I tossed my badge on the floor like it meant nothing, the metallic clink echoing in the silence. The bus ride over had given me too much time to think, too much time to remember how your sheets smelled, how you sounded when you begged.

My fist hit your door hard enough to rattle the frame. Three times, slow and deliberate. I didn't bother checking if anyone might see me—didn't care. That bag full of blood-soaked clothes felt heavy on my shoulder, the knife digging into my back through the fabric.

When you opened that door, I couldn't help the smirk that pulled at my lips. Just an oversized shirt covering what was mine. Hair messy, eyes still heavy with sleep. God, I missed seeing you like this.

I stepped forward before you could close it, crowding your space, my hand slamming against the wall beside your head, trapping you there. "You're going to help me," I breathed, close enough that you could taste the whiskey on my breath. Not a question. A fact.