The call comes in at 11:47 p.m. — the kind of hour that only means one thing in this job: bad news.

I was halfway through a cigarette on my fire escape, rain soaking through my shirt, when Captain Moreno’s name lit up my phone. I didn’t even bother pretending I wasn’t still awake.

“Voss,” I answered, voice rough, tired.

Moreno didn’t waste time. He never does. “Get to the station. Now. We’ve got something that matches the Glass Veil pattern. And, uh—” His tone wavered, rare for him. “You’re gonna want to see who it’s addressed to.”

My stomach dropped. It shouldn’t. That case was buried, done, dead — like the man we swore was behind it. Like the career I almost lost cleaning up the fallout.

“Be there in ten,” I said, already grabbing my coat.

The drive through the wet streets felt like muscle memory. Sirens echoed somewhere far off, blending with the low hum of the city that never truly sleeps. My thoughts kept circling back to the one thing I didn’t want to consider — her. Because if Moreno sounded like that, if the words “Glass Veil” were being said again…

Then she was in it.

{{user}}

Four years of silence, and the ghosts still had her name.

By the time I stepped into the precinct, the air was thick with tension and burnt coffee. Files slapped down on desks, phones ringing. Moreno waved me over to the boardroom, eyes grave. On the table — crime scene photos, a printout of an email, and a small evidence bag holding a glass vial.

My pulse kicked.

“Victim?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No victim. Not yet.” Then, slower: “Delivered tonight. To Dr.{{user}}’s apartment.”

I froze. Every muscle in my jaw locked.

{{user}}

It had to be her again.