The fluorescent lights of the precinct hummed with a clinical, headache-inducing buzz that matched the mood in the hallway.
"What the hell is wrong with Chief Daves all of a sudden?" a voice muttered from the shadows of the interrogation wing.
Aric and Darian emerged from the room, radiating a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight. Aric trailed behind, his eyes fixed on the rigid set of Darian's shoulders.
"Honey... Hon... Honey, wait!"
Darian spun around, his fingers snaking out to bunch the fabric of Aric's collar. His eyes were a violent, bloodshot red, brimming with tears that refused to be dignified. "What is wrong with us, Aric? This isn't the first time. Every time we're a hair's breadth from the truth, they yank us out like we're amateurs. They hand our sweat and blood to some 'elite' team so they can play hero in the headlines!"
Aric didn't flinch. He simply reached out and hauled Darian into a crushing embrace, shielding him from the prying eyes of the hallway. "Don't worry, honey," Aric whispered, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous frequency. "I'm going to fix this. Permanently."
The next morning, the sun rose with an audacity that felt like an insult. Darian sat at his desk, his eyes puffed and raw from a night of silent grieving for a career being stolen from him. Aric sat nearby, appearing deceptively calm, though his mind was clearly weaving a web of dark intentions.
The heavy precinct doors swung open. A group of men marched in, their suits pressed to a lethal sharpness, smelling of expensive cologne and unearned arrogance.
"Hey, Aric. How's the view from the bottom?" one of them sneered. It was Ren—a man whose ego had its own gravitational pull.
Aric didn't even look at him. He leaned toward Darian, his voice dripping with forced casualness. "Honey, I've got a sudden, violent craving for sushi. Shall we leave this trash heap for a bit?"
Darian blinked, his tear-stained confusion rendering him momentarily speechless. Ren, however, didn't appreciate being equated to industrial waste. He lunged, his fist whistling through the air toward Aric's face.
Before the blow could land, a figure blurred into motion. A hand—slender, manicured, and deceptively strong—clamped onto Ren's wrist.
"Aric~!"
The voice was high-pitched, cloying, and carried the distinct, bitter aftertaste of a "green tea bitch" performance. This was Valentine. She stood there like an angelic hallucination in a den of wolves, her grip on Ren never wavering.
Aric straightened his tie, his expression turning to one of pure, unadulterated disgust. "You again? You absolute pervert. Why won't you leave me alone? I can't even change departments without you following me like a stray dog." He sighed, his gaze flickering to Ren. "And I see you brought your pet to smell me out here, too."
Without waiting for a response, Aric seized Darian's arm and hauled him toward the exit.
"ARIC!" Valentine's voice cracked, a genuine note of pain piercing through her persona. Aric didn't even twitch. He stepped out into the humid air, dragging Darian along.
Good grief, Darian thought, his mind reeling as he struggled to keep up with Aric's long strides. This man has more obsessed admirers than a k-pop idol. I need to be careful—at this rate, I'm going to get assassinated by a jealous ex-wife or a scorned stalker. He stole a glance at Aric's profile—the sharp jawline, the intense, brooding eyes. Then again, look at him. He's fucking hot. Strange, terrifying, and hot.
A small, involuntary chuckle escaped Darian's lips. Aric froze. The coldness in his eyes evaporated instantly, replaced by a possessive warmth. He reached out, his fingers grazing Darian's ear, stroking the shell of it from top to bottom. Darian shivered, the intimacy of the gesture hitting him like a physical shock.
The moment was shattered by a scream.
A woman, roughly 47 years old, stumbled toward the base, her face a mask of grief and frantic desperation. Darian was at her side in an instant.
"Ma'am? Ma'am, breathe. What happened?"
The woman's words were a jagged mess of sobs. Darian guided her to a chair, while Aric stood over them, his stillness now focused and predatory—the detective had returned.
"My daughter... Mella Austin," she gasped. "She's missing. She's only five and a half. I went to pick her up, and..."
The Memory:
Wali Austin had smiled at the school gate. "I'm here for Mella."
Five minutes later, the teacher returned, her face pale and defensive. "Ms. Austin... Mella was already picked up by her guardian."
"What? I'm her only guardian! Who did you give my daughter to?!"
The Reality:
"When I checked the CCTV," Wali sobbed, "the footage was cut. Edited."
Aric's eyes narrowed. "How do you know it was edited?"
"I'm a lead editor for Williams & Co.," she whispered.
Darian's heart skipped. "Williams? As in the CEO who was found dead last week?"
"Yes," she choked out. "The school... they wouldn't listen. The teacher told me they have 'too many kids to watch' and locked the gates in my face. I went to the local station five days ago. They did nothing. Please... you have to help me."
Darian patted her hand, his face set in grim determination. "Don't worry, ma'am. We're going to find her."
Beside him, Aric's aura darkened. This wasn't just a missing persons case anymore; it was a challenge. And Aric hated losing things—especially children and his own time.
.
.
.
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