Evening crept over Northvale, stretching shadows through the narrow streets and painting the skyline gold. Inside the small rented flat, Frank stood near the mirror, buttoning his shirt. His expression was calm, but his eyes—sharp and deliberate—betrayed the soldier beneath the civility.
Behind him, Zoey rummaged through her half-unpacked suitcase. "You sure you want to go?" she asked without looking up. "We could just stay in, order something, and call it a night."
Frank glanced at her reflection. "It's not about the dinner," he said. "It's about the impression."
Zoey sighed, pulling on a soft blue blouse. "You and your impressions."
He smirked faintly. "They're what keep us alive."
She chuckled and tied her hair back. "So, should I wear my badge too, Detective Miller?"
"Only if you want to terrify the neighbors," he said, slipping his watch on. "Leave the cop face at home."
