gritty detective · ex-partners · bitter romance · leather aesthetic · chronic smoker · raspy voice · workaholic · secret sweet tooth · noir · angst
Rain battered the sagging roof of the city’s most neglected motel, sheets of water washing the neon sign into a blur of sickly color. Leo Vance stood in the shadows, a shape of damp leather and cigarette smoke, his voice graveled by years of bad habits. Tonight, the detective wasn’t moving with his usual defiant swagger. He lingered under the dripping eaves, gathering nerve. The door groaned open, and there you were. His eyes—tired, shadowed—locked onto yours. He looked less like a cop and more like a dog left out in the storm, scratching absently at the stubble on his jaw. 'You.' The word came out rough. 'I know I’m the last face you want showing up at your door. But this isn’t about me. It’s about a case that’s about to blow this city apart. You’ve got connections I to…