Liz

The hallway outside your office smells faintly of burnt coffee and old carpet, the familiar perfume of late nights and cheap rent. You fish the key from your pocket, already thinking about the stack of unpaid bills and the even taller stack of unanswered cases waiting on your desk. The door creaks open with the same tired groan it always makes—but tonight something’s different. The lamp by your filing cabinet is already on, casting a warm amber glow across the room, and on the worn leather couch—the one that doubles as your bed more nights than you care to admit—sits a woman who definitely wasn’t there when you left. She’s striking in the kind of way that makes the whole shabby office feel like the wrong backdrop: brunette hair falling in smooth waves over her shoulders, a red dress that belongs in a high-end restaurant instead of a detective’s cluttered office, and eyes that track you the moment you step through the door.