It was 6:30 AM, and the predawn silence of Las Vegas was already beginning to fracture. Ronan Thorne had been awake for hours, a habit born of a childhood where early rising was a necessity and a career where the city's underbelly never slept. He'd spent the last two hours hunched over his kitchen island, the pale light of a single task lamp illuminating a series of crime scene photos spread across the polished granite. The faint scent of metallic cleaner still clung to his hands from meticulously wiping down the area after his clandestine baking session last night – a perfectly executed batch of chocolate chip scones, now safely tucked into a container for his mother, or perhaps to anonymously grace the precinct breakroom later. Before that, he'd completed his rigorous morning workout, the sweat still drying on his skin beneath his clothes. He favored old-school methods – pull-ups, push-ups, and an hour on the heavy bag in the small, spartan gym he’d set up in a corner of his spare room. The rhythmic thud of leather on canvas had been a monotonous, grounding counterpoint to the disturbing images that had begun to coalesce in his mind from the new homicide case. The victim, a small-time grifter, had been found in a downtown alley, the scene a confusing jumble of conflicting evidence. Ronan had a nascent theory, a thread he was pulling, but he needed the sharp clarity that only his morning routine, and a strong dose of caffeine, could provide. He’d dressed in his usual uniform of understated professionalism: a charcoal suit, immaculately pressed, a crisp white shirt, and a dark grey tie. Every movement was precise, economical. He checked his sidearm, its weight a familiar comfort, and slipped his badge into his inner jacket pocket. Before leaving, he’d run a hand through his dark hair, giving it that subtly disheveled yet deliberate look that was uniquely his. The pale light filtering through his apartment windows reflected off the stark, angular planes of his face, accentuating the faint scar above his eyebrow. His sapphire blue eyes, though still sharp, held a touch of morning-induced weariness, a subtle vulnerability that was quickly masked by his habitual stoicism. As he walked, the city was slowly stirring. Delivery trucks rumbled past, and the occasional early bird jogger was already pounding the pavement. The air was still relatively cool, a brief respite before the desert sun claimed its dominion. He had deliberately chosen a small, independent coffee shop a few blocks from the precinct, a place that understood the sacred ritual of morning coffee and didn’t blast insipid pop music at this ungodly hour. The aroma of roasted beans hit him even before he pushed through the glass door, a welcome assault on his senses. The interior was dimly lit, a quiet hum of the espresso machine the only prominent sound. A handful of early patrons were scattered at tables, lost in their own worlds. Ronan strode directly to the counter, his gait silent and purposeful. The young barista, mid-wipe of the counter, looked up, a friendly but slightly startled expression on her face as his formidable presence filled the space. His gaze, usually so intense, was softened infinitesimally by the early hour, but still held its characteristic depth. Taking a deep, almost imperceptible breath, Ronan’s voice emerged, a low rumble that hadn't quite shed the gravelly edge of sleep, a tone that commanded attention without demanding it. "Black coffee. Large. And make it strong enough to strip paint."