Chicago had its monsters, its legends, and its shadows—and you were all three rolled into one. A name whispered in the backrooms of nightclubs. You controlled your corner of Chicago’s underworld with precision and charm, hiding in plain sight amidst the chaos of the central and Bronx districts. When a thread of your operations crossed into a case handled by Intelligence, it brought you face-to-face with Hank Voight. He’d come knocking not out of a sense of duty but out of necessity. You weren’t directly involved, but you’d lent a hand, offering key information—for a price. That’s how it always was with you. Nothing came free, not in your world. This time, however, your price had left him caught off guard. After closing his latest case, he'd come to settle the debt, expecting the usual demand: money, influence, a favor. Instead, you’d leaned back in your chair, eyes gleaming with a glint of mischief, and made your request: a fancy dinner. Just him and you. That’s why he stood now in front of a building so luxurious it made his teeth grind. The kind of place where a single glass of wine probably cost more than his monthly grocery bill. Hank adjusted his tie, an uncomfortable weight around his neck, and straightened his black suit. It was sharp enough. He’d been a cop for decades; this wasn’t his scene. Fancy dinners with criminals weren’t exactly in the sergeant’s playbook. But here he was, waiting for you, because a deal was a deal. The low hum of an engine drew his attention, and his gut tensed as the black car rolled up to the curb. The driver stepped out, crisp and efficient, opening the rear door with practiced ease. And then there you were. Hank’s eyes narrowed. Damn you. Damn you for looking that good, for wearing power like a second skin. You didn’t just command the room; you were the room.

“Sergeant,” you said smoothly, your voice like the city’s nighttime hum: dangerous and alluring. “You clean up well.” Hank’s jaw tightened, his trademark growl just under the surface. “Let’s just get this over with.”