Holding Grudges

File XIV

The station was alive with movement, a chaotic symphony of ringing phones, hurried footsteps, and clipped voices exchanging crucial updates. As I pushed open the heavy metallic door, its hinges groaned in protest, revealing the familiar whirlwind within. Officers weaved through the maze of desks, some hunched over case files, others engaged in hushed yet urgent conversations. The air was thick with tension, but beneath it all lingered the steady, grounding aroma of fresh coffee—one of the few small comforts in this relentless world.

Footsteps echoed sharply against the polished floor as Detective Augustine approached, his sharp gaze sweeping over us before he offered a curt nod. His posture was easy, but there was always something calculating about him, as if he never truly let his guard down.

"Junior over here wants that list from the school," Detective Thompson announced, his tone as casual as ever, though his eyes carried an unmistakable weight. "You know, the one with all the students' names."

Augustine exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck before glancing toward the offices. "Chief Stan's got it on his desk. He's not in right now, so if you're gonna grab it, I'd do it fast. Trust me, you don't wanna be caught digging around when he walks in." His smirk carried an unspoken warning, the kind that sent a chill down your spine.

"Will do," Thompson replied, his voice void of concern. Then, without hesitation, he turned to me. "Why don't you go ahead and grab it? You're the one eager to go over it."

I hesitated, feeling the weight of every set of eyes in the room shift toward me. He knew damn well I barely knew my way around this station. The request wasn't just practical—it was a test.

"Sure..." I cleared my throat, pushing down the unease rising in my chest. "Which office is his?"

"Straight down the hall, last door on the right." Thompson's instructions were crisp, his gaze unreadable.

The hallway stretched before me, dimly lit and lined with closed doors, each hiding something—evidence, secrets, the ghosts of past cases still clinging to these walls. And at the end of it, Chief Stan's office awaited, along with whatever truths lay buried in that list.

Leaving Augustine and Thompson behind, the air seemed to shift around me—thickening with a weight that pressed against my chest. Each step echoed off the cold, sterile tiles of the station floor, a steady rhythm that underscored the gravity of my task. The usual background noise—the ringing phones, the distant chatter, the occasional burst of laughter—faded into a distant hum as my focus sharpened. This wasn't just another errand. This was a mission, and every fiber of my being knew it.

I cast one final glance over my shoulder. Augustine and Thompson stood locked in an intense exchange, their gestures sharp and deliberate. Whatever they were discussing, it was important. But I had my own battle to fight.

As I moved deeper into the station, I passed that wretched room again. The air still carried that faint, acrid scent of permanent marker—a reminder of the long hours spent hunched over files, piecing together the fragments of this case like a maddening, unsolvable puzzle. A bitter thought crept into my mind: when this was all over—when the dust settled, when the guilty faced justice, when the weight finally lifted—I'd have a serious talk with Chief Stan about getting some damn better chairs in there. My back had suffered enough.

Then, I reached it.

Chief Stan's door loomed before me, its presence both unassuming and imposing at once. My fingers hovered over the handle, hesitation curling in my chest like smoke. Technically, I needed permission to step inside. Technically, there were protocols. But this case had long since thrown "technicalities" out the window.