The television blared from the corner of the break room, the bright newsroom graphics cutting through the dull hum of the office.
"…and in a major breakthrough, the police have confirmed that the city's most notorious mass rapist has finally been apprehended. Authorities say the man—"
A hand reached out and yanked the remote. The screen went black, leaving only the low hiss of the coffee machine and the smell of bitter roast.
"Finally," a gruff voice muttered. Coffee steamed in his hand as he leaned back in his chair. "All that work, six months chasing leads, and what do we get? Nothing. No promotion, no recognition. Just the cops on TV saying they caught him."
Around him, other investigators nodded and murmured their agreement, a chorus of frustrated unison. "Yeah, they get the glory every time…" one muttered. "We do all the dirty work."
In the background,there he was the case cracker.
One man had been working this case relentlessly, day and night, for six months straight. While the rest of the department grumbled about credit and promotions, this man never rested. Not for a single hour. Not for recognition. Not even for sleep.
His name? Detective Clayton Malford.
The man in his early thirties, lean but with shoulders that carried invisible weight. His eyes were shaky, calculating, scanning over reports, phone messages, and case files stacked haphazardly on the table beside him. He wasn't fast to speak, but when he did,it was deliberate, like every word in the alphabet had been filtered through a mental algorithm.
To anyone else, he looked like just another tired investigator but Clayton had already solved more cases than most of his peers could dream of in a lifetime. He was methodical. He was relentless. And he didn't stop—not even now, when the city was celebrating a victory he'd quietly built from the shadows.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Let them have their headlines. Let them wave their accolades. The work was the reward.
The hum of fluorescent lights above did little to keep him awake. Clayton leaned back, letting the chair creak under his weight, and rubbed his temples. Another case, another pile of files, another endless trail of corruption, lies, and death. The city never slept, and neither could he—not if he wanted answers.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "You'll want to see this. Alley behind the old textile mill. Now."
Clayton's eyes narrowed. He didn't flinch at anonymous tips anymore,they usually led somewhere, one way or another. One hand still wrapped around his coffee cup, he grabbed his coat, sliding it over his shoulders in a instant dashing out into the rain leaving his post and also grabbing the attention of his seniors who scorned at him for being too active. To them, he was just another wanna be bigtime detectives running errands in the night.
He stepped into the rain-slicked streets. Got his umbrella,lit a cigarette and off he went into the neon district.
Lights flickered, reflecting on puddles as if the city itself were warning him to turn back.
But Clayton didn't. He never did.
How could he turn back on any case that can lead him to his father's murderers?
The alley was narrow, suffocating, filled with shadows and the smell of rust and damp. At the far end, a figure stumbled—or fell maybe.
Clayton's instincts kicked in. He approached silently, eyes scanning for threats,listening to every raindrop that fell by him.
The figure groaned, and Clayton crouched beside him. Blood streaked the man's face, but the movement, the rhythm of his breathing, told Clayton this wasn't an ordinary mugging. This was deliberate.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Clayton knew: the tip wasn't just random. Someone wanted him here.
He pulled out his notebook, fingers brushing over pages filled with patterns, names, and numbers. Every instinct screamed: Check the exits. Watch for shadows. Someone's watching.
He didn't realize the danger had been waiting for him long before he ever received the text.
Clayton didn't move.
Not yet.
Years of instinct froze him in place, every sense stretching outward like invisible threads. The rain hit the pavement in uneven rhythms. The wind shifted only slightly down the alley. But behind all of it…
there was something else.
Breathing.
Too controlled to be the injured man's.
Too steady to belong to someone panicked.
Someone was holding their breath — waiting.
Clayton pretended to wipe rain from his face as his eyes traced the alley walls. A rusted fire escape. Overflowing trash bins. A broken streetlamp flickering weakly above.
Only one real exit.
A trap.
Clayton casually slid one boot backward, heel pressing lightly against the wet ground — testing traction.
Another faint breath — from the shadows above this time.
High vantage point. Watching him.
He knelt beside the injured man again, but this time his voice dropped to a whisper only the man could hear.
"…You're bait, aren't you?"
The man's fingers twitched at the sound — not random, not unconscious. A reaction.
Clayton's eyes narrowed.
He flipped open his notebook again, but not to write. Between the pages was a thin metallic strip — a portable signal jammer. Illegal to own, let alone use.
But useful.
He clicked it on with his thumb.
A soft bzzt vibrated through his palm.
Not loud.
But loud enough that anyone nearby using a communicator would hear static.
From the rooftop, a faint rust broke through the rain.
Clayton stood slowly, umbrella dangling at his side, cigarette ember glowing beneath the brim of his hat. His voice was calm, but still with caution.
"If you wanted to talk," he said into the alley, "a text would've been enough."
Silence.
Then
A soft clatter above. A foot slipping on wet iron.
More movement to the right.
Two people. Maybe three.
Clayton didn't have a weapon moreover he couldn't own one. He didn't run.
He simply straightened his coat, flicked his cigarette into a puddle, and whispered:
"…Now let's see who's hunting who."