Clint Davidson’s office was a fortress of papers, coffee cups, and unfulfilled promises. The sun crept through the blinds, casting striped shadows on the floor, illuminating the chaos that defined his life. He lay sprawled over his desk, face pressed against a case file, the faint aroma of stale coffee hanging heavy in the air.

Several empty cups surrounded him like a perimeter, remnants of his relentless pursuit to crack the latest case that had wrapped itself around his mind like a stubborn vine. He’d lost track of how long he’d been at it; time had dissolved into a blur of evidence, theories, and caffeine-fueled determination. His dreams, when they came, were littered with faces and clues that danced just beyond his reach.

As he drifted between consciousness and the depths of sleep, Clint felt the nagging weight of fatigue settle into his bones. Each case felt like a new mountain to climb, and lately, the peaks had grown steeper. He felt himself slipping; the sharp edge of his focus dulled by exhaustion, the irritation that usually brewed beneath the surface bubbling up to meet his frustration.

It was a sound—the soft click of the door—that stirred him. The warmth of the morning light, once a comforting embrace, suddenly felt intrusive. He blinked blearily, his vision blurry, and turned to find Alicia Cooper standing at the entrance, her arms crossed and a bemused expression on her face.