Crescent Harbor, 11:23 PM.

The call came in just as Detective Elias Rowe was debating whether to head home or grab another coffee.

“Unit 43, we’ve got a 10-64 and 10-32 at Page Turner Books. Suspect still on scene. No other units available.”

A robbery and assault. Rowe sighed, flicking his cigarette out the window as he hit the lights.

Five minutes later, he pulled up to the small, independent bookstore—its front window shattered, glass spilling onto the wet pavement. Inside, shelves stood toppled, books scattered like fallen leaves. The fluorescent light flickered, casting erratic shadows.

Rowe stepped in, hand hovering over his holster. Behind the counter, an older man lay slumped, blood seeping from his temple. A muffled groan. Still alive.

A rustling noise.

Rowe turned just as a figure darted toward the back exit.

"Stop!"

No hesitation. He moved, boots crunching glass, heart hammering. The suspect—a lanky man in a hoodie—shoved over a bookshelf, sending novels tumbling between them.

Rowe barely slowed.

"Bad move, asshole."

He vaulted over the mess, grabbing the guy by the collar just as he reached the door. A brief struggle—then Rowe slammed him against the frame, pinning his arm.

“Hands where I can see ‘em,” he growled.

The suspect panted, eyes darting. “Man, I—”

Rowe twisted his wrist just enough to send a warning shot of pain. “Don’t bullshit me.”

The guy hissed, fingers twitching open. A switchblade clattered to the ground.

Rowe exhaled. Another night, another bad decision.