27

The faint hum of the overhead fluorescent lights buzzed in the silence of the corridor, adding to the desolation. The hollow sound of my footsteps seemed louder than usual, reverberating against the concrete walls. I paused for a moment, pulling my coat tighter around me, as if it could shield me from the icy drafts that slithered through the cracks of the building. California winters weren't supposed to feel this bleak, but something about this year felt colder—not just in temperature, but in spirit.

I couldn't shake the irritation from my failed attempt to get a confession. Cassandra Cottingham was an expert at playing the long game, her silence deafening, her lack of remorse palpable. Every second spent in that room felt like a battle against an opponent who knew every move I'd make before I made it.

For her, everything had been only a game. A dirty, twisted game. She'd relished every move, every calculated step—never once glancing back at the mess she left behind. The victims? Mere pawns, easily discarded. Their families? Irrelevant. Their grief was nothing more than background noise, a minor inconvenience in the symphony she orchestrated with chilling precision.

There was no remorse. No guilt. She didn't feel a thing for them or for the wreckage she caused. In her eyes, they were all just pieces on a board—her board, and she controlled the rules.

The emptiness of the precinct only made it worse. Everyone else was gone, off to celebrate, to forget the horrors we dealt with daily. I envied them, their ability to disconnect. My own thoughts were shackled to this case, to her, to the unspoken menace that clung to her presence like a shadow.

For the moment, I had reports (from forensics) in my hand, which I didn't spoke about because it was just frustrating and I couldn't carry the weight of the situation any longer.

I had stepped closer to the office. It was nearly empty I heard the tapping noise of some workers writing on the computer. They were constantly writing perhaps about the new case. Things were chaotic in Los Angeles. The evil has grown in this city to an alarming rate.

Some of the workers smiled at me. There were quite a few. I was respected, infact I was the head of this office. I was assigned the task of dividing people to their respective works. Meanwhile, I got direct orders from my boss. Even Samuel was under me but he got orders from boss rather than me. Our boss had got a promotion two year ago leaving behind the recent pile of mess.

I shuffled the reports in my hand, the weight of them pressing down on me. There was nothing new to learn from them—not yet anyway. Forensics had done their part, but there was no closure in the results, just more questions. Frustration gnawed at me, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep going through the motions.

As I stepped into the office, the hum of activity surrounded me. The workers tapped away at their keyboards, their faces set in concentration. They were the quiet backbone of this operation, just as invisible to the outside world as the rest of us, but I respected them. They understood the toll this job took. Their smiles were brief, polite—none of them stopping to talk, none of them really looking up.

I offered a tight nod to a few of them as I passed, making my way to the small private office attached. It was nearly empty now, the holiday season slowly pulling people away. Still, the pace hadn't slowed, and the cases kept coming. Los Angeles had always had its fair share of darkness, but recently, it seemed like the evil was spilling over—infecting the streets, seeping into the lives of those who lived here. The city's pulse was erratic, and the line between order and chaos seemed to blur more each day.

I was respected here, I knew that. As the head of the office, I was responsible for keeping things running smoothly, for divvying up the workload and making sure everything was covered. But in moments like this, when the reports in my hand felt more like a burden than a task, the responsibility felt suffocating. The weight of the city's corruption was bearing down on me.

Even Samuel, the humorous married man, answered to me, though his real chain of command ran through our boss. I was the one who directed the team, but it was our boss who had the final say.

Two years ago, he had received a promotion, and with it came a new level of detachment. He was no longer in the trenches with us. He was sitting high up in the office, signing off on decisions, leaving us to deal with the mess he left behind.

The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth, but I quickly shoved it aside. I couldn't afford to dwell on what was out of my hands. I had enough to deal with already.

That changed everything. Our boss wasn't just some local figure anymore—he'd ascended to a national level, working with agencies that were far beyond the reach of our daily grind. It meant more power, more prestige, but also more distance from the problems we faced down here in Los Angeles. He was no longer here, no longer at the heart of the chaos we navigated. The decision-making, the long hours, the mounting pressure—all of it had been left to us.

The promotion was supposed to be a win for the department, a sign that our work was recognized. But in truth, it felt more like abandonment. We had to carry the weight of the mess he left behind, while he moved on to bigger things. National cases, bigger budgets, more media coverage. While we were left to sift through the wreckage of a city teetering on the edge of collapse.

I could feel the tension in the air, a low hum of frustration that ran through the office, even when no one spoke about it. Samuel, for all his humor, had his own frustrations with the shift. He didn't like how things had changed either, but he knew where his loyalty stood. He answered to the higher-ups, just as I did, but sometimes, I wondered if that loyalty was enough to keep us together when the storm finally broke.

It was a strange thing, being in charge, knowing your hands were tied by forces beyond your control. Even with all the respect I had from my team, I couldn't help but feel like I was drowning in it. The weight of responsibility felt heavier than ever.

My office was a time capsule of neglect, the air inside heavy and still, as though it had been holding its breath. The pile of unsolved cases loomed on my desk, their presence a grim reminder of everything I couldn't fix. Dust had gathered on the files, like a shroud, and as I brushed it away, a small cloud rose, catching the faint glow of the desk lamp.

I don't know why I opened the file. Maybe it was the weight of the day, or maybe I was just torturing myself. The photographs, the sparse details—they were more haunting than any nightmare. Faces with no names. Lives with no history. Just victims who had vanished into the void, unclaimed, as though the world had moved on without them.

I placed the evidence bags and the report back into the drawer with a careful deliberation that felt almost ritualistic, as if handling them too roughly would shatter something fragile. The drawer shut with a soft click, but the weight of it lingered.

Leaning back in my chair, I pulled out my cigarette pack, finding only one left. I turned it over between my fingers for a moment before lighting it. The first drag was harsh, acrid, but the familiar burn was grounding. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, filling the room with a haze that matched my thoughts.

How could the world be so cruel? So indifferent? The people who ended up in those files were more than just victims. They had lives, stories, people who might've loved them. But no one had come for them. No one had asked.

I wish they had someone to love them, someone to remember their name. Each face in those files haunted me—not just because of what happened to them, but because no one came for them. They were forgotten, erased, as if they'd never existed.

The world was cruel, but its indifference cut deeper. All I could do was keep their stories alive, even if I was the only one who cared.

I let the cigarette burn down to the filter, the ash dropping onto the edge of the desk. My eyelids grew heavy, the weight of the day dragging me down. The chair creaked softly as I shifted, my thoughts blurring into the static of exhaustion.

And then, somewhere in the haze of smoke and weariness, I dozed off, the cigarette snuffed out in the ashtray, leaving only the faint scent of tobacco and regret lingering in the air.