I woke to rain.
Not the kind of rain that soothed — the sort that fell softly against your window while you brewed a fresh pot of coffee. No, this was aggressive rain. Heavy. Relentless. Like the sky had opened its throat and started screaming.
Even through the blinds in my apartment, I could tell the day would be gray and cold. The perfect weather for more murder.
Except there wasn't one.
My phone remained silent. No new victims. No urgent calls. No spirals painted on concrete. It felt... wrong.
Alex and I had been running on fumes. Ever since we stepped into District Zero, we'd been spiraling in our own way — chasing a ghost through ruins and blood trails. But today? Today was quiet. For the first time in almost a week.
Maybe that's why I didn't fight it when the Chief said, "You two need rest. Mandatory leave. One day. I don't want either of you near the evidence board until sunrise tomorrow."
I was about to argue, but he cut me off with a glare. So I nodded, grabbed my jacket, and left the station.
Alex followed without a word. Of course he did.
We sat in a small diner on the corner of 12th. The kind of place with peeling red booths and a jukebox that hadn't worked in twenty years. But the coffee was hot, and the eggs were real, and that was enough.
Alex stirred his drink without sipping it. Just moved the spoon in lazy circles like he was hypnotized by the motion.
"Feels weird," I said finally, breaking the silence. "Not chasing him. Not thinking about the next body."
Alex looked up, quiet for a beat. "Feels wrong to rest."
I smirked. "God, you sound like me."
He gave the faintest ghost of a smile. That was a rare thing. I'd learned to pay attention when it appeared.
"You ever think what you'd be doing if you weren't a cop?" I asked.
Alex took a long time to answer. Then, softly: "Maybe I'd write. Short stories. Something quiet."
That caught me off guard. "No kidding? You ever write anything?"
He shrugged. "Not anymore."
I wanted to ask more, but I didn't. Sometimes with Alex, you learned more by saying less.
"You?" he asked, surprising me.
I chuckled. "Me? I don't know. Probably be a bouncer. Or a bartender. Somewhere dark and loud."
Alex nodded. "You'd be good at that. People listen to you."
I blinked. That might've been the first real compliment he'd ever given me.
After breakfast, we walked through the city. No destination. Just two cops on forced vacation pretending we knew what to do with free time.
The rain had eased up to a drizzle. Storefronts blurred behind watery windows. A kid dragged a stick along a metal fence, making a sound like a dying music box. It was eerie. Surreal. Like the city was holding its breath.
We ended up near the waterfront. The old pier where the carnival used to set up every summer before funding dried up and they left town for good. Now it was empty — just boards and rusted bolts and signs that read "DO NOT ENTER."
I stood at the edge, staring at the gray sea besides the carnival that once used to be here. The waves looked like they were trying to erase something.
Alex stood beside me, hands in his coat pockets.
"You ever been on a roller coaster?" I asked suddenly.
He shook his head. "No."
"Man, you missed out. The speed. The way your stomach flips. Like you're about to die but you're safe."
He glanced sideways at me. "Sounds familiar."
I laughed, loud enough to scare a few seagulls.
We stayed there a while, watching the tide shift. I don't know why it felt important. Maybe because it was the first moment in days that didn't involve blood, bodies, or spirals.
Maybe I needed to remember what quietness felt like.
Eventually, we made our way to the old bookshop near my apartment. I'd passed it a thousand times but never stepped inside. Today felt like the day.
The place smelled like dust and coffee grounds. Rows upon rows of stories, forgotten and frayed.
Alex drifted toward the fiction section. I wandered over to the true crime shelf, like a moth to the flame.
I picked up a book about the Zodiac killer and flipped it open to a random page. The killer's letters. His taunts. The way he played with the police, daring them to understand his code.
It felt too close.
I put it back.
Alex returned a few minutes later holding a small paperback.
"Find something?" I asked.
He nodded. "Poetry."
"You read poetry?"
He gave a quiet shrug. "Helps me think."
That was Alex. Always surprising me in the smallest ways.
We didn't say much on the way back to my apartment. I offered him a drink. He declined. I poured myself a glass of whiskey and sank into the couch.
Alex sat in the armchair near the window, the poetry book open in his lap.
I watched the rain start again. Tapping against the glass like it had somewhere to be.
"Do you think we'll catch him?" I asked.
Alex didn't look up. "I think we're already in his trap."
I let the silence fill the room again. Not fear. Not dread. Just… weight. The heaviness of knowing you've seen too much. Of knowing the game isn't over — that it's only paused. Briefly.
I finished the whiskey and leaned back.
"One day," I said. "One goddamn day without blood."
Alex turned a page. "Savor it."
And I did.
That night, for the first time in weeks, I slept through until morning.
No calls.
No bodies.
Just dreams I couldn't quite remember and the echo of rain.
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This part is a bit small, because they don't know what to do in a holiday so they just wandered around before going home. Nothing special.