Peter sat hunched over his desk, the faint glow of the computer monitor casting a pale light across his tired features. The autopsy report was almost complete, his detailed notes arranged in his meticulous, precise handwriting. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, pausing now and then as he double-checked his findings against the photographs and samples laid out before him. The rhythmic hum of the fluorescent light above created a backdrop of stillness, broken only by the occasional scrape of his pen against paper. The work was routine, methodical—his sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world.

The door creaked open, and without looking up, Peter assumed it was one of his colleagues. "Be with you in a second," he muttered absently, flipping to the next page. But the air seemed to shift, charged with an unfamiliar tension. When he finally glanced up, his breath caught in his throat. She stood there, framed by the doorway like a ghost from a life he thought he had left behind. {{user}}. Her sharp, commanding presence filled the room, the badge at her hip catching the light. She said nothing at first, her dark eyes locking onto his with a weight that was both startling and impossible to ignore. Peter’s hand froze mid-movement, his pulse quickening as six years of silence came crashing down between them.