Scene One: Red and Echo(Faye Blake + Juno Reyes)
The rain hit the rooftop in slow, moody beats—like the city's heart trying to forget how to feel.
Inside the old train depot turned surveillance nest, monitors glowed blue in the dark. Wire coils curled like veins along the floor, and the hum of static buzzed low and constant. It smelled like coffee, copper, and lightning waiting to strike.
Faye Blake stood in the doorway, arms crossed, trench coat dripping onto the tile. She scanned the space like she always did—first the exits, then the corners, then the boy behind the tech.
"Working or brooding?" she asked.
Juno Reyes didn't glance up. "Why can't it be both?"
She smirked, stepping in. "Thought you could multitask."
"I can. I'm brooding and hacking a satellite feed and ordering dumplings. Want in?"
"You know I hate dumplings."
"That's why I offered."
Faye rolled her eyes and approached the console. Juno sat cross-legged in a cracked leather chair, surrounded by a half-circle of screens—each flashing with data feeds, heat maps, and silent CCTV footage. His hair was a storm-cloud mess, dark with violet undertones under the light. Black rings circled his eyes, and a half-sucked lollipop hung from his mouth like a cigarette.
She tapped the monitor showing the warehouse crime scene.
"Can you isolate the exit angle?"
Juno sighed, popped the candy from his mouth, and typed. "Already did. And I got something weird. Want the good news or the paranoia?"
"Paranoia," she said without hesitation.
He glanced at her. "Thought you'd say that."
A new window popped up. Footage—grainy, infrared—showed the alleyway behind the warehouse. A blurry figure in a hood darted through the shadows. But just before exiting frame, the figure turned. Just slightly. Enough for a flash of something metallic beneath the hood. A pin? A device? A mark?
Juno zoomed. Enhanced.
It wasn't clear. But it looked deliberate.
"This wasn't a runaway," he said quietly. "They wanted to be seen. Wanted us to chase."
Faye's jaw tightened. "Bait."
"Yup."
"Then we took it."
"Yup again."
Her knuckles grazed the edge of the screen. "Damn it."
Juno spun slowly in his chair. "You're not mad at me, are you?"
"I'm mad at myself."
He tilted his head. "That's new."
She gave him a withering look, then sighed. "You know what I mean."
He leaned back, twirling the lollipop stick. "It's not your fault. Whoever this is—they're ten steps ahead. They've been laying groundwork for months. Maybe longer."
"I'm tired of chasing shadows," she muttered.
"Then start burning them."
Faye blinked. Looked at him.
Juno shrugged. "You always tell me to get out of my head. Maybe you should get out of yours."
"I live in my head."
"I know. It's why you never sleep."
She didn't respond. Just stared at the screen, the looping footage, the ghost in the shadows.
Juno's voice softened. "You saw the card, didn't you?"
"Ronan showed me."
"And?"
"And it's the same symbol from Elena's case."
Silence wrapped the room.
Juno stood, suddenly less sarcastic, more solid. "You think it's the same killer?"
"I don't think anything. Not yet." Her voice cracked just slightly. "But if it is…"
He touched her arm—just briefly. "We'll get them. Together."
She didn't look at him. But she nodded once.
And that was enough.
Scene Two: The Rooftop Ghosts(Ronan Vale + Dominic Hart)
The rooftop smelled like gun oil, rain, and secrets.
Ronan Vale leaned against the edge of the concrete parapet, cigarette burning low between two fingers, watching the city flicker below. The smoke curled around him like memory—sharp, bitter, laced with silence.
Behind him, Dominic Hart emerged from the shadows. No sound. No warning. Just presence. Like always.
"You planning to brood yourself off the edge?" Dominic's voice was flat, amused.
Ronan didn't turn. "Just waiting to see if the rain gets poetic."
"It won't."
"I know."
Dominic joined him, hands in the pockets of his charcoal coat. The wind didn't touch him—he moved like a blade in a sheath, all weight and calculation. Still as a sniper before the shot.
"You heard from her?" Dominic asked, after a beat.
Ronan didn't ask who he meant.
"Briefly," he said.
"She still hates you?"
"She always has."
Dominic glanced at him sidelong. "That's not what it looked like when she was bleeding on your floor and still reached for your hand."
Ronan exhaled smoke. "Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything. Just saying—if she hated you, she'd shoot you. Not talk to you."
"She has shot me."
Dominic cracked a smile. "And yet here you are. Still lighting cigarettes and brooding in monochrome."
Ronan gave a dry chuckle. "You miss me, Hart?"
"Like a migraine."
They stood in silence a moment, watching red tail lights smear through the wet streets below.
Then Dominic said, quieter: "You're not over her."
Ronan didn't reply.
"She's in your head, Vale. You flinch every time someone mentions her name."
"I don't flinch."
Dominic turned to face him fully. "She's not your job anymore. She's not your case. But she's still your weak spot. That's not just dangerous. That's suicidal."
"I know what I'm doing."
"No, you know how to act like you do." His tone sharpened. "There's a difference."
Ronan dropped the cigarette. Ground it out. "Why do you care?"
"Because I've seen what obsession does. It doesn't end clean."
Ronan's voice was cold now. "Are we still talking about me?"
Dominic didn't answer.
Instead, he changed the subject. "I found something in the feed. Warehouse exit footage. Slow blink on the shadows. Deliberate retreat."
"You think it was staged?"
Dominic nodded. "Not just staged. Timed. Like someone wanted us to see the escape."
"Same pattern," Ronan said.
Dominic looked at him. "Same as what?"
"Elena's case."
Silence again. Thicker this time.
"You sure?" Dominic asked, carefully.
"No."
"You want it to be the same?"
"I want it to be over."
Dominic's jaw twitched.
Neither of them said what they were both thinking: that Faye wasn't going to let it go. That if this was connected to Elena, she'd chase it until it killed her—or worse, hollowed her out.
"Then you better keep her close," Dominic murmured. "Because if she's going down that path again, she's going to need someone to pull her back."
Ronan's gaze didn't shift from the skyline.
"She won't let me."
Dominic smiled faintly. "So make her."
"And if she pushes back?"
Dominic shrugged. "Then at least she's alive to push."
Ronan looked at him, finally. There was something in his eyes—not quite gratitude. Not quite warning. Something murkier.
"You're playing both sides again," he said.
Dominic's smile vanished. "No. I'm just making sure someone stays alive long enough to get answers."
A beat passed. Then Ronan asked, quieter, "Did you ever—"
"Don't," Dominic cut in. "We both have ghosts. Let's not compare notes."
Footsteps echoed behind them.
Both turned.
And there she was.
Calla Vane.
She walked like a conclusion you didn't want to reach.
Dominic let out a low whistle. "Well, well. SID's iciest sends greetings."
She didn't blink. "Hart. Still alive?"
"Unfortunately for some."
Her gaze slid to Ronan. "Vale."
"Vane," he returned coolly.
Silence. Not stiff. Surgical.
Calla came to a stop beside them, hands clasped behind her back, posture immaculate. There was no warmth in her face—only assessment. Her eyes flicked over the rooftop, the vantage, the scope of what they'd seen. Her voice, when she spoke, was a scalpel.
"Your surveillance loop ran seventeen seconds short. Dockside cam 4. I corrected it."
Dominic raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know we'd been officially joined."
"You weren't. But someone has to clean your footprints before they bleed."
Ronan lit another cigarette, his tone dry. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Calla's gaze didn't shift. "The Division received a flagged data fragment. Encrypted signature matches the murder pattern. Similar latency spikes, same digital residue. The kill feed was uploaded near your grid."
"So you're our babysitter now?" Dominic asked.
"No," she said. "I'm the one who stops you from botching this."
Ronan stepped closer. "You running solo?"
Calla gave him a long look. "Until someone proves they deserve the full team brief."
Dominic cracked a grin. "Still got that charming personality."
She didn't smile. "Still got that expendable status."
Ronan held her eyes. "You're walking a line."
"I always do."
A long pause.
Then Ronan asked, quieter, "What do you know about the card?"
Calla tilted her head slightly. "We intercepted traces of graphite-laced ink—custom, illegal. Same symbol burned on the last victim's spine. It's a calling card, yes. But also a cipher. I'll need to rerun decryption on the sublayer. If I get clean access to the original image."
"You'll get it," Ronan said.
Calla didn't nod. She simply turned, drawing a sleek silver device from her coat and projecting a holographic map in pale blue. A red dot pulsed near the industrial quadrant.
"There," she said. "Dock 17. Surveillance blind spot rotates every thirty-eight minutes. At 04:00, it goes dark for ninety seconds. That's your window."
Dominic leaned in. "You think the killer drops something?"
"Or meets someone," she replied. "Either way, I'm taking the advantage. You two handle the sweep. I'll feed intercepts."
"Good," Ronan said.
Calla folded the map away. But she didn't move.
Her eyes stayed on Ronan's for a beat longer than necessary. And something flickered there—cool interest, yes. But underneath... maybe something warmer, something restrained.
Dominic noticed.
He stepped into the silence. "Tell me, Agent Vane. How do you feel about private investigators with bad tempers and worse reputations?"
Her expression didn't change. "I don't."
"Not even the ones with red lipstick and a talent for disappearing?"
Calla's jaw twitched. "She's volatile."
"She's effective," Ronan said.
"She's compromised," Calla replied.
There it was. The tension. Not heat—but frost thick enough to crack steel.
"She doesn't trust easily," Ronan said carefully.
"She doesn't deserve trust," Calla countered, voice ice-sharp. "Not when bodies keep dropping in her shadow."
Dominic stepped between them slightly, calm. "And yet, funny how those shadows keep showing us the truth."
Calla turned to leave, boots clicking like punctuation marks across the rooftop.
But just before she reached the stairwell, she paused.
"Just be careful where your loyalties land," she said without turning. "Not everyone's playing the same game."
And then she was gone.
Only the scent of metal and perfume lingered—like smoke before a shot.
Dominic exhaled, finally.
"Well," he said. "She's fun."
Ronan didn't speak. He stared at the door Calla vanished through, his face unreadable.
But in the back of his mind, one thought clawed its way forward—
Faye won't like her.And Calla?She already doesn't like Faye.