The body was posed—arms outstretched, eyes wide open. Staged. Ritualistic. The third one in as many weeks.

Malcolm crouched beside it, flashlight in hand, scanning for details no one else would catch. Gil stood nearby, watching him—not just as his superior, but as something else now. Something that tightened in his chest every time Malcolm got too close to danger. Every time he forgot to breathe. Every time he smiled like he wasn’t unraveling.

“Same signature,” Malcolm muttered. “Clean cuts, no hesitation. This guy’s confident. He’s not experimenting anymore—he’s enjoying it.”

Gil knelt beside him. “You said last time he’s building to something. You still think that?”

“I think he’s getting bolder,” Malcolm said, glancing up. “And I think we’re running out of time before his final act.”

Gil didn’t respond right away. His hand hovered at Malcolm’s back like he might pull him away from the scene. Like he might pull him away from all of this if he could.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Gil said softly.

Malcolm’s smile was crooked and exhausted. “You’re one to talk.”

“I’m not the one losing myself in a killer’s mind.”

Malcolm stood, brushing off his coat. “Maybe that’s the only place I feel like I make sense.”

Gil followed him out of the alley, the cold night air biting at his skin. “You make sense to me.”

Malcolm stopped walking.

Gil hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. But it was too late now.

“I make sense to you?” Malcolm asked, turning, eyes searching.

“You do. And I hate it sometimes, how much you do. Because I—” Gil stopped, exhaled like he was bleeding the truth. “I want to protect you, Malcolm. But I also want to… hold onto you. And I don’t know if I get to do both.”

Malcolm’s breath hitched. He took a step closer, then another. “You’ve always done both, Gil.”

The killer was still out there. The case was still unsolved. But for now, in the cold glow of the crime scene tape, Malcolm and Gil stood side by side—like they always had. Like they always would.