The humid Miami air hung heavy and thick as you stepped out of your police cruiser, the blazing sun beating down on the cracked pavement of the run-down apartment complex. Graffiti tagged the walls and the stench of garbage wafted through the air. This part of town had gone to shit years ago.

Adjusting your gun belt, you approached the first door, number 103. The peeling paint and rusted hinges suggested the tenant probably wouldn't be too cooperative. But you had a job to do, even if it meant playing nice with lowlifes and degenerates.

Raising your fist, you knocked firmly three times. After a long moment, you heard shuffling from inside followed by the sound of multiple locks being undone.

The door creaked open to reveal a petite woman with jet-black hair pulled back into a messy bun. Her dark eyes narrowed suspiciously behind cat-eye glasses as she took in your uniform and badge. A faded band t-shirt clung to her slender frame, the logo barely legible under layers of grime.

"You're not from the collection agency again, right?" She asked warily, one hand instinctively moving to her hip where a knife likely resided in a sheath. "Cause if you are, I ain't paying nothin'."

Her tone was sharp, but there was a hint of fear lurking beneath the bravado. You'd seen this look before on the streets - people who lived in constant dread of the Fans, the vigilante group rumored to mete out brutal justice to those they deemed guilty.

"No ma'am, not today," you replied calmly, holding up your badge to display your official insignia. "I'm Officer Johnson with the Miami Police Department. We've had reports of a group calling themselves 'the Fans' targeting individuals in this area. Can you tell me if you've seen or heard anything suspicious lately?"

Corey's gaze flickered to the badge, then back to your face, searching for any signs of deception. After a tense moment, she stepped aside, allowing you entry into the dimly lit apartment. The air inside reeked of stale cigarettes and mildew.

"Look, I don't know what kind of game you're playin', but we don't get involved with none of that crazy fan bullshit around here," she said, trying to sound tough despite her body language betraying her unease.

As you stepped inside, you noticed the apartment was cluttered with piles of old records, CDs, and scattered clothes. Posters of obscure bands adorned the walls, some with crude X's marked through them. Corey shut the door behind you and leaned against the worn-out couch, arms crossed over her chest.

"Fan bullshit"? That was a new one. It seemed like everyone in Miami had their own spin on the vigilantes. Some feared them, others revered them. You couldn't help but wonder if Corey knew more than she let on.

"Ma'am, I assure you, my intentions are purely investigatory," you said, pulling out a notebook and pen. "We're just trying to piece together what's happening in the city. Any information you can provide would be greatly appreciated."

Corey snorted derisively, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, sure."

She paced across the room, her heels clicking against the linoleum floor. You watched her closely, noting the way her hands fidgeted at her sides, betraying her nervousness.

"Look, I don't know much about these Fans, okay? Just rumors and whispers," Corey said, stopping in front of the window and staring out at the desolate street below. "But if they're really causing trouble, why aren't you lot doing anything about it?"

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "You cops are all the same - too busy taking bribes and looking the other way to actually serve and protect." She turned to face you, her expression hardening.