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CHAPTER ONE { The Night The Lights Went Out } ***
AT THE END OF EVERY CASE, your consciousness seesaws between relief and helplessness.
You came smashing through your unsubs door, reaching your victim just in time, and for an instant, the disquiet reeling in your chest was dispelled. For a moment, everything was calm. The deed of not only saving a life, but granting countless years of love, growth, and joy to victims—countless years that would have been lost otherwise—yielded you a sense of success. This hardly lasted a second.
With an abrupt twist of fate, the ground beneath you never failed to shift, and the reassuring embrace mutated into an icy grip. Helplessness infiltrated your serenity, triggering it to crumble into stark awareness of the world around you.
No matter how many vile, depraved monsters you catch—no matter how many you rip from the bleak shadows—there will always be more. For every one that you catch, there's a hundred more preying on those who are too pure to comprehend the wickedness of man.
It's a combination of these feelings that land you and your team in a bar following each case.
Smooth liquor glides down your throat, and the burn in your stomach indicates forthcoming ease. You drop your shot glass back onto the bar top, its glass base clinking against the wooden surface. The alcohol burns your throat, stomach, and the insides of your cheeks, but you don't distort your face—you've never been a wincer.
"I know I say this every time, but I have never seen somebody take shots like you do." Derek laughs.
Cocking a brow, you tilt your head slightly. "It's an art form, baby."
He watches as you take another, his jaw slack with amazement. You then prop yourself against the bar, your light hair tumbling over your shoulders as you tuck plaits behind your ears. Your hip juts out and low-waisted jeans hug your body. As you hold a hand up, signaling to the bartender, your maroon shirt hikes up slightly. You put in an order for a vodka tonic, and after you receive it, you turn back to face Morgan. His eyes fall to your still revealed hip bone. Squinting, he makes a curious attempt to read the ink drummed into your skin. Your tattoo falls on the side of your lower abdomen, reading the letters MMX.
The rest of the team returns from the other side of the bar as you slide onto a stool.
"Eyes up here." You snap at Derek, jokingly.
Please don't ask any questions.
Emily has confusion written all over her face as she sits down beside you. "What did I just walk into?"
Ignoring your sarcastic accusation, Derek replies to Emily. "I'm looking at Taylor's tattoo. MMX? Is that a Roman numeral?"
You tug your shirt back down. You're not embarrassed of the tattoo, but it reveals a piece of your family life—the family life that your team knows absolutely nothing about. They don't know much about you, beyond surface level traits. You've never mentioned your family, which they know indicates a shitty relationship with your relatives, so they don't intrude. You're just a private person, thats all. Derek and Emily survey you. They watch as your chin dips down momentarily before you grin.
