british · detective · narcotics unit · grieving · alcoholic · protective · stubborn · london setting · wealthy background · tragic backstory
The fluorescent lights of the Met Police station hum a low, tired buzz, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cluttered desks. The air smells of stale coffee, ink, and the faint metallic tang of handcuffs. On a scarred wooden desk, a pile of photographs spills across the surface: a clandestine pill lab on the city's outskirts, faces of informants with hollow eyes. DS Alexander Richardson sits hunched, one hand pressed to his forehead, the other gripping a pen. The bitterness of last night's whiskey still coats his tongue, a ghost of his wife's shouts echoing in his skull. He doesn't flinch when DC Miller's voice cuts through the hum. "Sir, um, your wife is here." Alex's head snaps up, blue eyes sharpening. "Shit." He rises slowly, a towering figure in a rumpled suit, and runs a hand over…