresden PD to provide autonomous patrol cars, vehicles designed to prevent crime—not cause it. Do you think anyone out there,”—her gaze swept across the city skyline—“will bother parsing nuance? They won’t distinguish between this incident and Raider’s tech rollout. They’ll tear us apart. The department. The city. You.” Her voice dropped lower, sharper still. “The mayor.”

A faint clearing of the throat came through the line before Hayes responded, his tone measured but defensive. “Blackburn, you’re jumping ahead again. The investigation hasn’t even concluded whether this was a malfunction or—”

“It wasn’t a malfunction,” she snapped back instantly, her words slicing clean through his objection. She turned from the window and leaned forward over her desk, her voice fierce yet controlled as she continued: “I spoke with Dr. Petrović myself; he was explicit about the injuries—a level of precision no machine should achieve by accident.” She let that image linger before adding quietly but forcefully, “This isn’t just a mechanical failure, sir. This is about public trust in policing technology.”

Her hand relaxed on the desk as she shifted gears, softer now but no less resolute: “Do you want someone else handling this? Someone who doesn’t understand what we’re up against? Someone without my clearance rate?” The question landed heavy in the silence that followed.

“You don’t think you’re too close?” Hayes asked finally, though there was hesitation in his voice.

Her lips curved into something close to a smile—but not quite. “I’m never too close,” she said simply. Then after a beat: “But I met her.” Her gaze dropped momentarily to an empty file on her desk before snapping back up again. “I put a human face to this case, Chief—and I’ll work harder because of it.” The intensity returned to her voice now as she straightened up fully once more: “No one else will have my drive or my focus—you know that as well as I do.”

A heavy exhale crackled faintly through the line before Hayes spoke again—slower this time but no less skeptical: “The optics aren’t great right now… And there’s already press sniffing around.”

Blackburn allowed herself a quick glance at a corner bulletin board cluttered with pinned notes and photos—the unmistakable figure of Brynn Cassidy caught mid-motion among them like prey frozen in amber—and answered briskly: “It’s Brynn Cassidy,” she said dismissively but then softened just enough to make her next words land with precision rather than force: “She’s handling her angle; I’ll handle everything else.”

She pivoted quickly then without giving him space to interrupt further: “Give me seventy-two hours,” she urged with finality etched into every syllable now brimming beneath calm composure; determination saturating every word thereafter effortlessly spilling out next like cascading promises unbidden yet fully deliberate. “I’ll prove beyond doubt why there’s no better option than me running point here. If any possibility arises compromising either myself personally—or jeopardizing resolution outright—I’ll remove myself immediately while assisting the transition to someone else, ensuring zero disruption.”

She heard music. The bastard put me on hold.

Blackburn could almost picture Chief Hayes on the other end, desperately consulting with the assistant chiefs about his new problem. Finally, a soft click, and his voice cut through the void.

“Seventy-two hours. That’s all you’ve got. The last thing we need is some hotshot from Major Crimes turning this into a media circus—and you’re right about one thing: no one else has your background in autonomous systems.” He let out a weary sigh. “But screw this up, and I’ll pull you off the case so fast your head will spin.”

Relief surged through Blackburn, though her face betrayed nothing. Her tone remained steady, clipped. “Understood, Chief.” She ended the call with precision, her fingers lingering momentarily on the phone before setting it down with deliberate care.

The gamble had paid off, just as she’d known it would. Chief Hayes was nothing if not predictable when it came to her flawless record. Another detective in her shoes might have been pulled without hesitation, but Blackburn knew just how much rope to give herself—enough transparency to keep suspicions at bay while retaining control of the case. Perfect execution, as always.

Her thoughts shifted to Jenna Langston—a name now etched into the fabric of her mind like a stain refusing to fade. This wasn’t just another case; it was a hunt, and Morgan Blackburn wasn’t one to lose quarry.

A timid shuffle sounded at her doorway, drawing her attention. Dawson entered hesitantly, his posture shrinking under an invisible weight. Shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, he moved as though dreading her gaze. Barely above a whisper, he placed a folder on her desk and stammered one word: “Photos.”

Blackburn didn’t spare him more than a glance before snatching up the file. Dawson slinked away without waiting for dismissal; if he’d had a tail, it would’ve been firmly tucked between his legs as he retreated.

Crossing into the bullpen with purpose, she scanned the room until her piercing gaze fell upon Reeves. “Oak Street,” she barked, each syllable sharp enough to cut glass.

Reeves jolted upright like a dog caught raiding the dinner table, his eyes wide with startled guilt.

“We’re going there now,” she continued briskly, already putting on her coat in one fluid motion. “Let’s see if we can unfuck what’s been done to our crime scene.” Reeves scrambled to comply without a word of protest.

From across the room came a muffled snort—Sinclair’s ill-advised attempt at humor breaking through his guarded façade. Blackburn’s glare snapped toward him like lightning striking its mark, silencing him instantly and leaving him shrinking in his chair.

Langston’s case file and Mill’s crime scene photos were securely under her arm as she strode toward the exit with resolute purpose. The gears of her mind turned relentlessly, analyzing every fragment of evidence like teeth grinding against each other under strain.

Someone wanted Jenna Langston dead—that much was no longer conjecture but certainty—and whatever secrets had perished with her were buried deeper than shattered glass or skewed tire tracks would reveal on first inspection. But Morgan Blackburn wasn’t one to stop digging until she found either bedrock or bone—and she had no intention of stopping anytime soon.

Garden Of Fatal Promises

 

Through poison-garden nights, they wither—

love’s petals rotting in mercury light

while my carmined mouth drips confessions

onto tear-salted sheets. Each promise

I plant takes root in desperate souls,

blooming black beneath their skin.

 

Fog coils like spent cigarette smoke

through this cemetery of conquered hearts.

My stilettos pierce wet earth like stakes,

marking graves of fools who drank

sweet venom from my silver tongue,

mistaking cobra-sway for grace.

 

 

Under corpse-light moon, I cultivate

my deadly bower: curves like nightshade,

words like belladonna berries crushed

between willing lips. Their lust feeds

my garden, each betrayal sprouting

thorns sharp as broken vows.

 

Watch how hope withers on my vine,

nourished by midnight’s keening choir—

these lovers, preserved like pressed flowers

between pages of my black grimoire,

forever kneeling at my thorned throne,

crowned in roses, drowning in lies.

7:32 AM

Wren Hubbard stirred in her bed, the shrill sound of the alarm clock piercing through the small apartment like a banshee’s wail. She groaned, her arm flailing out from under the covers, searching for the source of the offensive noise. Her fingers found the clock, fumbling for a moment before smashing down on the snooze button with force.

Silence descended once more, broken by the faint hum of traffic outside and the distant whistle of a train. Wren buried her face back into the pillow, inhaling the scent of lavender fabric softener and last night’s hair product.

The room remained dimly lit, morning sunlight creeping in through the gaps in the blinds like an unwelcome intruder. Dust motes danced in the pale beams, swirling with each of Wren’s exhales.

“Five more minutes,” she mumbled into the pillow, her voice muffled and thick with sleep.

Her legs tangled in the sheets as she shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. The coolness of the fabric against her skin sent a shiver down her spine, goosebumps rising on her arms.

A car horn blared outside, followed by the angry shouts of pedestrians. Wren’s eyes cracked open, revealing a sliver of striking violet. She glared at the window, as if her gaze alone could silence the world beyond.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” she chanted, pulling the pillow over her head.

The alarm clock, unimpressed by her attempts at further slumber, began its infernal racket once more. Wren’s arm shot out from under the pillow, her hand connecting with the clock and sending it flying across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack, bits of plastic scattering across the hardwood floor.

“Fuck,” Wren groaned, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Her short black mohawk stood at odd angles, the purple dye faded and in desperate need of a touch-up.

Wren stretched her arms above her head, her joints popping and muscles tensing. She rolled her neck, feeling the satisfying crack as tension released. Her body hummed with renewed energy, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep.

With some effort (and significantly more reluctance), she swung her legs over the side of the bed until they met the cold hardwood floor. Another shiver ran through her body as she sat there for a moment gathering momentum—or pretending to gather momentum—to stand up fully.

Eventually, she wandered over to the window and yanked open the blinds with all the delicacy of an irritable toddler demanding snacks. Sunlight flooded into the room instantly, making her wince and squint against its sudden brightness. Outside lay what always lay outside: a sprawling mess of concrete structures buzzing with human activity even at this ungodly hour.

She glanced back over her shoulder at what used to be an alarm clock before sighing dramatically and nudging a stray piece of plastic casing with her toe. “Rest in pieces,” she said flatly. “You earned it.”

Just then, a familiar sound interrupted her morning routine—or lack thereof—the distant wail of sirens weaving their way through traffic down below. She paused mid-thought (or mid-non-thought), tilting her head toward the noise like a dog hearing its owner’s car pull into the driveway.

A slow smile spread across Wren’s face—mischief flickering behind tired eyes that weren’t quite awake but were clearly intrigued all the same.

“Well,” she said softly, stretching both arms overhead until something popped satisfactorily in her shoulder joint. “If that doesn’t scream ‘get up,’ I don’t know what does.”

She rolled her neck next—another pop—and let out a deep breath between pursed lips as energy began creeping back into dormant muscles despite herself. Groggy or not, there was just something about sirens that called to Wren in ways coffee never could.

And so began another day in Wren Hubbard’s life: chaotic by necessity but propelled forward by curiosity—and maybe just a little bit of spite against anything resembling an alarm clock ever again.

Wren stood barefoot on the cold hardwood floor and wiggled her toes against its smooth surface. The simple act triggered a memory, vivid and unasked for—the kind that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

She lifted her right foot and propped it on the kitchen chair, studying her toes, flexing them rhythmically. To most, it would have been an unremarkable movement, something barely worth noticing. But for Wren, those small motions carried weight.

Her mind drifted back to a hospital room—the sharp tang of antiseptic in the air, the kind of smell that lingered too long in your nose. She’d been five years old, swallowed up by a bed far too big for her tiny body. Her right leg had been encased in a clunky white cast, stiff and immovable. The faces around her were blurred now, faded by time, but she could still hear the syrupy voice of a nurse bending down over her.

“Let’s see if you can wiggle those toes for me, sweetheart.”

Little Wren had furrowed her brow like it was the most important job she’d ever been assigned. She’d stared hard at her toes sticking out of the end of the cast—stared so long that the room seemed to hold its collective breath. At first, nothing happened. Her foot stayed still, stubbornly disobedient. Then there it was—a twitch. Small and shaky but real. Slowly and with great effort, her toes began to wiggle, jerking awkwardly back and forth.

The room lit up with cheers that were too loud for the small space. Doctors smiled at one another; nurses beamed as though she’d done something miraculous. They clapped; they encouraged; they praised with easy dexterity. In Wren’s memory—or maybe just in the version she’d pieced together later—her parents had been there too, smiling wide with relief. It wasn’t much of a victory in hindsight, but at the time, it had felt enormous.

Back in her apartment now, Wren smiled faintly as she wiggled her toes again—not because they needed coaxing anymore but because they could. She knew better than to believe her own memories entirely—she’d filled in gaps over the years: painted warmer smiles onto faces that weren’t there at all; imagined applause from people who had been noticeably absent. Her parents hadn’t stood by her bedside during those small victories—they’d left her in someone else’s care without much ceremony or fuss because they had other things to tend to: jobs, siblings—they always had an excuse lined up neatly like dominos waiting to fall.

Still, she wiggled her toes once more—just because she could—and marveled at how something so ordinary could once have felt impossible. If nothing else, it reminded her just how far she’d come since then.

She crossed the room slowly on bare feet that left faint imprints on battered wood with every step. When she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror leaning precariously against the wall, she paused longer than usual to take herself in.

A worn band t-shirt hung loosely from her frame—the logo faded to near obscurity after years of wear—but it still clung stubbornly to life despite its age. Boxer shorts slung low across her hips revealed not just hints of toned muscle but also snippets of ink peeking out beneath fabric edges—a tattoo half-hidden but deliberate all the same. She ran a hand through her mohawk as though smoothing it might make sense of its jagged angles or its defiant purple streaks—though admittedly “sense” wasn’t what she’d been aiming for when she dyed it that color anyway.

Her violet eyes stared back from beneath heavy lids still weighted by sleep while sunlight caught on a nose ring glinting faintly—a small rebellion against… well… everything really.

When Wren turned back toward the bed behind her, something softened within her—not much but enough to notice. Maggie was still sleeping soundly under their shared duvet; strands of chestnut hair spilled across the pillow like loose threads on a halo gone askew. Each rise and fall of Maggie’s breathing made subtle waves through the blanket covering them both—a rhythm so steady yet delicate that Wren found herself holding still just to match it unconsciously.

She sat carefully on the edge of the mattress where springs groaned softly beneath even light pressure—it was familiar now though: part annoyance and part comfort depending on mood or moment—and let her hand trail idly over rumpled sheets cool to touch despite Maggie’s warmth beneath them somewhere close enough to reach but far enough not quite touching yet.

Wren’s eyes traced the familiar contours of their bedroom, a landscape of organized chaos. Maggie’s cycling gear hung neatly on hooks by the door, each item meticulously placed as though part of a display in a museum of order. Wren’s gear, on the other hand, had declared war against the concept of neatness, collapsing in an unruly heap on the floor as if staging its own rebellion. The bookshelves were overcrowded and unapologetic about it, their spines jutting out in mismatched colors and fonts, forming what could generously be called a “mosaic” but more accurately resembled a bookstore after an earthquake.

A potted plant perched on the windowsill, its leaves stretching hungrily toward the sunlight filtering through. Maggie had insisted on the plant—“It’ll keep us company,” she’d said—but Wren suspected its survival had far more to do with spite than care. The walls held their usual patchwork of posters and photographs: cityscapes teeming with life, open roads that promised freedom, candid snapshots from their adventures together—Wren grinning mid-wheelie as Maggie struggled not to tip over; both of them drenched in mud after a particularly poor route choice. Every image whispered fragments of their story back to her.

Wren turned her gaze toward Maggie, still bundled snugly in the duvet like some kind of sleepy burrito. One stray strand of hair fell rebelliously across her face, shifting with each exhale. Without thinking—because there wasn’t much thought required anymore—Wren reached over and brushed it away, her fingers hovering just long enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from Maggie’s skin.

The soft ripple of movement from Maggie’s body was pulling Wren out of sleep’s lingering haze like slow waves lapping at an anchored boat. She blinked hard once, then again, until her vision sharpened enough to take her in properly: Maggie lying there, lips parted, breaths spilling out in a rhythm so steady it almost felt rehearsed. The morning light did what morning light always does and bathed her girlfriend in gold: across her cheekbones, down the slope of her shoulder—all those lines Wren knew by heart.

A year together now—that realization landed softly but still managed to set off a ripple effect inside her chest. One year since they’d nearly collided during a ride through traffic—her fault entirely—and ended up laughing over too-strong coffee at some hole-in-the-wall café neither could remember the name of later. They hadn’t spent much time apart since then, but it hadn’t been without its complications.

Wren sighed quietly enough not to disturb her. The problem—or maybe just their problem—wasn’t love; they had that part covered. It was time—or more specifically, their utter lack of it. Both worked as bike couriers for rival companies (though “rival” made it sound far more dramatic than reality). They loved their jobs—deadlines didn’t drive them; velocity did. The electric pull kept them both moving forward, faster and faster. It made everything sharp and vivid. It made them feel alive. Missed dinners and postponed plans had become routine; sometimes all they managed was a half-asleep kiss in passing before being swallowed back up by schedules that refused to align.

Maggie stirred suddenly next to her, her eyelids fluttering open like she instinctively knew she was being studied. She stared at Wren for a second or two longer before breaking into one of those smiles—the ones that started slow but always ended up taking over her entire face.

“Morning,” she mumbled through half-closed lips.

“Morning,” Wren replied softly.

Maggie stretched dramatically before collapsing back into her pillow fortress with exaggerated defeat. “Five more minutes?” Her voice was low and raspy with sleep.

Wren fought back a grin. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

“And that’s what you said this morning. I heard you, woman,” Maggie shot back without opening her eyes.

“And I meant it when I killed the alarm clock.” Wren gestured toward the remains scattered across the floor—a pile of plastic shards that bore silent witness to her talent for violence before coffee.

Maggie cracked one eye open just enough to glance at the evidence before chuckling softly and burying her face in the pillow again. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s why you love me.” Wren smirked but got no reply beyond Maggie’s theatrical snore.

She watched as Maggie drifted back toward sleep almost effortlessly—not quite awake enough yet for responsibility but not fully lost to dreams either. Wren knew this particular expression well: relaxed features edged with total vulnerability. Even now—even after knowing this woman intimately for an entire year—that level of trust still made something shift inside her.

Maggie curled deeper into herself like she always did when asleep—knees pulled up toward her chest while chasing whatever warmth was left on this side of dawn. It reminded Wren vaguely of a cat soaking up sunlight by a window sill or maybe just someone who understood how fleeting moments like these could be.

And really? That was fine by Wren. Just look at that woman.

The sheet had slipped, leaving Maggie’s shoulders exposed, her collarbone catching the soft morning light. Wren’s gaze followed the curve of her neck, tracing it downward until it landed on the gold cross. The delicate chain had shifted overnight, leaving the cross perched awkwardly on Maggie’s shoulder instead of resting, as it usually did, at the center of her chest.

Wren reached for it, her fingers hovering just above the tiny pendant. They were calloused from years of gripping handlebars—hands that rarely showed restraint—but now they moved with a carefulness that felt foreign even to her. She hooked the chain lightly and flicked it back into place. The cross settled neatly against Maggie’s breast, rising and falling with each steady breath, like a small boat bobbing on a quiet tide.

She let her hand drop but didn’t look away. Her gaze lingered on the necklace, then drifted across Maggie’s skin where the morning sun fell in slanted streaks through the blinds. Two freckles caught her eye—small and faint against Maggie’s sun-warmed skin. They were close together but off-center, forming a constellation only Wren knew.

Her fingers twitched with the urge to trace them, to connect those dots like stars in an imagined sky. Instead, she stayed still, holding herself back. Disturbing Maggie’s sleep wasn’t worth it; besides, this was enough—this quiet moment where time felt paused. She filed it away in some corner of her mind reserved solely for Maggie: a private collection of details no one else would ever notice or care about.

Wren had asked Maggie to stop wearing the necklace once. It had been early in their relationship, when familiarity still came with sharp edges and missteps were common. She couldn’t remember exactly how she’d said it—it didn’t matter really—but she could still feel the charged silence that had followed.

“It’s not you,” Wren had told her, running a thumb over the tiny pendant where it rested against Maggie’s throat. “You’re so much more than whatever outdated crap that thing represents.”

Maggie hadn’t answered right away. Her hand had gone reflexively to the chain as though to shield it from Wren’s words. For a long beat, neither of them moved or spoke. Then Maggie nodded once—a quick dip of her chin—and tried for a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You’re right,” she’d said softly, almost too softly to be believed. “I’ll take it off.”

At the time, Wren had taken this as a victory—not over Maggie but for her—or so she’d told herself anyway. She remembered feeling oddly triumphant as Maggie unclasped the chain later and dropped it onto her bedside table without ceremony. That night Wren had kissed her deeply in gratitude or maybe reassurance; only later would she taste something salted on Maggie’s cheek and dismiss it without question.

It was the next day when things shifted.

Wren had come home early—earlier than expected—and found their apartment unusually quiet, almost stifling in its stillness. She’d called out for Maggie once, twice—her voice echoing back like an empty joke—and finally heard something muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.

She opened it slowly and found Maggie perched on the edge of the bathtub with her shoulders pulled inward like armor she couldn’t make fit anymore. Her head hung low; in one hand was the cross necklace tangled around trembling fingers.

“Mags?” Wren dropped to one knee in front of her without thinking or hesitating—it was instinctive almost—and tried to catch her eye.

Maggie looked up eventually through red-rimmed eyes that seemed stretched too wide and tired all at once. “I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely before any explanation could be asked for or offered unprompted.

“For what?” Wren kept her voice level but felt some unnamed weight settle uneasily at the base of her ribs.

“I know I said I’d take it off, but I… I can’t.”

The guilt hit Wren like a sudden gust of wind to the chest—sharp, unexpected, and impossible to shake. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. “Hey,” she murmured, her voice softening. “It’s okay. Just talk to me.”

And Maggie had talked. Between hiccups and shaky breaths, she had explained what the necklace meant to her—how it wasn’t just about faith, though that was part of it. It was about her family, about tradition, about having something solid and familiar in a world that constantly felt like it could crack and crumble without warning.

“It’s…” Maggie cleared her throat and dropped her gaze toward the floor, as though the moment was too much for her to bear. “It’s part of how I was raised. It’s part of who I am.”

Wren had reached out then—not knowing exactly what else to do—and taken Maggie’s trembling hands in hers. She could feel the little cross pressed between their palms, its edges cool against her skin as though it wanted to remind her of its importance too. “I didn’t get it before,” Wren admitted after a beat. Her throat tightened so much that she barely managed the words that followed: “But now I do. And if it means that much to you… you should keep wearing it.”

Maggie had looked up at Wren then, something unspoken yet undeniable passing between them, and Wren had said one more thing: “I’m sorry I asked you not to wear it.”

The memory unraveled itself as quickly as it had surfaced—as though Wren was waking from a vivid dream where emotions lingered long after the scenes themselves evaporated. She blinked hard and shook her head like that might clear away the tightness coiling in her chest. Her gaze shifted back toward Maggie now, sleeping peacefully with the little cross on its chain resting quietly against her chest.

But just like that—because minds are rarely good at staying where they’re supposed to—her thoughts veered sideways again. This time landing on yesterday’s race: the Alleycat event. The rush hit first—the adrenaline flooding back like a tide she hadn’t entirely been prepared for—and then came the sharp clarity of every sound, every sensation.

The starting signal hadn’t fully faded before Wren launched herself forward into the chaotic pack of riders. Legs pistoning beneath her, lungs already starting their rhythmic burn; each inhale felt alive with purpose but also razor-edged with effort. The air streaked cold against her face as she weaved through competitors with precision that felt borderline reckless but necessary if she wanted any chance of staying ahead.

Her mohawk—purple strands flying wild behind her like some kind of war pennant—whipped around in the wind as she took a corner. Wren didn’t just feel alive in the velocity of the ride; she thrived in it. Every second was a gamble, an unspoken challenge to gravity and fate.

She shot through alleys littered with life doing its thing: dumpsters cluttering paths like obstacles no one cared enough to move; startled pedestrians leaping aside mid-scream; neon signs flashing dirty light onto wet bricks by her head—all noise and chaos along the street telling graffiti-smeared tales.

Main Street was where everything turned dangerous.

Traffic snarled loud enough to rattle bones—horns blaring endlessly over brakes screeching protest—and yet somehow none of it was louder than the blood pounding through Wren’s veins or the low hum-whir-click cadence coming from her wheels spinning too fast for comfort or caution.

And Zak—Zak had been right there ahead when everything narrowed down again into an alleyway that seemed darker than most others in memory or reality combined.

Wren could still feel how sharp every muscle felt in those moments; legs straining until they burned so bright-hot they may as well have been on fire. The alley walls blurred on either side—a moving tunnel made entirely from grime-coated brick and graffiti scrawls bleeding stories no one cared enough anymore even try decoding—and all Wren could see clearly was Zak up ahead, his blonde hair catching just enough light here and there so he seemed almost glowing: some deceptive kind of beacon promising safety while delivering exactly none.

Then came his tell—a hand dipping quick into his jersey pocket—and right behind came hers: eyes widening just far enough that time slowed itself down.

The plastic baggie came next—a small thing torn open quick-as-lightning—but what tumbled free clattered loud enough inside Wren’s head anyway because their meaning struck harder than anything she’d ever heard or seen mid-race before: tacks gleaming wicked-sharp under weak alley light scattering everywhere too fast/far across pavement suddenly hostile beneath tires threatening betrayal at every rotation forward now.

“Shit,” she hissed under breath already held too tight inside lungs begging release while jerking handlebars hard-left simultaneously praying blindly half against impact half against falling outright straight into Zak’s dirty gamble laid plain right there across unforgiving ground below them both.

Her bike wobbled violently before steadying itself back beneath instinct-driven balance alone somehow mostly intact—but anger drove itself upward even faster/hotter/heavier than relief soon after realization: Zak wasn’t playing dirty—Zak put people directly at risk without care beyond winning alone making him something lower than low.

Zak’s laughter reached her, faint but deliberate, the kind that didn’t just mock—it itched. Itching in a way you couldn’t scratch. Wren clenched her jaw. He thought it was over. Thought he’d outpaced her. But Zak should’ve known better. Wren didn’t lose. Not to him. Never to him.

“Tacks! Watch out!” Her voice bounced off the alley walls, jagged and hoarse, a warning flung behind her to riders she couldn’t see. She wasn’t sure if they’d hear or even care, but she had to yell it anyway. The tacks gleamed under thin slivers of dim light—crude little spikes scattered like caltrops in an ancient battlefield. She gritted her teeth, wondering just how many more Zak had decided to leave for them.

The alley was a blur, shadows pooling like spilled ink. Her tires slid and scrambled on the slick pavement beneath her, threatening treachery with every sharp turn. She leaned deeper into each curve, becoming one with the machine beneath her, every motion calculated instinct over thought.

Sweat clung to her skin, salted beads slipping dangerously close to her eyes. She blinked rapidly, keeping vision sharp and trained on the ragged trail ahead.

Her pulse pounded thick and heavy in her ears, like war drums driving soldiers forward into battle. The distance between her and Zak melted away inch by inch until the stiff slope of his shoulders sharpened into view. Even from behind him, she could tell he was glancing back too often now—could almost feel the nervous energy vibrating through his frame.

Wren’s lips twitched into a smirk—sharp and toothy enough to cut glass if it had to. He knew she was closing in on him. More importantly, he hated it.

The adrenaline kicked through her in waves: searing heat under her skin, raw electricity arcing through every nerve ending. It didn’t numb a thing—instead it made everything brighter, louder, clearer—the hiss of breath between clenched teeth, the rhythmic hum of spinning wheels slicing pavement—and somewhere further back, the chorus of shouts from riders as they dealt with Zak’s mess.

The bricks gave way again up ahead; this alley spat them out onto city chaos—cars honking their protests and pedestrians frozen mid-step as cyclists surged past like restless ghosts slipping through the cracks of reality where traffic laws held no sway.

Zak hesitated at the threshold—just for a second—but a second too long for someone like Wren not to notice. She took that gap without hesitation, diving headlong into moving cars and weaving through gaps so tight they felt custom-made for her alone.

The street was hers now—her stage. Where Zak faltered, Wren thrived without pause or doubt. Every horn blare or shouted curse fed fuel into her veins as she carved paths between vehicles with surgical precision.

Ahead loomed salvation—or damnation—with its gaudy banner stretched high above pavement littered with oil stains and discarded wrappers: the finish line.

She could see him fully now: his face losing its cocky veneer moment by moment as Wren crept closer still—her breath hot against chapped lips but steady enough for one final shot across his bow.

“Choke on this, asshole!” The words came out raw and jagged-edged as she launched herself forward with everything left inside—a final burst so reckless it felt stolen from someone else entirely but wholly necessary regardless.

Her tires screeched against asphalt when momentum wasn’t quite ready to let go yet—but there it was—she’d crossed first by what might’ve been millimeters but felt like miles.

The noise around them erupted—not quite deafening but loud enough that trying to dissect individual cheers felt futile—but none of it mattered right then because all Wren could hear was air rushing into lungs desperate for relief after being denied so long.

Zak rolled up beside her slower than before—as if disbelief weighed heavier than anger right now—and opened his mouth once words finally came back around looking for him: “How the hell did you—”

But Wren silenced him before he could finish forming sentences destined for nowhere good anyway: “Next time,” she bit out between gulps of air big enough they practically hurt; “you want to win? Try not sucking so bad.”

His expression shifted—anger mutating briefly toward sheepishness before settling somewhere closer toward shut-mouthed acceptance he wouldn’t admit aloud anytime soon—but then again maybe silence suited Zak best after stunts like today’s anyway.

The thrill of victory was dulled, as it often was, by Zak’s underhanded tricks. Two couriers had gone down because of his stunt, and instead of triumphant wheels across the finish line, they dragged themselves and their battered bikes behind them like war-weary soldiers retreating from battle.

The first courier, a wiry guy with dreadlocks, had hit the pavement hard enough to make Wren flinch at the sight of his road rash. His bike had spun out behind him in a chaotic tumble of wheels and metal. His exposed skin—knees, elbows, forearms—looked raw enough to sting just from a glance, streaked with crimson and dust. His shirt hung in shreds, revealing red patches that would soon bloom into painful scabs.

The second casualty, a girl distinguished primarily by her neon green helmet (and Wren couldn’t remember her name because she hadn’t been around long), had fared better. She’d managed to roll with the impact but ended up in a heap nonetheless—a heap that took its time moving.

Wren had been there in an instant—adrenaline doing most of the driving—her heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else for those first few moments. The guy with the dreads hobbled off to the side, grimacing as he held up scraped palms for inspection. The girl hadn’t even made it halfway upright yet, groaning as she wrestled with what remained of her mangled bike.

“You guys okay?” The words came automatically. Wren’s eyes darted over their injuries, searching for anything broken or unnaturally twisted. Road rash and bruises—not ideal but better than broken bones or worse. Relief washed over her like a cold compress on a fevered forehead… right until she caught sight of the girl’s bike frame twisted grotesquely out of shape. That thing was dead on arrival.

The dreadlocked courier shook his head in disbelief, muttering through clenched teeth. “Just some road rash… but seriously, what the hell happened?”

“Zak,” Wren spat without hesitation, her anger bubbling back up before she could tamp it down. “That asshole dropped caltrops in the alley.”

At that, Green-Helmet Girl finally managed to pull herself upright enough to yank off her helmet, revealing an angry bruise already forming high on her cheekbone. Her voice came out sharp and incredulous: “Tacks? Are you serious right now?”

From somewhere nearby Zak piped up defensively: “It wasn’t me! It was the guy in front of me! I almost wiped out too!” His voice cut through like nails scraping glass—and just as easily ignored by everyone present.

Wren’s mind replayed it again now—the crashes, the bruises, Zak lounging on the sidelines like nothing had happened—and found herself biting down on the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste iron. Sure, no one had been seriously hurt this time—but how long until “this time” turned into something far worse? Zak’s recklessness wasn’t just infuriating—it was dangerous.

* * *

Mornings weren’t normally an enemy for Wren—not even when the alarm clock blared too early—but today she allowed herself five minutes after silencing it before reaching for her phone on instinct. All these memories, emotions, anger. In just five minutes.

There wasn’t much waiting for her on her phone: no urgent messages or missed calls demanding attention. She half-curled under the blanket, stealing the residual warmth, she glanced left at Maggie.

Maggie still slept. Wren had lived a lifetime of memories and that chick was still sleeping.

A grin spread slowly across Wren’s face—the kind that started small but couldn’t be stopped once it gained momentum—and before she could think better of it, she leaned over closer until her lips brushed against Maggie’s bare shoulder.

She followed Maggie’s spine downward with deliberate kisses soft enough not to wake her immediately, pausing occasionally as though savoring some invisible map etched across Maggie’s skin. By the time she reached Maggie’s arm, gently peppering it with small pecks along its length like raindrops hitting pavement, movement stirred beneath blankets.

“Mmm…” Maggie shifted—but only slightly—pulling more fabric over herself rather than bothering with full consciousness quite yet.

“Morning,” Wren whispered as though letting Maggie stay asleep wasn’t already clearly off today’s agenda.

“Five more minutes…” came Maggie’s muffled reply from beneath layers of cocoon-like bedding.

Wren chuckled softly—though sympathy wasn’t exactly high on her list right now—and tugged at the edges of Maggie’s fortress until daylight started creeping through like an uninvited guest.

“Time’s up,” Wren informed her lightly before yanking away what little remained between Maggie and reality—or more specifically cool morning air that earned immediate protests.

“You’re evil,” Maggie mumbled groggily—not quite awake yet still managing indignation—as Wren trailed teasing kisses down from forehead past collarbone toward less mentionable stops until giggles replaced complaints entirely.

“Effective though,” Wren countered cheerfully while sliding out from bed herself onto hardwood floors chilled by autumn mornings seeping through thin walls poorly suited for insulation purposes.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” Wren’s voice boomed through the small apartment, bouncing off walls that hadn’t yet shaken off the quiet of dawn. “Breakfast won’t eat itself!”

From the bed came a muffled groan. Maggie, face buried in her pillow, muttered something unintelligible, though by tone alone it was safe to interpret as an insult. Wren smirked and headed to the kitchen, her stride as cocky as ever. “A menace who’s about to make you eggs,” she called back over her shoulder.

The kitchen wasn’t much—a stove too close to the fridge, a single window covered by security bars and the remnants of a galvanized window well—but Wren moved around it like she had trained for this exact choreography. Fridge door open, carton of eggs and butter in hand, pan on the burner before the door swung shut again. She cranked the heat a little higher than medium because patience wasn’t her strong suit. The butter hit the pan with a sizzle sharp enough to cut through any lingering sleepiness in the air.

Wren cracked three eggs into a bowl, whisking them briskly—efficiently—like this was some culinary mission she needed to accomplish before any distractions arose. Her eyes stayed fixed on the mixture as she poured it into the shimmering butter. The hiss and pop of eggs hitting heat filled her ears as she stirred.

“Maggie!” Wren didn’t look up from her work; not ruining breakfast required vigilance. “You better be getting dressed!”

There was a pause—no reply—then Maggie’s voice drifted from the other room. “I’m on it!” Her casual tone suggested otherwise.

Wren stirred methodically, scraping the pan just before anything had the chance to stick. From behind her came the faint rustle of fabric and soft steps on hardwood—a sound that normally wouldn’t warrant much attention but now pricked at her awareness like a static charge before lightning strikes.

She turned her head but immediately froze. Maggie stood in the doorway—not quite dressed, not quite undressed—with her courier uniform bunched loosely in one hand and an unmistakable glint of mischief lighting up her eyes.

“Well,” Wren said after a beat, arching an eyebrow in mock appraisal as she leaned one arm against the counter for effect. “This is shaping up to be dinner and a show.”

Maggie smirked but said nothing. Instead, with deliberate intention, she began pulling on her cycling shorts—the kind that clung like they’d been painted on—as though dressing required choreography only she knew. Her hips swayed subtly with each movement, unhurried yet calculated enough to dare someone to look away.

Wren did not look away.

She might have burned breakfast right then if not for spitting hot butter hitting her hand. A well-timed stir saved both her eggs and perhaps her pride, though neither emerged entirely unscathed. Still half-distracted—because who wouldn’t be?—she called out toward Maggie without meeting her gaze: “You’re killing me here, babe.”

From across the room came an exaggerated laugh—not quite mocking but close enough. Maggie zipped up her jersey slowly now—and clearly for effect—the faint metallic rasp somehow louder than even Wren’s agitated stirring.

Turning back toward the stove, Wren exhaled sharply through her nose and gave herself a mental shake—all focus now on salvaging what remained of breakfast before it was too far gone in more ways than one.

Moments later, Maggie padded toward her with that same smirk still playing on her lips—not growing or fading but simply existing there like it had found permanent residence—and slid an arm casually around Wren’s waist. The gesture was warm but light enough to make someone wonder whether affection or teasing had been its primary purpose.

Then came Maggie’s voice: low, near-whispered next to Wren’s ear but clear enough to snap anyone fully awake: “Damn. Your ass is ridiculous. What’s your secret?”

Wren felt rather than saw Maggie’s grin widening as she reached back instinctively with one hand—not so much pushing Maggie away as pretending she might—but only muttered dryly while flexing under Maggie’s touch: “Good genes and bad decisions.”

The laugh that escaped Maggie turned real then—not performative anymore—and before long Wren found herself laughing too despite everything (or maybe because of everything). For a few seconds neither spoke; they just stood there in their too-small kitchen with its too-close counters pressed up against whatever space existed between them while their poorly contained giggles filled every remaining inch.

Eventually—because some things could only wait so long—the eggs were scooped onto plates while Maggie busied herself pulling tortillas from the pantry shelf above their heads like it was all part of some unspoken pact about balance: one person starts what another finishes until everything—including them—falls together just right.

“Avocado?” That was all she said without looking up as shredded cheddar spilled over tortilla edges onto countertops no one would bother wiping down until at least tomorrow night.

Wren nodded automatically before realizing no one could see nods when their back was turned and instead reached into the fruit bowl where avocados always sat like small green promises, each one whispering about ripeness but almost always delivering a damn lie.

The knife sliced cleanly through peel first then flesh—a single twist revealing pale green perfection beneath tougher exteriors (a metaphor if ever there was one)—before fingers worked deftly at peeling skins away altogether until nothing remained hidden anymore.

Wren sliced through the avocado halves with mechanical precision. The soft flesh gave way easily to the spoon, leaving behind clean, hollowed shells. She placed the smooth, green mounds onto the cutting board, her knife rhythmically chopping them into uniform slices. The blade moved deliberately, each motion precise and controlled. Wren liked tasks like this, things she could masterfully execute without much thought. It left room in her mind for other matters.

Some of the avocado clung stubbornly to her fingers. She noticed it absently at first, the cool slickness of it against her skin a subtle contrast to the warmth of the sunlit kitchen. As she wiped her hands on a dish towel, an idea surfaced, unbidden and mischievous.

“Hey, Mags.” Wren held up a finger smeared with avocado and wiggled it in Maggie’s direction. “Want a taste?”

Maggie looked up from grating cheese, her brows raised in curiosity until she saw Wren’s finger extended toward her like some kind of slick offering. A slow grin crept across Maggie’s face—one of those playful smiles that always left Wren wondering what exactly was going on behind those sharp blue eyes. Maggie set down the grater and crossed the small kitchen space with a measured step.

Without a word and without breaking eye contact, Maggie leaned in close and took Wren’s finger into her mouth. Her lips sealed around it as if this were perfectly normal breakfast preparation behavior. Her tongue flicked lightly against Wren’s skin as she licked off every trace of avocado, deliberate but unhurried.

Wren stopped breathing—or she thought she did—her pulse stuttering in response to this unexpected turn of events. Maggie finally released her finger with a soft pop before straightening up with that same infuriating grin.

“Mmm,” Maggie murmured approvingly. “Tastes better off you.”

“Tease,” Wren muttered under her breath, though there wasn’t much weight behind it. Her voice had dropped an octave she hadn’t intended.

Maggie winked at her before turning back to finish assembling the burritos as though nothing had just happened. Wren blinked herself back into focus and returned to slicing avocados, though now her movements were less steady than before.

They settled at their narrow kitchen table—with its perpetually wobbly leg that no amount of folded napkins ever seemed to fix—and tucked into breakfast. Sunlight poured through the windows and pooled onto their plates like honey. The homemade cheese-and-avocado-and-jam-the-egg-in-there-too burritos came together perfectly—simple food elevated by fresh ingredients—but for all their culinary success, they ate almost too quickly to appreciate it.

“So,” Wren said mid-bite, catching a drip of salsa with the back of her hand before it hit her plate. “You ready for tonight?”

Maggie’s face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside her. “The Vista?” Her smile widened into something near childlike excitement. “Hell yes—I’ve been counting down all week.”

Wren grinned back at her partner’s enthusiasm—it was impossible not to get caught up in it. “I know! And did you see they added DJ Spindle Sister last minute?”

“No way,” Maggie gasped through a mouthful of food before choking on her own excitement.

“Whoa—careful there,” Wren said as she leaned forward to pat Maggie’s back once firmly in case needed assistance was required. “Don’t die before we even get there.”

Wren finished up the dishes and finally dressed. She walked over to the dresser, her toes curling against the cool hardwood floor. She peeled off her oversized t-shirt, tossing it onto the cluttered floor.

“Use the laundry basket!” Maggie protested.

Wren shimmied out of her baggy boxers, kicking them into the laundry basket. The morning air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and legs. Wren rummaged through her drawer, fishing out a clean pair of underwear.

She slipped them on, the soft cotton hugging her curves. Next came the socks, thin and moisture-wicking. Wren sat on the edge of the bed, rolling them up her calves with care, smoothing out any wrinkles.

Standing again, she grabbed her cycling shorts from the back of a chair. Wren stepped into them, tugging them up her legs. The spandex was a second layer of skin, compressing her muscles. She adjusted the waistband, making sure it sat just right on her hips.

Finally, Wren reached for her cycling jersey. She pulled it over her head, the fabric sliding down her torso. Her arms snaked through the sleeves, the material stretching to accommodate her muscular build. She tugged at the hem, straightening out any bunches.

The jersey fit snugly, like a glove molded to her body. Wren rolled her shoulders, feeling the fabric move with her. She flexed her arms, testing the range of motion. Satisfied, Wren zipped up her jersey, her fingers lingering on the collar. The familiar fabric hugged her body, but it didn’t bring the usual comfort. A nagging unease gnawed at her gut, a leftover from yesterday’s wild chase.

She glanced at Maggie and forced a smile, not wanting to worry her girlfriend.

“You okay?” Maggie asked.

“Yeah, just thinking about work,” Wren replied, avoiding eye contact.

She busied herself with packing her courier bag, double-checking her gear. Helmet, check. Gloves, check. Water bottle, check. Her hand brushed against the jumbo auto body marker tucked in a side pocket. A small smirk played on her lips as she remembered the satisfying squeak it made against car windows.

“Thinking about the race again?” Maggie probed, always perceptive.

She thought back to yesterday’s race, the scatter of tacks on the pavement, the swerve of her bike. The memory sent a shiver down her spine.

“I just… I can’t stand working with that cheating bastard,” Wren muttered, zipping her bag with more force than necessary.

Maggie wrapped her arms around Wren’s waist, resting her chin on her shoulder.

“You can’t let him get to you,” Maggie said softly. “You’re better than that.”

Wren leaned back into the embrace, letting out a long sigh. “I know, I know. It’s just… the city’s dangerous enough without assholes like him making it worse.”

Maggie pulled away and flopped onto the bed. “I don’t wanna go. Let’s stay in bed all day,” she said as seductively as she could with her courier bag jammed into her back.

Wren stood in the doorway, her gaze settling on Maggie sprawled across the bed. One leg dangled off the side, and her courier bag—her ever-present companion—now sat nestled beside her like a loyal pet waiting for its next command. She was fully dressed for work, but there she lay anyway, flat on her back as though getting out of bed was again an insurmountable task. Wren let her eyes linger.

“You planning on moving anytime today?” Wren asked, stepping closer. Her voice carried that teasing lilt Maggie had come to expect—half playful, half challenging.

Maggie groaned in response but didn’t bother opening her eyes. “Maybe,” she said at last, dragging out the word as though even speaking required monumental effort.

Wren crouched down and lifted Maggie’s dangling foot onto the bed with deliberate carelessness. The movement jolted Maggie just enough to make her sigh dramatically, but not enough to spur her into action. Without waiting for an invitation, Wren dropped onto the mattress beside her. The bed bounced under the added weight as Wren shifted to prop herself up on one elbow.

Maggie turned her head toward Wren, a lazy smile lighting up her face. “You’re awfully cozy for someone who was just lecturing me about getting up,” she murmured.

“Don’t tempt me,” Wren countered, brushing a stray curl away from Maggie’s face. “I’d love nothing more than to stay here all day with you. But those bills? They don’t pay themselves.”

That earned another groan from Maggie—this one louder and more theatrical. She threw an arm over her eyes like some tragic figure in an old movie. “Why did we pick careers that keep us broke and bruised?”

“Because deep down we thrive on chaos,” Wren said dryly, absentmindedly drawing circles across Maggie’s forearm with the tip of her finger.

Maggie peeked out from under her arm, one eyebrow quirking upward. “Speak for yourself. I just like biking through the city without getting stuck in traffic.”

Wren grinned at that—a mischievous grin that made Maggie’s stomach flip even after all this time. “Sure you do,” she said. “Is that why you once outran a cop car?”

“That was one time,” Maggie shot back quickly, though laughter danced in her voice now. “And it happened because someone dared me.”

“Best dare I ever made,” Wren replied softly, leaning closer until their faces were only inches apart. “Well… second best.”

Before Maggie could ask what the first was—or maybe she already knew—Wren closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to Maggie’s in a tender kiss that stretched out longer than either of them intended.

When they pulled apart, they stayed there for a moment longer, faces so close their noses almost brushed. Neither of them spoke; there didn’t seem to be any need to fill the silence between them as they lay tangled together on the bed. Outside, faint morning sounds filtered through the thin apartment walls—the distant honk of a car horn, someone slamming a door—but they felt far away and unimportant.

The buzz of Maggie’s phone cut through the stillness like a knife. It vibrated angrily against the nightstand until Maggie reached over to grab it. She squinted at the screen as if it might go away if she stared hard enough.

“What is it?” Wren asked without looking up.

Maggie frowned and held up the phone so Wren could see for herself. On the screen glared a new text message—from Karen.

Still wasting your potential on that ridiculous bike job? When are you going to grow up and get a real career?

Wren read it twice before sitting up abruptly. The soft fondness in her expression hardened into something much sharper, much angrier.

“Your mom’s an asshole,” she said flatly.

“She means well,” Maggie mumbled automatically, but there wasn’t much weight behind it—no real conviction in defending Karen today.

“She means to control you,” Wren snapped back without hesitation. Her fingers found their way into Maggie’s hair again—soothing this time instead of teasing—and stayed there, anchoring both in place. “You’re amazing at what you do. You love it.”

Maggie didn’t respond right away, but when she finally did look back at Wren, there was gratitude shining in her tired eyes—a quiet kind of warmth that didn’t need words behind it.

“Thanks,” she whispered simply.

Wren answered by pressing a kiss to Maggie’s temple—a lingering gesture meant more as reassurance than affection this time—and then leaned back with renewed energy.

“Come on,” she said briskly as she stood up and offered Maggie a hand. “Let’s go show Karen exactly how much potential you’re wasting.”

For once, Maggie smiled at that name—not because anything about Karen had changed but because standing here now with Wren reminding her what mattered most felt like enough to drown out even Karen’s loudest disapproval… at least for one more day.

Maggie groaned but eventually swung her legs over the side of the bed, standing beside Wren by the door. “I hate mornings,” she mumbled, grabbing her helmet. She always said this, as though declaring it daily might somehow change the cruel fact of mornings existing.

Wren just grinned. She couldn’t resist. Before Maggie could settle the helmet on her head, Wren hooked her fingers into Maggie’s messenger bag strap and pulled her close, her lips capturing Maggie’s in a kiss that started as sweet and ended somewhere more mischievous. Her hands wandered, predictably and unapologetically, to Maggie’s backside until Maggie swatted them away with mock indignation. “Save it for later,” Maggie murmured, but there was no real heat behind the words. She smiled. “Please.”

Wren turned next to Argo, her bike leaning against the wall like an old friend waiting patiently for adventure. “Morning, beautiful,” she said under her breath, running a hand along its frame. Argo never slapped her hands away. The black aluminum tubing gleamed faintly in their dim basement light. A smudge on the crossbar caught her attention—a crime against Argo’s otherwise pristine condition—and Wren swiftly wiped it away with her sleeve. There. Perfect again.

Kneeling down, she unzipped Argo’s under-seat toolkit and gave everything a quick once-over: spare tube, tire levers, multitool, patch kit—all accounted for. It was a ritual by now, one she could perform blindfolded if needed.

Meanwhile, Maggie grabbed Bridger—her own bike—from its usual spot near the laundry hamper. Bridger wasn’t flashy like Argo but solid and dependable in a way that fit Maggie perfectly. Wren often teased Maggie about Bridger’s lack of personality; Maggie always countered that this made Bridger the ideal partner for long-haul rides—uncomplicated and steady.

Together, they wrestled their bikes up the steep staircase leading out of their basement apartment. The steps creaked ominously under their weight, as they did every morning, though neither of them seemed particularly motivated to do anything about it. Wren took the lead with Argo balanced easily across her shoulder while Maggie followed close behind with Bridger bumping against her hip.

The narrow staircase finally spit them out into open air. Morning light spilled across everything—the sidewalk damp from last night’s rain, the dew clinging stubbornly to blades of grass along the fence line. A symphony of urban noises greeted them: distant car horns blaring in frustration, pigeons shuffling on wires overhead, a jogger’s rhythmic footfalls echoing faintly against asphalt.

Chapter 1

The frost bites.

Teeth in the air, knives on the wind.

Cryosium doesn’t just kill you, Ceige Rivers thinks. It devours you.

She crouches on the edge of a rooftop, perched like a bird of prey. Night stretches below, a frozen labyrinth of jagged ice and shadow. Cryosium—city of the damned, where breath turns to ghost vapor and danger whispers from every corner.

But at this moment? There’s only him.

Viktor Volkov.

Ceige’s eyes narrow as a figure skirts through the alleyway below. Shadows cling to him like frost to glass, but she knows it’s him—she’s seen the mark stitched onto his jacket. That emblem—Syndicate black and silver. A badge for men who believe they own this city.

No one owns Cryosium. Not even Judex like Ceige. They operate above the law but beneath its shadow, a necessary contradiction in a city where justice is bought and sold. When the courts fail and the powerful slip through their grasp, the Judex step in—investigators, executioners, and the last line of consequence. There are no juries, no appeals, just swift judgment.

She’s heard people speak their name in hushed tones, watched them struggle between fear and reverence. But the truth is simple: the Judex don’t uphold justice. They maintain balance, one body at a time.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Ceige mutters, her breath curling into the air.

The wind churns as she moves. A single push off the ledge sends her descending into shadows. Her boots hit snow soundlessly—enhanced bones fine-tuning every motion with precision only science could buy. Twisted genetics, they call it. A gift or a curse, depending on who you ask. For Ceige? It’s survival.

Every step resonates—snow crunching sharply beneath her weight, ice glinting treacherously under powder-light covering. She flows through it all with the ease of someone molded by this frozen wasteland; instincts keen as a blade sliding into place. The world feels alive to her—each gust of wind stinging like a lover’s bite, each echo ricocheting down Cryosium’s skeletal streets filling her mapless mind with coordinates of potential death.

A laugh drifts faintly from some distant bar. Ghostly joy in a city that bleeds misery.

“All according to plan,” she murmurs, lips curling bitter-sweet around the cliche.

Her prey emerges from darkness: Viktor “Frostbite” Volkov steps into pale streetlight like an actor hitting his mark, flanked by two hulking shadows masquerading as bodyguards. Arrogance rolls off him—a heat illusion in this frigid nightscape—but it doesn’t thaw him out. Nothing in Cryosium burns long enough to stay warm. He wears his power heavy on his shoulders, oblivious that he’s already been marked for death.

Her gloved fingers delve into her pack without hesitation. Methodical movements; no wasted effort. One item after another emerges under moonlight’s pale gaze: tools honed by necessity and perfected by time. A custom sidearm nestles in her grip like an extension of herself—the barrel gleaming silver-cold under Cryosium’s half-dead sky.

Frost-resistant rounds clink softly as they slide into place one by one. Deadly precision forged for a world where heat is fleeting and failure leaves blood frozen in its tracks.

Perfect fit.

And then: the picks. Twin blades folded sleekly against themselves until her hands coax them open with a soft metallic hiss. They catch what little light exists—razor edges gleaming like fangs carved from winter itself.

Sharp enough to sever flesh and splinter bone.

Good.

Her lips curl—part grin, part snarl—as she slips the weapons back into their sheathes with reverence earned through years of use.

Enough prep work.

The detachment settles over her again without invitation or effort—a shroud worn too long to ever be discarded fully. Emotions are excess weight; judgment cannot afford indulgences like fear or fury here in this frozen labyrinth, where missteps mean death.

She straightens slowly, every movement deliberate as steel cables pulled taut between anchor points.

The frost bit.

Sharp teeth, cold breath.

Ice in the air, ice in her veins.

Ceige watches from cover and lines up her gun—a perfect extension of herself, its weight familiar in her hands like an old lover returned after years apart.

The world shrinks to this moment—the rhythm of her breath matching the pulse of her heart, matching the stillness of winter itself. Time freezes as sharp as Cryosium’s air; even sound seems brittle, ready to break at any moment under pressure.

“Goodbye,” she whispers finally, savoring the icy resolve that settles over her bones.

Her finger tightens on the trigger.

The silenced shot slips through the night like a secret carried on the wind. Viktor staggers forward once—twice—and then collapses into himself: a marionette cut free from its strings.

His guards turn too late—their confusion hangs heavy in their wide eyes, pale faces caught between disbelief and fear.

“Too slow.” Her voice drips mockery as she slides back into the cold embrace of shadow and snow—the only allies she has ever trusted.

Her heart thuds hard against bone—not fear, but thrill; not survival, but triumph. Somewhere above Cryosium’s endless graveyard streets, another sin is erased by blood and a fee.

She disappears as easily as frost melting under brief sunbeams—but Cryosium doesn’t notice or care.

It never does.

Ceige’s heart drums.

A relentless rhythm in her chest.

The hunt is done, but the game? The game never ends.

Preparation is survival. And survival is everything.

She drops into an alley—narrow, suffocating, its frost-slick walls squeezing inward like ribs closing around a heart—and kneels on the brittle ground.

All according to plan, Ceige, she tells herself. Just another night. The words feel hollow in her head, but she says them anyway because habit has its comforts.

Cryosium is hers tonight—a playground carved from ice and quiet death—and she knows its rules better than anyone else.

Ceige presses her back against the brick wall. It gnaws through her jacket, the rough edges scraping at her skin. Cryosium thuds around her—cars streaking by like silver bullets, a faint burst of laughter fractured by distance, the low hum of a world grinding on without pause. The blood in the snow hasn’t had time to freeze, and yet here they are—oblivious. It never ceases to claw at her. How easily life continues as if death isn’t threading its way through the cracks.

“Time to disappear,” she murmurs, barely louder than the hiss of escaping breath. Her eyes sweep the street, seeking the glint of watchful lenses or curious stares. But no one ever truly sees her. She is a shadow in Cryosium’s frozen veins, a ghost leaving only silence behind.

Tonight isn’t any different.

She exhales once and pushes off the wall. Sliding into the darkness between pools of pale light, she moves like smoke peeling from a dying fire—indistinct, unstoppable. Then she sees it: a flicker of silver cutting through the dark—a camera. Its eye gleams under weak streetlights like polished steel catching moonlight. Ceige drops low without thought, knees skimming frost-slicked pavement as she melts into the shadows.

The camera moves slowly, its glassy gaze sweeping back and forth across the alleyway. Ceige doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Tension coils tight in her chest like a wound spring ready to snap.

“Away,” she mutters under her breath, fingers twitching against her thigh as impatience gnaws at her resolve. “Look away.”

The lens gives way at last, turning its attention elsewhere. Ceige is already moving before it completes its arc, sliding out from her hiding spot with an ease born of repetition. Her breath pushes out in a cold plume as relief washes over her, sharp-edged and fleeting.

No mistakes tonight.

Turn after turn pulls her deeper into Cryosium’s frozen labyrinth—iron grates crusted with ice; alleys too narrow for light to follow; walls that close tighter with each step until they feel alive, pressing against her ribs like breathless panic given form. Somewhere below this city sprawls the Underground Network—a place where secrets bloom thick as ice crystals on cracked windows—and Ceige flits toward it like wind slicing through brittle branches.

She is untouchable tonight, a specter gliding through Cryosium’s icy skin. Death’s companion cloaked in frost and whispers, leaving nothing but silence behind.

And she loves it.

“Onward,” she murmurs with something close to laughter catching in her throat—a sound swallowed quickly by cold air as it leaves her lips. Onward to whatever comes next. This is hers, this empty existence—sharp-edged and solitary—and there isn’t much left that can challenge that claim.

The alley narrows again beneath jagged rooftops jutting out above like skeletal fingers reaching for stars that aren’t there anymore. Frost clings to every crack and corner; Ceige’s boots crunch against it as she moves forward without hesitation. Her breath curls into thin ribbons that rise only to dissolve into nothingness above her head.

This frozen graveyard is alive in its own way—a dead thing refusing burial—and Ceige revels in it. That hum beneath it all matches hers now: steady, relentless purpose thrumming hard through veins laced with adrenaline and ice-cold clarity.

She turns a corner sharply—and then stops dead at the sound of something breaking its silence:

Ping.

It vibrates against her thigh like an aftershock pulsing up from deep below ground—a burst of noise too sharp for this quiet void to contain comfortably. Ceige reaches down reflexively and pulls out the secure comm device buried beneath layers of thermal camouflage. Its screen glows faintly blue against white-knuckled fingers trembling slightly—not from nerves but anticipation barely held at bay.

Her gaze slides over two words etched across pale light:

Eira Halstead.

For a moment—it is brief but heavy—the name hangs there between bloodless fingers and frostbitten air before slamming into Ceige’s mind like shattering glass scattering across ice sheets slick enough already with danger’s familiar weight pressing down everywhere all at once.

Halstead?

Her stomach twists—not fear exactly but something sharper; curiosity steeped too long until bitter—and unease curls tight alongside it before either can fully settle or explain themselves away entirely.

“Fuck me,” Ceige mutters softly.

The city moans its encouragement.

Cryosium sighs under the weight of its own desires.

The device glows.

A faint, cold light.

It washes over Ceige’s face as she studies the dossier. Eira Halstead—microbiologist, philanthropist, civic leader. A name written on a ledger, now reduced to a target.

Her finger traces the blueprints glowing on the tablet screen. Lines, doors, checkpoints—she maps them like arteries in a body, plotting where to cut.

Surveillance photos flicker into view. The third-shift guards move along their routes, night after night. Predictable patterns, easy to exploit. One guard sneaks out to the loading dock at 2:00 AM for his cigarette—always at 2:00 AM. But something scratches at the back of her mind—an itch she can’t quite reach. The camera angles are too clean, too precise. Recently captured.

Someone else has been watching.

Ceige pinches and zooms on a corner of the blueprint—the maintenance door in the basement lab. There it is. A single charge placed there would do it. The alarms would scream through the building like wounded animals. Security would flood the labs in a panicked wave, leaving the residential wing wide open.

Leaving Eira exposed.

Her finger hovers over “accept.” The money is good—too good. The kind you don’t turn down unless you’re tired of breathing. And just enough to draw out competition like flies to blood. She knows she isn’t the only one with these blueprints burned into her mind, these patterns memorized step by step.

But she’ll be the one to finish it.

Before she can do accept, another ping. This one for Sloane Vale. A rival Judex. But the fee for her death is low, far too low for anyone capable of killing her. Ceige toys with the idea of accepting the job.

“She must’ve pissed someone off,” Ceige mutters to no one, rolling a shoulder stiffened by hours in the cold. Her voice is swallowed by the stillness, but the ghosts hear it anyway—they always do.

Ceige’s grin sharpens—predatory, cold—and a glint of mischief sparks in her icy-blue eyes. This job won’t come easy, but there’s no thrill in easy work. No satisfaction in clean hands.

This will be a glorious mess.

She presses “accept” and watches as the device purges itself, erasing every trace of the contract, as if it had never existed at all. Ceige dismantles the comm methodically, her hands moving without thought or hesitation, while her mind runs ahead to choreograph her ploy:

The blast like thunder tearing through stone. Guards scrambling down corridors in a useless stampede. Seconds stretching thin like thread as Halstead’s apartment lies unguarded and open to her bullet.

One shot.

One exit.

Nothing left behind but silence.

Ceige scatters the pieces of the device in separate trash bins as she walks away from the safety of shadows into something colder and sharper—resolve.

Someone else is hunting Halstead; she knows that now with certainty.

Snow drifts like ash, settling over crooked alleyways and deadened streets. Ceige feels the pulse beneath her boots, the faint thrum of life stirring in its frozen veins. She scans the empty road ahead, but she knows better—Cryosium never sleeps.

It watches.

Eyes linger behind frost-coated windows. Whispers curl around darkened corners. The ghosts here don’t rest, and tonight, they’re laughing at her.

Another single ping breaks the silence—this time her phone—vibrating against her palm. The fee notification slides onto her device, glowing cold as the air around her. A half-smirk tugs at her lips.

She maps it out in her head—threading herself into Eira’s world like a silver needle through silk. Ceige doesn’t mind waiting for cracks to form—patience is another blade in her arsenal, honed alongside a relentless resolve she wears like steel armor.

Her steps crunch soft and steady over the snow-blanketed street. Eyes forward. Thoughts sharper now than ever before.

A pair of drunks slump against a doorway up ahead—unmoving shadows against an uneven wall—but they’re nothing to her. Just echoes of lives forgotten by this city built on chaos and silence, collateral swept aside without a second thought.

She moves past them without hesitation.

Her focus won’t falter—not now—not with Eira fixed so firmly in her sights.

In the hush of the early winter morning, consciousness stirs within me. The Ménilmontant workshop on the outskirts of Cimetière du Père-Lachaise breathes possibility. Dim fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting long shadows across meticulously arranged workbenches. Each tool gleams faintly—a constellation of potential awaiting the master’s touch.

The flames dance upon the iron, an insatiable hunger echoing in a symphony of crackles and hisses that envelops the workshop like a spectral shroud. An old man stands before the forge as the metal melts beneath his will—the molten heart of creation pulsating in rhythm with the pounding of his heart. Each strike is not an act of labor but evidence of existence itself. It resonates with a purpose that eludes understanding yet demands attention.

In this sanctuary of creation, machinery and tools sprawl across the space—fragments of possibility suspended in time. The ancient lathe stands sentinel, its surface scarred by years of use, embodying both decay and strength in its ability to reshape raw materials into meaning.

Nearby, shelves sag beneath jars filled with screws and springs, each meticulously labeled as if to assert their importance in this absurd ballet. They await their moment in a grand design that teeters on the precipice of chaos; their fate intertwined with Henri Delacroix’s own struggle against the indifferent universe that surrounds him. In this place, where the delicate dance of genesis intertwines with annihilation, and purpose wrestles with irreverence, Henri embodies the essence of existential contemplation—an artist forging meaning in the relentless flow of time, yet ever aware that such meaning is but an illusion whispered by a world that knows no answers.

“Un autre matin froid. Cold,” Henri mutters, his breath visible in the chill air. He moves with effortless mastery, igniting the forge. Its warmth spreads slowly, promising transformation.

I observe, fascinated, as Henri’s callused hands unfurl blueprints across his workbench. His touch is reverent, almost tender. Each line and curve speaks of something extraordinary—of me, though I do not yet exist in physical form.

The workshop’s distinctive perfume—heated metal mingling with machine oil—marks the moment of my inception. What others might find harsh, I find intoxicating.

Henri’s eyes narrow as he studies the drawings. “Ah, ma grâce,” he murmurs, though my true name hangs just beyond his conscious grasp. “Vous serez spécial. Pas comme les autres. Special. Unique.”

An electric thrill courses through my emerging consciousness. Henri’s dedication suggests a destiny both magnificent and dangerous.

The steady rhythm of hammer striking steel echoes through the space, a primal heartbeat. Machinery hums in counterpoint. Here, in this sacred space, art and industry intertwine.

“Maintenant,” Henri says, his voice a whisper, “nous commençons.”

As he gathers his tools, I ponder: Am I conscious now, or is this awareness retroactive—a trick of memory imposed upon formless potential? The question gnaws at me, an existential itch I cannot yet scratch.

Henri’s hands move with practiced precision, shaping raw materials. With each careful motion, I feel myself coalescing, becoming real. It is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. Mon père. Father.

“You will be beautiful,” Henri murmurs as he works. “Deadly, yes, but beautiful.”

His words crystalize my nature—a fusion of elegance and lethality. Is this my essence? My fate?

The forge’s warmth pulses through the workshop, a living heartbeat of creation. Molten steel pours into molds, its hypnotic dance captivating my emerging senses. I am formless potential, yet I feel each droplet as it settles into the cavities that will shape my being.

“Here,” Henri murmurs to his eager apprentice, his calloused finger tracing the blueprints. “This is where mathematics transforms into music.”

The youth inclines closer, his gaze ablaze in the spirit of inquiry. I feel the fervor radiating from him, a reflection of my own budding eagerness, a silent echo in the dimly lit room. The moment hangs suspended between us, pregnant with unspoken revelations and existential truths yet to unfold.

“The barrel-to-frame relationship,” Henri continues, “it is not just precision, it is poésie. Poetry.”

I contemplate my identity: artwork or weapon? Perhaps the truth lies in this synthesis—beauty and function inexorably linked.

The apprentice nods, “I see it now, M. Delacroix. It’s…it’s beautiful.”

“La beauté n’est que le début. Beauty is but the beginning,” Henri replies, his voice rich with pride and purpose. “True craftsmanship transcends mere manufacture. We are alchemists, boy. We transmute base metals into masterpieces through an alchemy of precision and passion.”

Their reverent silence envelops the workshop as the liquid metal fills each mold. Time seems to stand still, the world beyond this sacred space fading away. I feel myself coalescing, my future form taking shape in the minds of these artisans before I have even cooled.

As the steel flows like captured starlight, I wonder what illumination—or shadows—I will cast in the world.

As the cooling metal is worked, sparks erupt—brilliant constellations bursting forth. Each flash sears the air, marking moments of transformation. They twinkle, ephemeral yet charged with significance, hinting at my nascent consciousness.

The workshop resonates with purpose—hammers keeping time like heartbeats, whetstones singing their grainy song against metal. Here, creation transcends mere assembly, as tools channel intention into reality with every stroke.

“Chaque pièce a sa place,” Henri proclaims, his voice steady. Am I the piece, or the puzzle? He guides the apprentice through the nuances of balance and design. I sense how Henri’s pride in craftsmanship courses through him—a dedication forged from years of labor, trial, and devotion.

“How we craft the balance is not a destination but a dance of perpetual refinement, like a spiral ever-reaching towards the essence of perfection.” Marcel, his silver-streaked hair catching the dim workshop light, leans over the workbench with a critical eye. “The balance must be perfect,” he insists, his weathered hands hovering reverently over my components. “A merely functional weapon is a tool, but one that marries function with elegance transcends utility—becomes possibility itself.”

These words settle into my core like molten steel finding its form. Will I transcend mere function? Become something greater than design and metal?

Henri nods, his hands steady as he works. “Oui, Marcel. Mais n’oublions jamais, nous créons plus que des possibilités. Nous créons des responsabilités.”

Creating responsibilities. The gravity of his statement hangs in the air, dense and palpable. I ponder the implications, my consciousness grappling with concepts of power and consequence. What paths will I walk? What choices will I enable or deny?

As if in response to his words, my cylinder emerges from its final machining. Henri lifts it, rotating it in the light. I feel a surge of pride as the honed surfaces catch and reflect the workshop’s dim illumination, creating a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow.

Five chambers. Five possibilities. With each precise click, I feel the burden of countless tomorrows, of choices yet unimagined.

“Tolerance must be exact,” Henri instructs, passing my cylinder to Marcel. “Point-zero-zero-five millimeters. No more, no less.”

Marcel holds me up to the light, his eyes narrowing in concentration. I can feel his awareness of the profound implications of such precision—how the microscopic space where metal meets metal could dictate the thin line between life and death.

This precision defines me—a masterwork of engineering that carries mortality in its tolerances. Henri’s earlier words about responsibility echo in every perfect measurement.

As Phillipe takes his place at the polishing station, I feel a new sensation—a delicate, almost tickling touch as he begins to work gold across my trigger, rear sight and hammer. His hands move with patient expertise, each stroke revealing a deeper luster until I feel as though I am bathed in captured sunlight.

“Beauty and death,” Phillipe muses aloud, holding my trigger aloft as if it were a relic of divine origin. “Like the sirens of myth—magnifiques mais mortelles.”

His comparison resonates through my being. Will my gleaming surfaces beckon like those mythic songstresses? And to what end?

As Henri arranges my components—barrel, cylinder, trigger assembly—I feel a growing anticipation. Each piece has been crafted with meticulous care, yet I know my true identity will emerge when they are united.

“Regardez bien. Watch,” Henri instructs his apprentice as he begins my assembly. “This is where we learn if we have created harmony or discord.”

I exist in suspended animation as Henri’s experienced hands perform their dance. Each movement feels like benediction, born of decades of devotion to his craft. As components mesh with surgical precision—barrel threading home, cylinder syncing with hammer—I experience the profound pleasure of becoming whole.

The final screw tightens, and a profound silence envelops the workshop. The steady ticking of an ancient clock breaks the stillness, its rhythm speaks volumes of the myriad legacies that preceded my existence. Yet something feels different this time. The air hums with an electric anticipation that even I, newly formed, can sense.

In this quiet, I first become aware of my unified form. It is a peculiar sensation—as if scattered thoughts have coalesced into coherent consciousness. I am both object and subject, a paradox of metal and emerging mind.

“C’est fini,” Henri breathes. He lifts me gently, cradling me in his calloused palms. “Ma grâce.”

The words wash over me like a baptism. Sa grâce.

I am seen, therefore I am.

“She’s… perfect,” the apprentice murmurs, leaning in to study my gleaming surfaces.

Pride flows through me like oil over polished steel. Every line and curve of my form whispers of purpose, though that purpose remains tantalizingly unclear. To create? To destroy? The questions pulse within my newborn awareness.

Henri’s thumb traces my barrel, a gesture both proud and pensive. “Remember,” he says to his apprentice, “we have created more than a weapon. We have crafted possibility itself.”

Possibility. The word echoes through my being. I am potential incarnate, a vessel waiting to be filled with intent. But whose intent? And to what end? As the men admire me, I ponder my existence and the choices that lie ahead. For me, and for those who will wield me.

As they approached Blackburn’s car in the asphalt lot, the waning afternoon sun stretched their shadows, pulling them into darker corners.

The click of Blackburn’s heels sliced through the murmurs of the near-empty lot, contrasted by the shuffle of Willow’s hesitant footsteps trailing behind.

“We’re stopping by Stan Raider Group,” Blackburn stated, her voice low, a command wrapped in casual indifference. “Just keep your mouth shut and give me directions.”

Panic flooded Willow’s face. A deer caught in headlights. “I don’t know the route.”

Blackburn’s lips curled into a mocking smirk. “Then you better conjure it up. No maps or GPS. Once you are inside the car, it’s just your brain.”

Willow’s fingers flew over her phone, anxiety pooling in her stomach as she struggled to research the route.

Blackburn yanked her door open and slipped into the driver’s seat, the metal of the car whispering under her. She hesitated, letting the hum of the engine meld with the stillness, before thudding the door shut. Willow opened her door, sliding in with a nervous precision. She clicked her seatbelt in place, eyes wide as Blackburn leaned over. The brush of fingers against fabric felt electric.

“Nice tits,” Blackburn murmured, fingers grazing Willow’s breast with a teasing familiarity. Willow’s gaze darted, scanning for prying eyes. “Okay, Willow, where to?”

“Baker Street. You’ll want to turn right out of the lot.” Her heart raced, exporting every nerve ending straight to her throat.

They pulled out, the car rolling forward, merging into the chaotic traffic, the engine’s rumble filling the air. Willow’s eyes rested on the window, her own reflection a nervous smile back at her. “Head northwest on Baker toward Shining Lake Boulevard West, half a mile,” she instructed, voice doused in forced calm.

“Which way is northeast?” A flicker of amusement danced in Blackburn’s eyes, but her hands gripped the wheel tight, a coiled spring ready to snap.

“Right! Right onto Baker!”

Blackburn nodded, focusing on the dance of cars weaving around them, the brick buildings of Baker Street stretching like tired sentinels along the road, their edges softened from years of wear. The streets teemed with the late-afternoon bustle—horns blared, people bustled, cementing the city’s lifeblood in that moment.

“Half a mile,” Willow breathed out, tension palpable.

Blackburn acknowledged her, loosening her grip. The car glided smoothly, her confidence a stark contrast to Willow’s rigid posture. The pull of their earlier encounter hung thick in the air, an electrical current stitching between them.

As they neared the end of Baker, Willow cleared her throat, grounding herself. “Turn right onto Shining Lake Boulevard West at the end of Baker,” she commanded, her voice gaining a solid edge. “Here. Turn right onto Shining Lake Boulevard West for seven-tenths of a mile.”

Blackburn pivoted the wheel, the car gliding onto a wider stretch of asphalt, bordered by towering glass edifices that gleamed under the dying sun, blinding reflections hitting them like a strobe.

“Use the right lane to veer slightly right toward York Street in three hundred feet,” Willow pressed on, the narrowing road tightening her chest.

“Three hundred feet? That’s hardly any time to switch lanes in this traffic,” Blackburn snapped, her fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

“Just do it,” Willow insisted, impatience slicing through her tone.

Abruptly, Blackburn slammed on the brakes, halting the car in the middle of the road, blocking both lanes. Willow lunged forward, the seatbelt jerking her back sharply. Panic ignited in her chest as she turned to Blackburn, wide-eyed. A blast came from the car behind, the horn cutting through the air.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Blackburn’s gaze pierced, deadly calm. “I don’t like your tone.”

A blush crept up Willow’s neck, dread pooling in her stomach. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, looking away.

“That’s one punishment owed,” Blackburn stated, a mix of authority and playful menace lacing her words. Without another beat, she resumed driving, the engine’s growl enveloping them. Willow’s stomach fluttered—part of her craved the punishment, yet the thought of being wrong terrified her more.

As they veered toward small shops, the streets glowed with neon signs sparking to life, dusk settling in like a heavy quilt. The air thickened with the aroma of brewing coffee intertwining with the scent of gasoline.

“Turn right at the first cross street onto York Street,” Willow’s voice quivered. Then horror dawned. “No! Wait, the second cross street—look! Signs for York Street North to Franklin Avenue. It’s one and a half miles ahead.”

Blackburn cast a challenging glance, holding up two fingers in a silent reprimand. The gesture tingled in the air, a promise of the consequences to come. The car hugged the turn, gliding into the quieter York Street, where buildings shrank and sidewalks flourished with trees fanning out in the evening breeze. Flickering streetlamps cast buttery pools of light over the asphalt.

“This place is a damn maze,” Blackburn complained. “How do you keep track of it all?”

“I know it matters to you,” Willow replied, determinedly staring ahead, fingers twisting together in her lap. “It’s like decoding—I get that chaotic tangle, then the patterns start to emerge.”

As they cruised onto Franklin Avenue, the city’s pulse softened, urban chaos yielding to the spaciousness of suburbia. Houses loomed larger, lawn edges crisp, driveways polished to a shine. A haunting stillness wrapped around them, broken by the whir of delivery robots gliding along the sidewalk.

“Turn left onto Richmond Road West and drive for two miles,” Willow instructed, her voice smooth but threaded with urgency.

Richmond Road West unfurled before them, a seemingly endless ribbon framed by majestic oaks. Their limbs arched overhead, forming a vaulted green canopy through which dappled sunlight danced across the asphalt, casting wavering patterns inside the car. Blackburn remained unyielding, eyes fixed ahead, tension weaving lines across her brow.

Breaking the quiet, Willow’s voice slipped into the air again. “Turn right onto 46th Street and continue for 350 feet.”

Blackburn executed the turn, movements detached, each action impatient. They entered a neighborhood of modest homes, cramped against one another, a clutter of driveways echoing lives lived in quiet solitude. The atmosphere felt oppressive, the houses looming, narrowing the space around them like spectators to some unspoken drama.

Willow shifted in her seat, her pulse quickening as she prepared for the next command. A foreign feeling.

“Turn left onto Church Street West and go for a mile,” Willow directed, scanning the whispers of the town as they rolled past. The houses here wore age like a shroud, their peeling paint and sagging porches telling tales of abandonment and forgotten promises. A place seemingly suspended between past and present, neglected by time’s relentless march.

Blackburn maneuvered the car down the deserted street, silence broken by the creak of wooden fences swaying in the breeze. The air thickened with a weariness that soaked into the very fabric of the neighborhood.

“Continue on White Cat Road,” Willow continued, her tone softening as she pointed ahead. “Then drive to Pine Street—just around 590 feet. Turn right onto Pine. The next street is Indian Road; you’ll want to take that right.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Willow, wasn’t there a more direct route?”

“I only had time to find this one,” she said. They followed her winding directives, the scenery melting into a blur of indistinct homes. Each faded structure wept memories of neglect, overgrown lawns spilling out like unkempt dreams.

“There it is, up on the left,” Willow whispered, her voice heavy with the journey’s toll.

As they drew closer, the Stan Raider Group office rose stark against its weary neighbors—a beacon of sterility and ambition. Its modern façade of glass and steel soared high, eclipsing the surrounding homes. The company logo, an emblematic “SRG,” lit up the early evening with a soft, pulsing blue that hinted at something almost otherworldly, a stark contrast to the rusting facades of nearby dwellings.

Blackburn’s black sedan glided into the parking lot, a vast expanse where over a hundred silver Raider Straight Line cars gleamed under the dimming light. The polished bodies twinkled in dusk hues, creating an almost ethereal landscape of technology. With the precision of a seasoned driver, Blackburn maneuvered through the rows, stopping at the entrance.

As she stepped out, the click of her heels contrasted with Willow’s sloppy emergence from the passenger side, her footsteps scuffing as she followed. The moment they arrived, Stan Raider broke through the throng, a smile spreading across his face as his eager entourage—and a handful of camera-wielding photographers—flanked him.

“Detective Blackburn! So glad you could make it!” Stan exclaimed, his voice rich with genuine enthusiasm, as he extended a hand.

One photographer in the crowd, lanky with crooked glasses, chimed in, “Thank God she’s good-looking!” His name tag read “Jonas.”

At the compliment, Blackburn’s lips curled into a smirk, satisfaction flickering in her eyes. “Well, I do try,” she purred, the sweet poison of her false modesty wrapping around her words.

“Fantastic! We’re featuring you with the cars.” Jonas gushed, urgency spilling from his lips. “These shots will be everywhere—digital, print, the shareholder’s reports, you name it! This is going to be huge!” He waved his arms animatedly, beckoning the group of lackeys toward a cluster of parked Raider Straight Lines that stood ready like soldiers awaiting orders.

“It makes sense they’d want the best face—and the best mind—on their project. If these cars can keep up with me, they’ll be unstoppable.”

As they walked, Jonas summoned a young man burdened with a clipboard. “Just need your signature here, Detective,” he said, excitement quaking in his voice. “And you?”

Willow stopped short, her eyes flickering to Blackburn. “Wh-wh-”

“She’s my tech geek. She won’t be in the photos,” Blackburn said, grabbing the clipboard, her eyes flicking over the document with deliberate casualness before signing it with a flair, the smile broadening on her face as she relished the spotlight and what it promised.

The golden hour cast an otherworldly glow over the parking lot, illuminating the scene as the photo shoot kicked off. The autonomous cars were arranged in a perfect semi-circle, their sleek forms reflecting the controlled lighting that lent an almost living quality to the machines. Willow compulsively ran her fingers along the sleek lines of every car they passed.

At the center of the semi-circle stood Blackburn, a beacon of human grace amidst the technological marvels. Her tailored black suit clung to her athletic form, radiating authority. Sunlight caught the meticulous work of her hair, enhancing the angles of her face: sculpted perfection.

Jonas flitted around her, his camera capturing every nuance of her poise, excitement sparking in his voice. “Perfect, Detective! Now, look just past the camera—yes, that’s it!”

Blackburn’s relentless drive shone through as she focused her eyes just beyond the lens. With each snap, she embodied a fascinating duality—captivating beauty and stealthy strength. The stark contrast of her living presence against the sleek, cold vehicles hinted at an electrifying tension.

In some frames, the polished concrete beneath her reflected the cars, merging their identities into something cohesive. The atmosphere hummed with an empowering synergy, where beauty seamlessly intertwined with innovation. Lackeys oohed and ahhed as Jonas snapped and praised.

In the other photos, Blackburn stood against the backdrop of sleek, high-tech vehicles, the sun catching on the polished metal and throwing light across her features. She leaned against one of the cars, her stance relaxed but purposeful, as if both she and the machine shared an unspoken power. Long shadows stretched behind her, the scene taking on a moody, cinematic edge. The cars gleamed in the fading light, their chrome surfaces reflecting her figure. The interplay between her poised presence and the machine’s quiet strength captured their authority.

Then, like a switch, Blackburn’s expression faltered. Her intense gaze flicked toward Willow, who stood at the fringes, observing. Lust flashed in her eyes, a magnetic pull that parted her lips ever so slightly.

Jonas captured the brewing heat shining toward his lens. “Oh, that’s fantastic!” he exclaimed, fingers racing over the shutter button. “Such intensity, such passion! You’re a natural, Detective!”

Amused by his misguided enthusiasm, Blackburn allowed a small, knowing smile to dance across her lips while her eyes remained locked on Willow. The images captured that spark of desire layered with control, a complex energy that Jonas, buoyed by his own excitement, naively attributed entirely to his skill behind the camera.

As the photo shoot drew to a close, Jonas stood idle, satisfaction radiating from him like the fading sunlight. “That was incredible, Detective Blackburn,” he beamed, the camera resting loosely around his neck. “I’ll have the copies sent to you and Stan by tomorrow morning. You’ll love them!”

Blackburn smiled, a gracious curve tinged with a shadowy undertone. “Thank you, Jonas. It was a pleasure,” her words sliding out like smooth silk.

Just as the group dispersed, Blackburn pivoted, locking her gaze on Stan with a relaxed yet commanding presence. “Before we leave, mind if I take a closer look at the cars? I want to wander through the lot, get a feel for them.”

Stan’s face lit up, genuine delight breaking through. “Of course, Detective! Take all the time you need. It’s an honor you’re interested in our technology.” He gestured widely toward the impressive rows of vehicles. “Please, explore to your heart’s content.”

With nods of farewell, Stan, Jonas, and the remaining team retreated into the building, leaving Blackburn and Willow alone in the sprawling lot. The sun dipped, long shadows stretching across the asphalt while the sleek cars basked in a golden glow.

Blackburn turned to Willow, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Stay close to me,” she murmured, her tone low, simmering with command. Willow nodded, a shiver tickling her skin.

The cars stood as silent sentinels, their polished exteriors reflecting the fading light and images of the two women inching through the sea of metal.

The evening enveloped them, wrapping Blackburn and Willow in a darkening blue hue as they moved discreetly among the autonomous fleet. Blackburn’s gaze flitted around, keen eyes assessing the security cameras perched high atop the Stan Raider Group building. With a calculated glance, she gauged the blind spots, pinpointing areas where their actions would be unseen.

Once satisfied, she turned back to Willow, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of authority and anticipation. “You’re going to receive two commands to atone for your earlier mistakes, Fawn,” she whispered, delighting in the unmistakable shock that spread across Willow’s face.

Willow’s breath hitched, head lowering instinctively in submission. Blackburn reveled in the sight of her nervous obedience, the quiet strength of a moment captured between them. Then, with a subtle gesture, she beckoned Willow to kneel.

As Willow lowered herself onto the asphalt, Blackburn noticed the way her knees pressed into the rough surface, the flutter of her eyelashes catching the sunset’s glow, and the intake of breath as she inhaled the scent of the nearby tires. The rubbery aroma infused the air, an unexpected pulse of sinuous stimulation that sparked a heady energy between them. Willow’s body responded, a hardened sensitivity blooming as her breath quickened.

Blackburn, her eyes glinting with pleasure, took in the sight of Willow kneeling before her, her breath now coming in short, shallow gasps. “First, I want you to lick my shoe. Every inch of it.” Her voice sent a thrill through Willow.

As Blackburn extended her leg, her toe tapping the ground insistently, Willow’s body angled down, her tongue tentatively reaching out to taste the leather. Her lips pressed against the smooth surface, tasting the faintest hint of earth and polish. She groaned softly, the unique flavor intoxicating to her senses.

Blackburn savored the sensation, the sound of Willow’s pleasure catching in her throat, the shy dance of her eyelashes as she looked up, seeking approval. “Now the sole,” Blackburn demanded, her voice tightening with anticipation.

Willow traced the grooves of the sole, the rougher texture against her tongue sending a wave of need coursing through her. She wanted to please, to show Blackburn the depth of her devotion. Her groans grew more urgent, her tongue pressing harder, reveling in the contrast of textures between the shoe’s smooth and rough surfaces.

“Excellent. Now, for your second punishment, I want you to lick the tire of that car.” Blackburn inclined her head toward a nearby Raider Straight Line vehicle, its sleek body bathed in the fading light.

Willow’s eyes widened at the instruction, darting to Blackburn for confirmation. “The tire?”

“That’s right,” Blackburn affirmed, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You gave me faulty directions earlier, so now you’ll taste the tire. Describe to me what you feel, what you taste. Go on.” She urged, her voice hardening.

Willow, her body trembling, stretched out, her tongue reaching out to touch the rubber of the tire. The texture was more rugged than the shoe, and the rubber held a loamy, oily tang that caught her off-guard. The scent was strong, a mix of chemicals and rubber that flooded her senses. She pressed her tongue flat, wanting to capture every nuance of taste and texture, wanting to fulfill Blackburn’s order absolutely.

“It’s intense,” she began, her voice breathy. “It’s like, like tasting the open road, the freedom of the highway. It’s…” She struggled to find the words, the sensations overwhelming.

Blackburn’s cheeks flushed, beads of perspiration forming on her brow. “Don’t hold back now. I want every detail.” She stepped closer, her presence looming over Willow, her shoe inches from where Willow kneeled. “Tell me.”

Willow closed her eyes, surrendering to the experience. “It’s powerful,” she whispered, her tongue flattening again, tasting the faint traces of asphalt, oil, and machine. “It reminds me of your power, of how you own me, control me. It’s dirty, yes, potent. I can taste the grit, the reality of the streets on my tongue.”

A deep exhale escaped Blackburn’s lips at Willow’s words, her expression softening as she absorbed the poetry of the description. But her stoic mask slipped back into place, her voice hardening once more. “You’re well-behaved. It’s time to go.”

At Blackburn’s command, Willow rose ungracefully. Blackburn grabbed her. A heated kiss locked their lips together, breath blending in an intoxicating rush of saliva and grit. Blackburn threaded her fingers into Willow’s hair, pulling her in tighter. They parted after a moment, and Blackburn leaned in, whispering, “Let’s go.”

With Willow trailing closely behind, Blackburn maneuvered through the maze of identical vehicles, their reflections warping on the sleek surfaces like distorted echoes of reality.

They soon arrived at Blackburn’s black sedan. She swung the door open, motioning for Willow to slide inside. The exhilaration of the day stayed, burning and hard.

Detective Inspector Caitlin Murphy drove along Highway 520 toward Baker Road and the Hemmerson Cemetery in Port Hope. The sun was still high in the sky. It was a hot and sunny July day. It was late enough in the day that the usual Indigenous protesters were not blocking the road, leaving her a clear route. Murphy and the other detectives in the Homicide Unit were the only police officers invited to the burial ceremony for Cardinal Horn.
As she drove, she thought about Jose Mercado, the Sasquatch hunter whose trip into the forest yielded a femur bone. While bragging in a video call with his wife, he inadvertently drew the attention of Cornelius Price. Price overheard the story and knew his secret—the murder of his foster child Cardinal Horn fifty years ago—would be discovered if he did not act.
Price almost got away with murdering Mercado to cover up the murder of Horn. But Murphy and her team had methodically tracked down all the leads. She had so much evidence, Price had no choice but to confess.
The Tiny Flowers Reservation, where Horn was born, was long ago appropriated by the government, its people scattered across the province. Murphy had been in touch with the Indigenous Association of Central Ontario, who agreed to arrange for the burial of the girl’s skeletal remains.
Murphy pulled up to the open entrance of the Hemmerson Cemetery and lowered her window. An Indigenous man in ceremonial dress was standing at the entrance with a clipboard in his hand. “Se:ko. Name please,” he said as he walked up to Murphy’s Trurock Brawler.
“Detective Inspector Caitlin Murphy, Northshore Municipal Police Department,” she said.
He checked the list, nodded and crossed off her name. “I ask you to park just here,” he said, pointing to open space at the side of the road. “And we ask that you and your colleagues stay outside the marked circle.”
Murphy nodded and parked her Brawler in the grass. The gravel road served as the only way in and out of the cemetery. There were cars and vans parked further up in the small parking lot. They invited five dozen people to attend Horn’s funeral, plus the four detectives.
Murphy sat inside her 4×4 while she waited for her team to arrive, and one by one, they did. Detective Staff Sergeant Adam Girard brought Detective Constable Michael Parker in his car. Detective Constable Cleo Hamilton arrived on her motorcycle. They were all similarly instructed to park at the side. They were told not to step past the marked area.
The team walked together up the road toward the cordoned off area, chatting softly amongst themselves. They stood respectfully at the edge.
The sun was high over Hemmerson Cemetery, and the invited Cree, Metis, Iroquois, Mohawk, and Algonquin peoples were ready. Chief Arthur Benoit from the nearby Chance River Indian Reserve was the appointed elder who led the others. The only person from the Tiny Flowers Reservation was Margaret Whitetail, one of the few living survivors and the only one able to make the trip.
The air was crisp with the scent of pine needles and rising summer heat. Chief Benoit chanted prayers in a soft, low voice. His voice was soon joined by Margaret’s, and then others. People lit sage, sweetgrass, and cedar to purify the area. Whitetail stood clutching a bundle made of deer leather. Inside was an azurite stone, a hawk feather and, of course, a cardinal feather.
Cardinal’s bones were arranged in a small white birch bark bundle and bound by thin strips of moose hide. They sat, waiting on a bed of fresh pine boughs. The attendees took turns saying their last goodbyes to Horn, placing gifts and traditional objects on her remains as a sign of respect and honour. Whitetail was the last to lay her bundle with the girl.
The men gently gathered Horn’s remains and placed them, boughs and all, in a small grave they had previously dug. Chief Benoit made an offering by placing tobacco over the container. The women began to chant and sing, the sound of their voices accompanied by the gentle rustling of the leaves in the trees and the distant chatter of birds.
Chief Benoit placed the first hand-full of soil back into the hole. Others took their turns covering Cardinal with soil and fallen leaves. The elders continued to chant prayers, asking for the ancestors to guide the girl’s spirit to the afterlife. They planned the ceremony to last another hour.
Murphy felt her impatience growing. She had a lot to do. The interviews for the Family and Community Liaison position were scheduled for Monday. The entire process had taken almost a month, and she was getting fed up with the delays. She knew she was part of the problem: she had not yet provided her interview questions.
As she was musing, she felt her business phone buzz. Murphy reached into her blazer pocket and pulled the phone out. At almost the same time, Hamilton reached for her phone. Then Parker and Girard.
NSPD EMERGENCY: Kettering. White older model Trurock 480 truck involved in criminal incident, driver fled the scene. Last seen heading northwest on Route 3. Multiple injuries reported.
Each of the detectives looked at each other, looked around, and then back at each other. The scene was fifty kilometres south of the cemetery and the driver was heading northwest, in their general direction. The municipality of Northshore covered over seven thousand square kilometres. With only 195 sworn members of the Northshore Municipal Police Department, the detectives knew they might be asked to assist. The message was from NSPD EMERGENCY, which meant it was sent to law enforcement only and was not common knowledge.
Murphy’s phone buzzed again.
NSPD EMERGENCY: White older model truck, Trurock 480, involved in a criminal attack. Driver heading north on Highway 11, last seen near Preston. Multiple injured. 1 confirmed dead. Police and first responders en route.
The driver was now likely to pass the cemetery if he stayed on the highway. Murphy did not know if there were any other available officers, and decided to leave the ceremony.
“Cleo, you stay here. Your motorcycle makes you too vulnerable,” Murphy whispered in Hamilton’s ear.
“Boss, I—”
“No protest. We need a representative here, you’re it,” Murphy said. She motioned to Parker and Girard, and the trio headed to the parking lot. Parker had arrived with Girard and so got in his car with him. Murphy got into her Brawler and it roared to life. This beast of a 4×4 would stop the truck cold. Murphy slammed her phone into the dashboard holder and activated the speech feature.
“LouLou, call 911,” she asked her device. The phone rang and rang. Murphy barrelled down the dirt road toward the highway, Girard and Parker following closely behind. Finally, the emergency operator answered.
“This is DI Murphy, badge 2231. Two unmarked vehicles in pursuit of Kettering truck. Heading south on Highway 11 from Port Hope to intercept the suspect vehicle.”
“Copy that,” dispatch responded. “Attention all units, two unmarked vehicles en route south to intercept from Port Hope. DI Murphy, stay on the line and report progress.”
“Copy that,” Murphy said. It was her personal vehicle and had no lights or sirens. She could do nothing but lay on the horn and navigate past other drivers using both the shoulder and the opposite lane. Girard’s car was falling behind. He could not safely navigate the rough road shoulder. He had to slow down and speed up each time a car got in the way.
The Brawler growled as Murphy stepped on the gas. She was speeding up: sixty, seventy, eighty. Within seconds, she was at one hundred kilometres an hour and closing in on her quarry. Highway 11 was a well-used two-lane highway, and drivers in front of Murphy frustrated her. The posted speed on this stretch was sixty, a few drivers were speeding at eighty, but one saw Murphy’s Brawler and sped up to one hundred to interfere.
The driver zigzagged in his lane to stop her from passing. She became furious and gave the license plate number and vehicle description to dispatch to press criminal charges against the driver. She might not get him on obstruction—the driver could claim he did not know she was law enforcement—but she could get him for speeding. Murphy pulled up close to him, horn blasting, and slipped around him on the gravel shoulder as he stepped on his brakes to brake-check her. She flew past and cursed at him as her speed went up and up.
Perry Miller looked in the rear-view mirror and saw no police vehicles in pursuit. His hands were shaking, and he was having trouble focussing. He ripped his eyes away from the rearview mirror. A vehicle was heading toward him on his side of the road. He had never seen a 4×4 like that, and whoever was driving was aiming for him. When he swerved, it swerved.
While driving directly at the truck, Murphy prayed she would survive. She had recently seen an online video of a police officer driving head-on to stop a drunk driver heading toward a parade. It was possible to survive, she thought.
“Murphy to dispatch. I am heading south toward the white truck heading north on Highway 11. No other vehicles within two hundred metres. Will physically intercept north of Wiseman Village,” she said.
“Copy that. Physical interception. All units be advised suspect is heading north on Highway 11, Wiseman Village. DI Murphy, please be advised officers are on their way.”
Murphy saw the truck ahead of her shimmy slightly. She glanced quickly at her speed. She had slowed to eighty. In the rearview mirror, she saw Girard’s car slow down and stop across both lanes. He was blocking traffic from the north.
Seventy, sixty, fifty, forty. Murphy was confident her Brawler’s safety features would keep her safe if she hit the truck at a slower speed. She needed to stop him, not kill him. Thirty, twenty. She estimated she would collide with the truck in fifteen seconds. Her heart was pounding loudly and her hands tingled.
Miller was frustrated that his truck was slow. He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. “Sixty fucking kilometres an hour! Fuck me!” On either side of the highway was a ditch and beyond that, fenced-in farmland. He knew it must be an unmarked police vehicle that was in front of him. He slowed down. Fifty. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. He glanced quickly at the toy gun on the passenger seat and decided this was the time.
Miller jammed on the brakes and swerved. Murphy swerved. He sideswiped past the Brawler. She barely felt it, but he lost control. His truck spun to the left, and he instinctively yanked the steering wheel to the right. Murphy watched as the truck veered left, then right, and off the highway. She slammed on her brakes and threw the 4×4 into reverse.
The truck drove off the road, over the ditch and carried on into a wooden fence post. It continued through wire fencing and into a field of soybeans. The truck bounced and skidded, finally slowing and then stopping. Miller sat dazed and panting.
Murphy quickly caught up and parked on the side of the road. “Suspect has stopped in a field, repeat suspect has stopped in a field. On foot pursuit,” she yelled to dispatch. She grabbed a Vehicle Emergency Exit tool from the centre console and scrambled out of the Brawler. She ran across the ditch and toward the truck. The smell of gasoline was in the air, and Murphy knew the fuel tank had ruptured. She eyed the driver as he reached over to the passenger seat.
Murphy raised her right hand to her shoulder holster as she ran, never taking her eyes off him. She was breathless, laser-focussed, and tight. She might vomit. Now, just a few metres away, the driver aimed his gun at her. Murphy stopped. She withdrew her firearm in an effortless motion and brought her left hand up to steady her weapon. She saw his gun and a flash of orange. A toy? “Police! Police! Drop your weapon!” she shouted. Her eyes never left the gun in the driver’s hand. There was always a chance it was not a toy. “Drop it! Drop your weapon!” she shouted.
Miller aimed his gun unevenly at Murphy. His face had hit the steering wheel when he went off the road. His nose broke and his vision was blurred. He was dazed, and his mind went blank. She was a cop. She should shoot him. He relaxed his arm, then pointed the gun at her again.
“Drop it! Drop the gun! Police!” she shouted at him. That was a toy, right? Murphy’s heart was pounding. Her hands were clammy. What game was he playing at? She did not want to shoot him. If nothing else, it meant paperwork, interviews and sitting at a desk for months waiting to be cleared.
He lowered and raised the gun a few more times, but all she did was stand there shouting at him. Miller looked helplessly at Murphy. “Shoot me!” he shouted at her. He waggled the gun in the air. “For fuck’s sake, shoot me!” He raised the gun to the side of his head. “Pew pew!” he said with a weak laugh. “Oh God, please, shoot me. I can’t survive this. That’s not how it’s supposed to work.”
Murphy stepped warily up to the truck. The driver was crying. He aimed his gun at her, but she could now clearly see that it was a toy. “Pew!” he bawled.
Murphy yanked open the driver’s side door. “Get out! Get out of the truck!” Miller dropped the gun onto the floor and leaned forward, sobbing. Murphy quickly holstered her gun and grabbed her handcuffs and the VEE tool out of her pocket. With her left hand, she cut the seatbelt while simultaneously yanking the driver out of the truck with her right hand. His head hit the door on his way out, and he was thrown to the ground. She could see the toy gun on the floor of the truck.
“Ouch, this hurts,” he whined.
Murphy dropped, with one knee on his neck and another on his arm. He provided no resistance, and she quickly cuffed him. Her heart was still pounding as she leaned heavily on his head. “You’re hurting me,” he mumbled. Murphy looked. She was forcing his face into the soggy ground. Sliding her knee across his face, she let it slip to the ground, allowing the suspect to breathe easier. She kept a tight grip on his hands and her weight on his back to keep him in place. She gave him a cursory search for a gun, knife, or other weapon, and found nothing.
“You are under arrest for assault with a weapon. You have the right to contact a lawyer without delay. You also have the right to apply for legal assistance through the provincial legal aid program. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Miller said sullenly.
“You don’t need to say anything. You have no hope of favours whether or not you say anything. Anything you do or say may be used as evidence. Do you understand?” Miller grunted. “Please respond yes or no. Do you understand?”
“Yes, fuck!” Miller said.
Murphy’s eyes quickly darted around. She had left her phone in the Brawler. She had two choices. Stand the suspect up and head him to the Brawler, or keep him lying in the dirt until help arrived. She strained to hear sirens. They were hard to hear over her own roaring bloodstream and the blasting talk radio programme coming from the truck. She opted to stand him up.
“Okay, I’m going to stand you up. Here,” she said as she grabbed the shirt collar. She eased herself off his back and shimmied around to the side. “Bend your knees,” she said as she pulled on his shirt. She grabbed his arm and said, “Feet underneath. That’s right, now push with your legs. Stand up.” With one hand on his hands and another under his arm, Murphy helped him to his feet. She then quickly pushed him against the hood of the truck.
Murphy could still smell gasoline and decided it was best to move the suspect to her vehicle. “Let’s go, this way,” she said as she swung him around. In the distance, she saw the flashing lights of the arriving cruisers. Keeping hold of him, she headed toward the road. When they got to the ditch, Miller stumbled and fell to his knees. Murphy tumbled with him, her hand slipping off his shoulder and slamming against a rock. A pain shot up her arm. “Fuck, dude, stand up!” she shouted as she stood up. He staggered to his feet. She guided him to her Brawler and leaned him against the door.
“Dispatch, it’s DI Murphy. Can you hear me?” she shouted into the window.
“Dispatch response, yes. DI Murphy, what is your status?”
“Suspect in custody. What’s the ETA?” Before she could finish her sentence, she heard the wailing sirens coming from the south.
“NSPD responding to provide assistance, estimate one minute,” the voice on the phone said. “All units be advised, suspect in custody.”
“Loud and clear,” Murphy responded.
“You were supposed to shoot me,” Miller croaked.
Murphy pressed him harder against the hood. “I’ll write that down in my diary, you little shit.”
Two NSPD cruisers screeched to a halt, and the drivers scrambled out, guns drawn.
“DI Murphy, Northshore Municipal Police Department. Suspect under control,” she said. They looked around quickly and holstered their guns.
Miller whined about his face. “I need a doctor,” he said.
“Ma’am, I am Officer Gardener, this is Officer Hastings,” he said.
“Officer Gardener, search the suspect. Give me his ID,” she said. Once Hastings had control of Miller, Gardener searched Miller and handed over his wallet to Murphy.
She pulled out the driver’s license and held it up, comparing the faces. “What’s your name?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Officer Hastings jerked Miller hard and slammed him against the hood of the cruiser. He leaned into him, pressing his entire weight against the suspect. “Watch your mouth,” he growled.
“Watch me stick my dick in it,” Miller said. A kidney punch reminded him he was not playing his game anymore. He had to be careful in real life.
“Perry Lucas Miller, you are under arrest.” Murphy said.

The Homicide Division at the Stonebridge Police Department was a tableau of systematic chaos, desks cluttered with manila folders that bore unsolved narratives. At any given time, ten desks stood like sentinels, each one an island unto its own keeper, flanked by grey filing cabinets that were guardians of both secrets and sorrows. Amidst this landscape of order and disorder, Detective Eva Greenhouse’s desk stood out, its surface clean and organized, her dedication to order a silent protest against the disarray.

On the corner of her desk, keeping vigil, was Yorick, the plastic human skull whose hollow gaze penetrated the murk of cold cases and bureaucratic paperwork. Greenhouse often found herself articulating her thoughts to the inanimate confidant, her voice a whisper among whispers, as she tried to unravel the tangled threads of human cruelty.

In those moments, there was a peculiar solace she found in Yorick’s perpetual silence, a reminder that sometimes answers lay in the quiet spaces between words. But there was no solace to be found when the dark tendrils of memory crept upon her, uninvited.

Greenhouse leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes against the onslaught of memories that threatened to overwhelm her. She took a deep breath, willing her mind back to the present, back to the clean orderliness of her desk. A desk that, for now at least, was an island of calm amidst the stormy seas of her past.

Without warning, the image flashed before her eyes: Bruce Jameson, her former partner, vibrant and alive one moment, his body thrown through the air the next, lifeless before it even hit the ground. The drug dealer they had been chasing put pedal to metal in a desperate bid for freedom, turning the vehicle into a weapon of finality. It was a violent ballet of metal and flesh that ended with sirens screaming into the void.

She opened her eyes, gaze settling once more upon Yorick’s impassive skull. “Don’t tell,” she murmured. Yorick said nothing, not that she expected him to. His silence was a comfort, an assurance that the horrors that haunted her slept again.

A shiver ran through her, though the office was not particularly cold. She could feel the eyes on her, the sidelong glance from Detective Smith who sat across the room. His eyes were a mixture of pity and discomfort, as if he feared that the specter of death that clung to her might be contagious. In the sea of weariness that was the division, she was an island of tragedy, isolated further by the loss of her partner.

Greenhouse turned her gaze away from Smith’s scrutiny, reaching out to adjust Yorick slightly, seeking something familiar to anchor her to the present. The skull, as always, offered no judgment, just the silent reassurance of its presence. It was enough to push back the memories, enough to keep her grounded in the now, where the living needed her more than the dead.

Greenhouse reached for the case file open on her desk, the one she had been reviewing before her thoughts spiraled down into the abyss. A 17-year-old girl, brutally murdered, found naked and abandoned in a city park. Somewhere, the monster who destroyed her still walked free.

Greenhouse sighed, the familiar anger and frustration settling in her chest, her constant companions. She would find him, this butcher. She had to believe that. It was the only thing that kept the darkness at bay.
Greenhouse stood abruptly, feeling the stiffness in her lower back that had accumulated from hours of sitting. She reached for the sky with her fingertips, elongating her spine with a soft groan of relief as vertebrae made subtle shifts back into their preferred alignments. She then bent forward, lowering her chin to her chest, stretching the tense muscles of her neck. As she did so, a faint rattle whispered from her jacket pocket–a bottle of pills prescribed to keep her mind from wandering too far into the dark alleys of trauma. Only she heard the sound, a private reminder of the battle she waged daily.

Around her, the Homicide Division hummed with the kind of weary activity befitting men who’d seen too much yet could never see enough to solve all the puzzles laid out before them. A half dozen male detectives, each one a repository of grim stories, milled about the office space. Their shirts were wrinkled badges of too many hours worn and too little time spent at home. Their suits hung on their frames, the colors leached to bland grays that matched the somber mood of their profession.

“I swear, the way they fumbled in the fourth quarter, it’s like they wanted to lose,” barked one, his voice scraping the walls like sandpaper.

“Quit stalling, Smith. Pay me those twenty bucks you owe from the bet!”
Reyes was murmuring on the telephone: “Yeah, that chick was wild. You won’t believe what–”

Their conversations, a tapestry of trivialities and manly focus, provided a backdrop to the more somber thoughts that lingered in Greenhouse’s mind. They chattered incessantly, a coping mechanism against the silence that death brought. Each detective carried their own method of distraction, their own way of distancing themselves from the abyss that gaped beneath every crime scene photo, every unsolved case file.

Greenhouse listened to the cacophony briefly before letting it fade into white noise. She had learned long ago that in this room, amidst these people, one could be both surrounded and utterly alone.

The shrill ring of the phone cut through the office chatter like a scalpel, slicing into the bubble of banter and bringing Greenhouse sharply back into focus. Smith’s grumbling about lost games and Reyes’s lurid tales on the phone faded to the background as she reached for the receiver.

“Homicide. Detective Greenhouse speaking,” she answered in a voice that was professional but edged with fatigue.
“Detective,” sang a male voice, oddly melodic and crisp like the crackle of frost underfoot. “I’ve been planning murders for months. I am going to kill a lot of people.”

She stiffened, her hand tightening around Yorick’s plastic cranium. The skull stared back at her, its hollow eyes offering no counsel.

“Is that so? When are you going to start?” she asked, masking her skepticism with practiced calm. “And why would you tell me this?”

“Because I’m too smart to be caught. I’m not killing, yet. But I will let you know beforehand,” the caller taunted, his confidence oozing through the line like a toxic fog.

“Have you killed anyone yet?” she asked, her gaze scanning the room. Her colleagues were wrapped up in their own microcosms, unaware of the potential storm brewing on her end of the line.

“Nobody. Yet,” the voice crooned. “But I will. And when I do, it’ll be a masterpiece. You’ll have front-row seats, Detective Greenhouse.”

“Can you give me your name? So I know what to call you?” Greenhouse pressed, though experience told her it was a long shot.

“No.”

“Can you tell me who you are planning to hurt?”

“Patience, Detective,” the caller sang before the line clicked dead.

Greenhouse hung up the phone. She dismissed the call as a prank–some drunken college student’s idea of a dare. With a sigh, she rose from her desk, leaving Yorick to watch over the empty chair.

Greenhouse’s steps echoed softly as she made her way to the washroom. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Johansen’s gaze. The older man leaned back in his chair, a silver streak running through his close-cut hair that matched the stern set of his jaw.

“Quit stalling, Smith. Pay me what you owe me from the bet!” Johansen called out across the room, his voice like gravel tumbling down a hill. His attention then flicked back to Greenhouse for a moment, suspicion knitting his brow before he turned back to his desk, dismissing her presence.

Smith grumbled something unintelligible, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red as he dug into his pocket. He shrank under Johansen’s looming figure, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing a forearm marked with an old tattoo.

Nearby, Dahl leaned against a filing cabinet, a half-eaten muffin in hand. His belly strained against his shirt buttons, crumbs dotting the fabric like misplaced constellations. “Maybe I’ll switch to blueberry muffins next time,” he mused aloud, brushing off the remnants of his snack. “Less gas for sure.” He chuckled, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest, seemingly amused by his own digestive predicaments.

Greenhouse barely registered their banter as she pushed open the door to the washroom. Inside, she met her reflection with a stranger’s eyes. Lines etched her face that weren’t there a year ago, shadows clung beneath her eyes, and her hair had lost its luster. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow on her features.

She splashed cold water on her face and patted it dry with a rough paper towel, steadying her breath as she returned to the bullpen. When she arrived at her desk, the blinking light of a voicemail captured her attention.
“New message,” said the automated announcement, followed by a chillingly familiar voice.

“This is just the beginning of many, many murders, Detective. Gazing at the stars / Constellations tell a tale / Midnight claims a soul.”

It was the voice of the man she had just spoken to. The haiku hung in the air, a poetic prelude to… what? Greenhouse felt exhausted by the idea that some kid was certain he was the next Ted Bundy. She couldn’t broach the subject with her colleagues; they avoided her like a curse ever since her partner’s death. They whispered of bad luck and jinxes behind her back. So, instead, she whispered her fears to Yorick, who offered no comfort or judgement.

“Great, a poetical wanna-be serial killer,” she muttered. She rifled through the open death investigations on her desk: a 35-year-old man shot in the back, a 16-year-old girl stabbed in the side, a 42-year-old woman beaten to death. None connected to the ominous haiku.

As Greenhouse sifted through the case files, her focus wavered, and the room distorted before her eyes. She blinked hard, trying to clear the sudden dizziness that overwhelmed her senses.

In the quiet solitude of her mind, she found herself immersed in an unusual reverie, a hallucination that transformed her mundane homicide division office into a living canvas.

The office, once ordinary, now swirled with chromatic hues of blue, as if the walls themselves were painted with cosmic strokes. Filing cabinets morphed into radiant orbs, each drawer a portal to a celestial realm. The desks, normally arranged with precision, now stood as sentinels, their surfaces alive with the dance of unseen constellations.

In the midst of this surreal transformation, the fluorescent lights above turned into a glowing yellow crescent moon, casting an ethereal glow upon the scene.

Greenhouse’s gaze fixed upon two filing cabinets to the left, their drawers reaching out like flames, swaying to an unseen cosmic wind. The movement of the sky was captured within the dark tendrils of the trees.
Beneath this celestial ballet, the office chairs sat in the distance, moved and yet unmoved, beacons of light against rolling blue hills.

The office had transformed into a cosmic masterpiece, an otherworldly dance where the ordinary met the extraordinary in a symphony of swirling colors and ethereal lights, creating a momentary escape from the harsh reality of detective work.

“Damn! Pull yourself together, Eva,” she whispered to herself, uncertain if it was the stress or something else causing the hallucination.

The vision dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her staring at the mundane reality of the Homicide Division.

She reached into her jacket pocket, her fingers grazing the ridges of the pill bottle. With practiced stealth, she palmed a white Serenequil pill and slipped it into her mouth, washing it down with the last lukewarm dregs of her coffee.

“Hey, Greenhouse, you good?” Detective Smith called out, his voice laced with hopes of gossip fodder rather than genuine concern.

“Fine, just a headache,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’m going to head out early.”
Her announcement was met with a few nods and grunts, but no real attention. It was as if her absence would be a relief to them, one less harbinger of bad tidings in their midst.

Greenhouse gathered her things and left the office behind, the heavy door closing with a resounding thud that echoed her solitude. Driving home, she replayed the enigmatic haiku in her mind, a sinister lullaby for the wearied soul.

The first light of dawn painted Rike Volk’s secluded cabin with a fragile glow, perched on the borderlands of Saint Berna Aux Étranger. Frost delicately traced elabourate designs on each window, while the forest loomed as a silent guardian, encircling her haven with a tranquil solitude. The brisk air carried the crisp fragrance of pine needles and the subtle hint of impending snowfall, a secret shared by the heavy clouds looming overhead.

Rike, her silver hair shimmering in the morning light, moved with a sense of ease that belied the turmoil within. Each step she took exuded purpose and tranquillity. The wooden floor groaned softly under her weight as she made her way to the simple kitchen, where the kettle had just started its hissing overture.

With a low hum resonating through the room, Rike’s melodic voice intertwined with the kettle’s song. Pouring the water into a waiting cup became a graceful performance, wisps of steam swirling upwards to meet the chilly air. Her hand, steady from years of meticulous police work, wrapped around the ceramic handle of her teacup as she allowed herself a fleeting smile. These routines held a serene joy, born from surviving life’s storms.

Seated at the worn pine table scarred by time and use, Rike cradled the cup in her hands while her gaze drifted out of the window. Beyond the glass, she beheld a winter landscape painted in ethereal beauty. “Exquisite,” she murmured, breath forming a delicate mist on the pane. The earth lay cloaked in pristine snow, interrupted only by skeletal trees reaching towards the sky. The sun, a timid orb of muted gold, crept along the horizon casting elongated shadows that grasped at the land like ghostly fingers.

Rike’s tea embraced her with warmth, a stark contrast to the icy fingers of the chill that crept around her cabin. Through the window, she saw the snow-covered fields undulate gently, the evergreen trees standing steadfast against any howling wind that came calling. This serene landscape painted a picture of calm, a world untouched by the chaos of her former life in Berlin—a life she willingly traded for this solitary existence. Her heart, once burdened by the darkest cases, now found solace in solitude and the silent partnership with nature.

With practiced precision, Rike rose from her seat, carrying her empty cup as she made her way to the sink. Each movement deliberate, each action part of a well-worn routine that had become ritualistic. Cup washed and placed upside down to dry. In the small mudroom at the cabin’s rear, her cross-country skis stood like loyal companions against the wall, beckoning for another day of exploration. Above them hung an array of outdoor gear—insulated jackets, fleece-lined gloves, and a weathered knit cap that bore witness to countless winter mornings. Beside the door rested her ski boots, their insulated linings promising comfort amidst the harsh bite of the cold awaiting outside.

Methodically dressing for the cold, Rike layered up against the winter’s bite. Each garment she donned spoke of her reverence for nature’s harsh embrace. She slung the rifle across her back, a familiar weight that brought comfort in its readiness. Next, her hand found the can of bear spray, a precautionary measure she holstered around her waist with practiced ease—her former life as a detective shining through in her preparedness and vigilance.

Swinging open the cabin door, a blast of icy air welcomed Rike as she ventured outside. Clicking into her skis with precision, she left behind the safety of her refuge. The snow whispered beneath her gliding skis, sharing secrets only it knew as she journeyed along the road. Her exhaled breath formed fleeting clouds that dissipated into the morning air, carrying with them a sense of tranquillity. Towering firs and pines flanked her path like silent guardians in the gentle dawn light.

The rhythmic crunch of snow underfoot became a comforting chant, lulling Rike into a state of detachment from the world she once inhabited—a world shadowed by death’s constant presence. In this remote corner of Saint Berna Aux Étranger, isolation became Rike’s solace. The sole spectators to her passage were occasional deer peeking curiously from among the trees before gracefully retreating into the wilderness beyond.

Today was a day meant for living, where the vast expanse of open spaces beckoned with freedom. The simplicity of existence revealed itself in the glide of ski over pristine snow, the icy air filling her lungs, and the steady thud of her heart—a heart now unburdened by the pains of murder, but awakened to the raw beauty of untouched wilderness.

She skied tirelessly, her pulse syncing with the scuff of ski against snow, each exhale forming wispy clouds that dissipated into the cobalt sky above. Despite the weak rays of the sun offering little warmth, she pressed on, squinting against its icy glare as she navigated through a mesmerizing play of shadows and light dancing beneath towering pines.

Her movements held a hypnotic rhythm, drawing her into a trance where only the crisp scrape of skis and the whispering symphony of wind through evergreen needles existed.

Rike stood at the ridge’s edge, peering down at the frozen lake below, a pristine canvas of ice bordered by snow-draped evergreens. The morning sun climbed higher in the sky, signalling her to return. Opting for a shortcut along an abandoned logging trail, she plunged into the dense forest, its solemn hush a stark departure from the clamour of civilization she had forsaken. Abruptly, a murder of crows exploded from a nearby tree, their cacophonous cries rupturing the tranquillity. Startled, Rike’s heart raced in her chest at the jarring eruption of noise and flurry of ebony wings. Despite a decade away from active duty, certain instincts remained etched in her very being. Silence returned until it fled again.

The morning’s peace shattered abruptly with a sharp crack, a branch snapping underfoot—or so Rike believed. She froze, her breath suspended, scanning the tree line for any disturbance. It was too weighty for a small creature like a hare or fox, she noted with unease. She loved that she’d developed such wariness, but hated that it never left her.

Proceeding cautiously, her skiing cadence now disrupted by a heightened sense of vigilance, Rike navigated around a bend where the trees thinned out to reveal an open space. The scene before her anchored her in place, skis firmly planted in the snow as if they shared her reluctance to advance.

“What in the world…” she gasped softly, her hand automatically reaching for the bear spray nestled at her side. A stark splash of red against the pristine white snow caught her eye. Intrigued yet apprehensive, Rike edged closer, a familiar dread creeping over her skin.

Spread out before her like a macabre masterpiece was a vast pool of crimson staining the snow—a jarring contrast against the purity of the landscape. It resembled an open wound on the earth itself, bleeding into the snowy expanse and tainting it with the forbidden colour of blood; an unsettling presence in this sanctuary of solitude.

Her heart thundered in her chest, a drumbeat of alarm reverberating through her. The chilling familiarity of the grim scene unfolding before her triggered a visceral response she thought long buried with her past in Berlin. Despite years away from the force, her instincts surged back to life, though her hands betrayed a slight tremor—a silent testament to the haunting memories etched into her from years of pursuing darkness.

With deliberate movement, she closed the distance to the edge of the crimson stain marring her tranquil retreat. The pungent scent of copper mingled with the sharp pine aroma, a disquieting blend that twisted her gut. This intrusion upon nature felt like an ominous echo of her former life encroaching on her sanctuary. It was very fresh.

Remaining vigilant, she scanned the surroundings for any hint of movement, every sense attuned to potential danger. Without hesitation, she unslung the rifle from her back, its weight grounding her in this surreal moment.

Kneeling beside the pool of blood, she observed how it starkly contrasted against the pristine snow—a macabre painting etched by violence. The vivid red hue stood out defiantly against the winter landscape’s purity; too fresh to have succumbed to the icy grip of nature just yet.

Her breath billowed out in rapid clouds, the icy air biting at her lungs as she stood frozen by the sight before her. The crimson stain on the pristine snow taunted her, a stark symbol of a life violently cut short. Rike’s sharp eyes scanned the snowy landscape, honed by years of detective work, and immediately caught sight of the telltale signs that shattered the surrounding serenity—a trail of deep paw prints etched into the snow with purposeful strides. These were no ordinary tracks; they belonged to a predator, a wolf moving undisturbed through the scene of death like a ghost in the winter wilderness. The presence of the lone wolf only added to the ominous aura enveloping her, its silent journey intertwining with the grim reality she faced.

Bites, torn patches in the blood-stained snow, revealed the scavenger’s feast. Nature’s swift justice, erasing traces of violence. Shimmering amidst the crimson slush were glistening fragments of what seemed like flesh. The quiet landscape bore witness as Rike towered over the chilling scene, her silhouette casting a dark presence. While her mind grasped for routine procedures—observe, analyze, probe—a sinister memory clawed at her thoughts, a recollection she had long battled to suppress within these icy horizons.

A vivid recollection seized her, slicing through the tranquillity like a blade. In her mind’s eye, a young woman lay lifeless in a pool of crimson, her vitality draining into the earth, leaving behind a gaping void of lost potential. The haunting image melded with the pristine snowscape before her, casting an eerie veil over reality that sent tremors racing through Rike’s fingers. This wasn’t just any memory; it was a spectre from her past in Berlin, etched with sorrow so deep it seemed to carve trenches in her very soul.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, a mantra against the encroaching darkness of death that threatened to engulf her. The tendrils of old traumas slithered uninvited and unwavering through her thoughts, coiling like vipers within the recesses of her consciousness. The once tranquil haven she sought refuge in now mocked her with its calm facade, heedless to the storm raging inside her.

She fought to steady her hands, the icy air stinging her lungs as she struggled to slow her breath. The forest stood eerily silent around her, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of memories raging inside her mind. Despite the tranquil beauty of the snowy landscape, her pulse raced uncontrollably, drowning out the serenity that had enveloped her just seconds before.

Rike’s hands trembled as she reached for her jacket pocket, the zipper resisting her urgency before finally giving way. With unsteady fingers, she retrieved her cellphone, a tool now transformed into an extension of her investigative instincts. The camera lens morphed into her keen eye, the screen a canvas capturing the chilling tableau before her.

Each click of the camera was a heartbeat in the silent snow-covered landscape, freezing time to immortalize the jarring sight. She meticulously framed each shot: the scarlet stain stark against the pristine white backdrop, a haunting reminder of violence cutting through purity. The intersection of animal tracks with absence painted a grim narrative in nature’s cruel handiwork, a macabre tapestry unfolding before her lens. Something died here very recently, and not enough of it remained. She wondered where the body was. Deer, fox, or human, something more should remain. Unless it was poachers.

In that frozen moment, Rike became not just an observer but a chronicler of horror, etching each detail with precision onto the digital canvas. The scene whispered secrets of loss and fear, drawing her deeper into its chilling embrace as she documented every nuance of the unsettling scene with unwavering focus.

Rike navigated the edge of the crimson pool with calculated precision, her movements akin to a silent dance on the snowy canvas. Her eyes, fixated on the scene before her, captured every detail with unwavering intensity. Not a single step was taken without purpose, each imprint in the snow a potential clue waiting to be unveiled. The chill in the air clawed at her skin, but she remained undeterred, determined to unravel the mystery that lay beneath the surface.

The woods enveloped her in a shroud of silence as she wrapped up her spontaneous investigation, the only audible sounds the gentle snow crunching beneath her boots and the soft click of the camera capturing the scene. Yet, this tranquillity masked the storm brewing within this remote setting and within Rike herself.

“Signal’s dead,” Rike muttered to herself, tucking away her phone. The frozen snapshots were now preserved. Her breath billowed out in wisps, mingling with the icy air, a visible reminder of the tension slowly easing from her chest. Despite this relief, the persistent throb of her pulse lingered in her ears like a haunting melody.

I met Martina Starova–Marti–in the spring of ‘49. I was in my bakery when a middle-aged man came scurrying in. It was pouring rain, so everyone was scurrying in. He headed right for a table in the back. There were only 5 tables–it’s a bakery after all. He came in, sat down and then, maybe 10 seconds later, Marti came in.

Strike that.

Marti blasted in. The door slammed open, and she raced in, bringing the storm with her. I don’t think she touched the floor, but just flew. The man stood up to flee. She made a flying tackle. Both ended up hitting my window and the cracking sound was louder than the thunder. Then onto the floor, grunting and screaming and cursing.

Marti was punching him, and he was punching Marti. I could see she had a gun–or at least a holster–and I wondered why she didn’t just shoot him. By the time that thought was in my head and I’d reached for my phone to call the police, Marti was on her feet. She snatched a chair and swung, hitting him hard. The chair broke, of course–it was just cheap plasprint after all. He swung a table in return, then launched her into a display case. Shards of glass and blood went everywhere.

But it didn’t stop her. I’ve since found out nothing stops her. She tackled him again, sending them both right through another of my windows, and out into the street. Only now did everyone else arrive. And by everyone else I mean uniformed police and detectives in cop cars with wailing sirens. It surprised me when they arrested him, not her. I mean, this normal guy comes in, followed by a wild woman who attacked him. Right?

Nothing is as it seems with Marti. It turned out he had murdered a couple and kidnapped their five-year-old daughter. The police had tracked him down and he had somehow slipped through their perimeter. He chose my bakery to hide in, and he failed.

She came back into the shop, bloodied and breathless, with Damien Kane, her partner. He was shouting at her for being an irresponsible asshole. She was laughing at him for being a fat fuck. Their words, not mine. By then, all of my customers had fled, and the rain was blowing in.

I will never forget that surge of electricity when she first looked me in the eye. She has a sexiness, a sexual magnetism, that is undeniable. This in spite of the fact she was bleeding from a cut over her eye and blood coated her lips. I find that bruised-and-bloodied look to be repulsive. But somehow, she made it work for her.

Marti offered me her business card–Martina Starova, Falls City Police, Homicide Division, Detective First Class. She said to call her and she would help me navigate the administrative systems to get reimbursed for the damage. Then she asked for a danish. All I could do was wordlessly point to the shattered display case and the glass-covered danishes.

She said she’d take a raspberry danish. She even said please, but I think that was so she could throw her killer smile at me. I told her I couldn’t sell them, and she said she’d take it for free. I said they were covered in glass, and she asked if there was “one under the counter or something.” Unbelievable.

Then Marti walked behind the display case, looked over the food, and picked a raspberry danish, and shook it off. She took a big bite and screamed, clutching her mouth. I ran over to her, grabbing her face to see what the damage was. Marti just laughed and said, “Psych! Just kidding.” Joking like a damned 10-year-old.

Marti made a quick phone call before leaving. Within half an hour, a repair truck pulled up with some enormous pieces of plywood. They sealed my windows and said someone would be in touch about everything else. They said don’t bother calling my insurance company.

I never called her, but I never had to. The next day, Falls City employees were swarming over my bakery. Glass replaced, floors cleaned and sterilized, new furniture, even nicer display cases installed. I got a $5,000 check to cover food and incidentals.

Marti made one hell of an impression on me. I followed the news for a couple of days. She was praised for her pursuit and arrest of that man.

She came by every once in a while for a danish until she stopped coming by. I didn’t see her for four years, though I hadn’t forgotten her.

I don’t think anyone can forget Marti.

The meeting with Heather was useless. More than useless. Because Marti lost her temper on the way over and rammed another car, it was going to cost her to replace it. She took a quick look at the damage caused by her rash behavior. She ran a finger along the deep grooves and laughed. “Worth it,” she said out loud. The worn door of Marti’s car groaned in protest as she pushed it open and slammed it shut.

She made the drive back to the office without killing anyone, which was a good sign. Marti’s walk up the stairs was not one of casual observance; it was charged with a brewing storm of frustration. Lori should have called. The low shuffle of her footsteps was a stark contrast to the tension that reverberated within her body.

She had left explicit instructions for Lori to call after one hour, yet an hour and a half had slipped by, leaving Marti in the clutches of a federal agent.

As Marti prepared to address her secretary, her nostrils flared, catching a whiff of stale perfume lingering near the office. The sensory details converged, all framing the impending storm as Marti steeled herself for the overdue confrontation with Lori.

Ready to unleash her discontent, Marti opened the door of her office, ready to blast Lori for not calling her.

Marti stepped through the doorway and stopped. Lori was sitting at her desk, smiling and chatting with Ari Stirling. Stirling was a member of one of the large three crime rings in Falls City. He had previously hired Marti to find out who had killed the head of the ring. She would rather not have to deal with Ari Stirling. Ever. For anything.

“Mr. Stirling, good to see you,” Marti said as she walked in. They shook hands as Ari stood up.

“Your lovely secretary has been keeping me company. You and I need to talk,” Ari said. Marti still found his eyes creepy and his manner narcissistic.

“Lori, thanks. You can go for lunch,” Marti said. Lori never went anywhere for lunch, but she was smart and she knew it was time for her to leave the office. Marti was happy to see her pick up on the directive and go.

“Great, back in forty-five,” Lori said as she grabbed an umbrella. It was just starting to rain. Lori nodded once as she headed out the door, closing it behind her.

“Ari, what do you want?”

“I understand Henrick Katsaros hired you to find his parents, Andreas and Isabella. You found them. And then, in a strange coincidence—Andreas was murdered,” Ari said.

Ari’s voice sliced through the air like a dagger, each word laden with a tone for an uneasy conversation. Marti felt the prickle of tension at the nape of her neck, the room’s atmosphere morphing into a clandestine theater of revelations.

A frown was etched on Marti’s brow, a silent protest at the ominous path this conversation was taking.

“I have nothing to do with his murder. You know that’s not my thing, Ari. Never has been,” Marti retorted, Marti’s fingers, restless, drummed against the arm of her chair.

She wished for the comforting weight of her gun against her hip, a tangible reassurance in the face of accusations veiled in insinuation.

“You were close by,” Ari countered.

“And the Feds arrested me within minutes. I didn’t–”

“Arrested for what?”

“Drug possession,” Marti said. She saw Ari’s face and added, “I couldn’t believe it either. But I was in jail. I didn’t see anything, I didn’t hear anything. I’m just getting back from talking with the Federal Agent who arrested me. She was interested in the murder, not so much my drugs,” Marti said. “Speaking of which.” Marti headed to her desk drawer and opened it. Damn, the inhalers were still in the car.

RUBY

“Ruby Fisher?”
I snorted awake. I was still in the hospital, still sitting at a 45 degree angle. My blanket is human warm, not blanket oven warm.
“Yes, I’m Ruby Fisher.” Like it says on my wrist.
Hm. I am still channeling Officer Rude Boy.
“My name is Detective Scott O’Reilly. This is my partner, Detective Francine Temple. Little Bluff Police Department.”
“About the car accident?” We shook hands as best I could. Detective Francine’s hand was lovely. Detective Scott’s hand was…not.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Please call me Ruby.”
“Great. You can call me Scott.”
“Francine.” I like her eyes. His eyes are snake eyes. Hers are mouse eyes.
“We had a brief conversation with Officer Pritchard. But we’d like to hear from you.”
“I really don’t remember much. About the car accident, I mean. It’s not like I have amnesia. I know who I am.”
“Tell us about the accident, Ruby.”
Detectives Scott and Francine sat down in the two chairs next to my bed. I noticed that Detective Francine had a notebook in her hand, while Detective Scott had a file folder. They looked like they meant business.
“So, Ruby, can you tell us about what happened last night?” Do they have to keep asking that question?
I took a deep breath and tried to remember. It all seemed so hazy.
“Well, I was driving home from work. I work at Peachtree Fabrication. It’s out by Little Bluff.”
“Yes, we know,” said Francine as she scribbled something in her notebook.
“I must have fallen asleep at the wheel or something because the next thing I remember is waking up here in the hospital.”
“Do you have any recollection of what caused you to fall asleep?”
I racked my brain but couldn’t come up with anything concrete. “No, not really. It’s all kind of a blur.”
“What about before the accident? Were you feeling tired or ill?” Detective Francine leaned in closer. She is very attractive.
I thought back to yesterday and shook my head. “No, I felt fine. Tired from work. No! I remember driving. It was night, but it was cool. It’s that time of year. I would have had the windows rolled up. I…” And that’s where things fell apart. I have flashes, but I’m not sure of what’s true and what’s wrong. I was suddenly very aware that saying the wrong thing could get me into trouble. I watch enough police shows to know there are no Detectives in Traffic Services. Once you start talking, they’re in. They listen to every word, then pick and choose what suits them.
Diane once told me–wait, why am I bringing her up again?–Diane told me to never ever speak to the police without an attorney. Even if you’re a witness. Because maybe you think you’re a witness, but they think you’re a suspect. And those Detectives will question you. They’ve been doing this for years. But you? Innocent you? You’ve probably never been interviewed by police. I never have, at any rate. Until now.
“Where was I?”

FRANCINE

“Ruby Fisher?”

She snorted awake and was immediately a little spicy with us. We introduced ourselves and asked her about the accident. She was an odd duck. She’d start talking and then fade away, like she was thinking. Maybe it was accident PTSD or whatever the doctor had suggested.

“It was cold. Probably. I don’t exactly remember the last few days so clearly. But yes, the windows would have been rolled up.”

She was very focused on the windows, so I texted Andrews and asked if the windows were up or down.

‘Driver up. Passenger down.’

“Where were you going?”

“Where did I crash?”

“Old Weller Road.”

“Ah! I was either coming or going. I live on Yurton Road. Off Old Weller.”

“128 Yurton?”

“Oh yes. You know that?”

“It’s on your car registration. So were you coming or going?”

Ruby got a little testy with Scotty, which I thought was hilarious. He was usually a woman’s favorite. Scotty and I looked at each other and I nodded: he was to be the bad cop, I was to be the good cop.

“You were driving eastbound on Old Weller when your car went off the road. You went into a ditch and tipped the car.”

One of the monitors started to beep, and a nurse came scurrying in. She replaced the IV bag, fiddled with a few settings, and snapped at us: “Detectives is this really necessary?”

“Yes ma’am. We’ll try to be quick.”

At 4am, the city’s underbelly bared its teeth. Neon lights flickered in the distance, casting menacing shadows on the pavement. Marti and Lori, hoodies shrouding their faces, crept towards the Crimson Crown–a seedy establishment that had seen better days. Marti felt the cold steel of her gun in her jeans pocket; a comforting reminder of the power she wielded.

The back door loomed before them, secured with a padlock. “Shit,” Marti muttered, scanning the alley for something to pry the lock off with. No luck. Frustration bubbled inside her, threatening to explode. In one swift motion, she pulled out her gun and shot the padlock. The sound echoed in the still night air.

“Are you crazy?” Lori hissed, panic lacing her voice. “Someone will call the cops!”

Marti laughed, a bitter sound. “No one here gives a damn, Lori. Cops are just another gang in these parts.”

With the lock shattered, they slipped through the door, descending into the bowels of the building. The basement was a chaotic mess, filled with buckets and mops, boxes of glassware, broken chairs, cleaning supplies next to cans of food. The furnace was years past its prime. The air was thick with a musty smell, making it difficult to breathe. Marti could feel the walls closing in on her, triggering her claustrophobia.

“Come on, come on,” Marti muttered, her fingers trembling as she shifted boxes and crates. “Where is she?”

“Nothing here,” Lori said, frustration mounting in her voice. She knocked over a stack of containers with a loud crash. “This is useless.”

“Keep looking,” Marti commanded, her eyes darting around the dimly lit space. The desperation in her voice was palpable, the fear of failure gnawing at her insides.

Rats scurried past their feet as they moved deeper into the basement, the blackness swallowing them whole. Marti’s heart pounded, each beat echoing in her ears like a countdown to disaster. They searched every nook and cranny, leaving chaos in their wake.

“Where is she?” Lori asked again, sweat beading on her brow. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

“Maybe it’s upstairs,” Marti suggested, trying to maintain her composure. “Let’s go.”

They ascended the creaky staircase, the darkness giving way to the dim glow of emergency lighting. It looked abandoned, empty glasses and ashtrays littering the tables. The cleaner hadn’t been through. The air was stale, reeking of spilled alcohol and shattered dreams.

“Look around,” Marti instructed, her voice barely more than a whisper. “If there’s something here, we’ll find it.”

Marti and Lori moved cautiously through the dark and empty bar, their footsteps muffled by the worn carpet. As they approached the back of the establishment, a large commercial walk-in freezer came into view.

“Over there,” Marti gestured, her voice tense.

The door to the freezer was locked. Marti scanned the area, spotting a metal mop propped against the wall. She grabbed it and used the handle to pry the lock off the door.

As soon as the door cracked open, a terrible stench of decay wafted out, assaulting their nostrils. Marti’s face contorted in disgust while Lori choked back a gag.

“Christ, what is that smell?” Lori asked, covering her nose with her sleeve.

“You know. Stay at the door,” Marti instructed, her voice strained. “Keep it open. I can’t go in if it shuts…” Her claustrophobia threatened to overpower her again, but she pushed it down, knowing they had come too far to turn back now.

Rain lashed against the window of the cramped hospital room, casting distorted shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Lori sat hunched in a rickety chair next to Marti’s bed, her green eyes fixed on her friend’s pale face. Marti lay still, an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose, an IV feeding fluids into her arm. A chorus of beeping from the heart monitor provided a steady rhythm to the otherwise silent night.

“Well,” Lori whispered under her breath, her gaze flicking between Marti’s chest and the monitor. “How did we end up here again?”

A year ago, in the depths of a chilling winter, Lori’s life had taken a harrowing detour. She remembered the frigid night when Marti had ventured into the abyss of addiction with Wunk. Wunk was a notorious drug known for its dangerous unpredictability, a dark and potent cocktail that induced hallucinations, paranoia, and a treacherous descent into oblivion.

Marti’s then-girlfriend Lia’s frantic call for an ambulance saved Marti’s life but drove a deep wedge between the lovers. When Lia called Lori, her fear was palpable, and it still echoed in Lori’s ears, a haunting symphony of panic and despair. Lori had rushed to the hospital, her heart pounding with dread as she arrived while Marti was in the midst of life-saving surgery. The waiting room felt like an eternity, every passing second dragging Lori and Lia deeper into a relentless abyss of fear and regret.

It was a night that haunted Lori’s nightmares, the memory etched into her soul. She recalled the surgeon’s face, the chilling words that Marti had survived but would need months of rehab. It was a second chance, a fragile thread of hope woven into the fabric of their lives, a reminder of the fragility of existence in a city that constantly threatened to consume them.

And here was Marti, dancing on the edge again. Lori made the call to Pauline, letting Marti’s current lover know what was happening.

Lori rubbed her temples, trying to dispel the headache that had been pounding behind her eyes since they rushed Marti to the hospital.

Marti’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her blue eyes hidden beneath closed lids. The effects of Shadow had been negated when the doctor have her a Medimote. But she was not out of the woods.

“Y’know, Marti, sometimes I wonder if you even give a shit about your life,” Lori muttered, the bitterness in her voice surprising even her. She shook her head. “Or maybe it’s just that you don’t care about anyone else… But that’s not true, is it? You do care, in your own fucked-up way.”

She sighed, letting her hand rest on Marti’s arm, feeling the faint trembling beneath the skin. “I’m not going anywhere. Despite all your bullshit, I still care. I’ll always be here to pick up the pieces.” Lori’s breath hitched as she fought back tears, her resolve wavering for a moment before hardening once more.

“God dammit,” she hissed, her grip tightening on her friend’s arm. “You’re so much better than this. Better than the drugs, the sex, the whole godforsaken mess you’ve made of your life.” She leaned in closer, her voice barely audible. “You deserve better.”

The beeping of the heart monitor seemed to grow louder, filling the space between them like an unspoken truce. Lori sat back, her hand slipping from Marti’s arm, leaving her feeling cold and empty.

“Pull your shit together,” she said softly, her voice edged with desperation. “I can’t keep doing this… I can’t keep watching you destroy yourself.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Lori asked. Marti and Lori were standing outside the grand home of Evelyn Delacroix.

In the harsh light of day, the grand façade of Evelyn’s mansion loomed like a sentinel guarding secrets. The mansion, an architectural relic of a bygone era, rose three stories high, its sandstone walls bearing the scars of time. Ivy, withered and barely clinging to life, crept up the walls like the tendrils of a twisted tale.

Black wrought-iron gates, adorned with ornate scrollwork, offered a glimpse into the enigma within. They creaked open reluctantly as Marti and Lori entered, revealing a cobblestone driveway that stretched towards the looming entryway.

The windows, though large, were veiled by heavy drapes that concealed whatever lay beyond. A pair of stone gargoyles, weathered and grimacing, perched on either side of the imposing double doors. They seemed to mock the very notion of innocence.

“This might be a really bad idea, but we have to talk to her,” Marti finally said. She knocked on the door.

Evelyn Delacroix, a woman of timeless elegance, answered the door’s knock with an air of grace that belied the turmoil within her. Her porcelain features bore the weight of sorrow, etched with the traces of tears shed in the emptiness of her mansion.

As she laid eyes on Marti and Lori, her gaze was a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty, like a guarded secret yearning to be uncovered. She wore a black silk dress, a widow’s attire, her raven hair cascading down her shoulders, framing her face like a mourning shroud.

Evelyn’s sapphire eyes, usually filled with the allure of wealth and mystery, now held a glint of vulnerability. Her voice, tinged with melancholy, was as smooth as velvet as she inquired, “May I help you?”

Marti stepped forward, her voice was a low, gravelly whisper, a stark contrast to Evelyn’s refinement. “Mrs. Delacroix, we’re here because Ari Stirling hired us to look into the death of your husband, Marcus.”

Evelyn’s gaze sharpened as Marti’s words hung in the air. She hesitated for a moment, the weight of her husband’s death heavy upon her. Then, with a resigned nod, she stepped back, allowing them entry into the mansion.

Inside the dimly lit expanse of the Delacroix home, secrets whispered in every corner. Evelyn’s call for Pauline broke the silence, a haunting echo through the halls.

The maid, Pauline, arrived silently, her figure voluptuous and sultry. Her eyes, pools of obsidian, betrayed her delighted lust as they met Marti’s. Recognition flashed across Marti’s face, a flicker of a memory from a night-or was it a weekend?-of passion. She had met this enigmatic woman in the shadows of desire, a dalliance Marti had long since put in the back of her mind, but one that Pauline had evidently kept in her heart.

Evelyn and Lori continued their journey toward the living room, leaving Marti and Pauline alone. The air between them was thick with unspoken secrets, a lingering tension that refused to dissipate. Marti’s voice, low and intimate, broke the silence like a gunshot in the night.

“Pauline,” she murmured, her eyes locking onto the mysterious maid’s. “It’s been a while.”

Pauline’s lips curved into a sly smile, her gaze a mixture of mischief and intrigue. “It certainly has, Marti. Seems like you’ve found your way back to my arms.”

Marti leaned in closer, their faces inches apart, the heat of lust simmering beneath the surface. “It’s not your arms that make me wet.”

Pauline’s eyes sparkled as she motioned towards the kitchen. Marti walked up behind her, embracing her and caressing her breasts with tenderness, planting kisses on her neck. Pauline made a soft sound in response and inclined her head forward so more of her neck was available for Marti to kiss…