Hearts in the Crossfire

Leaving for work 2 hours before your shift starts —for a ten-minute drive— is really an overstated punctuality for normal employees. Well, for Detective Émilie Laurent, it was never an overstatement. For her, it is more like doing charity work before officially serving the public. Recently promoted to Superintendent of the Violent Crimes department, she had immediately refused the desk. Émilie wanted to stay as a Senior Detective, out in the field, consumed by the old case she was determined to uncover. Due to her unmatched merits, she’d been given an unofficial Superintendent’s privilege: the freedom to oversee cases in other teams and involve herself in any investigation she chose. Every morning, she drove a new, meandering route to work, always without the sirens. To catch a venomous snake, you don't charge it; you have to move calmly and quietly, preventing it from fleeing or becoming defensive. On that Monday, her unmarked sedan drifted past a narrow alley. She spotted a woman in ragged beggar clothes, hunched over, taking a drag from a cigarette. Émilie was about to write it off as another slice of early-morning city life when a man emerged from the shadows. He wore a once-crisp white polo and black slacks, now horribly splattered with dark, wet blood. The baseball bat clutched loosely in his hand was equally stained. Émilie’s foot instinctively moved from the gas to the brake. She quickly maneuvered the car around the corner onto the adjacent street, killing the engine to avoid being spotted. The man approached the beggar. They seemed to know each other. “When will they finish him off? I want to get these filthy rags off my delicate skin!” the woman complained, her voice carrying a strange, cultured whine beneath the rough facade. “It’s almost done, baby,” the man replied, a sickeningly flirtatious smile spreading across his blood-flecked face. “We just need to ensure he’s incapable of hindering the boss’s plans.” Peeking over the lip of the alley entrance, Émilie’s eyes narrowed. Five more men in matching black suits were grouped deeper inside, delivering slow, sickening strikes to a figure curled on the ground. Her instincts—honed by a decade of chasing monsters—screamed Now. She quietly opened her door, pulled her SIG Sauer from its holster, and aimed it at the man with the bat. “MPD! Freeze! Don’t move or I’ll shoot!” In a city with soaring crime, the sound of a cop’s voice still triggered a primal flight response. The woman tossed her cigarette and sprinted back into the alley, using the other thugs as a human shield. “Hey, babe! Where are you going?!” the man shouted after her. Seeing Émilie clearly, he spun, hurling the heavy, bloody bat straight at her head before attempting to bolt in the opposite direction. She dodged the weapon, the whistling wood narrowly missing her ear. She was already pursuing him, gun up. Émilie fired, aiming for the man’s leg to slow him down, but the thugs inside the alley were instantly alerted. They surged out, dragging their gangmate toward a waiting getaway vehicle. Seeing the victim lying in a pool of his own blood, she made the tactical decision. She didn't pursue the fleeting perpetrators. Instead, she dropped to her knees, immediately calling in for backup and emergency medical services. While the sirens were still distant echoes, she checked the victim’s pulse and respiration. Both were dangerously weak. “You’d be the perfect Greek god, if you weren't damaged like this,” she murmured, the professional assessment mixing with an involuntary thought. Blood traced a brutal line down his temple, slicing through the chiseled perfection of his face like a cruel, crimson signature. Bruises and cuts mapped his jaw and arms, transforming his sharp, classical beauty into something raw and dangerous. Émilie unbuttoned his soaked shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest. He had deep stab wounds: one in the left abdomen and another in the right shoulder. “A—Are you… an… angel?” the man rasped, a smile struggling to break through his pain-fogged face. “Save your breath, sir. You’re safe now. The ambulance is coming,” she instructed, ignoring the strange, delirious question as she continued her rapid inspection for additional injuries. “Orr… a reap-er… who wants to… collect me?” “Neither. I’m a police detective, and you’re lucky I drove down this alley. Otherwise, you’d be meeting one of the two for real.” Émilie felt a flicker of annoyance mixed with genuine confusion. How could a man beaten to a pulp muster a laugh and flirt in this condition? The man couldn't help but register her presence. ‘How could a reaper be this gorgeous?’ he thought, ‘An angelic face that warms up my dormant heart with eyes that look so concerned and yet so sad.’ A stranger’s gentle, firm touch spread through him like sunlight through clouds—quiet but undeniable. For a heartbeat, the noise and pain faded, and all he could register was that warmth, soft and vital. Minutes later, the alley was saturated with the wail of sirens. Paramedics jumped out of the ambulance, immediately rushing the stretcher to the victim. They worked quickly to stop the bleeding, but as soon as he was secured for transport, the man's eyes closed, and he succumbed to unconsciousness.