The Unseen Killer

A gas lamp cast an eerie glow on the cobblestone street, illuminating the faces of ex-Detective Miller, now Officer Miller, and Officer Hayes as they leaned against a brick wall, their usual haunt at the tail end of a graveyard shift. Wisps of smoke curled from Miller's cigarette, a stark counterpoint to Hayes' perpetually hopeful optimism.

"Dreams, Hayes," Miller rasped, his voice low and gravelly, a hint of bitterness clinging to it like stale smoke. "What are they but phantoms that mock our waking hours, especially for the fallen?"

Hayes, a man whose unshakable cheer could rival the sun at its zenith, chuckled. "Mine's simple, Miller. Put the cruelest bastard this city's ever seen six feet under."

Miller snorted. "You and your bloodlust. Used to dream of something similar myself. Back when the badge gleamed a little brighter." A shadow flickered across his eyes, a ghost of the past he wouldn't share.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of Miller's phone shattered the quiet. A grimace flickered across his face as he checked the caller ID. "Duty calls," he sighed.

Minutes later, they were crammed in Hayes' beat-up patrol car, the engine groaning in protest. "They've got the best detective on this, huh?" Hayes mused, glancing at Miller.

"Funny, because that's exactly what Detective Blackwood is. Brilliant mind, knows a tech gadget better than his shoes, flew his first plane at fourteen..."

Hayes shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "You know, Miller, for a police officer, you have a peculiar hero worship for a by-the-book detective."

Miller shrugged. "Blackwood's the real deal. Seen him solve cases that had the department ready to throw in the towel. He's...different."

The police car screeched to a halt in front of a grimy apartment building. As they entered, the stale smell of old carpet and cigarettes assaulted their senses. In the dimly lit hallway, a figure stood waiting. Detective Blackwood, tall and impeccably dressed, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat.

"Miller," Blackwood acknowledged with a curt nod, his voice sharp as a shard of ice. He gestured towards the elevator. "The victim's on the fifth floor."

The elevator lurched into motion, carrying the three men upwards in an unsettling silence. On the fifth floor, they found themselves outside an apartment door. A woman, Agnes, with tear-stained cheeks and a small, jagged scar on her neck opened it.

The atmosphere in the dimly lit apartment was dense. The only sound was the soft thud of Miller's boots against the worn-out floor. Agnes requested them to remove their shoes, her voice barely a whisper.

"Please, gentlemen, could you remove your shoes?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Blackwood, a man of unwavering adherence to procedure, met her sight with an unyielding stare. "I'm afraid we can't do that, ma'am," he said, his voice firm. "It's a matter of contamination."

Miller, as he took his off, shot him a look, one that conveyed more than words ever could. Blackwood sighed, but he didn't listen. His boots echoed against the floorboards as he moved further into the apartment.

Agnes made a surprising offer. "Can I get you gentlemen something to drink? A Coke, perhaps?" she asked, her voice echoing in the room. She gestured towards an antique wooden tray on the coffee table, where a few chilled glass bottles of Coca-Cola, beads of condensation running down their sides, sat next to a couple glasses filled with melting ice.

Miller offered a small, melancholic smile. "You know I can't resist a Coke," he murmured, his voice barely breaking the heavy silence. The sound reverberated in the oppressive quiet. He reached for a bottle, popped the cap off with a satisfying hiss, and poured the fizzy drink into a glass. The ice cubes clinked against the sides as he took a tentative sip, the familiar taste offering a small comfort in the grim situation.