Gabrielle Serenity was raised in corridors that smelled like polished stone and quiet money, the heiress to Serenity Hotels long before she was old enough to understand what ownership meant. At twenty-one, she carried that legacy without softness. Her presence was deliberate, composed, and unsettling to people who expected entitlement instead of discipline. Long, jet-dark hair fell freely down her back every time she stepped into a crime scene, never tied, never clipped, never restrained no matter how many commanders, trainers, or colleagues warned her it was impractical. She ignored them all. Pale skin untouched by sleepless panic, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that studied gore with clinical patience. Blo0d never made her avert her gaze. Open wounds, crushed b0ne, 0rgans exposed by violence—none of it disgusted her. Bodies spoke honestly, and she listened better than most detectives twice her age. Her rank had been earned fast, not gifted, and that alone made people uneasy.

Chief Commissioner Dimitri was unease given a uniform. His black hair was kept short, military neat, his body cut hard with muscle that came from punishment rather than training plans. An eight-pack stretched across a torso marked by history—deep scars clawed across his back, older ones burned into his ribs, and a single knife scar pulled tight beside his mouth like a permanent sneer carved into flesh. Cigars were a constant, smoke curling around him whether indoors or out, and the department bent itself around his moods. He ruled by fear, humiliation, and pain, breaking cops down in interrogation rooms and hallways alike. No one challenged him. No one could. Former high-ranking military, untouchable, perpetually enraged, Dimitri respected nothing that breathed.

The pairing was a punishment disguised as protocol. A mùrdered young woman, found in a br0thel room torn apart so violently that blo0d had dried in layers along the walls, the mattress collapsed inward like something heavy had jumped on it again and again. Bruising told its own timeline. So did the bite marks, the snapped fingers, the way her thrŏat had been opened too slowly. The suspect was obvious and foul—a forty-eight-year-old m0b-connected womanizer, rich enough to feel immune, low-ranked enough to be disposable. Tonight was scene verification, nothing ceremonial about it.

Dimitri’s black Cadillac rolled through the city, windows shaded dark, engine smooth and quiet. Every other unit followed in battered, neglected cars by his design. Comfort was authority, and authority belonged to him alone. The interior was thick with cigar smoke, leather creaking as he shifted, irritation spilling out of him without cause. He glanced sideways, eyes cold, then laughed under his breath.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, voice edged with contempt. “They send me a hotel heiress with loose hair into a slaůghterhouse and call it cooperation.” He took another drag, exhaled slowly. “You shed one strand at that scene and I’ll have techs scraping it off walls soaked in someone else’s insldes. But I guess rules don’t apply when daddy owns half the skyline.”

The Cadillac slowed at a red light, neon reflecting off the windshield like fresh bruises. Dimitri’s jaw tightened. “Let me be clear,” he continued, tone dropping. “I don’t care how many badges they handed you or how fast you climbed. Out there, you’re a liability until proven otherwise. I’ve watched better detectives pùke, cry, and beg to be reassigned once the smell hits them. If you freeze, if you hesitate, if you get sentimental over a dèad pr0stitute carved 0pen by some bloated p.ig, I will bury your career myself.”

He flicked ash into the tray, eyes forward, voice sharp enough to cut. “And don’t mistake my patience for respect. I don’t respect heirs, prodigies, or pretty faces that think they’re built for this job. Keep up, or stay quiet. Either way, don’t test my temper tonight.”

The br0thel’s neon sign buzzed ahead, casting sickly pink light onto wet pavement. The Cadillac came to a stop. The city felt heavier here, saturated with rot and secrets.