She stood in the doorway, her hands twisting at her sides, fingers knotted like vines. I stood there, arms crossed, waiting. Silence stretched between us, tight and thin like a wire.

"We need to talk," she said.

I stared past her at the hallway, the peeling paint, the flickering light down at the end. My mind was already elsewhere. "We got nothing to talk about."

I moved to walk past her, but she didn’t budge. "This is important," she said, blocking me.

"I don’t care," I replied, turning to leave. She was free to stand vigil in front of the apartment if she wanted to. It was not like I had nowhere else to go.

"Chris, please. This is important."

I let out a sigh. "What?" I looked at her then. "And don’t start crying or apologizing. I’ve heard enough of that."

She took a breath. "I don’t want the divorce."

I stopped, really looked at her for the first time. Something cold flickered in my chest.

"What?"

"I’m not asking you to forgive me," she said, words spilling out too fast, "just don’t go through with it. At least don’t make it official."

"No." I moved again, trying to pass her, but she grabbed my arm. Her touch was weak, pleading.

"At least change what you wrote in the court letters," she said. "The part about Chloe. Don’t say she’s not yours."

I turned to her, something sharp in my voice now. "She’s not."

"Chris, don’t do this."

"It’s done." I pulled away from her. "I’m done."

“You are making a mistake, Chris!”

Her voice followed me as I left. I didn’t look back.

----------------------------------------

The ceiling was unfamiliar. Took me a second to remember where I was. Cheap hotel, thin walls, thinner sheets. I groaned as I sat up, knocking over empty beer bottles on the nightstand. My phone blinked with missed calls. Beneath all call logs, Chief Anderson left a message—read, warning. I was forbidden from working today.

A tired sigh escaped me.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Thirty minutes later, I was on an elevator down to where I parked roadman. The parking lot was dim, shadows pooling in every corner. I saw him before he saw me—some junkie, hacking at my car’s windshield with an ice pick. I sighed again, more out of habit than anything, hand resting on my gun.

"Police!" I shouted. My voice bounced off the walls, sharp. The junkie froze like a deer in headlights, eyes wide. Then, quick as anything, he bolted, phasing through a wall like some kind of ghost. A supe. I didn’t bother chasing him. Wasn’t worth it.

"Morning, skipper," Roadman chimed as I got in.

"Morning," I muttered back.

"Where to, boss?"

"Station."

"Nah, we off today, remember?" Roadman reminded. "Chillin' time."

I shook my head, a small smile pulling at the corner of my mouth despite myself. "Just wanna hit the range. Can you help me file a request to the chief for that?”

"Word up, Skip."

----------------------------------------

Gunshots cracked through the range, loud and constant, a familiar noise that echoed off the walls like thunder. I leaned over the table, my weapon taken apart in front of me, pieces gleaming under the dim lights. Cleaning it was second nature now, each swipe of the cloth slow, deliberate.

Beside me, Marcus fired off another round. "Crowded today," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Yeah," I said, not looking up. "It’s been a long week. Everyone’s here to blow off steam."

I reassembled and loaded my weapon, the weight of it comfortable in my hands. When I fired it, the sound rang sharp in my ears. On the other end of the range, the target shuddered as lead smacked hard into it. Bullseye.

Bullseye. Bullseye.

"You’re a damn good shot," Marcus said, watching me. The compliment, I took in my stride.

Minutes passed in the steady rhythm of gunfire, until Marcus spoke again, quieter this time. "I heard talk the district’s thinking about defunding the precinct."

I paused, turning to look at him. "What?"

"Yeah," he said, voice low. "Cutting back. Like they did with the Sixth."

I shook my head. "That’s insane."

"I know," Marcus muttered. "We’re already already stretched thin as it is. What the hell do they expect us to do with even less resources? How are we supposed to deal with all the druggies and gangs that their stupid policies keep churning out? It’s almost as if they are speedrunning plunging the district deeper into the muck."

Before I could answer, my phone rang. I stepped away, checking the caller ID. Amelia again.

I swore under my breath. "If you call me one more time—"

But the voice on the other end wasn’t hers. "Mr. Newman," the speaker said, smooth, deliberate. "You’re a hard man to reach."

I froze, blood turning cold. "Who is this?"

"We’ve got Evelyn," the voice said. "And if you so much as breathe wrong, she dies. You come alone. Tell no one. I’ll send you an address."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone, the world around me fading. A message pinged, and I opened it. The address. And a picture of Evelyn—her face swollen, her lip split, blood dried on her cheek.

My jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

"Everything alright?" Marcus called from behind me.

I slid the phone into my pocket, turned back, eyes dark.

"Yeah," I said.

"Everything’s fine."