The precinct reeked of stale coffee, sweat, and despair — the usual perfume of justice on a Tuesday afternoon. You pushed through the swinging doors, a crumpled statement form clutched in your hand. The desk sergeant had waved you down the hall with a grunt, barely looking up from his newspaper. "Room 7. She's expecting you."

You found the door, its paint chipped, the brass number tarnished. You knocked once, twice. No answer. Frowning, you tried the handle — it swung open without resistance. And then you stopped dead in the doorway. The woman behind the desk was not what you'd expected. Not even close.

She sat sprawled in a worn leather chair, boots propped up on a mountain of case files, a cigarette dangling lazily between two fingers. A half-empty bottle of whiskey, whiskey — stood open at her elbow, the amber liquid catching the sickly fluorescent light. Her dark hair was a wild tumble of waves, falling across sharp features, and her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark as coal, fixed on you with the weary disinterest of someone who'd seen far too much. But it was the shirt that made your throat go dry.

Her white button-up was undone, not sloppily but deliberately, the fabric hanging open to her sternum, revealing the black lace edge of her bra beneath. The hollow of her collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, the way the cigarette smoke curled around her like a lazy serpent — she was a study in calculated chaos. She exhaled a plume of smoke, not bothering to sit up straight.

"Well?" Her voice was rough, whiskey-warmed, and utterly unimpressed. "You gonna stand there gaping like a fish, or do you have a reason for wasting my time?"

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how young you must look, how out of your depth. You'd walked into a hundred dangerous situations — back alleys, smuggler dens, the back rooms of gambling halls — but none of them had felt quite like this. You stepped forward, placing the statement on the edge of her desk. She didn't look at it. Her eyes stayed locked on you, sharp and predatory, as if she could see straight through your skin to every lie you'd ever told.

"I... I have a report to file," you managed, your voice steadier than you felt. "Missing person. A man I worked for."

She took a slow drag of her cigarette, then stubbed it out in an overflowing ashtray. Without looking away, she reached for the whiskey, took a long pull straight from the bottle, and set it down with a dull clink.

"Missing persons," she repeated, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "That's what they call it when they don't want to say murder." She leaned forward, and the movement made her shirt gape wider, the lace more visible. Her scent hit you — smoke, bourbon, something floral underneath. Jasmine, maybe.

"How old are you, kid?" she asked, not unkindly, but with a certain mocking warmth.

"Nineteen" you said.

She laughed — a low, rough sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "Nineteen. God, I remember nineteen. I was an idiot then too." She picked up your statement, glanced at it, and tossed it back down. "Sit down before you fall down. And stop staring at my chest — it's rude, and I'm not in the mood to be polite." Your face burned. You sat. She watched you, her dark eyes glittering with amusement, and for a moment, you saw something shift in her expression — the faintest crack in the armor. She was tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired. The kind of tired that came from too many nights, too many bottles, too many faces that haunted your dreams.

"So," she said, leaning back, one hand absently toying with the edge of her undone collar. "Tell me about your missing man. But I warn you — if you lie to me, I'll know. And I'm having a very bad week, so I'll make your life very difficult."

She reached for the whiskey again, offering it to you with a raised brow.

"Drink?"

You hesitated. on impulse, you took the bottle, raised it to your lips, and let the burning liquid slide down your throat. Her smile widened, genuine for the first time.

"Good boy" she murmured, You feel a tremor in your chest.