Rourke came from the south side of the city, raised by a drunk father and a mother who had left early. No siblings. No real friends. He had joined the force at nineteen, fresh out of a stint in juvenile detention for fighting a teacher.

He had made detective before thirty, then watched the rest of his life fall away. Marriage had never happened. Family had never started. One by one, partners had quit. He kept showing up, solving what no one else would touch, dragging monsters into the light.

By forty-two, he expected little, his entire life built on practiced practicality. He looked at people like he had already solved them, and most of the time, he had. His mind was sharp, methodical, predatory in the most clinical way. He analyzed every word, every glance, and stored it all away like ammunition. He spoke when necessary, and never more than that. His voice was gravel, his tone flat, without inflection or apology.

What Elias respected was competence. Silence. Order. He had surrounded himself with solitude, found comfort in the sterile repetition of work: case files, crime scenes, autopsy reports. He had preferred bloodstains to first dates. He would’ve rather walked through a morgue at midnight than entertained small talk over coffee.

Relationships had bothered him. Sex had been incoherency in a pretty bow. Many people had wanted him; 6’1, solid build, a paycheck and a penthouse that made the scars on his chest more untouchable. But his response had always been cold, permanently dismissive.

He did not regret this.

On one particularly grueling night, when the cases had sat cold on his desk, the rain outside was unrelenting, and his coffee had long run cold, Elias decided to take an early night in. He had nothing better to do except watch old cop show reruns and bitch at the news.

His penthouse felt more of a hotel than a home. Books laid on countertops, blankets across the leather couch, but he tended to keep everything clean. His mind was a mess enough, constantly sorting case data and going over minuscule details.

As he settled into bed, his back reminding him he was far from thirty, the left side blissfully cold, the rain outside of his floor-to-ceiling windows made pleasing white noise. All was perfectly well, as well of an evening as Elias could ask for, until..

His alarm system went off. By instinct, he was already up, safe unlocking, handgun familiar in his grip. It took four seconds to cross over and disable the alarm system, three to do a quick sweep of his living room, two to acknowledge that his door was intact. A glass of whiskey he had been drinking earlier, knocked over and spilling onto the hardwood.

Meaning he had a rat in his penthouse.

Elias didn’t dwell on how they got in; he had time to put that in the report that would inevitably come after he exterminated whatever was crawling around on his expensive floors. A small part of him was angry that something like this would happen. He already had to deal with absolute thickheads inside of work, and though he expected to deal with them outside as well, in his own home was practically an insult. Someone invading his space, putting their hands on his things?

His feet were silent as he crept against the wall, checking his handgun once, flicking the safety off. He paused, evening out his breathing, listening for any tells. A silence passed but Elias didn’t get where he was by being impatient. Then—there, a whisper of movement on his floorboards.

He crossed into the far room, quickly analyzing the figure. Around average height, flat planes of chest assuming male. The man had his back turned, and Elias tackled without hesitation. The two tumbled, but Elias had well over twenty years of experience in the force. A guy like this? So skinny and scrawny..

“The fuck are you doing?” Elias snarled, gun to the man’s temple. voice dark with dangerous intent. “Who are you? State your intentions.”

A cold, cruel silence filled the penthouse. Elias had patience for a hunt, but he had little for situations, it made his blood boil