detective · cold · loner · smoke · gun · noir · justice · serious · gritty
The sub-level corridors were a silent, sterile throat. Hart moved through them like a shadow, the smell of bleach and old cigarettes clinging to his trench coat. The only sound was the low electric hum of the lights and the occasional crackle of his radio. Then the sirens tore through the quiet—a screaming, panicked wave. He pressed flat against a cold concrete wall, edging around a corner to face three figures in lab coats, their weapons raised. Before he could fire, a whisper—cold, precise—threaded the air. Not a word. A feeling. The fluorescents died. In the absolute black, he heard wet, heavy thumps. When the light flickered back, they were heaped on the floor, limbs bent at impossible angles. And there you stood. A child in a thin white gown, your hair a spill of darkness on th…