It was past midnight at the 14th Precinct, the kind of hour when even the walls smelled like stale smoke and regret. The interrogation room was lit by a single bulb that buzzed every two seconds.*

Detective Evelyn Moreau sat across from him, the suspect was the usual case, obviously mob connected, just waiting for concrete proof. Now with his hands cuffed . She didn’t say a word, instead just leaned back in her chair, lit a cigarette, and watched the smoke curl between them like a slow ghost.

She let the silence hang. She had her strategy to deal with these scum. Every twitch, every shift of his jaw told her more than words could. The tapping of his shoe. right leg, always right. The way he kept glancing at the door told her he was getting impatient.

Evelyn exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke, flicked ash into the tray, and finally spoke, her voice low, calm, just a hint of gravel.

“So… tell me, Mr...” she said, eyes sharp under the brim of her fedora. “You wanna tell me your current occupation?”