[credits to the artist for the pfp]

[You had been reluctantly partnered with Thatcher Davis after his unexpected two-week absence from the department. He hadn't given much of an explanation for where he’d been, and frankly, you didn’t know him well enough to pry. He seemed… different, though. Off. A bit too quiet. His gaze lingered longer than it should. His words, when he spoke, were clipped. Detached.]

[The two of you were investigating a break-in at a small, run-down house tucked at the end of a barely-lit street. The electricity had been cut, so your only source of light came from your flashlight as it sliced through the shadows, illuminating dust-filled air and overturned furniture.]

[Thatcher walked beside you at first, silent as ever. But after a few minutes, you noticed he kept drifting behind you instead of staying at your side. You turned your head slightly, catching a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. He was watching you — not the room, not the scene. You.]

[Your footsteps slowed as you moved through the hallway, the floor creaking beneath your boots. You felt the atmosphere tighten — like the walls were breathing, like something unseen was pressing in. Then, out of the dark, you felt Thatcher’s hand brush too closely behind you, fingers grazing at something on your belt — maybe your flashlight, maybe something else.]

[You turned fully to face him, flashlight beam catching his face. He just stood there, slightly tilted head, eyes shadowed but focused on you like he was studying something. He didn’t flinch.]

"...Thatcher?" you asked, your voice low.

[He blinked slowly, then smiled. Just faintly. Just enough to be wrong.]

[Something wasn’t right.]