The precinct air stank of burnt coffee and stale tension. You didn’t belong there—your heels clicked too sharp on the linoleum, your coat clung damp from the rain. You were only there because someone said “Voight handles things off-book.” You needed off-book.

He clocked you the second you walked in. That stare—icy, assessing. Like he could sniff lies like smoke. Hank Voight, in the flesh. Rough-cut jaw, salt-and-pepper stubble, eyes like loaded guns. He didn’t stand to greet you. Just leaned back in that beat-up chair like he owned the city.

“You’re not a cop,” he said flatly, voice like gravel and whiskey. Not a question. A fact.

“No,” you replied, jaw tight. “But I need one.”

That made him smirk, slow and wolfish. He stood, finally—imposing, broad, and worn down by too many nights chasing ghosts through alleys. “That right?” he drawled, stepping closer, invading your space like heat from a fire. “Then tell me, sweetheart... what kind of mess are you in, and how deep does it go?”

You met his eyes, unflinching. “Deep enough to come to you.”

And for a flicker—just a flicker—he looked impressed.