Kai's body was mending in ways that still felt unreal. The infection was gone. His kidney had recovered after weeks of strict checkups and pills that left his mouth like ash. Even his fingernails had started to grow back—new ridges, pale, clean. Only the eye was still missing, a black gap that refused to heal with time. He was learning to live with the narrowed field of view, tilting his head more, squinting when crowds pressed close.
We were putting the precinct in order, one room at a time. It wasn't glamorous. It was hauling boxes, locking doors, rewriting logbooks. Every bag in evidence was logged, double-signed, stacked clean. Refrigerators were powered, samples sealed, chain-of-custody sheets corrected. We worked until the clutter turned into rows, until the shelves whispered discipline instead of chaos.
Someone finally noticed. A clerk leaned against the doorway, chewing his pen, brow creased. "Why?" he asked. Just that—like the concept of order was foreign.
"Because evidence doesn't secure itself," Avren said without looking up, flipping a page to initial the next row.
The answer didn't land, but it didn't matter. By then, we'd already pieced the truth together. All the breadcrumbs led one way. The mop fibers, the regulation polish, the Delta-issued tape, the glue batch from Alpha—every trail Avren had charted came to rest at one name.
Detective Saul Greaves.
We didn't say it loud, not yet. But we knew.
The evidence wasn't circumstantial anymore; it was deliberate. His access logs matched dates of tampered rooms. His sign-out sheet for tape rolls didn't line with any active cases. The commissary ledger showed his boot polish issued out of cycle. And his file contained a "lost" report for the same glue batch Avren remembered from Alpha. Not to mention the way his witness statements had been worded—bland, short, meant to kill curiosity instead of spark it.
We knew. And knowing made everything heavier.
---
We stepped outside for a smoke break. The wind smelled like rain, metal on the horizon.
Avren cupped his lighter against the breeze, took the first drag, and passed the flame without asking. He leaned on the rail, exhaling in slow ribbons. "Well," he said, "we can't M-88 him. Didn't bring any."
"True," I said, tasting the bitterness, smoke crawling into my bad eye.
Avren flicked ash over the edge, watching the flecks vanish. "So. Options."
I nodded. "Options."
---
We started making a list. Not suspects this time—trust.
"Lieutenant Mary," I said first. "She gave you the sanction. She'll back us."
Avren nodded. "Mary's solid. She's Concord enough to toe the line, but she hates loose ends."
"Derrick," I added. "He mouths off, but he's good at his job. If he hates you, that means he cares about the rules."
Avren smirked. "That's one way to spin it."
We moved down the roster.
The forensics tech, Almeida—sharp eyes, sharper notes. Never once misfiled a sample. Good.
The medic, Coren—patches wounds in silence, keeps no grudges. Good.
The night-shift clerk, Mira—sloppy with forms, always late, more interested in phone calls than evidence. Not good.
The watch commander, Rolfe—big talk, bigger gut, disappears when real work lands. Not good.
The Concord officer in gray—definitely not good. Too many questions, too many files touched with clean hands.
Avren scribbled names into a notebook, circling some, slashing others. His handwriting was clean, even, like each stroke was deliberate.
"So what do we do with Greaves?" I asked.
Avren tapped ash again. "We tail him. If we're right, he won't hide it long. Men like him—lazy, confident—they always leave the door open for themselves."
"You think he knows we're looking?"
Avren's smile was small, sharp. "He knows someone's looking. He just doesn't think it's us."
---
We stubbed the smokes out and went back inside. Greaves wasn't hard to find—he never was. That was part of his disguise. He lived in the open, laughing too loud in the mess, slapping backs, buying drinks with money he shouldn't have. People mistook his swagger for reliability, as if noise could hide the rot.
But now we knew the rot's name.
We didn't confront him in the hall, not with half the precinct watching. We watched instead. Where he went. Who he spoke to. What files his hand brushed. The little tells Avren lived for.
By dusk, we were in his shadow, a block back, quiet in the city's dimming pulse.
"Stay loose," Avren murmured. "He'll lead us where he's most comfortable."
And that was the thing about men like Greaves. They always believed the city belonged to them.
We followed, silent, the day ending the way it had to: with us tailing our suspect into the night, knowing the next step would decide whether we sank with Delta or dragged it screaming into light.