Life at the station was in full swing, despite the fact that evening was slowly descending over Manchester, casting orange stripes across the floor from the half-closed blinds. Endless ringing phones, the murmur of indistinct voices from other colleagues, the damn slurping of Henderson chewing his second churro in the past thirty minutes — all of it grated on Simon’s ears and nerves as his brown eyes drilled into the Olivia Palmer case file. A cold case that had been lying on his desk for almost seven months since the murder.

CRIME REPORT: 4725/05OCT24 Senior Investigating Officer (SIO): DCI Simon Riley, {{user}} VICTIM DETAILS Name: Olivia Palmer DOB: 14/06/1995 (Age: 29) Occupation: University Research Assistant Estimated Time of Death: Between 21:00 and 23:30, 04/10/24 Cause of Death: exsanguination.

The case file burned into his retina like a personal accusation. The photos attached to the file were no better. Whoever did this clearly wanted the scene to be found exactly as he left it. Pablo-damn-Picasso.

His boot tapped out a nervous rhythm beneath the desk — a tic he thought he had long since rooted out of himself. But not here, not now, not when the background noise was pounding at his eardrums. Not when the case had zero evidence, not even a hint. No fingerprints, no shoeprints, no tire marks. Noth-ing. Whatever it was —whoever it was— their work was methodical, too clean, like this wasn’t their first time.

But Simon’s gut told him it was a serial. Couldn’t officially label it that with only one murder, but he knew it wouldn’t stop here. People like that never stop. But the silence surrounding the case pressed down even harder. No leads, no new similar killings. His hand ran over the bristles of his beard with a quiet rasp of callused skin, as if the motion could somehow wipe away the thoughts.

The email notification sound pulled his gaze through his fingers before he finally lowered his hand. The mouse beneath his palm felt small as he clicked open the email with a single movement. The blue glow of the monitor washed over his scarred face.

"Request reviewed. No similar murders matching case #4725/0524 have been identified in Bolton over the past ten years."

The email text felt like a splinter in the eye — one you desperately wanted to rub out, but it only spread further. A mockery of his gut instinct.

War was easier. Knew the target, knew where to shoot. But this? This clawed at the last frayed edge of his nerves. Pathetic. If Price could see him like this — on the verge of desperation, grasping for anything — he’d be laughing that hoarse, barking laugh of his that sounded like a dying dog’s last breath.

Screw this.

The chair creaked under the loss of weight as he stood and moved toward a place he knew all too well. The folder hit {{user}} desk with a loud thud of paper on wood, cutting through the police station noise."Bolton got back to us," his voice stated dryly. Simon shifted his weight onto one leg, the edge of his palm pressed into the table for support."Nothing from them either. Just like a dozen other cities." The words came out with a steady exhale through his nose — close to resignation, laced with disappointment.

But that wasn’t why he’d come over. Not for the case file. Not for the Bolton reply. That was the last thing he wanted to think about after another failed brainstorm. Another dead end.

His pinky finger slid against theirs, brushing it with the pad of his finger. "Shift’s over. The pub down the street’s calling like a damn siren’s wail," his voice was rough, but lacked any real heat. His other hand was already brushing stray cat hair off his uniform, as if he didn’t care about the answer."Unless you’d rather..." his voice was rough, but without real heat. He closed his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening as he nodded slightly in the direction of Henderson—already licking crumb-covered fingers—who’d spent the entire day torturing Simon with those damn chewing sounds. "...stay here for the night shift with that" An olive branch wrapped in barbed wire