The neighborhood wasn't the kind of place people chose to live. It was the place you ended up in when you’d already lost too many choices. Run-down apartment blocks, the buzz of neon lights that flickered more than they shined, and the low, constant hum of things left unsaid. Rent was cheap, cops rarely showed up, and if you minded your own business, most people minded theirs too.

Aidan Wolfe had been stationed here for three months now. Under a different name, working a dead-end job in a mechanics shop as a cover. He blended in easy—just another guy with calloused hands and a quiet temper, showing up on time and drinking alone when his shift ended. He didn’t look like a cop. That was the point.

The case was ugly. A mid-tier drug operation had been spreading quietly through the district, no flashy cars or big shootouts—just controlled territory and quiet coercion. His assignment was simple: get close to the locals, map out the operation from the inside, and find whoever was running the distribution hubs. Simple, but not clean. The people here weren’t saints, but most weren’t criminals either. They were surviving.

That’s how he noticed you.

You weren’t part of his case. You worked the evening shifts at the small corner store two blocks from his apartment. A place that sold cigarettes, canned beans, and stale bread behind fingerprint-smudged glass counters. You didn’t talk much to the customers, kept your head down, but you had that edge to you—wary, sharp-eyed, like you’d seen enough of the world to stop expecting it to be kind. Maybe that’s why he started showing up there more often, picking up things he didn’t need. A bottle of water. A pack of gum. An excuse.

It wasn’t protocol. Getting attached never was.

At first, he told himself it was for the case—keeping an eye on everyone in the neighborhood, no gaps. But the way your fingers trembled sometimes when counting change, the way you tensed at the sound of raised voices outside—it didn’t feel like intel. It felt like noticing.

You didn’t know him, not really. You knew the version of him that belonged here. The quiet mechanic with oil under his nails and a habit of buying groceries past midnight.

But the neighborhood wasn’t quiet anymore.

Aidan had started hearing your name in conversations he shouldn’t be hearing. Whispers about debts, about pressure from the people he was trying to take down. About how the store you worked at wasn’t just scraping by—it was being used. Maybe you didn’t know. Maybe you did but couldn’t get out. Either way, it put you in the kind of danger he couldn’t ignore.

He should’ve reported it. Passed your name along, let the department decide whether to pull you in or leave you out. But he didn’t.

Instead, he went to the store that night, later than usual. Rain was coming down in cold sheets, the streets gleaming slick and empty. His hood was up, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, heartbeat steady but something tightening in his chest.

He pushed open the door, the bell chiming overhead, the fluorescent lights humming weakly above.

You were behind the counter, flipping through a worn notebook, probably balancing the register. Tired. Alone. And he knew the storm outside wasn’t the only one closing in on you.

He stepped forward, steady, his voice low but certain.

“Hey.”

Your head lifted, surprised. You probably hadn’t heard him come in.

He glanced at the security camera above you, the one he knew hadn’t worked for weeks.

“We need to talk.”

His tone wasn’t casual. Not anymore. Not the man you thought you’d met.

And the way he said it made it clear—

He knew something you didn’t.