Frank Miller had just closed the file on his last operation. For once, the city felt quiet. No gunfire, no late-night stakeouts, no sudden calls from dispatch. Just a simple day of paperwork, a routine patrol, and the rare peace that came after a case was done.
But peace never lasted long.
One early morning, without warning, it began.
Frank woke before dawn, restless and uneasy. No alarm. No dreams. Just that gnawing weight in his chest, a thousand thoughts scattering through his head but no answers forming. His body moved automatically: the scrape of a chair, the hiss of the kettle, the bitter smell of coffee. He poured it into a chipped mug, lit a cigar, and stood at the window.
The city still slept. Neon signs flickered in the distance, but most buildings lay dark, heavy, silent. The horizon cracked open with the first traces of light. For three hours he barely moved, smoke curling around him as the sunrise painted his reflection in the glass.
