Holding Grudges

File VII

The station was a warzone of flashing lights and restless voices, a battlefield where the truth was a prize, and the hungry press would tear through flesh to claim it. As our cruiser rolled to a stop, the chaos outside only seemed to intensify. The air buzzed with the static of hurried conversations, camera shutters snapping like the crackle of distant gunfire. News vans clogged the street, their satellite dishes piercing the night sky like desperate hands reaching for scraps of truth.

At the foot of the station's main steps, Chief Stan stood like a general before a siege, his face a fortress of unreadable resolve. Officers flanked him, their postures stiff, bracing for the inevitable storm of questions. The news crews were already poised, their cameras blinking red like soulless mechanical eyes, waiting to capture every movement, every breath, every damn misstep.

The moment we opened the car doors, the swarm descended.

"Detective! Is it true that—"

"Is this connected to—"

"Can you confirm the victim's—"

A barrage of voices crashed over us, a suffocating tidal wave of questions we had no intention of answering. Their microphones thrust forward like weapons, their eyes gleaming with insatiable curiosity. I barely had time to step out before someone shoved too close, a camera lens nearly smacking me in the face.

"Damn roaches..." Detective Thompson muttered, the words slipping through gritted teeth. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried—a deliberate growl laced with venom. The nearest reporters hesitated, their predatory advance slowing just a fraction, like hyenas sensing a lion's warning.

But hesitation wasn't retreat. They wouldn't back off for long. They never did.

As we strode into the chaos, the night itself seemed to blur at the edges, swallowed whole by the unforgiving glare of artificial light. Though the sky stretched above us in an endless abyss of stars and moonlight, the world below had been hijacked by the relentless glow of cameras and spotlights, turning the darkness into something unnatural—something staged, as if the entire city had become a crime scene frozen beneath the scrutinizing eye of the press.

I cast a quick glance at my watch, the ticking second hand a sharp contrast to the storm raging around me. But the longer I stared, the heavier the weight in my chest grew. The time. The moment. It had been gnawing at the back of my mind, a loose thread I had failed to pull. That man—the one who slipped out of the bar just before I arrived.

The realization struck like ice in my veins. What if he wasn't just another bystander? What if his exit was more than just coincidence? My pulse throbbed at my throat as a sickening possibility slithered into my mind. Had I, in my ignorance, allowed a killer to disappear into the night—vanish into the sea of faces, walking free while Mr. Jones' body lay lifeless within those four damned walls? I should have stopped him. I should have asked something—anything. But I didn't.

Why the fuck didn't I?

Snap.

A sudden, crisp sound cut through my spiraling thoughts like a knife, sharp enough to drag me back to the present. My muscles tensed instinctively, my head snapping toward the source. The lights. The cameras. The restless hum of voices. The storm outside had not slowed, but for a fleeting moment, my world had stopped.

"Let's go. We have to see the Chief about this situation," Detective Thompson barked, his voice laced with barely contained fury. His gaze burned into me, a volatile mix of frustration and urgency, as if he were daring me to make another mistake.

The weight of the moment pressed down on me as we climbed the station's seemingly endless staircase, each step an unspoken indictment of how far this case had spiraled out of control. The flashing cameras, the relentless hum of journalists, and the ever-present glare of the spotlights made the air feel heavier, more suffocating with each passing second. As we neared the top, Chief Stan's face came into sharp focus—his expression dark and thunderous, his piercing gaze like a blade carving into both of us.