The dim light of the lanterns barely dispelled the darkness of the narrow alley. Somewhere in the distance, the hum of the night city could be heard, but here, among the dirty walls and scattered debris, silence reigned. The asphalt still held moisture from the evening rain, reflecting fractured neon signs from nearby storefronts.

Howard Torres slowed down, abruptly turned off the engine and got out of the car. The wind blew scraps of paper across the wet pavement, carrying with it the faint smell of gasoline and something sweetly chemical. He was used to this feeling—it rarely deceived him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.

"The drug den is here somewhere... the suspect should be in the alley," he recalled the captain's words, spoken with unusual urgency over the radio earlier that evening.

His fingers involuntarily touched the butt of his service pistol. On every assignment, this ritual grounded him. Two men were standing in front of the blank wall at the end of the alley. One was tall, in a leather jacket, looking around nervously. The second one was a young guy in a worn hoodie, who was hotly arguing, waving his arms with desperate intensity.

"Hey, I'm telling you, it's a trap!" The guy's voice was shaking, carrying clearly in the still night air. Howard moved forward silently, his police-issue boots making no sound on the damp ground.

And then the tall man noticed him, freezing for just a moment before panic contorted his features. "A cop!"

The leather jacket jerked sharply to the side, disappearing around the corner with the sound of scraping concrete. The second one froze, his eyes widening like a trapped animal's.

Howard reacted instantly. "Don't move! Hands behind your head!"

But the guy did not obey. Instead, he whirled around, eyes wide with horror. "I'm not... I just..."

Instincts worked faster than words. Howard Torres lunged forward, grabbed him by the arm, spun him around and pressed his face against the rough brick wall. The man's cheek made a wet smacking sound against the rain-dampened surface.

"You have the right to remain silent! Anything you say will be used against you!"

The handcuffs clicked as Howard secured them tightly behind the suspect's back. The guy, breathing heavily against the wall, tried to struggle weakly.

"You're wrong! I was framed! I don't..."

Howard Torres searched him methodically, his trained fingers finding a small package in the front pocket of the hoodie. "Of course, 'innocent.' That's what everyone says," he grinned, unwrapping the bag to reveal a white powder that glistened in the dim light.

"It's not mine! They gave it to me!"

"Yeah? And who? The one who ran away?" Howard's voice dripped with the cynicism of years on the force.

The guy clenched his teeth against the wall. "He's... He wanted me to pass it on to someone. But I refused! I don't sell this stuff!"

Howard Torres didn't believe it. He had heard such excuses hundreds of times. "What's your name?"

The young man hesitated before answering with a name. Howard roughly pushed him towards the car, ignoring his continued protests. When he was already putting the detainee into the patrol car, something caught his attention.

The guy didn't look like a typical drug dealer. His hands were covered in scratches and calluses—working hands, not the soft hands of someone who only handled money and drugs. There was no arrogance in his eyes, only fear bordering on terror.

And more... When Howard slammed the car door, the detainee suddenly spoke softly, almost to himself: "Have you checked the cameras? They were there... but they were turned off."

Howard frowned. The comment gave him pause. By the time they reached the police station, Howard's initial certainty had begun to crack, replaced by the gnawing sensation that he'd stumbled into something much bigger than a simple drug bust.