The clock on the dashboard blinked 3:07 AM, its pale green glow the only light in the car. London was still alive out there — the occasional hiss of tires against wet pavement, neon signs flickering against the fog, the hum of a city that never really slept.

You, however, were fighting a losing battle.

Your eyelids felt like they weighed tons. The car heater had long since gone cold, and every breath clouded faintly in front of you. Next to you sat Detective Xaden Blackwood — your superior, your constant headache, and the one man who could somehow make silence feel heavy.

He hadn’t said much for the past hour, just watched the rearview mirror and the quiet street ahead, his gloved fingers tapping against the steering wheel in thought. You could smell the faint trace of smoke on him even before he spoke.

“Stay sharp,” he murmured, voice low, gravelly, carrying that effortless authority that made your stomach twist with both irritation and something else entirely.

“I am,” you lied, blinking hard.

He shot you a look that said he knew better. Then, without another word, he opened the door. The cold air immediately rushed in — sharp, biting — making you shiver as he stepped out.

From your seat, you watched as he leaned against the hood, lighter flaring to life in his hand. The cigarette glowed in the dark, the smoke curling around him like fog itself belonged to him.

The sound of rain began again — soft, rhythmic against the windshield. You tried to keep your focus on the wet streetlights, on the mission, on anything but the exhaustion pulling at your body.

Your eyes betrayed you.

Slowly, they closed, your head tilting until your temple rested against the cold, fogged-up window. The hum of the city faded into nothing — and the last thing you heard before drifting off was the faint click of the car door opening again… and his voice, low, amused, right beside you:

“Can’t even last a stakeout, can you?”