The Stolen Sunset
"𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒'𝓈 𝒶 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓅𝑒𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹—𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓈𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓅𝓈𝑒."
The alley stank of wet rot and regret, a mix of old beer, trash, and the weight of too many bad decisions. It was one of those nights where the rain tried its best to wash away the city's filth, but instead, it just made everything wetter and worse. The puddles on the pavement gleamed with the same hopeless sheen that seemed to coat everything around here. The kind of place where you'd step over someone passed out and think, 'Yeah, that checks out.' Not the kind of night anyone with a lick of sense would be out in, let alone doing what Sylvester was doing. But here he was again, staring at another dead body. It was his job, sure, but that didn't make it any easier. Some people collect stamps. He collected scenes—dark, sad, and crawling with the kind of secrets you wished you could unhear.It was all too familiar. Hell, it was home.He stood there, his trench coat absorbing the rain as though it was trying to drown him. Maybe it was. The weight in his chest matched the waterlogged fabric, like a cruel reminder of why he was back in this godforsaken corner. His heartbeat thudded against his ribs, a little too fast, a little too frantic—like it knew something he didn't. Sprawled on the pavement was a woman, once alive and breathing, now just another casualty of whatever game this city was playing. A cocktail of green and blue bruises painted her skin, the kind of artwork no one asked for. The flicker of a busted neon sign caught in her vacant eyes, as if it was mocking her in death.If the city had a motto, it'd be something like: Life's cheap. Death? Even cheaper."Cardiac arrest," muttered Ramirez, the rookie medical examiner. The kid still had that fresh-out-of-school look, like he hadn't seen enough yet to know how screwed up things really were. The kid looked pale, like he might puke any second. "No health problem, though. It doesn't make sense." Yeah, it didn't make sense. But when did it ever? Sylvester didn't bother with a reply, didn't need to see Ramirez's face to know how rattled he was. The kid would get used to it, or he'd leave. Either way, Sylvester had seen too many rookies come and go to care. care. His eyes drifted to the dead woman's wrist, where a faint, swirling mark marred her pale skin. There it was—the mark. Faded, almost nothing. You'd miss it if you weren't looking for it. But Sylvester wasn't most people. He'd seen it before. Another night, another woman. And it haunted him ever since. A flicker of a memory flashed behind his eyes—his mother, her cold wrist with the same faint swirl, gone too soon. Natural causes, they'd said. But Sylvester had never been able to buy it. And now, looking at this girl, the past was digging its claws into him, dragging up things he'd tried too hard to forget.The realization hit him like a punch to the gut: this wasn't random. It wasn't an accident. Someone—something—was behind this, and his mother wasn't the only one. He clenched his jaw, feeling the old rage bubbling up inside him. It had been simmering for years, and now it was threatening to boil over. His mother wasn't the only one. How many more had been chalked up to "natural causes," their deaths conveniently explained away, their stories buried with them?"Run that mark," Sylvester said, his voice cold, cutting through the rain like a blade. "Any case with that mark in the past ten years. I want them all."Ramirez looked like a deer in headlights, probably regretting every career decision he'd made to end up here, but he nodded and scurried off. Smart kid. Better to move than stick around and watch Sylvester's patience evaporate completely.The city whispered its usual secrets, but Sylvester wasn't listening. Not tonight. There was something bigger going on here, something that had started years ago, and this was just the latest chapter in a book that had been left open for far too long.The rain kept falling, trying and failing to wash it all away."𝐼𝓃 𝒶 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈, 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒'𝓈 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒶 𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓇-𝓁𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓃𝑜 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒."***
Sylvester walked into the station, the chill of the rain still clinging to his bones. The usual hum of the precinct buzzed around him—phones ringing, people shouting, someone trying to fix the coffee machine for the third time that week. But Sylvester barely noticed. His mind was stuck in that alley, on the dead woman, on the mark.He shook the rain from his coat, giving a passing nod to an officer he vaguely recognized, and headed straight to the back where Captain Vanessa Bishop's office sat like a fortress. The door was open, which was never a good sign. She only left it open when she was in a mood—her way of making sure people knew that, yes, she was available, but you really didn't want to bother her."Detective," Vanessa greeted without looking up from her paperwork as Sylvester stepped inside. Her voice was always cool, measured. If there was one person who could handle the city's madness, it was her. Tough as nails, sharp as broken glass, and just as likely to cut you if you weren't careful. "You got something for me?"Sylvester stood in the doorway for a second, weighing his options. He could tell her about the mark. He should tell her. But something held him back. The mark was personal. Too personal. This was his mother's ghost coming back to haunt him, not a lead he could easily explain. Not yet, at least."Body in an alley off Mercer," he said instead, stepping into the room fully. He kept his voice steady, casual. "Young woman, early twenties. Bruises, likely dead before she hit the pavement. Medical examiner says cardiac arrest, but I'm not buying it. No signs of struggle, no previous health conditions. Same old song and dance."Vanessa finally looked up, her sharp eyes meeting his. She didn't say anything for a moment, just studied him, like she was trying to read whatever he wasn't saying. And knowing her, she probably could. She'd been in the game long enough to know when someone was holding something back."Anything else?" Vanessa asked, her tone hinting she didn't expect there to be."... That's it," Sylvester replied, knowing damn well it wasn't. "I'll dig through the old files, see if there's any connection. She nodded, then picked up her pen and went back to her paperwork. "Keep me updated. And Sylvester," she added without looking up, "if your gut's telling you something, trust it. Just don't go chasing ghosts."Sylvester smirked, a faint, hollow thing that didn't reach his eyes. "Wouldn't dream of it, Captain."He left the office, shutting the door quietly behind him. The weight of the conversation settled over him like the rain outside. He should've told her about the mark. Vanessa was good, and if anyone could help him figure this out, it was her. But this case—it was too close, too tangled up in his own past to share just yet.Besides, ghosts weren't something you chased. They chased you. And right now, one was nipping at his heels.He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. The city hummed around him, indifferent to its latest victim, indifferent to his search for answers. And somewhere in the back of his mind, that little voice of doubt whispered that maybe, just maybe, he was in over his head."𝐼𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓇𝓊𝓃 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈—𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓇𝓊𝓃 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒾𝑔𝓃𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇𝓈."
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