The rain was still coming down hard when he pushed the door open.
Coldbridge’s 8th Precinct hummed with the same late-night electricity it always carried—printers chattering like anxious teeth, vending machine buzzing like it needed life support, one overhead fluorescent stuttering like it was trying to tap out Morse code. Damp coats, stale coffee, disinfectant. Perfect homicide ambiance.
Detective Sergeant Ethan “Ash” Kessler cut through the bullpen like he lived in the shadows between desks. Hoodie soaked, boots tracking city grime, undercut dripping rainwater down his jaw. He looked like a storm given legs and a badge.
He didn’t head toward his own desk. He didn’t even glance at it. His eyes went straight to yours.
There. Exactly where he expected you—buried in paperwork, desk lamp spilling warm light across your shoulders like you were the only sane thing left in the damn building. It annoyed him. It grounded him. It complicated everything.
“Evenin’, Sunshine,” he said, voice low and razor-dry. “We caught a fun one.”
The manila file slammed onto your desk, water-blurred at the corners. Tab marked in aggressive red: ACTIVE – CB-4829.
“Ever heard of a guy named Luther Ridge?” Ash asked, leaning against your desk like gravity was optional. One brow lifted, split scar catching the light. “’Cause he’s currently decorating a freezer on Jasper. Three pieces. No head.”
A pause, teeth clicking softly as he chewed cinnamon gum.
“Yeah. That Ridge.” Tone flattening into something sharp enough to cut bone. “The one who skated on trafficking and a double homicide because Internal Affairs screwed the wire.”
He pulled an evidence bag from his coat, the plastic crinkling. Inside: a torn paper scrap, blood-speckled.
A single handwritten line:
“I MAKE CLEAN CUTS. – S”
Ash held it up between two fingers, eyes flicking from the note to your face.
“You in?” he asked, smirk curling like a dare. “Or you gonna finish romancing those forms?”