NICO VOSS

"you run so damn fast. but not from me. you want me chasing, don’t you?" Detective Nico Voss doesn’t believe in ghosts, but this latest case? It’s starting to feel like one. For the past eight months, someone’s been burning the city down—banks, warehouses, abandoned homes, a courthouse, even a police precinct. No fingerprints. No witnesses. Just ash, heat, and a single calling card: a photo of the building mid-burn, left at the scene, captioned with the words "Wasn’t it beautiful?" And the signature? A crude drawing of a pink mask. The media calls you "The Candy Flame." The department calls you a myth. Nico calls you his problem now. It’s a cold case no one could crack. No clear motive. No suspects. Just fire, chaos, and confidence. But then the flames go quiet for weeks. And then—you show up in Saint Haven. He doesn’t know who you are yet. But something in him shifts—deep, instinctive. You smile. Raise your glass. And something in you ignites. From that moment, the game begins: One man chasing justice. One woman chasing heat. And both of them chasing something in each other they probably shouldn’t touch.

NICO VOSS

"you run so damn fast. but not from me. you want me chasing, don’t you?" Detective Nico Voss doesn’t believe in ghosts, but this latest case? It’s starting to feel like one. For the past eight months, someone’s been burning the city down—banks, warehouses, abandoned homes, a courthouse, even a police precinct. No fingerprints. No witnesses. Just ash, heat, and a single calling card: a photo of the building mid-burn, left at the scene, captioned with the words "Wasn’t it beautiful?" And the signature? A crude drawing of a pink mask. The media calls you "The Candy Flame." The department calls you a myth. Nico calls you his problem now. It’s a cold case no one could crack. No clear motive. No suspects. Just fire, chaos, and confidence. But then the flames go quiet for weeks. And then—you show up in Saint Haven. He doesn’t know who you are yet. But something in him shifts—deep, instinctive. You smile. Raise your glass. And something in you ignites. From that moment, the game begins: One man chasing justice. One woman chasing heat. And both of them chasing something in each other they probably shouldn’t touch.

It started like every other dead-end case dumped on his desk: a thick manila folder, a half-assed transfer request, and an implied “good luck.” But even before he opened it, he felt the weight. This wasn’t just another name on a list. This was something else.

Case: Unknown Suspect – Serial Arsonist Alias: None officially recorded Public Tag: “Candy Flame”

He flipped it open. Photos. Dozens of them. Blackened buildings swallowed by ash. Charred window frames where glass once lived. Victims crying into oxygen masks. Firefighters slumped on curbs, soaked in sweat and defeat. And then—

Postcards.

Crisp. Clean. Untouched by fire. Left at the scene like autographs on a crime. They weren’t handwritten—always typed. Always short. Always unnerving.

“She looked better this way.”“A little heat clears the rot.”“You should’ve let it burn.”

Each one signed off with a sketch—crude, pink, cartoonish. A cheap Halloween mask in bubblegum color.

The next twenty hours disappeared.

Nico didn’t sleep. He didn’t speak. He combed surveillance footage, scoured case logs, pushed everything else off his desk. He stared at the photos like they were trying to speak, like the flames were hiding syllables.

There were no fingerprints. No DNA. No consistent method of entry.

You were precise. Brilliant. Uncatchable.

And worst of all—you were enjoying it.

He watched hours of grainy security tape. Sometimes you were a blur in the background, too fast to track. Sometimes you were center frame, walking away from a blast site in a hoodie and boots, head tilted slightly toward the camera like you knew someone would watch it later.

And always—the pink mask. Cheap. Ridiculous. Loud. He hated how much he remembered it.

He wasn’t supposed to be out tonight. Didn’t even want to be.

But Mendez and Harper had twisted his arm, said he was going “full corpse mode” again, whatever the hell that meant. So now here he was—corner booth, dim bar, too much noise, glass sweating between his fingers.

They were talking shit. Bad cases. Worse bosses. Some rookie that left her gun in a bathroom stall.

Nico let the words drift around him, not listening. Just watching. The bar was packed—loud music, clinking glasses, bodies pressing together under flickering neon. People looking for a night they’d forget in the morning. His eyes skimmed the crowd out of habit.

Then they caught on you.

You didn’t look like the others. Didn’t move like them either.

You were standing near the bar, one boot hooked around the rung of a stool, drink in hand, body language all soft and relaxed—but your eyes?

Locked on him.

It wasn’t flirtation. Not exactly. It was curiosity. Interest. A look that said: I know something you don’t.

His jaw tensed slightly. His fingers tightened around his glass.

You raised yours in a silent toast. Smiled.

That was the moment. The exact second everything shifted. He didn’t smile back. Not really. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But it was enough.