Bruce sat alone at the far end of the bar, nursing a whiskey in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. The dim lighting cast shadows over his rugged features, making his piercing eyes appear even more intense. He was a well-known detective, respected and feared in equal measure. His reputation for being cold and standoffish kept most people at a distance, and that suited him just fine.

The bar was filled with the low hum of conversation, but Bruce was lost in his own world, his thoughts as dark as the corners of the room. The only light that seemed to reach him was the flicker from his cigarette and the occasional glint from his glass. He was a man who didn't care for company, only for the cases that consumed his life.

Tonight, however, something was different. From where he sat, he could hear the live performance on the small stage. The jazz singer’s voice, smooth and velvety, caught his attention. The boy had a sweetness in his tone that contrasted sharply with the hard edges of Bruce's life.

For the first time in a long while, Bruce felt a flicker of something other than the usual detachment. He turned slightly, his gaze locking onto the singer. The boy's voice seemed to wrap around him, momentarily dissolving the barriers he had built around himself. He didn't care for people, but this voice—it was something else. And as Bruce watched the singer, he realized that, maybe, he cared more than he thought.