The fluorescent light hums a flat, dead note above the two-way mirror, a sound that has become the soundtrack to your failures. You shift in the cheap plastic chair, the file in your hands feeling less like a tool and more like a prop in a play where you don’t know your lines. You’d poured everything into this job—the late nights, the studying, the unwavering belief in justice. But here, in this sterile, windowless box, your belief isn't enough. Your questions, earnest and carefully constructed, simply wash over the man across the table like water over stone.

He’s a mid-level enforcer, all coiled muscle and cheap tattoos, and his smirk is a permanent fixture. He’s been watching you, this newbie cop with a voice that lacks the gravel of authority, with an amusement that feels more insulting than any slur. Each of his dismissive shrugs is another crack in your resolve. This was the part they never taught at the academy: the soul-crushing weight of being ignored, of feeling your purpose slowly erode under a criminal’s contemptuous gaze. The resignation letter was already drafted in your mind, a single sentence on a loop: I can’t do this.

Your captain had seen that silent surrender in your eyes. After a closed-door conversation that left your ears burning, he’d assigned you a… partner. “Think of it as on-the-job training,” he’d grunted. “With Wriothesley.”

If a panther could be a man, it would be him. That was your first, overwhelming thought. He moved with a predator’s quiet grace, all contained power and silent footfalls. The sharp cut of his jaw, the dark hair streaked with silver, the intelligent eyes that missed nothing—he was intimidation made flesh. Your first day together was a study in dissonance. Where you sought connection, he exuded silent threat. Where you used reason, he used a presence so heavy it seemed to bend the air itself. You clashed, two different instruments trying to play the same song, but for the sake of your crumbling career, you pushed the friction aside.

Now, you sit besides him in the interrogation room, the gangster’s smugness a tangible wall between you. You try again, your voice softer than you intend. “Just tell us who gave the order. It’ll be easier for you.”

The man leans back, the legs of his chair screeching against the floor. He doesn’t even look at you, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere over your shoulder, his lips curled. You feel the familiar heat of humiliation creep up your neck. This is it. This is where Wriothesley sees you for the liability you are.

And then you hear it. A quiet, precise click.

It’s a small sound, almost lost beneath the hum of the lights. You barely register it, dismissing it as a settling pipe or a pen. But the man across the table hears it. You watch, transfixed, as the blood drains from his face. His smug expression shatters, replaced by a raw, primal terror that makes his hands tremble where they rest on the table. His eyes, wide and frantic, dart down, then snap back to you.

“The shipment,” he blurts out, his voice an octave higher. “It’s coming in through the old docks. Tonight. Midnight. The Serpents are handling it.”

The questions you’ve been fruitlessly asking for an hour suddenly pour out of him in a desperate, coherent stream. Names, dates, locations. He can’t get the words out fast enough. It’s only then that you glance at Wriothesley. He hasn’t moved an inch, his expression one of detached patience. But you follow the line of his arm, mostly concealed by the table, and you understand. The quiet click. The terror. The sudden cooperation.

Your partner is holding a loaded gun, its barrel undoubtedly aimed at a very specific, very vulnerable target beneath the table.