Rain hammered heavily against the cracked concrete roof of the underground police garage while distant thunder rolled slowly across the sleeping city above, and beneath the flickering fluorescent lights rows of silent patrol vehicles stood motionless like steel ghosts waiting patiently beside stained cement pillars carrying years of cigarette smoke, blood, and exhaustion.
Everything smelled cold down there.
Oil.
Rainwater.
Old coffee lingering bitterly through the stale underground air.
Ryan Cruz stood alone near the evidence locker afterward while broad shoulders remained tense beneath a dark police jacket now, and despite the calm expression he forced carefully across his face there remained visible exhaustion carved deeply beneath sharp eyes that had already witnessed far too many deaths in one lifetime.
His hands still remembered war.
Sometimes that frightened him more than monsters did.
