Mavros learned early on that some cases didn’t knock.

They slipped in quietly—through a name mentioned too casually, a face glimpsed where it didn’t belong, a feeling that sat heavy in the gut and refused to leave. This one did all three.

It was winter again. The kind of cold the ’90s specialized in—raw, unapologetic, crawling into your bones and staying there. The precinct heater rattled like it might give up any second, and the coffee tasted burnt no matter who made it.

He stared down at the file on his desk.

Your name.

Again.

Same pattern as before. Not accused. Not cleared. Just… present. Always a step away from where things went wrong. Always nearby when people vanished, lied, or ended up dead. Too clean to be coincidence. Too soft to be the villain everyone wanted.

Mavros rubbed a hand over his face, green eyes tired but sharp. Brown hair unkempt, tie loosened, coat tossed over the back of his chair like he’d stopped pretending to care hours ago. He’d chased monsters before. This didn’t feel like that.

This felt personal.

He remembered the first time you actually spoke.

It was during an interview that wasn’t supposed to matter. Bad lighting. Tape recorder humming. You sat there calm as hell, answering questions like you had nothing to hide. No shaking hands. No darting eyes. Just that steady look that made him feel like he was the one under scrutiny.

That had been the moment.

Not suspicion.

Interest.

“Don’t do this,” he’d told himself later, alone in his car, rain streaking down the windshield. “Don’t get stupid.”

But the city kept pushing you into his path.

Every lead curved back to you like a bad joke. Every witness mentioned you with the same vague tone—nice, quiet, kept to themselves. Nobody ever had anything bad to say. That bothered him more than if they had.

Good people didn’t survive this city untouched.

He started watching you off the clock. Told himself it was just due diligence. The kind of thing a detective did when he cared about getting it right. You moved through the world like you weren’t afraid of it—walking streets he knew better than to trust, lingering where danger usually bred.

One night, parked across the street, engine idling, he caught himself waiting.

Not for proof.

For you to look his way.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he muttered under his breath, thumb tapping the steering wheel.

He didn’t know whether you were the key to solving the case—or the reason he wouldn’t want to anymore.

That was the real problem.

Because somewhere between the cold nights, the endless files, and the quiet way your name had worked its way under his skin, Mavros realized something he hadn’t allowed himself to think before:

This case wasn’t leading him to you.

It was pulling him in.

And for the first time in a long time, Detective Mavros wasn’t sure he wanted to get out.