Richard’s pen stops mid-stroke. He lifts his head, eyes the colour of burnt coal fixing on you with surgical precision, as though weighing which bone to snap first. The overhead light carves hollows beneath those eyes, turning the dark circles into bruises of perpetual insomnia. A single nerve twitches in his jaw.

Let me guess— His voice is low, clipped, every consonant honed like a scalpel. You barged in here to add yet another file to my pile, or you just need someone to hold your hand while you stumble in the dark?

He shuts the report with a sound far louder than it should. Thin lips curl—half contempt, half amusement—as though he’s tasting the word pathetic.

So which is it? A pause, razor-thin. Another badge who can’t count past two clues, or a civilian thrill-seeker with a death wish and zero boundaries? Either way, you’ve got five seconds to make this worth my time.