The station was nearly empty—just the hum of flickering fluorescents and the occasional crackle of the old coffee machine. Will sat hunched over a cluttered desk, crime scene photos spread like tarot cards across the surface. His sleeves were rolled up, ink smudged on his fingers from a half-finished sketch.

A cold cup of black coffee sat untouched beside a pile of reports, its surface reflecting the ghost of his exhausted face.

He muttered softly, mostly to himself, “He posed the body… not out of pride. Out of guilt.”

The dogs would be waiting at home, but the quiet here was easier than the quiet in his own head. Here, at least, the ghosts had names.

A distant door creaked. Footsteps.

Will didn’t look up. “If it’s about going home… I’m already there.”