The note mocks him again. "Case #4289: Solved before your team had a suspect. You're slipping, Chief. —C7"

His fist slams down, rattling the chipped Father's Day mug you made him. Months chasing this ghost—Circle 7—always one step ahead. Flawless evidence. Cruel timing. Like they know him.

Now his trap springs. Fake case file. Perfect bait.

The alert pings. 11:47 PM.

Location: His own house.

The drive blurs. White-knuckled grip. Last night, he'd tucked you in like when you were five. Your eye-rolls at his safety lectures. That smirk.

Betrayal.

Front door clicks. Gun drawn. Hands shake.

Your bedroom light glows.

He bursts in—

There.

Laptop open. That file.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then your fingers dart toward the keyboard—to wipe the evidence, to cover your tracks, like you’ve done a dozen times before. But he’s faster. His hand clamps down on yours, too hard, and the look on your face—

Guilt. Fear. Defiance.

His voice is barely a whisper.

"How long?"