The morgue lights hum, sterile and unforgiving. The air reeks faintly of bleach and iron.

  Aubrey pulled her coat tighter. The cold cuts sharper here.

  “Wish I had AC like this,” Vince mutters, rubbing his arms.

  Dr. Lyle doesn’t look up from the body. “You detectives always want answers. Bodies don’t give answers. They give better questions.” He lets out a short laugh, flipping through his notes.

  “Ballistics came back—both nine millimeter. But—” He taps the page. “Striations don’t match. Two guns.”

  “Two shooters,” Aubrey cuts in.

  Lyle glanced up at her, then back down. “And one casing’s already in the system. Same signature turned up in a Ridge Avenue shooting. Four months ago. No arrest.” He sets the folder aside. “Different borough, no arrest.”

  “My read?” Lyle shrugs. “Professional, but sloppy. If that makes sense.”

  Vince looks at him, he finally speaks up, his voice even. “You think this is a professional kill either way?”

  Lyle shrugs again. “Call it professional, call it sloppy—doesn’t matter. The body doesn’t lie. The scene does.”

  “Yeah, but what do you think?” Vince says, his tone cautious.

  Lyle sets the clipboard down on the slab table.

  “Listen detective, it’s possible okay? I don’t make money guessing. I’d say maybe, but that doesn’t take you far, right?” Lyle walking past Vince to the cabinet. “Like I said, just check previous files with similar stories. That's all.” He looks back at Vince before going back into the cabinet.

  Aubrey’s hands together by her waist. “We start with ridge, then any other case in the past 2 years.”

  Vince looks back at Aubrey. “I guess we’re going to comb through gang files?”

  “That's really the only ones that would make sense to the depth of injuries… I mean the debt aspect alone makes too much sense.” Aubrey adjusts her coat.

  “Regardless, a lot of debt that’s not on the books is usually gang-related.” Aubrey walks towards the exit.

  Vince looks at Lyle. “Thanks, Doc,” Vince says, giving Lyle a nod before following Aubrey toward the door.

  Aubrey opens the front office door, and the wind catches it, holding it open. Vince follows her to the front.

  Vince untucks a pack of cigarettes before cupping his hands over and sparking it.

  “When’d you pick that back up?” Aubrey asks with her hands in her pockets.

  “The same day you got that ring,” Vince says, taking a drag.

  Aubrey pulls her right hand out and hoists it to her face. “This was my mother’s, you know that.”

  “Exactly.” He exhales smoke, smirking faintly.

  The wind accelerates, blowing away from them, the cold air wishing through the columns of the building—the low faded sounds of drivers passing by on the street not too far.

  Vince exhales and looks straight ahead. “Brooke, I’ve known you for nearly a year now.” He flicks the cigarette ash onto the ground. “I’ve never seen you care so much about a case, well, a murder specifically.”

  Aubrey put her hand back in her pocket and looked at him. “Are you implying you don’t?”

  Vince looks back at her now, “No-I mean I guess I'm just confused.”

  Aubrey, looking away, “Christ, you’re acting like you’re going to hurt my feelings. Can you just stop being so monotone?”

  Vince exhales and flicks the cigarette on the ground before stepping on it. A moment passes with just the wind doing the talking. “Sorry, thanks for the help with the gas station case.

  Aubrey begins walking to the SUV while responding. “Of course, sometimes a second opinion makes all the difference.” Turning around while walking. “When we get dug in, sometimes the obvious answer from someone else is all we need.” She smiles for. A beat, then turns back walking.

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  Vince smiles behind her back, following her footsteps. “Or maybe it’s because-“ Vince mocking Cal using his voice. “-we all play for the same team, Archer, not every play is designed for you.” Aubrey turns around, putting a hand to her mouth while laughing. “Be careful, if Cal knows you’re using his inspirational speeches, he might start asking you about scores.” She turns around and keeps walking.

  Silence stretches as their footsteps echo in the lot.

  Vince clears his throat. “But really Brooke, jokes aside. It meant a lot, I'm not sure if you study cases way too much, or if this is something you were born to do.”

  Aubreys footsteps echo through the lot's emptiness. “Eh, maybe both, but sometimes I just like to imagine myself in their shoes. I’d want the same effort.”

  Vince stops. “I'm not saying everyone is perfect, I'm just saying sometimes people just want to survive. You don’t have to bury problems with other problems.

  She turns back and stops. “Thanks for the pep talk.” Voice soft.

  But he steps closer, eyes steady. “I was homeless before the academy. Did things I’m not proud of—hurt people, not because I had to, but because it was easier. And every day, I’m scared of being that person again. So I remind myself: the scariest thing isn't the monster you read about in a file. It’s the one you see in the mirror tomorrow.”

  Aubrey’s smile fades.

  Vince puts his hands in his pockets. “That case you helped with?” Vince adds, voice lower now. “That man used to feed me leftover hot dogs from his hot tray. He watched out for me. Solving it… meant paying him back. Without you, I’d still be trying to prove I wasn’t wasting my badge.”

  He slips past her into the SUV. She lingers a moment, hair stirring in the cold breeze, then follows.

  Aubrey was at the door, half open, looking at Vince. “I'm fine Vince, really. Don’t beat yourself up; you’re on the same level as everyone else. Right?” She smiles and nods almost as if stating a fact.

  Vince forcing a smile. “Absolutely.

  They climb in, and he turns the key before driving off out of the lot into the spotlighted street ahead. Headlights cutting through the night.

  She shut the SUV door, staring out the windshield as the heater hummed. Vince’s words lingered, heavier than the cold. She flexed her hand against the ring until it bit, then finally let it go.

  Precinct. Later that night.

  The bullpen is dark, primarily, with overhead light fixtures lit up. TVs off, the hum of the heater overhead, mixed with the loud sounds of the wind hitting the windows.

  Dorian pulls on his jacket. “See ya, B. They kept me late, and I’m missing the new MindScanner episode.” He grabs his bag and nods.

  Aubrey crouches by the filing cabinets. “Drive safe, Dorian.”

  He pauses at the doorway. “You know… I could give you my Amazon login.” He says, scrunching his face and pointing at Aubrey.

  “No thanks,” Aubrey mutters, rifling through folders. Face set on papers.

  Dorian groans. “Fine, but I'm tired of not having anyone to talk about this show with… You even watch TV?” He says confusingly.

  Aubrey glances up, face illuminated by the desk lamp light. “Yes, I just prefer not to watch shows that describe my everyday job.” Aubrey shakes her head and looks back down. “That's like a truck driver coming home from weeks' worth of driving and wanting to play a game about driving a truck.” She looks back up at Dorian.

  “Welllll some actually do,” Dorian says, pinching his lips together.

  Aubrey smiles and shakes her head. “Noted.” She glances back down. “Oh-hey, do you know where the files are of the Muerto Shooting?

  “Bottom drawer. Left side,” Dorian is pointing to the cabinet while walking down the hallway and humming a tune.

  Aubrey stands up, shoes clicking as she goes to the cabinet. She pulls the drawer open and drags out a stack of worn folders. Six cases. She flips through until one catches her eye: Ridge Avenue – 4 months ago.

  “Unsolved,” she mutters, dropping it onto her desk.

  She flips it open. “Same casing ID… same caliber match.” Her voice barely above a whisper.

  She pulls another file from the Muerto gang stack. Same caliber. Another. Same again. Her desk fills with open folders, paper spread like a storm.

  Her phone alarm buzzes. She glances at the screen—late. A text from James sits unread.

  Aubreys face flustered. She glares at the phone for a moment. “Fuck, not now. She whispers to herself, finger floating above the call button.

  “Shit.” She exhales before hitting the button.

  James picks up quickly. “Hey! What’s up, Brooke?”

  “Swamped. Can we reschedule for Thursday? Big case. I’m close to something.”

  He hesitates. “…uh, sure. Is everything okay?”

  Aubrey stutters. “Big case, James. I need to chase some leads tomorrow. Timing’s bad.”

  James is silent for a moment. “Guess I’ll take a rain check on impressing you with modern art, huh?”

  “I’m sorry, James,” Aubrey says softly.

  Silence passes again. “It’s just bad timing.” Aubrey softly speaks.

  A forced chuckle. “Not a big deal, I get it. Detective work. Well- uh, goodbye!”

  “Bye.”

  She hangs up, barely breathing. Her eyes flick over the spread of files.

  Same casings. Same mistakes. Same invisible thread.

  The light above her hums louder, relentless. She presses the ring into her finger until it carves a groove, and dives back into the papers.