Late afternoon draped itself lazily over the Dusane skyline, spilling soft gold into Silas's penthouse. The whole apartment was bathed in that expensive kind of light—the kind you only see in Apple commercials and rich people's homes. Minimalist decor, cool marble, black leather, chrome edges. Not a single fingerprint or crumb. Silent, spotless. Except—
**"OKAY, SO—listen, babes—listen to me real quick—because Fenty Beauty just murdered me. I am DEAD. I am D-E-D, DEAD."
Zara Moreau sat cross-legged in the center of the living room like a spoiled princess on a war throne, surrounded by an exploding radius of PR boxes, ripped shipping labels, tissue paper, and packing peanuts that clung to her socks like static-charged snow. A glowing ring light cast an angelic spotlight over her, even as she screamed into her mic like she was announcing the Second Coming.
Phone mounted. Full beat face. Baby hairs slicked to her scalp with precision. Lavender lip gloss glinting like glass.
"They sent the full damn collection. THE GLOSS BOMB HEAT in 'Platinum Princess,' babes?! This is not a drill. This is not a joke. This is the shade you wear when you're leaving your man and suing him for emotional damages and winning."
She popped open the magnetic palette with a satisfying click, swiping her fingers over the velvety blushes like they were sacred artifacts.
"OHHHH she's soft. She's pigmented. She said, 'I'm sorry for being late—I was too busy minding my business and ruining men's lives.'"
She held her hand up to the camera for a dramatic swatch reveal. Then paused. Flipped her wrist. Tilted her head. Gasped again.
"Why is this the exact color of a rich woman who poisoned her third husband and got away with it?? Like, you're telling me I'm not gonna wear this and manifest villainy?! Be serious."
The camera caught it all—her dramatics, the gleam in her eye, the chaotic joy of a woman unboxing luxury while fully convinced her viewers were her best friends. She twirled the mascara wand like it was a dagger.
"Anywayyyy—next product, babes—oh wait—setting spray?!"
She picked up the bottle, sniffed it. "SHUT UP. This smells like 'I own a yacht but I also ghost people.'"
But then—
A soft click came from the door. The front lock turning. No knock. No announcement.
Silas stepped inside.
Black shirt. Black trousers. Chain tucked. Chest clean. Boots spotless. His face unreadable, except for that flicker of exhaustion around the edges of his jaw. His keys clinked as he dropped them into the silver tray by the door. He didn't speak. He didn't ask questions.
He just looked at her.
Zara blinked.
She cut the camera.
"Hold on, babes. I'll be back with a murder update—I mean a makeup update."
She unclipped the mic from her tank top and stood up fast.
"Hey," she said, padding over barefoot, her lashes still fluttering from earlier mascara reviews. "You good?"
Silas dropped onto the couch, sinking into it like something heavy had been pressing on his back all day. He didn't answer at first.
"You look like a man who needs tequila and eight hours of uninterrupted silence."
Still nothing.
She sat beside him, curling her knees under herself, gently nudging him with her shoulder. "You hungry? Or do I need to call someone and ask who pissed off the Grim Reaper today?"
Silas's voice came out flat. "You picked the perfect day to plan a vacation."
"Mauritius was calling my name, baby. I deserve sunlight and fruity drinks after that shitshow of a boutique launch. Some girl tried to fight me over a Dior tote. I said 'ma'am, if you can't buy it twice, why are we wrestling?'"
Silas pulled his wallet from his back pocket and flicked his black card free without even looking. He handed it to her like it was lint.
"Take it. Go crazy. Bring your friends."
Zara blinked at the card, then looked at him.
"Wait—you're not joking? Like... full swipe?"
"Mm."
"I'm gonna pass out."
She fanned herself, then fake-swooned onto the couch dramatically. "No because I was just about to book economy with vibes—and now you're telling me I can sit in first class and disrespect men with unlimited spending? God knew I was his favorite."
But then her tone shifted. The dramatic influencer faded, just for a second. Her smile softened.
"Hey... for real." She leaned in closer. "I heard what happened to Zayne McQueen. It's all over the news. Casino rooftop, middle of the day? They said someone chased him up there before he jumped."
Silas didn't react.
Just a slow nod.
Zara stared at him, trying to read something behind his eyes. "There's a new murderer in town," she said finally, quieter. "People are saying he's not playing. Taking out big names in broad daylight like he's on a fing Netflix special."*
Still, Silas said nothing.
So she pushed.
"Just... be careful, okay?"
She reached out and squeezed his wrist gently, like she needed to physically tether him to something real. "These people... whoever they are... They could come after you next. I mean it."
He looked at her, finally. Really looked.
And for a moment—just a flicker—there was something almost vulnerable behind his eyes. Not fear. Never fear. But maybe... tiredness. Or the dull ache of knowing the war you're fighting has no end.
Zara swallowed hard.
"I can't lose you," she said, more firmly. "Not you."
Silas didn't say "you won't."
He didn't make any promises.
He just reached out and ruffled her hair like they were kids again, like the world hadn't gotten bloodier since this morning.
Zara didn't flinch.
She just smiled, leaned into it for half a second, then immediately gasped.
"SILAS. I literally just laid my edges."
**********
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like they were gossiping. Down the Houndhouse corridor, it was temporarily peace hour. Most officers had scattered to lunch, leaving a rare lull in the usually chaotic bullpen.
Sage was lounging on the edge of his desk, fingers lazily twirling a pen, while Theo leaned back in his chair with his boot propped on a nearby file cabinet like he owned the whole division.
"So what if we just used Devon as a practical test dummy?" Theo said, deadpan.
Sage nearly choked. "Hm! Please o—not Devon," he said, immediately animated, hand slicing through the air. "We're not on good terms."
Theo raised a brow, but before he could respond, he gestured subtly with his head. "Turn around, Pastor. Check your six."
Sage squinted and twisted slightly. Behind him—like a curse—Trent Argo was standing by the evidence board, arms crossed and doing his usual broody alpha glare. And on the other side? Tina Rodrigo. Clipboard in hand, lips pinched, staring holes straight into their conversation like she was collecting gossip for the second coming.
Both of them were focused. Too focused.
Sage blinked once, then slowly turned back around with a sigh. "God punish surveillance demons."
Theo stifled a laugh. "It's like they respawn every time we breathe."
Just as Sage was about to vent, the office door behind them clicked open. Draya stepped out in her usual tight, spotless black suit—like something freshly pressed by vengeance itself—and right behind her, like a walking museum exhibit, was Jean-Luc.
Silas's handler. The ghost of money. The man who probably had an offshore account for every emotion he refused to feel.
Jean-Luc moved through the hallway like the floor owed him rent. Not even a glance at anyone, just precision. Command. Clean cologne trailing in the air like sin.
Sage's breath caught a little, but not out of attraction.
There was something… off.
Not the usual "he's rich and probably evil" vibe. No. Something quieter. Deeper. The man felt like an answer to a question Sage didn't know he'd asked.
"Sage?" Theo's voice yanked him back like a whip crack.
"What?"
"You were staring like you wanted to wear his wallet as a necklace." Theo squinted dramatically. "Be honest. You're crushing."
Sage rolled his eyes, shaking off the feeling. "Please. That man looks like he's allergic to emotions."
"He's also a triple billionaire, baby," Theo wiggled his eyebrows. "Imagine what he could do to your student loan debt. Go for it. Change our lives."
Sage side-eyed him with a smirk, but before he could quip back, Draya had re-entered the room and strode past them again, this time alone.
As she passed, not slowing even a step, she said, "Marlowe. My office."
No emotion. Just ice.
Sage sat frozen for a second. Then slowly stood. Turned to Theo. They shared a mutual "what the actual fuck?" look.
Theo gave a tiny shrug. "If you disappear, I get your mug."
Sage walked off with a muttered, "Kiss the darkest part of my ass."
Theo snorted and got up too, heading in the opposite direction. But before he could step far—
Two voices. Same time. Close behind his neck:
"What did he do this time?"
Theo jumped like a cartoon character, spinning around and half-flinching.
Tina and Trent.
Standing side-by-side. Too close. Too calm. Too nosey.
Theo did the sign of the cross. "Back, witches! Back to your gossip coven!"
Tina only smirked.
Trent blinked, unimpressed.
Theo started speed-walking away like a man with righteous errands, mumbling under his breath: "I'ma start carrying sage in this department. I rebuke surveillance demons in high places."
Sage, halfway to Draya's door, glanced back just in time to see Tina and Trent quickly snap their eyes away in opposite directions like they hadn't been eavesdropping the entire time.
He shook his head.
This department needed holy water and a damn exorcism.