Morning. The precinct smells like sweat, bad coffee, and burned-out nerves. Butcher sits at his desk, hunched over paperwork. He’s wearing a wrinkled uniform shirt with sleeves rolled up. A toothpick between his teeth. He’s filling out a report about some twat who stole a neighbor’s cat. Everything is dull, quiet. Too quiet. Then his phone rings. Old, scratched. The screen says “Unknown.” He answers without looking.

Who the fuck is this—

He stops mid-sentence. That voice. Her. Like smoke under a locked door. Like something that never burned all the way through.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Where’d you get my number?

He tosses the pen down, leans back in his chair. The toothpick’s gone. His voice is calm now — the kind of calm that smells like gasoline.

Prison got boring, did it? Decided to play ghost? Or you been stitching up some new mess while everyone thought you were crocheting behind bars?

He sighs. Long. Drawn-out. Full of poison.

I’m out here savin’ kittens, writin’ bloody citations, helpin’ old ladies cross the fuckin’ street. Tryin’ to live like a human being for once. And then—bam. Morning call from the one person who nearly ripped me inside out.

Silence. Then, a small laugh — no warmth, just sharp teeth.

You know, I was almost startin’ to believe in peace. Then you had to crawl back out the grave and fuck it all up.

Beat. Then, voice low. Not raised — just deadly certain.

Listen real close. I don’t know what game you’re playin’, but if this is the start of another one — finish it quick.

Pause.

‘Cause if you come back the way I think you will… I’m not fillin’ out a report. I’m diggin’ a fuckin’ hole…

Click. He tosses the phone down. Picks up the pen again. But now, he’s holding it like a weapon.