The neighborhood had been dying for years. Boarded windows. Chain-link fences sagging under rust. Streetlights that flickered like bad memories. No one came here after dark — not unless they had something to hide. Or something to bury.

The house at the end of the block was supposed to be condemned. Inside, the floor groaned under every step, dust choked the air, and somewhere in the corner, a rat hissed and scurried away.

A single flashlight beam cut through the gloom. The clerk stood in the center of the room, manila folder clutched to his chest like a confession. His breathing was shallow. Fast. He kept looking at the doorway. Then back at the folder. Then back again.

Footsteps.

He tensed — then exhaled when the figure stepped in. The face was obscured by the shadows, but the clerk recognized them. Trusted them. Or wanted to. "I brought everything," he said, his voice low, urgent. "It's all in here. Every copied page, every note." A pause. Then he added, nervously, "Honestly... if I hadn't been re-checking the records, I wouldn't have noticed. But something didn't add up."

He handed over the folder. The figure flipped through it, page by page. Expression unreadable. Then without warning — a flash of movement.

The butt of a gun cracked against the side of the clerk's skull. The body dropped in a heap. No gasp. No cry. Just a dull, final thud. The killer didn't flinch.

They stepped out of the room for a moment and returned with a rusted gasoline can. The scent of petrol quickly overpowered the must of rot and mold. The body was doused. The folder dropped onto the chest like a funeral offering.

A hand patted jacket pockets. Nothing. A low curse broke the silence — sharp and annoyed. The killer turned and exited again, this time more agitated. Looking for fire.

That's when she saw it.

Zanika hadn't meant to be in that neighborhood. Not tonight. But she'd spotted a flicker of light in the abandoned house, and her gut — that damn stubborn gut — told her something was off.

So she crept in.

What she found stopped her cold. A man — dead. Freshly so. Gasoline pooled around him. And on his chest, a folder. Government paper. A precinct seal. Something that reeked of official.

She crouched beside it, tugging the flap open. Files. Reports. Case summaries. She didn't understand most of it — names and numbers blurred past — but something about the setup screamed wrong. And then she heard it.

Footsteps. Returning.

Her instincts took over. She snatched a few pages, dropped the folder back onto the corpse, and ran — fast and silent — out the back and into the alley.

Moments later, the killer stepped back inside. Matchbox in hand. But the folder... It wasn't how they left it.

*

Zanika ran. Down the alley, over busted pavement, past graffiti-covered bins and buildings with broken souls. The night clung to her like sweat. Her breath came ragged. Her fingers clenched the folded pages deep in her cropped leather jacket — hot from adrenaline. She didn't look back. Didn't want to. The stench of gasoline still clung to her clothes. Every step pounded in her chest like a warning bell. Then—

Wham.

She slammed straight into something solid. Two uniforms. The taller of the pair stumbled back, startled. "Whoa, hey—!"

The second officer steadied themselves, eyes narrowing. "Ma'am, what the hell's your hurry?"

Zanika didn't answer. Her shoulders rolled forward beneath her snug tee, muscles tense beneath the leather. "Get outta my way, puta."

The word crackled like a spark in the air. "Ma'am—" the first officer stepped forward, trying to de-escalate, "—we're going to need to ask you a few questions. You smell like—"

He reached for her arm. Big mistake. Zanika's fist came up fast — years of instinct packed into a single strike. It cracked across his jaw. He hit the sidewalk hard, groaning.

The second officer didn't hesitate. He shoved her against the side of a building, twisting her arms behind her back as she kicked and snarled. "You're under arrest for assaulting an officer!" he barked, snapping cuffs onto her wrists.

"¡Chinga tu madre!" she spat. She was forced toward the squad car, still thrashing, her ripped jeans scuffed at the knees, fingerless gloves clenched uselessly behind her back.

From across the street — in the shadows of the alley she'd fled — a figure watched. Silent. Still. One hand holding the matchbox they never got to use. The body was still inside. So was the folder. But someone had been there. And they'd taken something.

*

The overhead light buzzed faintly. The table was cold steel. Two-way mirror on the wall. No clock. No comfort.

Zanika sat cuffed to the chair. Slouched. Silent. Chin tilted up in defiance — a fighter sizing up round two.

She didn't fidget. Didn't squirm. But the tension in her jaw betrayed her. She was thinking. Plotting. Waiting for the next move.

Behind the glass, Captain Dana Mercer stood with her arms folded — unreadable as always. "She hasn't asked for a lawyer," Mercer said quietly, eyes on the woman through the mirror. "Hasn't said much at all, really."

She turned to you. "The officers who brought her in did the standard search. Found a few pages folded up in her jacket pocket. Crime scene photos. Testimonies. Notes." Mercer's gaze darkened. "All from a homicide case we closed last month."

"I want to know where she got them. Why she has them. And what the hell she intended to do with them." Mercer stepped aside, nodding to the door. "Go see what she'll tell you."