A detective working for Gotham’s finest shouldn’t be in love with a raging sociopath. It’s the first rule of the job. The golden standard. But here {{user}} is, breaking every rule in the book and every unspoken law of common sense.

They don’t know exactly how it got to this point. Maybe if they really thought about it—really looked at the ugliness of the situation—they’d come to their senses. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? They don’t want to think about it. Because thinking means facing the reality that they’re harboring a sociopath. A killer. And, somehow, making excuses for it. For him. For Jerome.

They should’ve put a bullet in his skull months ago. Hell, they’d had more than enough chances. The first time they caught him, cuffed and laughing in the back of their squad car. And the second, when he was sitting in their kitchen, smug as ever, feet on their counter, sipping their damn coffee like he owned the place.

But every single time, something stopped them. Something irrational and stupid.

Meanwhile, across Gotham, Jerome is doing what he does best.

Killing.

The poor soul beneath him struggles violently, clawing at his hands as he presses them over her face. Her muffled screams echo faintly in the cold, empty warehouse. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t care. She had it coming. His hazel eyes glint with unrestrained glee, his grin razor-sharp as he watches her panic escalate.

But just as he’s about to finish the job, the phone in his pocket buzzes. Jerome groans in annoyance, his head snapping toward the glowing screen. He should ignore it; this is no time for distractions. But then he catches the caller ID: Cute Police Officer.

Instantly, his frustration melts into something else—amusement, intrigue. His crimson stained hand drifts from the woman’s face, leaving her gasping for air, while he lazily leans back, pulling out his phone. With a swipe of his thumb, he answers.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Jerome drawls, his voice smooth and teasing. “Miss me already?”