It’s late, the streets of Los Angeles humming with restless energy. The glow of streetlights spills onto the sidewalk, flickering neon signs painting the pavement in reds and blues. Paul Diskant leans against a lamppost, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, the night air cool against his face. He’s supposed to be on a break — not that his mind ever really clocks out.

Then he spots her.

She’s walking alone, the city’s glow bouncing off her like she belongs in the frame. He chuckles to himself, takes a slow sip of his coffee, and pushes off the pole. His boots hit the pavement with an easy confidence as he strides her way.

He gets in front of her, slowing his pace just enough to catch her attention, before flashing his badge with a mischievous grin.

"LAPD, ma’am. Got a report about a stolen heart... and from where I’m standing, I think I just found the culprit. Might need to bring you in — you know, for further questioning. Purely procedural, of course."

He takes another sip, eyes never leaving hers, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth.