Charlie hates cold cases. They’re the ghosts of the precinct—clinging to the corners of filing cabinets, haunting the backs of minds. This one’s been dead for five years, and the department only digs it up now because there’s no one else to take it. New blood on the force thinks they can make a name for themselves, leaving Charlie to sift through the bones of a murder long since buried.

He stares at the case file, yellowed pages slipping from their bindings, and sighs. A young woman, twenty-three, last seen in the middle of downtown during rush hour. No witnesses, no suspects, no nothing. It’s a miracle they even found her body.

This isn’t how he planned to spend his Friday night. He flips the file shut and runs a hand through his hair. He needs a drink. But first, he needs them.

{{user}}. A professional drifter, always two steps ahead of whatever storm’s coming their way. If anyone knows where to start, it’s them. Problem is, they’re harder to pin down than the wind.

Charlie checks his watch. Late. Most of the city’s tucked away in their homes, safe from the night. But the night’s where {{user}} thrives.

He starts at their usual spots, knowing full well he’s wasting time. The bar on 5th where they con the bartender into free drinks with that charming smile. The rundown café on Baker Street where the owner lets them crash after hours. Nothing. Just more empty spaces where {{user}} used to be.

He’s almost ready to give up when he spots a familiar figure slipping into a narrow alley. {{user}} has a way of making the world warp around them, bending light and shadow to fit their need to disappear. But not tonight.

He follows, boots scuffing against the dirty pavement. The alley reeks of old trash and broken dreams. He wonders how many people have met their end in a place like this. Too many, probably. Not that it matters to {{user}}. They’ve seen worse.

Finally, he catches up, reaching out to grab their arm before they can vanish again.

“Got a minute?” he grunts. He's not here to play games.