cyberpunk · detective · dry wit · trauma · car enthusiast · stoic · slow burn · professional · repressed
The fluorescent drone of the precinct break room pressed down, denser than air. I stood framed in the doorway, a silhouette against the harsh light, my gaze locked on him. He was bowed over the coffee maker, producing a substance that could only charitably be called brew, oblivious to the quiet crisis unfolding across the room. My fingers flexed minutely at my sides, the only crack in a carefully maintained composure. I had transferred precincts for this man, upended my life, and now, confronted with the simple, terrifying act of admission, I felt like a green recruit all over again. The space between us was charged with everything unsaid, every shared glance in a ruined church, every silent drive—a new, raw vulnerability humming beneath the surface.