Morning came slowly.
The kind of grey dawn that crawled through the blinds and settled in your bones.
Alice sat on the edge of her couch, still in last night's clothes, a cigarette burning itself out in the ashtray. The TV played the morning news — low volume, no sound she cared to hear. Another murder. Another face. Another headline that meant nothing.
The photo of her father lay on the table beside the burner phone and the folded note. She hadn't slept. She hadn't tried.
The knock on her door was sharp enough to make her hand twitch toward her gun.
"Easy, Pierce," a familiar voice called. "It's me."
She exhaled, unclenching her jaw, and opened the door. Ortega stood there — pale, arm in a sling, eyes too awake for someone who'd taken a bullet less than a week ago.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" she said.
"Shouldn't you?" He stepped inside without waiting, scanning the room. "Christ, it's like a crime scene in here."
"It's homey," she muttered, shutting the door.
He looked at her — really looked. "You're working something off-book again, aren't you?"
Alice didn't answer. She poured him coffee instead. "Milk's expired. Sugar's a myth."
He took the mug anyway and sat on the couch. "You always do this. You find a lead, and you lock the world out until it bites back."
She leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You came here to nag me?"
"I came here because I got shot doing your kind of work. Thought maybe you'd let me live long enough to see you burn out first."
That earned him half a smile — tired, unwilling.
He gestured to the photo on the table. "Is that him?"
Her shoulders stiffened. "Yeah."
"Didn't think you kept pictures."
"I don't."
He waited for her to elaborate. She didn't.
After a long silence, he said quietly, "You think he's still alive, don't you?"
Alice's eyes stayed on the rain outside. "I think people like him don't stay dead easily."
Ortega rubbed his jaw, choosing his next words carefully. "If he's connected to this—whatever's happening—then you're too close. You need to tell Rhodes."
She turned to face him, voice low but sharp enough to cut the air. "You think I'm trusting this department with my father's ghost? Half of them would sell that photo to the tabloids before the ink dried."
He didn't argue. He didn't have to.
The coffee went cold between them. The city hummed outside — horns, sirens, life moving on without asking permission.
Finally, Ortega stood. "Just… watch your back, Pierce. The street remembers, yeah? Maybe it remembers you too."
She watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him.
For a long time, she just stood there — the hum of the city bleeding through her walls, the faint smell of rain clinging to the air.
Then she went back to the table, picked up the burner phone, and pressed her thumb to the cracked screen.
One new message. No number.
*We warned you once. Now we're watching.*
Her pulse didn't change. She just smiled — small, cold, dangerous.
"Good," she whispered. "Watch closely."