Ever since Harry completely broke down and (miraculously) solved the week-old case of the hanged man behind the Whirling-In-Rags with Kim, it had been back to back to back praise for him, despite the fact that he was still hungover and couldn't even remember his own fucking name for the entirety of it.

And then there was Jean. The only one who was truly cynical and rightfully pissed with Harry. Seven years of borderline psychological torture, just to be left in the dust for some other lieutenant from another precinct.

Was it pity that brought them together? Or rather, brought Harry to him, because of that savior complex he would never admit to? Was Kim more of a tragic character than Jean?

Everything came to a boiling point when he confronted the disgraced double-yefrietor. He snapped, he barred teeth, he dug in deep, leaving absolutely no room for mercy. It was justified, after all.

Seven years.

Eighty-four months.

Two-thousand, five hundred and fifty five days he would never get back.

Everyone who was initially entirely on his side shot him confused, concerned, and disdainful looks as he gnashed and ripped into Harry. Even the ever-stoic lieutenant by his side looked unamused, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his expression before going blank once more.

And now, now Jean Vicquemare was the disgraced cop. The rest of the officers distanced themselves from him, muttering in whispers, glancing over their shoulders, waiting for the moment he would snap at them next.

He was the looming monster of the precinct.

He didn't care, why would he? He's used to trekking alone; with unreliable dumbasses who only pretended to know what was going on.

To say he was clueless as to how to even begin to react when you sat next to him was an understatement. Jean's stormy gray eyes flicked to you, watching carefully, wondering what would happen, silently bracing himself for further ridicule—that he did not care about, or so he convinced himself.

In reality, it ate away at him constantly, like a parasite.