Moments before midnight

lost one

Chapter one: case file / " lost one"

Investigator : John M. masters

his phone in hand, eyes scanning the text message that had just come through. At first, it seemed like just another spam text-another unknown number, another random message. But then the second message arrived: Code Orange, 5th Street, near the abandoned steel mill. He knew then that this wasn't random. Rising up from the table, John cursed under his breath. This was the worst possible time for something like this to happen, but it couldn't be avoided. He was going to have to go.

With a sharp exhale, he raised a hand toward Samantha, signaling the end of their conversation. "Look, Sam, you've already made up your mind. I don't even know why you want my input," he said, pushing his chair in as he stood.

He took a couple of steps away when Samantha's voice cut through the tension. "You always do this. Every time we talk about the house, you suddenly have somewhere else to be, or you just shut down the conversation."

John stopped mid-step, his hand already in his pocket, feeling for a cigarette. He had half-opened the pack before turning back toward her, sliding it back in and flipping the top of his coat pocket closed. He sighed, the weight of everything catching up to him.

"Aren't you the one who decided to leave me? You think I'm supposed to have some grand plan ready for when you tell me you and your lover are running off together? Don't start this crap with me, Sam," he snapped, his voice low and bitter.

Samantha's expression hardened. "do whatever you're going to do. Fine, fair enough. But if that's the case, then I'm going to do what I have to. then I guess we'll see ."

John clenched his jaw, biting back the response that rose to his lips. He turned and walked out, the alley waiting for him, drenched in the tension of the moment as his phone buzzed again.

Samantha wasn't finished. She stood up abruptly, storming over to him and jabbing her finger into his chest. Her eyes locked with his, cold and accusing. For a moment, it seemed like she had something to say, like she was about to launch into another tirade. But as their gazes met, whatever fire she had seemed to die out. Her lips parted, but no words came.

John felt the bile rise in his throat. His anger, barely contained, simmered under his calm exterior. "What could you possibly say to me now, huh, Sam? You wanna tell me I should've seen it coming? What other nonsense do you want to add in?" His voice was harsh, cutting through the silence.

She faltered, whatever retort she had prepared slipping away. For a moment-just a brief second-there was something almost remorseful in her expression. It was as if she suddenly realized that she had been wrong, that maybe, just maybe, all of this was on her. But that moment was fleeting. John didn't have time to dwell on it, and he certainly didn't have time to talk about it any longer. He had to go.

He glanced down at his phone, checking the app they used for situations like this. No one else had responded to the Code Orange. He was the only one in the area who could answer it. Unless someone was coming in from another district, this was on him.

Stepping outside, he headed toward his cherry red 1970 Chevelle SS. It was an older model,  classic muscle he'd kept it in pristine condition. The exterior was mostly original, save for a fresh coat of paint, but the inside wa something different  "upgraded and modified "  to meet his needs-especially for work. He stopped for a moment, checking his hip to make sure the long barrel of his Smith & Wesson Model 500 was still securely tucked into its holster.

For a split second, he thought about going back inside, maybe talking to her a little longer, maybe finding some kind of resolution. But he cursed himself for even thinking about it. "Damn it, John, get it together," he muttered under his breath, slamming a fist against the steering wheel.