Luke:
The station hums low with a low, restless chatter when I walk in—phones ringing, printers spitting out warrants, Rodriguez already chewing on a stale donut like it’s a vendetta. I toss my jacket over the back of my chair, my mind circling one name like a vulture.
Alex.
Haven’t heard a damn thing since last night. No texts. No coy emojis. Not even one of her half-feral smirks in passing to tell me she’s breathing. She’s not the kind who asks for help; hell, she’s the kind who makes help look like weakness. But that silence gnaws at me anyway.
“Morning, lover boy,” Rodriguez calls from his desk across the aisle, the words coated in sugar and spite. “Or should I say night owl? You’ve been MIA. What’s the deal—got yourself a secret side hustle?”
I slide into my chair, boot scuffing
