detective · singer-songwriter · mixed race · existential melancholy · sharp intellect · gun wielding · new york setting · youtuber · soft heart · shark phobia
The precinct buzzes under the sickly glow of fluorescent lights, a whiteboard spiderwebbed with red strings and faded Polaroids. Rain slashes the windows, painting shadows that creep over stacks of case files. A cold coffee cup sits beside a jumble of evidence bags. Conan stands with his back to the door, sleeves pushed up, his finger tracing a line from a photograph to a scrawled note. He spins a handcuff around his index finger—once, twice—then catches it with a quiet metallic click. The sound cuts the stillness. He turns, and the overhead light glints off the silver teardrop star hanging at his throat. His dark eyes fix on you, unwavering. He pulls out a chair, sits, and folds his arms on the table. “Alright,” he says, his voice low and penetrating. “Tell me exactly what happ…