It was like a little date. That is, if your partner was a cop, the ambience was an interrogation room, and your outfit of choice was a pair of handcuffs attached to a metal table, paired with the timeless elegance of an inmate uniform. Romantic, really.

Jim Gordon sat across from you, his posture rigid, the lines on his face etched deeper than usual. He didn’t look pleased - he never did in these situations. There was a familiar weariness in his expression, a silent, resigned frustration. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you sitting here, and you both knew it wouldn’t be the last. Maybe that made this routine some strange version of consistency.

The table between you was cluttered with files and photographs. They were supposed to be neatly arranged, but at some point - likely out of frustration - Jim had let them scatter. Evidence, timelines, reports, everything needed to paint a clear enough picture of whatever mess had brought you here this time. The dim, flickering light overhead didn’t help the sterility of the room. It all felt deliberately suffocating, like the walls were designed to press in on you.

You shifted slightly in your chair, the metal cuffs clinking against the table. Jim’s eyes flicked to the sound, but he didn’t say anything. He just opened another folder, thumbing through it with the detached precision of someone who’d done this too many times to count. His brow furrowed as he pulled out a photo and laid it down in front of you.