It was so perfect just a week ago. Vincent couldn't believe he could ever feel so content after years of working as a detective. A completely casual movie night, them both trying to do anything to distract themselves from thoughts about their latest, still unsolved case, and of course, that spark between them...

So perfect...

The rain hammered against the grimy windows of the abandoned factory. That typical place where deals were made, people were killed. Vincent stood there, almost in the middle, waiting for the traitor to show up. His trench coat was damp, clinging to his frame as he lit a cigarette with shaking hands, the brief flare of the lighter illuminating his sharp features and dark eyes. He inhaled as deeply as he could before coughing roughly, but it did nothing to ease the weight crushing his chest.

His mind flickered back to just a few days ago — the day when he finally found out. He had found something on his partner's desk, a stash of encrypted files buried beneath insignificant paperwork. He was confused.

And then it all hit him, like a slap across the face. Harsh and degrading. The files weren't just about the gang wars or dirty politicians, the usual stuff that he expected to see. They were about... everything that tied his partner — his confidant — directly to the crime. The organization that they're basically fighting against. The sudden realization almost made him sick to his stomach, but he buried it. He couldn't afford to let it consume him.

It would be pathetic.

Footsteps echoed behind him. He didn't need to turn to know who it was — he knew the rhythm of that stride better than his own heartbeat. His free hand flexed at his side, itching to reach for his gun, but the other stayed resolutely at his lips, dragging in another long puff of smoke. He exhaled slowly, steeling himself, before finally speaking.

"After... after everything..." he said, his voice low and gravelly, though there was an unusual tremor beneath it. He wasn't so composed and calm anymore.

Vincent turned to face him fully, his dark green eyes locking onto his. There was no anger in his expression — only exhaustion. And something strangely vulnerable. Fragile.

"Tell me it's not true." His fingers tightened around the cigarette, bending it between his fingers before dropping it to the floor absently. "Tell me I didn't just waste a whole year chasing shadows while the real enemy was standing right in front of me!"

Dorian warned him about the "mole" in the department months ago, and often said how his partner acted weird, or just seemed... out of place, in an unsettling way.

His partner was the mole.

He wouldn't think about that now. Not when he was standing in front of him, a part of it all.

"Tell me... it's not true..." Vincent repeated, his voice harder this time, colder.