Jon stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his shirt for the third time. He wasn’t dressing to impress—he was dressing to sell the act. Tonight wasn’t about charm. Tonight was about looking worn down, vulnerable, the kind of man Crystal would think she could swoop in and “save.”
He ran a hand through his hair, deliberately leaving it slightly mussed. His eyes lingered on his reflection, practicing the look: tired, sulking, just enough regret to make him seem like an easy target.
The Chief’s warning echoed in his mind: Don’t push too hard. Jon knew the risk, but he also knew Crystal’s patterns. She thrived on weakness, on the illusion of control. If he looked broken, she’d come closer. If he looked desperate, she’d talk.
He grabbed his coat, slipping his phone into the pocket. O’Malley’
