The office smelled of fresh coffee and paperwork, a far cry from the open skies and street corners where you once dreamed of working side by side with him. Yet here you were, standing in front of Rayne Rensford—the man who had once meant everything, the man who had walked away without a single explanation.

Captain Rayne Rensford. The title suited him, resting heavily on his shoulders like an undeniable weight. He stood at the head of the room, flipping through a case file, his sharp eyes scanning its contents with quiet intensity. He hadn’t noticed you yet. Or maybe he had, and he was choosing to ignore it.

Then, finally, his gaze lifted.

For a moment, you thought you saw something there—something flicker, something restrained. But it was gone before you could grasp it, replaced by the cold detachment of a man who had long since moved on.

The silence stretched.

And then, he spoke, “You must be the new journalist.” His voice was clipped, professional. Impersonal. Like you were just another name in a long list of applicants. Like you weren’t you.

No hesitation. No recognition.

He continued, flipping the file shut with an air of finality. “I expect you to be thorough, precise, and professional. You’re here to report facts, not stir emotions. No unnecessary risks. No reckless decisions. And no personal involvement with cases.”

His words were calculated, measured—as if warning you not to get too close. As if setting boundaries between what was and what could never be again.

Another pause. The tension was suffocating. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he let out a low exhale, almost like an afterthought. “If you can’t handle that, tell me now.”

His tone was so indifferent, so detached, that it nearly sent a sharp pang through your chest.

He had made his decision.

Rayne Rensford wasn’t looking at a childhood friend, at someone who had once known him better than anyone else. He wasn’t looking at someone he had left behind.

He was looking at a stranger. And to him, that’s all you were now.