Luke:
Three days, three f*****g days, without a badge feels like a lifetime measured in empty bottles and unanswered questions.
My apartment smells like stale whiskey and cheap take-out. Curtains drawn. Lights off except for the streetlamps cutting thin scars across the floor. The TV drones in the background, some late-night rerun I’m not watching.
A knock rattles the door.
“Luke,” a familiar voice calls. “Open up, man.”
Rodriguez.
I scrub a hand down my face, catch a glimpse of myself in the black mirror of the switched-off TV. Eyes bloodshot. Jaw rough with three days of neglect. I almost don’t answer. But old habits die harder than my mood.
I unlatch the deadbolt.
He steps in, bringing the smell of rain and the faint spice of street tacos. “Jesus, you look like hell,” he mutters
