07:32 AM | N.P.U. Headquarters, Metro City
Morning cut through the blinds like a scalpel, slicing Adrian's office into strips of gold and shadow. Cold coffee sat untouched on his desk, a forgotten casualty of another night spent chasing ghosts that didn't have the decency to stay dead.
He hunched over the case files, eyes raw from forty-eight hours of reading the same names over and over. The Hello Kitty bandage on his cheek was a stark, almost absurd contrast to the shallow graze it covered. Too childish. Too vivid. Too her.
A sharp knock fractured the silence.
"Come in," he rasped.
The door opened without hesitation. Elias entered carrying a manila folder heavy with consequence, the way someone carries a bomb they've already decided to detonate. His expression was carved in stone, the kind of stone that had given up on forgiveness.
"We need to talk," Elias said, closing the door behind him. "About your partner."
Adrian lifted his head, fatigue weighing down every movement like gravity had suddenly gotten heavier. "What about her?"
Elias crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite Adrian. No small talk. No ease. Just gravity and the weight of things that needed to be said.
"I pulled her psych evaluations," he said, sliding the folder across the desk. "After last night? Yeah, I pulled them. Filed a request that probably put me on every watchlist in the system."
Adrian's hand hovered over the folder. The label read: Psychological Profile — Agent "Aveline" [REDACTED].
"Elias—"
"Just read it," he cut in. His voice wasn't angry, which somehow made it worse. "Please."
Adrian opened the folder.
The first page read clinical and detached, the kind of language used when someone wants to explain horror politely, like the horror might be less offensive if you used a pleasant tone.
SUBJECT: Agent "Aveline" [Last Name Redacted]
EVALUATION DATE: [REDACTED]
EVALUATOR: Dr. Helena Cross, Ph.D., Clinical Psychology
SUMMARY:
Subject demonstrates patterns of emotional detachment, lack of empathy, and interpersonal manipulation consistent with high-functioning antisocial personality disorder (psychopathy spectrum). Views relationships transactionally, individuals assessed for utility, not intrinsic value. Exceptional operational efficiency in high-stress environments masks absence of genuine emotional response.
NOTABLE OBSERVATIONS:
· No genuine emotional bonds observed or reported
· Frustration when operational variables deviate; zero remorse for harm caused
· People consistently viewed as tools, obstacles, or assets
· Manipulation skills: advanced; victim awareness: minimal
· Smile and eye contact used to facilitate compliance, not connection
ASSESSMENT: High-functioning psychopath. Recommended for roles requiring emotional detachment and tactical precision. Not suitable for positions requiring empathy, team cohesion, or ethical nuance.
C.R.I.M.E DIVISION RECRUITMENT STATUS: APPROVED. Traits align with mission requirements.
Adrian's hands trembled. Page after page repeated the same conclusions with the monotony of a funeral bell:
"Lack of genuine emotional response…"
"Views relationships as transactional…"
"No capacity for empathy…"
"High-functioning psychopath…"
Elias leaned forward, his voice quiet and careful, the way someone talks when they're diffusing a bomb and they're not sure which wire is actually the right one.
"Every evaluator notes the same patterns," he said. "C.R.I.M.E didn't reject her for this. They recruited her because of it."
Adrian's throat tightened. The words felt like they were being said in a language he used to understand.
"So she's… diagnosed?" he asked, though the answer was already clawing at him from inside.
"Not officially," Elias replied. "Too controlled. Too good at masking. But—" He paused, choosing his words with the precision of someone walking through a minefield. "Psychopaths don't feel love. The closest they get to intimacy is ownership. Possession. Control."
The word hit like a punch to the solar plexus.
"What are you trying to say?" Adrian asked, though the answer was already written on his face, in the way his fingers unconsciously touched the Hello Kitty bandage.
Elias sat back, shoulders heavy. "Unless you want to become her possession, her trophy, her asset, her thing, keep your distance. She's effective. Useful. Essential, even. But she's not human the way we are. And pretending otherwise will get you killed."
She gave me a bandage. Her fingers were almost gentle. That meant something.
Didn't it?
"She just gave me a bandage," he said, defensive, the way people sound when they're trying to convince themselves and the person they're talking to at the same time. "Like a partner. Like she… cared."
"Because you're useful," Elias shot back, not unkindly. "The second you're not? You're irrelevant. Or worse you become what she wants to own. What she can keep and control and dissect when the novelty wears off."
Silence filled the room like smoke.
Adrian stared at the psych evaluation, the clinical language describing the woman he'd been working alongside, bleeding alongside, trusting alongside. High-functioning psychopath. Ownership, not love.
Elias's voice softened, and that made it somehow worse. "I'm not saying don't work with her. Just don't trust her. Not the way you're starting to."
Adrian began to reply. "I'm not—"
"You are," Elias interrupted, and there was sadness in his voice, the sadness of someone who'd seen this play out before, probably with people he liked. "Looking for humanity there will only get you hurt. Or worse — it'll make you like her."
He stood, chair scraping against linoleum. "Dursley's apartment. Nine o'clock. Don't be late."
The door closed. Adrian remained alone, staring at the folder, at the bandage on his cheek, at the truth that had been sitting across from him in cars and hallways and mission briefings smiling that warm, disarming smile that had apparently learned to look human but had never learned to be human.
Great. Just great. Add 'partner's a psychopath' to the list. Right after 'don't die' and just before 'buy milk.'
09:00 AM | En Route to Dursley's Apartment, South Metro
The drive was suffocating.
Aveline was already at the curb when he pulled up, punctual as a verdict. Her coat was pristine despite the drizzle misting the streets — somehow, water didn't dare cling to her. She folded herself into the passenger seat with that same fluid economy of movement, the kind that made everything look effortless and slightly inhuman.
Don't think about the file. Don't think about the file. Don't—
"You look terrible," she said, by way of greeting.
"Good morning to you too."
"I'm serious. When did you last sleep?"
"Define sleep."
She studied him for a moment with the detached interest of someone assessing structural damage. "You're running on cortisol and bad decisions. That's going to be a problem if things go sideways today."
Things always go sideways, he thought. You said so yourself.
"I'm fine," he said instead.
"You're not." She said it without malice, already looking back out the windshield. "But I suppose that's your prerogative."
High-functioning psychopath. Ownership, not love.
He tightened his grip on the wheel and drove.
"You worried about the witness?" she asked, after a stretch of silence.
"Little bit, yeah."
"Don't be." A pause. "Be worried about what happens after. The witness is the easy part."
That's somehow worse than reassurance.
"And the after?"
She tilted her head, watching the city scroll past. "We deal with it when it arrives. Worrying in advance is just suffering twice." A faint shrug. "Inefficient."
There it is. That word.
Adrian almost said something. Didn't.
"About last night," he said instead. "The gun. Twice. You drew on Dursley twice."
A beat of silence. She turned to look at him, expression perfectly composed not warm, not apologetic. Just that steady, assessing calm.
"I overreacted," she said simply.
"That's it? Just — overreacted?"
"What else do you want me to say?" She wasn't defensive. Genuinely curious. "It happened. It was an error. I've logged it." A slight pause. "Would an apology make you feel better? I can do that, if it helps."
The offer was sincere. That was somehow the worst part.
"No," he said. "Forget it."
She nodded once and looked back out the window.
Just an asset. Just a tool. Efficient wound care.
He drove.
09:35 AM | Dursley's Apartment, South Metro
The hallway was the same mildew-scented tomb as before: peeling paint, buzzing fluorescent lights, the ghost of old smoke clinging to everything like a memory nobody wanted.
But something was different.
Too quiet.
No baby cries filtering through the walls. No rattling pipes warning of structural collapse. No sound of human life struggling to continue in a building that seemed designed to facilitate despair.
Just silence.
"Something's wrong," Adrian said, hand drifting toward his sidearm.
Aveline was already moving, weapon drawn in one fluid motion, scanning the corridor with practiced efficiency. "Door's unlocked," she noted quietly. "It wasn't yesterday."
She remembered. Of course she remembered.
The door to 402 swung open.
Orren Dursley sat tied to a chair. Single gunshot wound to the back of the head execution style, clinical, professional. Blood pooled beneath him, dried to dark brown crust that suggested hours had passed. Eyes open, staring at nothing because there was nothing left to see.
Adrian froze. The world tilted on its axis.
Marcus. Same shot. Same blood. Same—
My failure. Again.
Aveline stepped past him, moving through the apartment with the calm efficiency of a coroner who'd stopped being surprised by death a long time ago. Checking bindings, trajectory, spatter patterns.
"Six to eight hours," she said. "Professional. They knew he'd talk." She glanced at the door. "No forced entry. He let them in, or they had a key. Either way, someone gave him up."
"I got him killed," Adrian said, voice hollow.
She looked at him. Just looked, for a moment. "Nexo doesn't leave witnesses. He was already on the list — we just didn't know it yet." A pause, quieter than her usual delivery. "You didn't write his name on it."
That was almost kind. File that somewhere.
"La Sangre Nera?" he asked.
"Body on display, door left open. It's a message." She holstered her weapon, already pulling out her phone. "They want us to find him. That's the point."
She dialed. Her voice shifted instantly — trembling, frightened, completely convincing. Anonymous tip. Location. Hung up before they could trace it.
Adrian watched her face snap back to neutral the second the call ended.
Like flipping a switch.
"Metro PD, ten minutes," she said. "We should go."
09:50 AM | Hallway, Dursley's Building
Adrian's back hit the wall outside. He stood there, staring at nothing, something cracking open in his chest that he didn't have a name for yet.
"Everyone I touch dies," he said. "Marcus. Dursley. Who's next?"
She was quiet for a moment. Which was unusual enough to make him look at her.
"Someone will be," she said finally. "So we don't waste time standing in hallways." She was already moving toward the exit. "Come on."
Not reassurance. A redirect. Get up, keep moving, there's still someone left to save.
Christ.
He pushed off the wall and followed.
10:05 AM | Driving Back, North Metro
The silence in the car had texture. Adrian could feel it pressing against his temples.
"Do you feel anything?" he asked finally. Couldn't stop himself. "About Dursley. About any of this."
Aveline considered the question with the same careful attention she gave everything else. "Frustration," she said. "We needed him. Now we don't have him." A pause. "And irritation whoever tipped them off is still out there. That's a liability."
"That's it?"
She glanced at him. "What were you hoping for?"
Grief, he thought. Anything resembling grief.
"Never mind," he said.
She watched him for a moment. "You're going to carry this," she said, not a question. "Dursley. Marcus. You'll add them to whatever list you keep." A beat. "That's going to slow you down eventually."
"Probably," Adrian said.
"Don't let it." She looked back out the window. "They're dead. Someone out there isn't. Yet."
The most brutal form of comfort imaginable.
Somehow it worked.
10:35 AM | N.P.U. Headquarters, Briefing Room
Elias waited, arms crossed, his expression already grave before Adrian even spoke.
"Dursley's dead," Adrian said flatly. "La Sangre Nera. Execution style."
Elias exhaled sharply. "Shit. They're moving faster than we predicted."
Aveline stepped forward, pulling up files on the main screen. Efficient. Focused. That same pleasant neutrality she wore like a second skin in professional settings — present enough to function, warm enough not to alarm, empty enough to be terrifying once you knew what you were looking at.
Adrian knew now.
Three names appeared on screen. Three folders. Three possible futures.
Dr. Sarah Chen. Miguel Santos. Yuki Tanaka.
"Tanaka," Aveline said, once the names appeared on screen. "She knew Marcus. That's leverage — the useful kind, not the cruel kind." A slight pause, like the distinction mattered to her. "Chen's surveillance makes her a liability. Santos won't talk regardless of guarantees."
"She's still employed," Elias said. "If Nexo traces the connection—"
"They will." Aveline's voice was flat. "The question is whether we get there first." She glanced at Adrian. "We move now."
Adrian looked at Elias.
Elias hesitated. "Fine. But if this goes sideways—"
"It won't," Aveline said. Absolute. Certain. The voice of someone who considered failure a variable she'd already accounted for and dismissed.
Adrian glanced at her. The pleasant mask was perfectly in place cooperative, present, professionally warm.
She had no idea he'd read the file.
She was still performing. Still smiling in all the right places. Still using eye contact to facilitate compliance, not connection.
And it worked. Even now, knowing what he knew it worked.
That's the terrifying part.
The mask was just... on.
And somehow, that was worse.