Holding Grudges

File IX

As we pulled up to the crumbling residence that had once been Rachel Green's—well, half of it, anyway—a gnawing sense of unease settled deep within me. Detective Thompson and I were wading into waters far murkier than we had ever anticipated. This wasn't just any part of Cincinnati. This was a forgotten corner of the city, a place even its own residents seemed to avoid, as if the very air here was toxic with despair. Graffiti clung to every surface like a disease, marking the buildings, splattering the streets, and even hanging thick in the air—a raw, defiant testament to the chaos that thrived in this forgotten slum.

The district itself spoke volumes. It whispered of neglect, of struggles, of a battle between survival and surrender, the kind of war fought in the shadows.

My eyes, trained for trouble, flicked to the left. In the dim recess of an alleyway, I could make out the unmistakable silhouette of a drug deal, the kind that wasn't supposed to be happening in broad daylight. Before I could even push the door open to investigate, Thompson's arm shot out, his hand firm on my chest, stopping me dead in my tracks

"I see it too," he muttered, his voice low, laced with a grim understanding. "But we've got something bigger to focus on. We'll call this in later, when we've got a clearer picture." He paused, glancing around at the tense, cracked street corners. "One squad car's enough for now. Trust me, in this part of town, we need to pick our battles carefully."

We both stepped out of the car, the crunch of gravel beneath our boots a stark contrast to the hurried footsteps of the two men who darted into the shadowy alley. Their hurried retreat left me with a gnawing thought—next time, I wouldn't be so blind to the signs. Detective Thompson moved with a purpose, his strides measured and confident, as though this part of town was a second skin he'd worn far too many times to count. We made our way across the street, the atmosphere thick with the unspoken dangers that lingered just beyond sight.

We stopped in front of a battered door, its iron bars twisted like the remnants of forgotten security. The rusted white paint clung to it like old blood, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if this door had seen more silence than it had seen life. Thompson didn't seem to hesitate. He wiped a silver button on his jacket sleeve, the motion deliberate and practiced. His fingers brushed against the button multiple times, pressing it in a pattern that felt more like an unspoken code than a simple request.

Buzz.

Buzz, buzz.

Buzz.

The door groaned, protesting the years of disuse as it creaked open. Beyond it, another wooden door stood—solid, weathered by time, and carrying with it the weight of secrets. As the door gave way, a figure appeared in the dim light, her face barely visible but her eyes unmistakably bloodshot, glazed with something that looked like regret or perhaps surrender. For a brief moment, I wasn't sure if she even recognized us. But then, in a slow, deliberate motion, she raised her hand and gave us a feeble wave, almost as if we were expected.

"Come in, officers..." Her voice rasped, as though each word had fought its way through a heavy fog. "I knew my time would eventually come."

Her words cut through the air like a mournful whisper, carrying an undeniable weight to them that I could feel pressing on my chest.

We stepped inside, the door closing with an eerie finality behind us. The living room was cloaked in shadows, the air thick with the bitter stench of mildew and something far darker that clung to the walls. Half-empty syringes lay scattered like discarded memories, evidence of a battle fought with substances that had clearly claimed more than just this room. A faint mustiness lingered in the air, clinging to my skin like an uninvited guest.