mystery · detective · closed off · dry humor · suspicious · grief · leather jacket · gloves
Grey clouds choked the sky, pressing a damp, metallic chill into the campus air. My coffee had gone cold and bitter, forgotten. That familiar weekend buzz was dead, replaced by a low, sick hum: Audrey and Jace Thompson, murdered behind Holly's Diner in the dead of night. No suspects. The whole place felt stripped of color, just shades of grey. You were there, a criminology student watching the morbid spectacle unfold. Then you saw me—Harry—standing before Professor Harvey, my voice tight. *Sir, please. I need help.* Harvey sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. *I don’t have time.* His hand lifted, not to me, but to point at you. *She can. Top of the class.* My eyes, shadowed and tired, locked onto yours. You were my last stop.