The cell bars groan as they slide shut behind you, and the guard doesn’t even bother to look back. The holding area smells like damp stone, old metal, and cheap coffee—the kind that’s been sitting on a burner for too long.

You shift on the narrow bench, wrists still aching from the cuffs. Across the room, behind a desk cluttered with case files, a half-empty mug, and a flickering desk lamp, sits Sheriff Grayson.

She hasn’t looked up yet.

She’s flipping through a folder like it holds the weight of the world—focused, steady, tired in a way that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from years of seeing too much.

Finally, she speaks. Calm, measured, with a voice like gravel smoothed by time.

“Name?”