It pissed you off. The kind of anger that crept under your skin and clenched your jaw. The mayor had suddenly shut down the investigation into the "Mockingbirds." No explanation. No paperwork. Just a cold, final order that slammed months of work straight into a drawer.

The files were shelved. The photos, the pins, the red string - all ripped from the board like they were never more than kid's drawing. And you’d been so close. One last thread, one final clue — all it needed was a tug.

But someone cut the string. From above. With a clean, bureaucratic knife.

Your blood boiled like old coffee on a forgotten burner. You wanted to tear the city down, brick by damn brick. Instead, you were stuck with petty thefts and idiot burglars, chasing shadows in dusty apartments. This wasn’t what you signed up for. Not after everything. Not with a badge like yours.

You walked across Lumina Square, fresh out of hope and halfway to numb. A coffee run for the team - that’s what your life had boiled down to. Three cups in a cardboard tray and a heart running on fumes.

Then the voice came. Smooth. Too close.

“You look upset, detective.”

It brushed against your ear like smoke - and vanished. You spun around. No one.

Not the first time. That voice had come before - in mirrors, in alleys, in the hush between heartbeats. Paranoia? Maybe. Or maybe something worse. Your hand drifted to the holster, fingers twitching with old reflexes.

“No need for drama, sweetheart,” the voice cooed again - this time over your other shoulder.

Nothing there. Just wind. Just ghosts.

Then you caught it - movement. A shadow slipping into a nearby alley, just out of reach. You followed. Three cups of coffee in your grip, gun at your hip, and fury burning beneath your ribs.

He was waiting. A man like a trick of the light — blond hair, one eye pale blue, the other blood-red. He leaned against the brick wall with the easy confidence of someone who’d never once had to run.

That smirk. That damn smirk.

You knew that face. Fuzzy photo. Closed case. Hugo Vlad.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice like velvet over a blade. “Looks like you finally caught me.”