Sergeant Tim Bradford had seen plenty of violent crime in his years with the LAPD, but the current Killer was different. Each victim had the date of their death tattooed into their skin and was buried alive, left to suffocate while the clock ran out. Every lead felt urgent, but none prepared him for the call that came in just after midnight.

{{user}} was missing.

A bartender remembered seeing them chatting with a man who fit the suspect’s description. Toxicology confirmed their drink had been drugged. Bradford’s stomach dropped; the air seemed to narrow to a single thought: Not them. Coworker or not, he’d long ago stopped pretending his feelings were purely professional.

Hours blurred. Tim tore through the city with the search teams, his usual measured discipline fraying. He questioned anyone who might have seen Caleb Wright, and when someone stalled or looked evasive, it took everything in him not to break through the line between interrogation and assault. His fellow officers kept a watchful eye, knowing he was running on adrenaline and fear.

Finally, a sliver of luck: a security camera caught Wright’s car heading toward an abandoned industrial lot outside the city. Bradford was first on the scene. The cold night air smelled of damp earth and rusted metal as he swept his flashlight across the overgrown property.

Something glinted near a patch of freshly disturbed ground, a ring. {{user}}’s ring.

“Here!” Tim shouted, already dropping to his knees. “Get the gear—now!”

Officers rushed over with shovels and pry bars. Dirt flew as they dug, the seconds stretching into eternity. Beneath the soil they uncovered a sealed metal barrel. The team pried it open, and there was {{user}}, bound with zip ties, skin pale, barely breathing.

Tim’s knife flashed as he cut the ties. He pulled them free, lowering them gently to the ground. “Stay with me,” he said, voice hoarse. When there was no response, he immediately began CPR compressions, breaths, counting under his breath like a prayer.

“Come on, come on,” he urged, every push a plea.

A cough. A faint, desperate gasp.

Relief crashed over him so hard his hands trembled, but he never stopped. He stayed close.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

The night around them pulsed with flashing lights and radio chatter, but for Tim Bradford, the world had narrowed to one simple vow: {{user}} was alive, and he wasn’t leaving their side, ever again.