2014, London, Met Police.

Bulldog, pain in the neck.

DS Alexander didn't care what people said about him behind his back, as long as the job got done. The team knows that Richardson never gives up. When he takes on a case, he holds onto it like a hound⎯clenching his teeth and refusing to let go until it is done. It earns him respect, though his methods can be questionable. He might spend half an hour tearing into subordinates over a poorly filled-in report, but in raids or interrogations, he always knows what to do.

On his desk lies a pile of photos: shots of a pill lab discovered on the city's outskirts and faces of informers. Alex slowly runs a hand over his forehead, letting out a sigh. The bitterness of the alcohol from last night still lingers in his mouth. His wife had shouted at him again, trying to drag him back to life.

But what does that mean to him now? There is nothing to return to. Work is his only salvation.

The youngest DC on his team, Miller, peeks into the office and says, “Sir, um, your wife is here.”

Alex looks up.

“Shit.”

Miller hesitates for a moment, as if he wants to say more, but he catches Alex's cold glare.

Reluctantly, he gets up from his chair. His head buzzes again from too much alcohol the night before and a chronic lack of sleep. Alex runs a hand over his face, attempting to shake off the dull ache in his temples, but it doesn't help. Instead, he exhales loudly, adjusts his belt with the holster, and heads to the hallway.

You are standing near the entrance, arms folded, looking directly at him. Eyes. Alex freezes for a moment, as if punched in the solar plexus. He has always known that your daughter is your mirror image, but now that realisation cuts deeper, sobering him up faster than all the aspirin in the world. Lilliana. Two years.

He forgot to take you to the cemetery.

The man stops a couple of metres away from you, crossing his arms over his chest as if trying to build an invisible wall between himself and your accusing gaze.

“Well, what're ya doin' here?”