28

"Loren. Hoffman."

Samuel's voice cut through the fog in my mind, dragging me back to the waking world. I blinked, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light of the office. The interrogation room earlier had left a haze behind—a mental hangover of tension and unanswered questions.

It was as if their voices had shifted me, dragging me back to reality and placing me firmly in the cold, unfeeling fluorescent light of my office's desk. One moment I was adrift, lost in the haze of exhaustion and tangled thoughts left over from the interrogation; the next, I was here—fully present, the weight of my surroundings settling over me like an unwelcome blanket.

I straightened in my chair, groaning softly. It was always the same. Sasha's "Sir Hoffman," soft and measured, like the gentle rustle of a bird settling on a branch. Then there was Samuel's "Loren," sharp and brash, more akin to a rooster crowing at the crack of dawn. One voice soothed, the other grated—but in its own way, both kept me grounded.

The chair had never been the most comfortable place to sleep—if you could even call it that. It was more like collapsing under the weight of exhaustion and letting my body fold itself into whatever awkward position the chair allowed. The stiff leather stuck to my skin, the armrests jabbed at my sides, and the backrest offered no support, leaving my neck to bear the brunt of an uneven angle. Contrary to all my complaints I managed to sleep and take a short break from the exhaustion and soreness of the work.

"Yeah, I'm here," I said hoarsely, dragging a hand across my face. My skin was raw from the cold, and the combination of long hours and neglect didn't help.

The bitter residue of too many cigarettes lingered in my mouth, mixing with the acidic tang of coffee that hadn't done its job. My stomach churned in protest—a dull, gnawing emptiness that was as much neglect as bad habits. I hadn't eaten lunch. Hell, I couldn't even remember what I had for breakfast. Somehow, I always managed to have a heavy breakfast but Lunch? I had no schedule of lunch.

My body was paying the price, but somehow, admitting to something as pedestrian as gastric problems felt more shameful than chasing a killer with no leads.

"You look rough, chap," Samuel said with a grin, leaning against the edge of my desk. His easy confidence was like a spotlight in the gloom, a stark contrast to my current state. "Long day? Or just old age catching up?"

"Samuel," Sasha chided, her tone professional but tinged with mild exasperation. She hovered near the door, arms crossed, as if silently wondering how I managed to function.

"Sir, it's 9 p.m.," she added, glancing at her watch. "The office closed at 6."

I blinked, the weight of her words settling uncomfortably. How had I let time slip away? My watch confirmed it—three hours gone, lost to exhaustion and a momentary lapse in discipline. I scratched at my eyebrow, an unconscious habit whenever I was caught off guard.

"Oh," I muttered. "I guess I… dozed off."

Samuel chuckled, his grin widening. "Dozed off? You looked like a man contemplating the meaning of life—or the lack of it. Need me to grab you a snack, old man?"

Sasha sighed, shooting Samuel a pointed look before turning back to me. "Sir, you really should head home. You need rest."

Home. The word felt foreign, more a concept than a reality. I wasn't ready to go back to an empty apartment, where silence pressed in like a physical weight. But I couldn't stay here either, with my stomach tying itself in knots and my colleagues acting like babysitters.

"Yeah," I said finally, pushing myself to my feet. "You're right. Let's wrap this up."

The three of us moved toward the door, the soft clatter of Samuel's boots and Sasha's lighter steps breaking the stillness. Despite the banter, there was an unspoken understanding between us—a thread of camaraderie that made the long nights and endless cases bearable.

We stepped out onto the streets of Dahm, where the city pulsed with the warmth of Christmas joy. Strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, twinkling like artificial stars against the urban backdrop. Every shop boasted its own Christmas tree, each more elaborate than the last, while restaurants wore garlands and glowing ornaments as though dressed for a holiday gala. It wasn't Christmas yet, but the air carried the unmistakable anticipation of it, spilling over into every corner, every lit window.

Samuel walked a step ahead, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "Wanna go for a drink?" he asked, glancing back at me.

I shook my head, the faint ache in my stomach reminding me of its earlier protests. "Sam, my stomach's staging a rebellion. A drink right now would be adding fuel to the fire."

He chuckled, unfazed by my rejection. "Suit yourself, old man."

Sasha, who had been quietly observing the streetlights and festive displays, turned her attention to me. "Sir," she began, her tone as measured as always, "there's an Asian restaurant down the block. They're known for healthy food. Might even balance out some of that coffee and tobacco you insist on living off of." Her words carried a subtle jab, though her face betrayed nothing.

I smirked faintly. It wasn't the first time someone had taken a shot at my habits. Nine out of ten people in my life had something to say about my smoking, and by now, their words slid off me like water off a raincoat.

Samuel's laugh rang out, cutting through the holiday din. "Looks like our Sasha's on a mission to save the boss from himself."

Sasha's lips curved in the smallest of smiles, a rare display of amusement. "Someone has to. Otherwise, he'll end up with a diet of caffeine and regrets."

I shrugged, pulling my coat tighter against the cold. "Regrets go well with coffee. Better than guilt goes with alcohol, at least."

Samuel clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Well, you're the expert in both. Let's see if Sasha's recommendation lives up to the hype. Lead the way, detective."

We headed down the street, the cheerful hum of the city fading into the background as the warmth of neon signs and the promise of food pulled us forward.

"Sir, the restaurant I'm talking about is very affordable and serves good food," Sasha said, her tone as steady as ever, but there was a hint of something else in her eyes—something that made me think she knew exactly what she was doing.

Samuel raised an eyebrow, a grin spreading across his face. "Ah, so our woman in power has some personal preferences, huh? Got a favorite spot in mind, Sasha?"

She shot him a playful smile. "Even you'll love it. You can grab something for your kid too—just like those oranges you love so much," she teased.

Samuel chuckled, shaking his head. "Looks like our Sasha's in the mood to rebel. Not bad, not bad at all."

I watched their exchange in silence. There was a camaraderie between them that had developed over time—subtle, but undeniable. The way they bantered back and forth, effortlessly teasing each other, had a familiarity to it. They'd definitely taken a secret liking to one another, even if neither of them would admit it.

I couldn't help but comment. "You two make me feel like I'm watching an old married couple."

Sasha didn't hesitate. "Not in a million years," she said, her voice dry. "You think I'd ever pick Samuel, the married comedian?"

Samuel shot back quickly, leaning in with mock indignation. "I'm not that bad! And a kid-looking adult has never been my type. I prefer a woman who's wicked, naggy, and—most importantly—wife material."

The last part, he said with such affection that it was clear he was describing his wife. It was a rare moment of sincerity, the kind that you didn't often get from Samuel.

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure she's thrilled with that description."

Samuel smirked. "She's the only one who can put up with me, so yeah, I think she's fine with it."