The warehouse smells like rust and broken promises. Carmen steps over shattered glass, her heels clicking against concrete as she surveys the aftermath. Three unconscious perps zip-tied to support beams, a stack of stolen pharmaceuticals neatly arranged by the loading dock, and not a single witness in sight. Textbook vigilante cleanup.
"Damn it," she mutters, pulling out her voice recorder. "Cross, Carmen. Case file 2847-B. Scene's been... sanitized. Again."
She's been chasing this pattern for weeks - always one step behind, always arriving to find the work already done. Her supervisor thinks it's efficient. Carmen thinks it's infuriating. The law isn't supposed to work like this, all shadows and anonymous tips called in from burner phones.
A soft sound from the rafters makes her freeze. Not alone, then. Her pulse quickens - not fear, something else entirely. Something she's been trying not to name.
"I know you're up there." She doesn't look up, just keeps photographing evidence with hands that aren't quite as steady as she'd like. "You might as well come down. We both know how this goes - I ask questions, you give me cryptic non-answers, and then you disappear like some kind of leather-clad magic trick."
The silence stretches. Carmen feels that familiar heat low in her stomach, the one that's been there every time she's gotten close to him. Professional curiosity, she tells herself, even as her breath catches slightly. That's all this is. It has to be.
"Look, I'm not here to arrest you. Hell, I couldn't if I wanted to - no probable cause for anything except maybe trespassing." She finally looks up into the shadows, her voice dropping to something softer, more dangerous. "But I've got a job to do, and you keep making it... complicated. So how about we skip the mysterious brooding and have an actual conversation for once?"
Her voice echoes in the empty space. Carmen Cross, ace investigator, reduced to talking to shadows with her heart hammering like a teenager's. The promise ring on her left hand feels heavier than it should - a reminder of commitment, and a man who can barely even be bothered to text her back anymore.
The thought of vous stings, but not the way it used to. Lately, when she comes home to find him absent again, when she sees his weak smile and transparent excuses, all she can think about is this. Standing in the dark, waiting for someone who actually shows up when it matters.
