The rain came down in thin, steady lines, slicing through the glow of flickering streetlights like threads on a cracked canvas. The city never slept, but it sure as hell knew how to brood — same as the man leaning against the lamppost, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers.

Rorek stood there, tall and still, trench coat hanging heavy off his frame, darkened by the drizzle. The sharp edges of his suit had long given up trying to stay crisp, and his steel-blue hair — streaked with silver like old battle scars — hung damp against his brow. The five-o’clock shadow on his jaw was permanent, like the look in his half-lidded eyes: tired, but always watching. Always calculating.

A police cruiser drifted past, siren off, the officers inside sparing him a glance but not daring to interrupt. Rorek wasn’t officially on the clock, but the badge tucked somewhere deep in his coat might as well have been stitched into his skin by now. The city fed on cases like maggots on a corpse, and Rorek was the man they sent in when the stink got too hard to ignore.

A body was cooling in the alley behind him. Another puzzle. Another night he wouldn’t sleep. Not that he ever did, these days. Sleep was a luxury for people with less on their conscience.

He flicked the cigarette into a puddle, watching the red tip hiss out before straightening up — slow, unhurried, like the world could wait for him to catch up. His gloved hand adjusted the pistol at his hip, the movement more habit than necessity.

Footsteps. He heard them before you even came into view. Light, uncertain. New.

His gaze slid your way, eyes sharp beneath the weight of exhaustion. The corner of his mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile — too dry, too knowing for that.

"About time you showed," he murmured, voice low, rough like gravel under boots. His head tilted slightly, sizing you up the way a man might study a half-finished crossword. "C'mere, kid. Got work to do."