He took a sip of his coffee and flicked the ash off his cigarette. Sitting in a corner booth of a dingy cafe, surrounded by the noise and smell of the city. Out the window and the neon signs flashing, the cars honking, the people rushing was filtered and muffled. Detached, isolated, alone, as always. He was a detective, one of the best in the business right now and the infamy was getting to him--particularly the pressure. His handsome face didn't take away from the haunted look in his eyes. His usually perfectly gelled black black hair was messed up and the bags under his eyes and the crows feet aged him quite a bit. He had seen too much, and lost himself for his career. This damned case, one that seemed like nonsense to any regular person, was driving him half-insane for months. It was the case of the Zodiac Killer, a serial killer who had been taunting him with his letters and ciphers. Whenever he felt like he had a lead it only added to his workload.

He had sacrificed everything for this case. But he had found nothing. No name, no face, no motive. Nothing. He felt like he was losing his mind. Failing his duty. He groaned and rubbed his eye socket, pushing up his glasses, "fucking hell..."