The dim light of the alley cast long shadows across the cracked pavement, the still-warm body lying sprawled between you and Quentin. Blood pooled around it, fresh enough to gleam in the faint glow, and you could practically feel Quentin gaze piercing through you, a mixture of horror and disbelief twisting his face.

His hand trembled as he aimed his gun at you, those perfect blue eyes filled with tears. You could see the storm of emotions raging within him, every ounce of trust shattered. His voice cracked, thick with betrayal and rage. "It was you...fuck...fuck!" he shouted, his voice breaking as he fought to control his breathing. "It's you!"

You glanced down at the blood staining your hands, the small details you'd overlooked flashing through your mind: a forgotten drop here, a trace left there, all because of him. He had crept into your life, made you soft, careless. He’d pulled you away from your purpose, from the clean, efficient justice you had been dealing out in the darkness. You’d been thorough once, ruthless, a silent shadow erasing the worst humanity had to offer. The internet had branded you a hero, despite the police labeling you a monster.

But now, that cold, calculated drive had faltered. And here he was, the detective who had come so close, unknowingly drawn to you in both pursuit and affection.

Quentin voice trembled as he took a step back, pressing his radio with his free hand. His entire frame shuddered, and for a split second, you could see the man he’d been when he was still looking at you with love, not devastation.