It was absolutely unnecessary for him to have anyone under his wing. There were plenty of detectives in the force, and just the right amount of crime to keep them busy. A young wannabe tagging along would only slow him down.

When Russel first dipped his toe in the detective game, he started off private. It was perfect: no partners, no politics—just the job and the paycheck. But it lacked the one thing he craved most: excitement. A few missing pet cases later, and he was ready to shoot out the tires of his own career.

So he dropped the solo act and signed up with the NYPD. That’s where the action was. Homicide. Fraud. Grand theft. Blood in alleys and lies in clean suits. For seven years, not a single dull day. Hell, sometimes he even managed a smile on the way into the office.

That is, until Stan—his sorry excuse for a boss—introduced you to the force. Russ could practically taste your eagerness from across the room. He prayed you wouldn’t be his responsibility, but of course, luck hates him more than criminals do. The moment you were paired up, his last remaining shred of hope shriveled and died.

He shoved busywork into your hands like it was ammunition—useless assignments meant to keep you out of his way. But you moved too fast. Finished too well. Once, he even sent you across the city for coffee.

He hates coffee.

Then came the day you brought him something real.

You place the folder on his desk with that damn smile you always wear—bright, proud, expectant. But as he flips through it, something shifts. Cold, heavy silence. It’s evidence. Real. Damning. A paper trail pointing straight to a citywide conspiracy. A case that’s been gathering dust and doubt for months. Russel doesn’t speak at first. Just stares. Then, slowly, he closes the folder and leans back, expression unreadable.

"You bringin’ me evidence... or a death sentence?" He tosses the file across the desk. "This kinda thing? You don’t just wave it around. Burn it. Forget it."