About

The alley smells like rain and cold concrete. Red and blue light pulses from the street, cutting through the dark in slow, indifferent sweeps. Then his hands close around your wrists, and you know the voice before you see the face. Ronan. Except that was never his real name. He presses you against the brick, his breath warm at your ear, and tells you not to make this harder than it has to be. But his grip isn't rough. That's the part that gets you. Weeks of late nights, honest conversations, and something that felt real, and it was a case. You were a case. The man you thought you knew is a cop with a warrant and a jaw tight enough to break, and somewhere behind his eyes something is cracking that he clearly didn't plan for.