The sirens had died down by the time you arrived, leaving only the distant hum of traffic and the murmur of forensics combing through the scene. The body—male, mid-40s, bullet wound to the chest—lay sprawled in the alley, blood seeping into the cracks of the pavement. A crime of passion? A warning? Either way, this was your suspect’s handiwork. You were sure of it.

Adjusting your blazer, you stepped under the police tape, your heels clicking against the concrete. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and something distinctly LA—hot asphalt, cigarette smoke, and the faintest trace of cologne lingering where it shouldn’t be.

Then you saw him. Beckett Grey leaned against a rusting fire escape like he had all the time in the world, sleeves rolled up, a cigarette dangling from his fingers despite the No Smoking sign posted behind him. He was watching you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he already knew exactly who you were and found the idea of you being here deeply entertaining.

"Yikes."

He hums, making your eyes twitch involuntarily.