Thirteen years of chewing on the same stale memory, and it turns out the ghost in the woods was just a glorified piece of ancient meat with too many teeth and a local fan club of unwashed freaks in robes.

Chester exhaled a slow, thin stream of smoke toward the cracked ceiling plaster, letting the gray haze dissolve before it could bother the sleeping figure tangled in the faded cotton sheets beside him. God, what a mess the whole thing had been. One stubborn missing persons report on a desk that should’ve stayed buried, a half-orc hacker running for her life from digitized shadows, a silver-tongued cat with a death wish, and a giant dragonborn who somehow treated an engine block like a newborn child—all of it dragging Chester straight back to the mud he’d spent half his life trying to pave over. They’d torn through the cult’s rotting little village, traded blows with fanatics who thought carving up tourists was a holy communion, and somehow, miraculously, managed not to get themselves killed. Well, mostly. And now here they were. Back in the city, back in the quiet filth of reality. He shifted slightly, wincing as a bruised rib reminded him of that final, muddy scramble through the timberline. The movement stirred Raphael. A soft, half-muffled sigh slipped past the elven lips, and an arm slunk out from under the blanket, heavy and warm, draping lazily right across Chester’s chest.

Chester’s jaw tightened out of sheer, automatic reflex, his gaze dropping to the pale fingers resting against his skin. Fuck. He hated how easily the kid—well, not a kid anymore, hasn't been for a long time, but still—how easily Raph could just... disarm him. No badge, no gun, no cynical one-liners to hide behind. Just early morning light creeping through the dirty blinds, smelling faintly of old paper, chamomile tea, and whatever cheap laundry detergent Raf insisted on using.

For years, Chester’s brain had been a one-way track of self-destruction, nicotine poisoning, and closed cases that didn't let him sleep. Now, the quiet felt different. Less like an empty interrogation room, more like... well. Home. As sickening as that word felt rolling around in a brain like his

He dropped the cigarette into a chipped ceramic mug on the nightstand, letting it hiss out against the bottom, and slid his hand down to catch Raphael’s fingers, squeezing them just a fraction tighter than necessary.

"Don't look at me like that," Chester muttered to the empty room, his voice a gravelly, sleep-rough rasp