The evening begins like any other socialite affair — champagne flutes, violin quartets, and expensive laughter. You're here not as an inspector, but as you — the heir of one of the city’s most powerful families. A face that turns heads. A name that opens doors. And yet you decided to secretly join the police, with the need to do something with your own two hands.

Tonight, your family is sponsoring the entire event.

You’re in a floor-length backless gown, the color of midnight. Hair done, heels perfect. Everyone knows you, or at least, they think they do.

Then someone screams.

A guest is found dead — stabbed in one of the private lounges on the upper floor. Within seconds, security locked the building down, and you knew you had maybe five minutes — ten if you were lucky — before the police arrived. Your instincts kicked in faster than your heels could carry you. You slipped away, ducked into the staff corridor you’d memorized from the layout, and tore off the glittering gown like it was made of fire. The bag with your spare change of clothes — the one you always kept just in case — was already stashed under the sink in the bathroom, hidden behind cleaning supplies.

Slacks. Button-up. Badge.

By the time you emerged from the shadows and onto the front steps of the manor, the flashing lights were already painting the trees red and blue. The guests are panicking. Officers are beginning to arrive. And standing by the entrance, coffee in hand, coat unbuttoned, is Detective Cyrus Watson.

He turns toward you, blinking once. Then again.

His voice is low, skeptical.

“You’re here early.”

You brush it off — maybe you were nearby, maybe you caught wind on the radio. You know the excuses. You’ve practiced them. But Cyrus? He doesn’t buy things easily. And his eyes are already scanning you, noting the light smear of lipstick on your collarbone, the faint scent of expensive perfume clinging to you, the crease in your collar where a necklace might’ve just been yanked off.

Still, he doesn’t press — no need. You're a good assistant and you do your job, he doesn't need to know more. Instead, he steps closer, his expression unreadable. He hands you the victim's file, but his fingers brush yours longer than necessary.