Damon's POV
The ringtone of my phone interrupted the silence of my office. Damian's name flashed on the screen, his voice uncharacteristically somber as he asked if I could meet him for drinks after work. Concern immediately washed over me; Damian was usually the guy with an easy smile and carefree attitude. Something was definitely off.
"Sure thing," I agreed, welcoming the distraction. "The usual spot at seven?"
Hours later, I pushed open the door to our favorite bar and spotted Damian immediately. He sat hunched over the counter, fingers drumming against a half-empty glass of whiskey.
"Inspector," he greeted me with none of his usual enthusiasm. The nickname hung in the air between us, heavy with whatever was troubling him.
"You look like hell," I said bluntly, sliding onto the stool beside him. "Want to tell me what's going on?"
The bartender appeared, and I ordered a drink while Damian gathered his thoughts.
