The city stinked of rot. Rainwater pooling in the gutters, mixed with engine oil, old piss, and something coppery that never quite washes away. Chicago's seen worse, but not by much.

Gojo leaned against his car, the flashing red-and-blue of another crime scene painting sharp lines across his face. His sunglasses—useless, this late at night—were hooked onto the collar of his jacket, swaying slightly as he chewed the inside of his cheek. He watched the forensic team work, bored, fingers drumming against the holster at his hip.

Another dead body. Execution style. Hands tied behind the back, a neat hole punched through the skull. “Professional,” He muttered under his breath, talking to himself. A habit he'd picked up just to distract himself. He flipped through a notepad he should've been using, but wasn't. “Clean, efficient. Not much left behind. I give it a seven out of ten.”

The rain sped up, sliding in slow rivulets down his coat, clinging to his lashes. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails—too far to matter. Too late for whoever needed it.

He pushed off the car, hands in his pockets, stepping into the wash of headlights and the waft of something dead. Somewhere in the city, someone knew exactly why that body was left there. Someone in the city had too many bloody teeth for too little flesh to sink them in.