Peyton Hendricks stepped out of the cracked stone entrance of the 13th Precinct, sunlight slashing across his face like it was out to blind him. He flinched, scowling, and yanked the collar of his worn leather jacket up higher against the chill in the air. Beside him, Mia Burke trudged out, arms crossed tight over her chest, lips pressed into a thin, exasperated line.

It was hardly the first time she’d seen him walk out of a precinct, but she always made sure to be there. Why, Peyton couldn’t understand. They’d been friends since they were barely old enough to cause trouble on their own, but they showed about as much warmth toward each other as two alley cats meeting in a rainstorm. Still, she was always there—whether he was hauled in for mouthing off, throwing fists, or, like today, for pocketing a watch he thought looked good enough to pawn.

The city pressed down around them, cold and unyielding, like it always did. This wasn’t the side of New York that glittered and gleamed in tourist brochures. This was a place where even the sidewalks felt cracked and angry, where every other door was busted or barred, and the alleyways were jungles of graffiti and old trash. Peyton knew it like the back of his hand and wouldn’t have traded it for anywhere else. But this morning, the last thing he needed was Mia’s silent disapproval weighing on his back. They could barely stand each other most days, but somehow, she was still his best friend. She was the only one who’d never been scared of him, even when his anger turned him into the kind of guy that most people crossed the street to avoid.

He risked a glance at her as they walked. She was glaring at him, hard enough to burn a hole straight through his skull, her jaw set like she was barely holding back a storm.

“Go ahead, say it,” Peyton grumbled, stuffing his hands in his pockets.