Sleep didn't come easy, but it came enough.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the faint gray light seeping through the curtains. The city outside was still waking — muffled horns, the distant hum of traffic, the low growl of thunder rolling somewhere far away.
I sat up, rubbing my face. My head felt heavy, but my body lighter than it had in days. Maybe because I'd actually slept. Maybe because of the smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen.
Alex was already up. Of course he was.
He was standing by the counter, still in the same black shirt from last night, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He handed me a mug as I walked in.
"You're becoming a habit," I said, voice hoarse.
"I've been called worse," he replied evenly.
The coffee was strong — sharp enough to kick my brain into gear. I took a long sip and set the mug down. "Any updates?"
He nodded toward the table. "Preliminary autopsy report came in. Victim was strangled with a nylon cord — same as victim two. But this time…" He paused, pulling out a photo. "…there were faint chemical burns on her wrists. Something corrosive."
"Acid?" I asked.
"Maybe. Still waiting on the lab results."
I frowned, leaning over the photo. The marks were faint, but there — like the killer had held her down with something coated in acid. "So maybe he's experimenting now."
"Or getting careless," Alex said quietly.
Either way, it didn't sit right. The Smileball Killer wasn't the careless type. He was deliberate, taunting. Everything we knew about him pointed to precision.
I finished my coffee, grabbed my jacket, and looked at Alex. "Let's head in. If the lab's got the results, I want them today."
The precinct felt heavier than usual when we arrived — a quiet tension in the air, like everyone was holding their breath. Detectives hunched over desks, phones rang unanswered, and the chief's door was closed tight.
At our desks, the files from the previous cases were spread out like an unsolvable puzzle. I'd gone through them a dozen times already, but I kept hoping for something new to jump out.
I wasn't the only one losing patience.
Detective Harris — one of the senior guys, loud mouth, sharp jaw, permanent scowl — approached our desk. "You two still playing guesswork with that freak's scrapbook?"
I looked up, jaw tightening. "Morning to you too, Harris."
He smirked. "I heard you pulled overtime again. Must be fun, chasing a ghost while the rest of us actually work cases that go somewhere."
Alex didn't look up from his notes, but his eyes flicked briefly toward Harris — assessing, calm.
I leaned back in my chair. "You got something useful to say, or are you just here to hear yourself talk again?"
Harris stepped closer, the smirk widening. "Just wondering when you're gonna admit you're stuck. Four victims in, no leads, no suspects, no pattern. Maybe you're too close to it. Maybe you need someone who knows what they're doing."
That did it. The blood rushed to my face.
"Someone like you?" I said slowly, standing. "The guy who missed a suspect last year because he was too busy drinking with reporters?"
A few nearby detectives turned their heads, the air in the room tightening. Harris' jaw twitched. "Careful, Leo."
"No," I said, stepping forward, my voice low. "You come to my desk, insult my case, my victims — yeah, I'm done being careful."
He took another step. "Maybe you're just not cut out for this anymore, huh? You look tired, Leo. Jumpy. Maybe it's time to hand it off before you screw it up worse."
Something in me snapped. My hands balled into fists before I even realized it.
I don't remember moving — just the sound of my chair scraping back, the sudden blur of motion as I closed the distance. I was inches from his face, ready to throw a punch.
Then — a hand on my shoulder.
Firm. Steady.
"Leo," Alex's voice said quietly. Not loud, but enough to cut through the noise.
"Let go," I muttered through gritted teeth.
"Not here," he said, calm but unyielding.
For a second, I almost didn't listen. Harris' smug expression burned in front of me. But then I saw the eyes of everyone else watching — the rookies, the sergeant by the printer, the quiet judgment thick in the air.
I stepped back. Barely.
"Go cool off, detective," Harris said, voice dripping with satisfaction.
I turned, slamming my fist against the edge of the desk instead. Papers scattered. My knuckles stung, but it was better than what would've happened otherwise.
Alex didn't say a word. He just waited until I started breathing normally again.
We walked out of the bullpen in silence. The air outside was cold and sharp, wind cutting through my coat.
I stopped by the steps, rubbing my face. "He had it coming."
Alex's voice was calm as ever. "He did. But you don't."
I looked at him, anger still burning under my skin. "You think I'm wrong?"
"I think you're angry," he said simply. "And that's fine. But you can't let him see it. People like Harris feed on reaction. Don't give him what he wants."
I exhaled slowly. "You ever get tired of being right?"
"Constantly," he said, deadpan.
That made me laugh — a short, tired sound, but real.
He tilted his head slightly. "Come on. Let's get back to the lab reports."
By noon, the tension had faded — mostly. The results came in from the forensic unit: the chemical residue on the victim's wrists wasn't acid. It was a type of industrial cleaner — strong enough to burn skin, commonly used in auto repair shops and factories.
"Finally," I muttered, scanning the report. "Something we can work with."
Alex leaned over my shoulder. "There are three warehouses that use that compound within five miles of the crime scene."
I nodded. "Then that's where we start."
We spent the afternoon checking those sites. The first two were dead ends — quiet, empty spaces filled with the smell of oil and dust. But the third… the third had something.
An open back door.
We walked in, flashlights cutting through the dim light. The floor was stained with grease, walls lined with rusted tools. But what caught my eye was the faint, almost invisible smear on the floor — something pale yellow.
Alex knelt, touched it lightly, and sniffed. "Paint," he murmured. "Same color as the smile balls."
I felt a chill crawl up my neck. "You're kidding."
He shook his head. "Fresh too. Maybe a day, two at most."
We exchanged a look — that silent, wordless understanding we'd developed over years of working together.
This wasn't just another lead. This was the first crack in the wall.
By the time we got back, it was late evening. The precinct had thinned out, lights dimmed, voices low. I sat at my desk, staring at the evidence board again — the strings, the faces, the photos.
Alex stood beside me, arms crossed. "You did good today," he said quietly.
I gave a dry laugh. "Yeah. Almost punched a coworker and found some paint. Great day."
He didn't smile. "You're allowed to feel things, Leo. You just can't let them control you."
I sighed, leaning back in the chair. "Yeah. I know."
He looked down at me, his voice softer. "Your anger isn't the problem. It's what you do with it."
I met his eyes, tired but grateful. "Thanks for pulling me back today."
He nodded once. "Always."
The silence between us wasn't empty — it was grounding. Outside, the rain had started again, tapping against the windows like it was trying to wash the city clean.
But nothing washed clean here. Not really.
Not until we caught the bastard behind those smiles.