Chapter 6 – "What the Light Reveals"
The fluorescent tubes hummed overhead as Quinn stepped into her lab, shutting the door behind her with a kick of her boot. The air was cold, clinical—but it was hers, and it smelled like sterilized brilliance and secrets.
"Good morning, my darlings," she cooed to the machines as she flipped on their switches one by one, a small orchestra of beeps and whirs rising in greeting. "Mama's here."
The centrifuge purred. Her digital microscope blinked awake like a sleepy cat. A small fan stirred the papers on her cluttered counter. And on the far end, laid out neatly beside a tray of tools, was the shirt.
Rafe Durov's bloodstained designer shirt.
She walked over with a bounce in her step, grinning. "Oh, Mr. Durov, if you only knew what kind of mess your fashion sense got you into."
Her fingers skimmed over the fabric like it was silk from a lover, but her eyes were hunter-sharp. She'd already completed a full trace on the blood—Durov's, as expected—but it was the faint, sticky smudge Sage had found on the hem that intrigued her.
She snapped on gloves, grabbed the UV light, and flicked it on with a flourish. "Let's see who's been touching you, hmm?"
Blue light danced across the fibers. Smears, faded impressions—then boom. Two clear fingerprints, right on the lower side.
"I knew it." She whispered like she was telling a secret to the dead man himself. "Whoever wore you wasn't wearing gloves. Or they got cocky."
She spun to her terminal, pulled up the results from her autopsy scan—fingerprint matches ran last night—and paused. Her brow furrowed. A match pinged in her system. Unknown alias. No clear identity, but flagged for connections to three prior murder scenes.
Before she could trace deeper, she heard it: a faint squeaking.
Quinn froze. Not a machine.
Squeak. Shuffle.
She turned slowly, light still in hand. It flicked across the floor—and landed on a fat brown rat scrambling near her tool tray.
"Jesus Christ—!" she shouted, stepping back with a hiss. "Not you again!"
The rat skittered, dragging a crumpled wrapper with it. A bright red one.
Her eyes narrowed.
"…Gummy bears?"
She knelt down as the rat vanished into a vent. The wrapper was sticky, half-torn—and familiar.
She picked it up. Turned it over.
That was the same brand Sage had been munching on when he dropped into her lab last night, talking shit about shirt fibers and protein decay.
She smirked.
Then the UV light hit the wrapper—and her smirk dropped.
Because smeared on that glossy red surface, illuminated like neon under the blacklight… was the same fingerprint from Rafe Durov's shirt.
Exact match.
She looked at the screen. Then back at the gummy bear pack. Then back again.
Silence.
Her lips slowly curled upward.
"Oh… you little shit."
The Houndhouse
The Uber door hissed open, and Sage Marlowe stepped out like a runway model disguised as a cop. He looked immaculate—black tailored trench grazing his calves, glossy boots, collar sharp enough to slice egos, and sunglasses that hid the kind of eyes you didn't want to owe an answer to. The breeze teased the silk scarf tied around his neck. Suspension had bruised his pride, sure—but baby, he was back.
VCID headquarters—The Houndhouse—loomed ahead, its brutalist angles gray as guilt and meaner than any beast inside. Sage tilted his chin up. Home, sweet dysfunctional home.
Then came the noise.
"Careful! CAREFUL with that crate!" Tina Rodrigo's voice rose like the wail of a fire alarm with lip gloss on. "There's a ball python in there. A baby. I said don't hurt it!"
Sage paused, lips twitching. From across the courtyard, he watched her hovering over the evidence van, her clipboard clutched like it was state secrets, and her hair too perfect for 7 a.m.
He muttered under his breath, "Of course you like snakes… deceptive Jezebel."
Junior officers hauled in duffel bags of seized narcotics—glittery pills, baggies of powder, stolen tech, cash rolled fat enough to choke a toddler—and somewhere in that chaos, yes, apparently, a small snake.
Inside was all beautiful chaos. Phones ringing. Laughter mixed with shouting. Fluorescent lights stinging tired eyes. The stale perfume of over-brewed coffee and too much ambition. Cops bumping shoulders. Paperwork flying. The Houndhouse was alive.
Then—him.
Trent Argo strolled into frame like a man who thought testosterone was a personality trait. Muscles flexed too intentionally under his shirt. Jaw locked. That smug posture that screamed I bench press betrayal.
"Well, well," Trent drawled, "If it isn't our dearly suspended golden boy. Back from his beauty nap?"
Sage didn't break stride. He removed his sunglasses slowly and gave Trent a look like glass.
"You really missed me that bad? Should've written a poem."
Trent smirked. "Just wondering if you've, y'know… processed everything that went down at the Durov estate. Some of us actually had to clean up your mess."
"Oh? You mean the sabotage?" Sage's tone was silk over steel. "Because the way you and your devilish sidekick—" his eyes flicked to Tina, who was now arguing with a tech over temperature control for the snake, "—threw me under the bus yesterday in front of Draya? Chef's kiss."
Trent blinked. "No one sabotaged you—"
"Save it, Rogaine," Sage snapped. "I was suspended. I'm literally just walking in. You've had twenty-four hours to 'handle' things. So why don't you fill me in like a good little brown-nosed desk clown?"
Trent stood there, mouth slightly open, not used to being out-snarked by someone prettier and smarter in one breath
Sage adjusted his scarf, blew him a phantom kiss, and walked past like the hallway was his catwalk. Officers turned to watch. Whispers bloomed. A junior cop dropped a file just to stare.
The Houndhouse was his again.
And he didn't come back quiet.
Sage walked the corridor of VCID like it was a runway carved out of concrete and glass. The kind of walk that said, I'm back, bitches — even if he was technically supposed to lay low.
The building was alive — buzzing.
Phones ringing. Boots stomping. Radios hissing low chatter. Junior officers darting past with coffee cups and folders like they were under siege. The smell of burnt espresso, cheap paper, and metal filings filled the air.
Sage passed a group of uniforms hunched around a whiteboard filled with red string and mugshots. One of them — rookie type — did a double take like they'd seen a ghost. Sage gave them a wink without breaking stride. Let them talk.
He approached the thick, brushed-steel door that led to Draya Castillo's office. Hesitated.
Took a deep breath. Smoothed the front of his jacket. Hand rose—
From inside:
"Don't just stand there. Come in."
Of course she heard him.
He opened the door and stepped into the glass-and-silence sanctum that was Draya's lair. Every inch of the office was curated. Clean lines. Gray on gray. A single, dying orchid in the corner like a warning. On the desk, placed with surgical precision: his badge and his VCID identification card.
Waiting. Like she'd known he was coming home.
Draya didn't look up immediately. She was flipping through a case file, nails matte black, her expression unreadable.
Then, calmly, without warmth but not unkind:
"Welcome back, Marlowe."
Sage closed the door behind him and stepped forward. His fingers ghosted over the badge before picking it up.
He clipped it back on with a faint click. The sound echoed more than it should've.
"I didn't expect confetti," he said dryly. "But you could've at least sent balloons."
Draya raised an eyebrow, then — and this was rare — let the faintest curve of amusement touch her lips.
"How's your puppet?" she asked, flipping a page.
"The big one with the fists and the hero complex?"
Sage snorted.
"Devon's fine. Still trying to convince me carbs are the enemy. Still hates my boots. Still showing up before I ask."
Draya set the file down and looked at him, finally giving him her full attention. Eyes sharp.
"You ready to work again?"
"That's why I'm here."
"No."
Sage blinked.
"Excuse me?"
Draya leaned back slightly, lacing her fingers in front of her.
"You're not going back out. Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because I need you in here. Not making headlines. The Durov case is a blood magnet. Every political ghoul in Velvrai is circling it like it's their last meal. If I throw you back into that mess, someone's gonna bite off your pretty head and spin it for ratings."
Sage sat slowly, crossing his legs, face unreadable but clearly displeased.
"I'm not fragile, Draya."
"No, you're a scalpel. But you don't hand scalpels to toddlers. Not until the room's sterile."
He bit back a smile at that. Okay. She was still good.
"You're assigning me paperwork?"
"No." She slid a folder toward him. "You're in the war room now. I want your eyes on intel, tech, breakdowns, timelines. Make the kind of connections they miss when they're too busy chasing adrenaline."
Sage picked up the folder and flipped through it. Not flashy. But layered.
Something told him she was giving him more than she let on.
"Fine," he said. "But if Trent shows up breathing over my shoulder, I'm tasing him."
"Make it look accidental," Draya murmured.
He smirked.
As he stood to leave, she called out—
"Oh, and Marlowe?"
He turned.
"Tell your puppet I said hello."
"He's not my puppet."
"Uh-huh. Then why does he only dance for you?"
Sage didn't answer. He just walked out — head high, badge gleaming, folder in hand — ready to carve open whatever secrets Velvrai tried to hide next.