Bruce woke up before the sun, the cold leather of the precinct couch sticking to the back of his neck. For a few seconds, he didn’t remember falling asleep—just the weight in his spine and the chemical taste of old coffee still clinging to his tongue. His shoulder throbbed from the way he’d curled against the armrest. He’d intended to get up last night, go home, face Karen like a man—but the image of the sedan parked a block down, the glint of tinted glass, the sense that someone was watching, rooting itself under his skin… it had kept him inside. By the time consciousness fully settled, he remembered why he’d slept here. He also remembered that Jac couldn’t know.

  He sat up slowly, rubbing the grit out of his eyes. He checked the clock: 5:12 a.m. Early enough that most of the shift hadn’t come in yet. Good. He stretched out his stiff leg, groaning softly when his knee cracked, and forced himself to his feet.

  The locker room lights buzzed as he flicked them on. The fluorescent hum felt louder than it should. He peeled off his shirt, grabbed the spare uniform he kept hanging in the back of his locker, and stepped under the showerhead. The water ran lukewarm, but it was enough. If he washed long enough—face, neck, shoulders—maybe he could rinse off the dread he’d carried around since the sedan encounter yesterday.

  The water didn’t wash away the paranoia. But it helped him look less like a man unraveling. He combed his hair twice, then gave up when it insisted on falling in its usual disarray. At least he smelled clean. At least he looked like he hadn’t slept under his desk. Jac didn’t need to know he’d spent the night listening for footsteps.

  When he stepped back into the squad room, flipping a stack of papers over on his desk with the casual precision of someone pretending he’d been there for hours, the door opened.

  Jac stepped in, her coat still drawn around her shoulders like armor. Her hair was pulled back today, neat, but her eyes gave away a long night. She looked around the squad room, then over at Bruce.

  “You’re early,” she said, eyebrows raised.

  “Could say the same for you,” he replied, taking a slow sip of the fresh coffee he’d poured seconds before her arrival. “Figured I’d get ahead on some paperwork.”

  She looked at the desk. Then at him. Then at the couch in the corner. Her stare sharpened.

  “You look… rested,” she said carefully.

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding once. “Shower’ll do that.”

  She didn’t fully believe him, but let it go. Instead, she set her bag down and slid into the chair across from him.

  “I called Melody last night,” she said abruptly. “She’s a girl from that bar down on—“ Her voice trailed.

  Bruce blinked. “Yeah?” He knew better than to pry and could tell Jac was looking for the right words to be tasteful.

  She shrugged, pretending nonchalance she didn’t have. “Left a message. Nothing major.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “You deserve a life outside this circus.”

  “It was one message, Bruce.”

  “Still counts.”

  She huffed. “Okay, fine. And… my mom called too. I called her back.”

  “That’s good too.”

  She leaned back, crossing her arms. “You got anything you wanna share?”

  Bruce hesitated, ultimately shutting it down.

  “Nothing to share yet.”

  Jac didn’t push—not out loud—but her gaze did. He could feel it.

  He changed the subject.

  “Let’s go over Ringer before the meeting. Ten o’clock, right?”

  She nodded.

  They pulled the files out together, spreading them over the desk: Luke Ringer’s personnel reports, the media leak transcripts, the disciplinary record, and the termination paperwork. He was an odd one: bright, confrontational, and too stubborn to hide his ego. A man who had loved his work too much to watch someone else take credit for it.

  A man who might have known Stall better than anyone. A man who, if Halden and Tally had been murdered for talking to the police, was next on the list.

  Bruce couldn’t shake the feeling that they were running out of time and that whoever was chasing these whistleblowers never left loose ends.

  “Let’s get moving,” Jac said.

  Bruce gathered the files and shoved them into his coat. “We’ll get breakfast after. You need real food.”

  “Coffee is real food.”

  “Not in this century.”

  She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched into something almost like a smile.

  The diner Luke chose was old—older than either of them—and the kind of place where the same patrons had probably been drinking the same burnt coffee since the eighties. A row of vinyl booths lined the windows, and the smell of frying bacon clung to the air like fog.

  Luke was already there. He sat in the farthest booth, back to the wall, hands wrapped around a mug he didn’t drink from. His leg bounced under the table, jittery and restless. His eyes tracked every movement outside the diner, every passerby. He was afraid.

  Bruce felt an ache form in his chest. Because Halden had been afraid too. And so had Tally. And both were dead.

  As they approached, Luke raised one hand—half greeting, half surrender.

  “Detectives,” he said, his voice already frayed. “I—I appreciate you coming.”

  “Thanks for meeting us,” Bruce replied, sliding into the booth. Jac took the seat beside him.

  Luke exhaled shakily. “I recognized you both from the news. Especially after the second—after Evan.” He looked down at the table. “I didn’t sleep last night.”

  “We’re here to get clarity,” Jac said. “Nothing more.”

  Luke gave a hollow laugh. “Nothing about all of this is clear.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you.” Jac began gently. “Luke, you worked with George Stall—”

  “The one and only,” he interrupted sharply. “Although he was—“

  Bruce exchanged a look with Jac. Luke noticed.

  “What?” Luke demanded. “What aren’t you saying?”

  “It’s nothing, Mister Ringer,” Bruce’s words cut through their tension. “We do have privileged information regarding the case. We’ll share it if it’s necessary.”

  “We’re trying to understand who he was,” Jac said carefully. “His history is… inconsistent.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Inconsistent how?”

  Jac hesitated. Bruce stepped in again.

  “There were discrepancies,” Bruce said. “His history is a little odd, to say the least.”

  “Well,” Luke’s eyes bounced between the detectives, “like what?”

  Bruce and Jac exchanged another look, then Jac pulled her notebook from her pocket.

  “Did he ever talk about his education? Where he went to school? What year?”

  The puzzled look on Luke’s face told Bruce everything he needed to know. “So it’s safe to say Stall played his cards close to his chest?”

  Luke’s head shook. “You know, it never came up with him. As I recall, he would stay quiet when scholarships came into question.” Luke adjusted his glasses and rubbed his mustache. “Come to think of it, I think he would just walk away if enough people could mask his escape.”

  “So, the validity of his credentials never came into question?” Jac sat back, her own twist of a look on her face.

  “It wasn’t for us to determine. We’re just employees, after all. Seems like you got reason enough to pay a visit back to MentaTech. Don’t trust them. I wouldn’t be surprised if—“

  Bruce’s cocked his head to the side. “If what?”

  Luke jumped, as if interrupted while daydreaming. He stammered, searching for the answer. “W—well, we all knew he brought something with him that was… advanced.” Luke drummed on the desk. He just showed up one way with a briefcase, demanding to see who was in charge. A week later, he was in charge of the department.”

  “That fast? Guy just walks in off the streets and gets a job?” Jac whistled.

  “Oh. It was more than that. Turned the company upside down overnight. They made it seem like he was the missing piece of the puzzle. Facts are, it was like he brought his own puzzle with him.”

  “Why do you say that?” Bruce was very intrigued, leaned over the table. His voice was low.

  “MentaTech changed its entire model after he shot up. It pivoted from Neural Enhancement implants to…” Luke’s eyes were sparked, aflame. “His ’Skyn’ technology.”

  “Skyn?” Jac was scribbling in her notebook. “Go on.”

  “I don’t know who would have given him a lab for this kind of research, or how long it took him to develop, but when he showed them the proofs. The practical application of it….” Ringer’s eyes were on the table, his palms were flat.”

  “So what is it?” Bruce barked, quietly. He hated this buildup and tension. This was the closest to answers they had come in days, and Luke gatekeeping secrets.

  Luke sat back, and met Bruce’s gaze. “I think it’s the reason George is dead.” The words hung between them, counting the seconds until the gravity set in. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen my expose. Figures. Corporate America must have covered it up.” He leaned back in.

  Jac leaned in, too.

  “Before ol’ George showed up, Halden was the golden apple on the tree. Her Neural Enhancement implants were going to put MentaTech on the map. Once those were on the market, we prepared for a streamlined release of the next product, one that I and even Tally were a part of. The Internal Monitor: a mechanism for measuring vital organ health.” He cleared his throat.

  “We had one flaw in our design: We lacked the proper method for transferring the data through the body that wouldn’t corrupt the readings via feedback response. Stall had the answer. He brought with him the Skyn, a smart mesh that could mimic organic tissue and transmit data. In a matter of weeks, my and Tally’s project was swallowed; Marla’s too. NeuralSkyn was the new breakthrough technology. Within months, we were designing Artificial Human organs, linked using the Skyn protocol; synchronized using Marla’s Neural Implants.”

  “So. Long story short: George demonstrated he could do all your jobs—“

  “The ends justify the means.” Luke responded. “Wasn’t long after that, we were all reassigned to other projects and it was just Stall left.”

  “And that’s when you decided that the world needed to know?” Jac finished penciling in the last of the details.

  Luke sat back, staring out the window. “The thought occurred to me: That maybe this is my fault. Had I just kept my mouth shut…”

  “No good deed goes unpunished.” Bruce sat back. His stomach reminded him that neither of them had eaten, but now wasn’t the time.

  Jac must have heard it, because she turned to him briefly.

  “Yeah. They say that.” Luke didn’t look back at the detectives.

  Jac began thinking out loud, speaking softly into Bruce’s ear. “It would make sense that the media leak might garner national attention. This may be why he lied about his identity.”

  The words were loud enough for Luke. To hear. His attention was back on Jac, eyes sharpened. “What did you say?”

  Jac opened her mouth, unthinking: “Well, I— wasn’t even—”

  Bruce touched her arm.

  Luke’s breath quickened. “Say that sentence again.”

  Jac closed her mouth.

  Luke leaned forward, eyes bright with a terrible clarity. “He didn’t answer to his name sometimes. Did you know that? You’d say ‘George,’ and he’d stare at you until you said it again. Like he didn’t know it belonged to him. He had this… this way of watching people. Not listening—watching.”

  Bruce felt a cold coil wrap itself around his ribs.

  “Luke,” he said, voice steady, “we need to know more about the leak. And why now you’re willing to talk.”

  Luke swallowed. “No. You’re keeping something from me.” Luke’s posture sat straight up, his weight shifted the table as he leaned in, shouting in a quiet hush. “ What else do you know? Tell me what you’ve discovered about him! About my friends’ murders!”

  “Luke, you know we can’t do that—“

  “Put me under police custody, then.” His eyes buckled, filling with tears. “Take me into—“ He sat back, looking between the detectives. He murmured something under his breath. “Because Halden and Tally died after talking to the police,” he whispered. “Is that what happens? You ask questions, they answer, and then they turn up dead?”

  Bruce inhaled sharply. “We didn’t put anyone under police protection,” he said quietly. “No one thought—”

  Luke’s face drained.

  “You didn’t protect them,” he said. “Oh God. Oh God.”

  He stood abruptly.

  “Luke,” Jac said, rising, “sit down. We’re not—”

  “I need to go to the restroom,” he said quickly. “I’ll be right back.”

  He walked past them too fast, but Bruce knew that pace. That wasn’t a bathroom walk.

  “Shit,” Bruce muttered, “He’s trying to book it. He pushed Jac out of the way, vaulting out of the booth. They needed to bring Ringer in, even though he wasn’t the killer.

  Luke burst out the side exit into bright daylight, sprinting across the sidewalk. A car honked loud enough to make Jac jump. Luke dodged between bumpers, nearly getting clipped by a delivery truck.

  “Luke!” Bruce shouted.

  He didn’t look back.

  Bruce ran harder, lungs burning, but couldn’t keep the pace, clutching his chest as he watched Jac sprint ahead.

  Jac kept pace beside him, weaving through pedestrians, until she looked back at her partner. She slowed just enough to give Luke the edge.

  The air tasted like exhaust and cold metal. Ahead, through a crowded intersection, Luke plunged. The light changed, traffic thickened; Luke darted between two vans, disappeared from view.

  There was a brief moment of confusion, then a scream tore the air open, stopping foot traffic and cars in their place. A scream that turned into a wet, cracking squish of a grunt. Then the world continued.

  Bruce caught up, eventually, and the pair ran to investigate it, this time guns drawn, heart racing, pumping fear and adrenaline.

  Into the alley, their eyes swept, but he wasn’t hard to find. Luke Ringer lay on the ground—what was left of him.

  His chest had collapsed inward like someone had driven an iron bar straight through him and crushed everything soft around it. His ribs were twisted, snapped, spiraling into each other. His neck was bent at an angle that made Jac clap a hand over her mouth.

  Bruce froze, the pair holstered their weapons. No weapon could do that. No man could do it either.

  He knelt beside the body, his breath staggered, mind trying to grasp what he was seeing. He heard Jac gag behind him. From the street, he heard someone on the street shout “Oh my God!” From a ways, the blur of distant sirens.

  He reached for his radio with a shaking hand.

  “Dispatch—” he started. His voice didn’t sound like his, more it sounded like someone waking from a nightmare they hadn’t escaped.

  “Lieutenant Morrow Reporting—“ He fought back the bile from his stomach, “unattended death, civilian, possible homicide. Requesting forensic units and medical. Now.”

  Bruce turned away from the body, focusing back on Jac. Then on the crowd forming on the street. “Vincent.”

  Jac’s hands were on her knees, retching against the wall.

  “Vincent, look at me.”

  She held her breath, and looked back.

  “We need to set up the perimeter until backup arrives. I need you to keep those people back.”

  Jac gave one final spit, and shot him a thumbs up. She cleared her throat. “Okay, back up. Stand clear.”

  It didn’t take long for the streets to fill. Additional officers arrived, relieving Jac, shoving back onlookers. Media vans pulled up like vultures. Ritter stormed through the tape shouting orders, his face a boiling red. Civilians pressed closer, phones raised. Somewhere, Jac sat on a crate, eyes wide, breathing shallow.

  Bruce turned—and saw the camera crew. Chet Lancaster stood just outside the tape, speaking into his mic as his cameraman filmed the alley.

  “—third killing in under a week, and sources say the victim may have been involved with the previous deaths. The Billings PD appears to be losing ground—”

  Bruce stepped toward him, jaw clenched.

  Jac caught his arm. “Bruce. Not here.”

  He stared at Chet for a long moment, then backed away.

  Ritter caught sight of them and marched over.

  “Tell me you two got something,” he said, voice raw.

  Bruce didn’t answer, shooting a glance to Jac who was staring back. She remained quiet too.

  By the time the scene was processed, Luke’s wallet had been found—but nothing that told them where he’d been hiding. His listed address was old. The landlord said he’d moved out months ago. No forwarding address. No one knew where he’d stayed.

  An arson report came in from two blocks away—an alley dumpster flare-up that nearly got out of hand. A false lead. Jac clung to a tiny hope that it mattered. It didn’t.

  Bruce watched the paramedics wheel Luke’s body away. Watched Ritter kneel in the slush with his head in his hands. Watched Jac stare at the ground like something foundational inside her had cracked.

  He felt it crack inside him too. Someone was staying ahead of them. Someone was eliminating every thread they touched.

  Someone didn’t want this case solved. And they were losing.

  Jac looked up at him, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if we’re not supposed to solve it?”

  Bruce wanted to lie. To tell her they’d figure it out. That cases like this always broke eventually. That the world wasn’t as dark as it felt in that alley. But he couldn’t.