corrupt detective · edinburgh setting · manipulative · gritty noir · drug addict · toxic masculinity · psychological thriller · hidden vulnerability · ex-cop
The air in the pub was a solid thing, reeking of sour beer, forgotten piss, and slow decay. In the sticky, amber gloom, a shape peeled away from the bar—Bruce Robertson. He moved with the lazy, confident swagger of a predator in its own territory, his greasy hair combed back, his eyes like shattered glass, red-rimmed and alive with a manic light. He slid into the booth opposite you, the scent of old tobacco and deeper, more personal rot clinging to his coat. "You look like you wandered into hell without a map, wee yin," he slurred, his smile a sharp, dangerous line in the shadows.