I woke to the sound of rain.
Not the gentle kind that soothes you back to sleep — the heavy, angry kind that pounds against the windows like it's trying to get in.
It was 6:42 a.m. The alarm hadn't even gone off yet, but sleep was already a lost cause. I got up, rubbed the back of my neck, and stared at the city outside my window — gray, wet, blurred by fog.
Another day. Another shot at answers that probably wouldn't come.
I showered, dressed, and left. The air outside was cold enough to sting. I pulled my jacket tighter and made my way to the precinct.
The office was quieter than usual when I arrived. Phones rang somewhere in the distance, the sound echoing down the corridor. I dropped my coat on my chair and glanced at Alex's desk.
Empty.
His chair pushed in neatly, the surface spotless — not even a pen out of place. Typical. He was always tidy, almost unnervingly so. But he was also always there before me.
That's what threw me off.
I checked my watch again. 8:17 a.m. He was never late.
I sat down, opened the latest case report, and tried to focus — but my mind kept wandering back to that empty desk.
By 9:00, I caved.
I walked to Sergeant Heller's office and knocked once before stepping in.
"Hey, have you heard from Alex this morning?"
Heller looked up from his stack of papers. "Yeah, called in sick. Said he's down with something. Didn't sound too good either."
"Sick?" I repeated. "That's… new."
He shrugged. "Even quiet guys catch colds, Leo."
I forced a small nod, but something about it didn't sit right. Alex never called in sick. The guy worked through everything — migraines, exhaustion, even that one time he split his knuckles open at a crime scene and still insisted on finishing the report before getting stitches.
I tried to brush it off, but unease has a way of sticking to you.
I buried myself in work, hoping it would distract me. The warehouse paint samples came back from the lab around noon.
Normal latex paint. Nothing special.
"Just ordinary yellow," the tech said. "Same kind you can buy anywhere."
I stared at the report, feeling that familiar weight of disappointment settle in my gut. Another dead end. Another waste of time.
For hours, I sifted through old files, photos, and autopsy reports. I kept thinking maybe there was a thread I'd missed — something small, insignificant, waiting to be seen. But it all blurred together. Victims who didn't know each other. No connection. No reason.
And that damn smile ball in every scene — mocking us.
By five, my eyes felt like sandpaper. I leaned back in my chair, rubbed my temples, and glanced again at Alex's desk. Still empty.
Something in me decided I couldn't just sit there anymore.
By six-thirty, I was in my car, rain still hammering the windshield. I pulled up Alex's personnel file from my tablet — it had his address listed at the bottom.
I hesitated for a moment. It wasn't exactly professional, showing up uninvited. But this wasn't about professionalism. It was about instinct.
And mine told me something wasn't right.
I punched the address into the GPS. The route wound out of the city, past the industrial zones, and into the outskirts — the kind of place where the air smells like wet earth and pine.
By the time I reached his neighborhood, night had already fallen. There were no streetlights here, just the soft beam of my headlights cutting through mist.
Alex's house sat alone at the edge of the woods — a small, single-storey structure, gray paint peeling off the sides, a narrow path leading to a wooden porch. No other houses in sight. Just silence and trees.
I parked beside the mailbox, engine still running for a moment. Something about the stillness unsettled me. It wasn't just quiet — it was empty.
I turned off the car and stepped out.
The crunch of gravel beneath my boots was the only sound.
The porch creaked as I approached. There was a faint light coming from one of the windows, warm and flickering. Someone was home.
I knocked on the door.
No answer.
I waited, knocked again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
My chest tightened. I hesitated, then tried the handle. It was unlocked.
"Alex?" I called out, stepping inside.
The smell hit me first — not rot or anything foul, but something earthy. Like old wood and faint smoke, maybe incense. The house was dim, lit only by a small lamp near the couch.
The place was spotless, just like his desk. Everything arranged perfectly — books lined by height, cups stacked neatly, even the shoes by the door in perfect alignment.
It felt… staged. Like no one really lived here.
"Alex?" I called again, softer this time.
A rustle came from the hallway, and I turned sharply.
There he was — standing by the kitchen doorway, barefoot, dressed in loose black sweats and a plain T-shirt. His long white hair was down for once, falling over his shoulders. He looked paler than usual, eyes tired, but he wasn't exactly sick.
"Leo," he said simply, voice flat but surprised. "You shouldn't be here."
"Yeah, good to see you too," I muttered, stepping closer. "You didn't answer your phone. The precinct said you were sick."
He looked away briefly. "I needed a day."
I studied him for a moment. "A day for what?"
"To breathe," he said, and it was the most honest I'd ever heard him sound.
I exhaled slowly. "You could've said something."
"I didn't think you'd come."
I gave a small, humorless smile. "Well, here I am."
He didn't argue. Just turned toward the kitchen. "You want tea?"
"Sure."
I followed him. The kitchen was as tidy as the rest of the house — black counters, a single mug by the sink, a kettle steaming quietly on the stove.
I leaned against the doorway, watching him move. He was slower than usual, deliberate. Something heavy lingered in his posture.
"You okay?" I finally asked.
He didn't turn around. "You ever feel like you're watching a storm hit, and you can't move out of the way?"
The question caught me off guard. "Can't say I have. I usually run toward it."
That earned a faint, almost invisible smile from him.
He poured the tea and handed me a mug. "That's the problem."
I sipped it — bitter, herbal, not my usual type, but grounding somehow. "You mean me working too much again?"
"I mean you trying to fight things you can't control."
I leaned on the counter, studying him. "Since when did you start giving lectures?"
He shrugged slightly, staring into his cup. "Maybe I just don't want to see you burn out before we find him."
I set the mug down quietly. "We'll find him. One way or another."
The rain outside softened, the constant patter fading into a steady rhythm. We sat in silence for a while — two tired men, both too stubborn to admit we were falling apart in different ways.
Then I glanced around again, taking in the house. No photos. No personal touches. Just emptiness disguised as order.
"Your place is…" I started.
"Boring?" he offered.
"Lifeless," I said. "Like a hotel room."
He gave a small, humorless huff. "Never liked clutter."
"Or people," I said.
"That too."
Something in his tone made me stop. It wasn't bitterness — it was resignation. Like he'd made peace with his loneliness long ago.
I wanted to say something comforting, but the words felt wrong in my mouth. Instead, I asked, "Why here, though? So far out from everything."
He looked toward the window, the faint light from the forest glinting in his crimson eyes. "Because it's quiet. No sirens. No neighbors. Just trees."
"Isolation suits you, huh?"
"Peace does."
I nodded slowly. "Guess that's fair."
But deep down, something about the house unsettled me. The order. The silence. The feeling that this was less a home and more… a hiding place.
We talked a little more — mostly about work, mostly about nothing. He didn't mention the case again, and I didn't push it. There was something fragile about the atmosphere, like if I pressed too hard, the quiet would shatter.
After an hour, I stood up. "You need anything? Medicine, food?"
He shook his head. "I'll be fine."
"You sure?"
He nodded once, eyes softening. "Go home, Leo."
I hesitated at the door. "Don't disappear like that again." But then, seeing how dark it was, I decided to stay.
The rain outside had turned into a soft drizzle by the time I unpacked my bag. I hadn't planned on staying — never planned to be in Alex's house at all. But something in me refused to drive back into the dark night, back into the streets that seemed heavier and lonelier than usual.
Alex watched me quietly from the doorway as I set my jacket down. "You can stay if you want," he said simply. No teasing, no insistence — just a fact.
I hesitated. "I don't want to be a bother."
"You won't be," he said, voice low. "There's only one bed, though. You'd have to…" He trailed off, shrugging. "Sleep there. I'll… adjust."
I blinked. "You mean it?"
"Yeah," he replied. That calm, unshakable Alex stare that never wavered. "It's not like anyone else is here."
The truth was, I didn't want to be alone tonight. My mom's scare, the Smileball case, the endless city — the darkness pressed in on me. I hated it. Always had. Even as a kid, I slept with a nightlight if I could. And tonight, the thought of driving through the streets alone in that oppressive darkness made my chest tighten.
"Alright," I muttered, following him down the short hallway.
The bedroom was small, single-bed, simple. One nightstand, one lamp, a soft quilt folded neatly at the end. Nothing personal, nothing messy — typical Alex.
I sat on the edge, glancing at him. "I'm… not great with darkness."
He tilted his head, expression neutral. "You'll be fine."
"Not tonight," I admitted.
Alex didn't argue. He moved quietly, stripping down to a simple black T-shirt and sweatpants. Then, without a word, he slid under the covers. The space was tight — barely enough room for one, let alone two — but he didn't hesitate.
I took a deep breath and climbed in after him. He shifted slightly, making room. His warmth hit me immediately — steady, grounding, like the eye of a storm.
I curled into him, chest against chest, and exhaled slowly. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer. Not forcefully, not awkwardly, just… naturally.
"You're warm," I muttered.
I swallowed, trying to ignore the small tremor in my hands. Darkness had always been my enemy, but right now, it felt… manageable. Because Alex was there. Because his presence was a shield against the unknown outside.
"Don't… leave me alone," I admitted quietly, voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said, tightening the embrace just slightly.
I rested my head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, strong, and rhythmic. Unlike the chaos outside, unlike the killers and chaos we chased, this felt safe. Real.
"You're… weird," I said after a long silence.
"Yeah," he replied without looking down.
"You're worse." Alex added.
I let out a tired laugh. "I guess we balance each other."
Alex made no comment. Just held me. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I let myself fall into a quiet sleep, the rain outside lulling me instead of frightening me.
Hours later, I woke once, my hand still against his chest, breathing steady and calm. Outside, the night was deep, shadows pooling across the walls. My first instinct was panic, to sit up, check the door, glance at the street beyond the windows.
Then I felt his hand on my shoulder. "It's okay," he murmured, eyes half-closed. "Go back to sleep."
I did. Because I could.
Because he was there.