The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the city still smelled like wet concrete when I stepped into the station. Everything looked the same as it always did—ugly fluorescent lights, papers stacked on desks, coffee stains that never really came out of the wood—but after yesterday's forced break, it felt…off. Like walking into a place you've seen a thousand times but realizing something's missing.
No body this time. No phone call pulling me out of bed. Just silence.
The silence was worse.
I tossed my jacket over the chair and stared at the evidence board. Smiling yellow balls pinned with red strings, photos of victims with hollow eyes, and crime scene reports stacked so thick they looked like a Bible. All that work. All those hours. And what did we have? Nothing.
No pattern after the spiral completed, with us having no clue what will happen. No motive. Just chaos.
I rubbed my temples. "This bastard's making me lose my mind."
"Maybe that's the point," Alex said, quiet as always.
I hadn't even noticed he'd already sat down at his desk. He blended into the noise, or in this case the lack of noise, so well sometimes I swore he could vanish if he wanted to.
"Yeah?" I muttered, dropping into my chair. "Then congratulations to him. Mission accomplished."
He didn't smile, but I thought I saw a flicker in his eyes, like he almost did. For Alex, that was basically a laugh.
We spent the morning buried in paper. Re-reading every single case file, every photo, every scrap of witness testimony. My eyes started to burn halfway through, but I forced myself to keep going. Alex had this way of sitting so still, hunched slightly forward, reading line by line like every single word was sacred.
At one point, I caught myself staring at him longer than I meant to. Noticing the way his hair fell over his forehead, the way his fingers traced the edge of a file while he read. Focused. Methodical. Like the world didn't exist outside those pages.
I snapped my eyes back to my own pile, irritated at myself. Great. Losing my mind and staring at my partner like a teenager with a crush. Perfect.
"Anything?" I asked, too fast.
Alex shook his head. "He doesn't repeat locations. Doesn't repeat times. Nothing overlaps. It's…noise."
"Noise can be a pattern," I said. "You just gotta know what kind of music it's trying to be."
That made him finally look up at me. His gaze was sharp, thoughtful. "So what's the song, then?"
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling. "Hell if I know. But it's stuck in my head."
By noon, the office smelled like stale coffee and frustration. A couple of other detectives passed by, throwing us looks—some pity, some curiosity, some annoyance. Everyone knew we were the ones stuck with this case. Everyone also knew we were spinning in circles.
I pushed away from my desk and stretched, joints popping. "If I read one more dead-end report, I'm gonna put my head through the wall."
Alex closed his folder gently, like he was setting down glass. "Break, then."
"You suggesting I actually rest again?" I raised an eyebrow. "Didn't we do that yesterday?"
His lips twitched. Almost a smirk. "You didn't rest. You just distracted yourself."
I laughed. "Alright, philosopher. What do you suggest? Yoga? Meditation?"
He shrugged, but there was something almost playful in his eyes. "Coffee."
"Now that is the best idea you've had all week."
We walked to the break room. The shitty little machine was still broken, someone had slapped a sticky note on it that read DON'T EVEN TRY, so we made do with the instant packets. Alex stirred his with that same slow, hypnotic circle like he did at the diner.
I leaned against the counter, watching him. "You ever get tired of this? Chasing ghosts, I mean."
He didn't answer right away. Took a sip of coffee first, like he had to think about it. Then: "Sometimes. But stopping would feel worse."
"Why's that?"
His eyes flicked to me, just for a second. "Because then he wins."
I let out a low whistle. "You've got a fire under there, huh? Hide it well."
That time, he actually smirked. A real one. Small, crooked, but real. It hit me harder than I expected.
Shit.
Back at the desk, the afternoon dragged. We started putting together a timeline, even though it was pointless. Victim one—March. Victim two—April. Then nothing for two weeks. Then three in a row. Then silence again. No rhythm, no sense.
But we mapped it anyway. Red string, dates, pins. Anything to make it look like we weren't lost.
At some point, I got up and started pacing, chewing on the end of a pen. Alex watched me, quiet, following every step like he was waiting for me to explode.
"You know what pisses me off?" I muttered. "He doesn't just kill. He taunts. Leaves those goddamn smile balls like he's laughing in our faces." I stopped, turned to Alex. "Why the ball, though?"
Alex tilted his head slightly, considering. "Because the ball doesn't mean anything. That's the point. It's meaningless. And meaningless things get stuck in your head."
I stared at him. "That's…actually a terrifyingly good point."
He just looked back down at his files like he hadn't just blown my mind.
Night crept up on us without warning. Most of the other detectives had cleared out, their desks empty, the station quiet except for the hum of the lights. It was just us. Same as always.
I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion setting in. Alex was still going strong, flipping through reports with the same calm rhythm like time didn't touch him.
"Do you ever get tired?" I asked, half-joking.
He looked up. "Do you?"
I snorted. "Touché."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward, though. It was…comfortable. Too comfortable, maybe. Sitting across from him, the world shrunk to just us and the quiet.
I caught myself staring again. The sharp line of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the way the desk light softened his features. Something twisted in my chest. Dangerous. Stupid. But there.
I cleared my throat and looked back at the board. "One of these days, we're gonna catch a break."
He studied me for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. One of these days."
And for some reason, the way he said it made me believe it.
We packed up close to midnight. The streets outside were empty, wet from another light drizzle. I shoved my hands into my pockets, walking beside him down the cracked sidewalk.
"You know," I said casually, "for someone who barely talks, you actually make good company."
He glanced at me, a flicker of amusement in his expression. "Don't get used to it."
I laughed. "Too late."
For a second, I swear something lingered there between us. Not words, not movement—just the kind of silence that felt charged. Then he looked away, and it was gone.
But it stuck with me all the way home.