Episode 2: The Offer

The cold case office was smaller than Duncan's old one — a narrow, windowless space buried deep in the precinct's basement like a forgotten relic. The overhead fluorescent lights hummed faintly. The files smelled of mildew and old ink.

A slow death sentence, one folder at a time.

Duncan sat at his desk, sorting through a three-year-old missing persons case, though his mind wasn't on it. Not really. Not since the message yesterday.

Not since Keene called him.

The call had come after hours, direct and quiet.

"We should talk. Away from the office."

Now, here he was — 9:00 p.m. — standing across from Keene inside a private room of a steakhouse frequented by judges, politicians, and other department lifers. The room smelled of scotch and expensive cuts of meat sizzling in butter. The kind of place where dirty deals dressed themselves up as professional courtesy.

Keene gestured for him to sit. "Ribeye good here."

Duncan didn't sit.

"Why am I here?"

Keene poured himself a drink, swirling the amber liquid. His tone was light. Friendly.

"Because I don't like seeing talent wasted in basements."

Duncan crossed his arms.

"Cut to it."

Keene sighed, as if Duncan was being difficult on purpose.

"The DA is building their final internal report on Daniela Silva. They're combing through every inch of her casework, her decisions, her private life."

Keene sipped the scotch.

"Her defense hinges on technicalities. No direct evidence she shared classified intel with Eleanor. No proven leaks. But the relationship? Ethics violations? That's enough to end her career. The DA just wants someone to verify her pattern of conduct."

He paused, watching Duncan carefully.

"That someone... could be you."

Duncan felt his jaw clench. "You want me to testify."

"I want you to clarify the narrative," Keene corrected smoothly. "Not a lie. Not fabricate. Just... fill in the gaps. You saw the signs. You knew she was compromised long before IA got involved."

Duncan didn't answer.

Keene leaned in, his voice lowering.

"In exchange, you'd be reinstated. Full honors. Back into Organized Crime where you belong. Clean slate."

A slow, deliberate breath.

"Everyone wins."

For a moment, Duncan simply stared at the swirling scotch in Keene's glass.

It was a clean out.

A career reset.

No more cold cases. No more basement exile. Back where he belonged — running the real investigations. Commanding respect. Maybe even climbing higher.

And Daniela would go down alone.

The department would survive.

The politics would stabilize.

Everyone could tell themselves the lie: that they were cleaning house, protecting the institution.

Only one problem.

It wasn't justice.

Not this time.

Duncan's fingers flexed against the edge of the table.

"Daniela crossed lines," he said quietly. "But not to help Eleanor feed Kayleigh. She never handed over department intelligence."

Keene raised an eyebrow. "You can't prove that."

"And you can't prove otherwise," Duncan shot back. "So you're building the case on implication."

Keene smiled thinly. "That's how internal discipline works. We both know that."

A long, tense silence stretched between them.

Finally, Duncan spoke — his voice steady and cold.

"You think I spent twenty years wearing this badge so I could trade people for promotions?"

Keene's smile didn't fade. "You spent twenty years thinking you were immune to the game. Now you're learning no one is."

He slid a business card across the table.

"Think about it. The offer stands for seventy-two hours."

That night, Duncan walked the city streets alone.

The cold wind cut through his coat, but he welcomed it. The honest sting of winter air felt better than the poisoned air inside the steakhouse.

He passed by a familiar diner — one where he and Daniela had once grabbed coffee after overnight surveillance shifts. She had always ordered the same thing: black coffee, two sugars, no cream.

They were partners then.

Before everything blurred.

Before Eleanor.

Before the choices.

By the time Duncan returned home, his mind was quiet.

Not clear.

But resolved.

He sat at his desk, staring at Keene's business card for several long minutes.

Then, without ceremony, he ripped it in half.

Then into quarters.

Then into shreds.

And flushed it all down the toilet.

He didn't bother sending a message to Keene.

His silence would answer for him.

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To be continued