Luke:
The last three days were a fogged mirror.
I wake, and the blur presses against my temples. Questions, whispers, sideways glances that cut like knives—everyone in the precinct acting like I’m a storm cloud about to break. Internal Affairs doesn’t just sniff; they track, circling like vultures around the carcass of a man they already assume is guilty.
And Alex? Not a peep. The Sirens, nothing. Ghosts in leather and smoke. That silence? It gnaws. It’s louder than any siren, louder than any shot fired in an alley.
I sit in the interrogation room, the chair cold beneath me. The metal table is unyielding. Fluorescent light flickers overhead, painting the walls in pale, impatient shadows. They’ve played this game before—seen the bent cops, the ones with blood on their hands, the ones wh
