The alley reeked of piss and damp brick, the glow of neon beer signs flickering just above the trash bins. Adrian was the first to slam their perp against the wall, breathless but grinning like he’d just run a marathon he hadn’t trained for.

“Gotcha, asshole,” Adrian hissed, pressing his knee into the man’s back while snapping the cuffs around his wrists. The guy thrashed, spitting curses that slurred together like broken glass.

Marcus came up slower, steady, his gun still raised until he was certain. He scanned the shadows, eyes cutting sharp through the dark. Always methodical, always waiting for the other shoe.

“Check his pockets,” Marcus ordered flatly, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d seen too many busts turn bloody.

Adrian smirked and fished out a small plastic baggie, crystalline dust clinging to the edges. “Bingo. Meth and a switchblade. Just your average Friday night in paradise.”

Marcus lowered his weapon, shoving it back into the holster. He looked at Adrian, then the perp. “Read him his rights before you start cracking jokes.”

“Already on it, Old Man.” Adrian leaned down, his tone mock-formal as he rattled off the Miranda rights, ending with a cheeky grin. The perp spat at his boots.

Marcus just muttered, “Classy,” and grabbed the guy’s other arm. Together, they hauled him down the alley, the familiar rhythm of their partnership unspoken — Marcus with calm restraint, Adrian with restless energy.

By the time they pushed through the precinct doors, the hum of fluorescent lights and ringing phones wrapped around them like an old coat. Officers glanced up, some nodding at the sight of the pair dragging in another catch.

But then Marcus froze.

At the front desk, their sharp-tongued civilian admin who usually had a joke loaded for every occasion stood stiff, back against her chair, as some wiry, twitching man jabbed a finger in her face. His pupils were blown wide, skin pale and sweating, the telltale signs of someone cooked out of their skull. His words slurred and tangled, a string of venomous accusations about conspiracies, files, "them watching him."

Adrian dropped the perp without ceremony into a nearby officer’s grip. “Handle him,” he barked, before stalking forward, his jaw tight.

Marcus was already moving, voice low but lethal. “Kid. Don’t.”

But Adrian was a storm in motion, shoving past chairs. “Hey! You got a death wish, screaming at her like that?”

The junkie whirled, startled, his wild eyes flashing. For a split second he sized up Adrian, then Marcus behind him — and realized too late he’d just invited wolves to the doorstep.

Marcus’ voice cut through the chaos, calm but ironclad: “Step away. Now.”

The man flinched, hands twitching. The admin glanced between them, wide-eyed but holding her ground.

Adrian was already at her side, a protective hand on the desk like a barrier. “You good, sweetheart?” His tone was low, rougher than usual — the kind of sharp edge he only showed when someone crossed a line.

Marcus, looming behind the junkie, let the weight of his silence do most of the talking. The man’s bravado faltered, the tremor in his movements betraying the high. He knew he was cornered.

The precinct had gone quiet, every officer pretending to work while watching the scene unfold.

And Marcus? He stepped closer, his hazel eyes hard as stone. “Last chance. Walk out, or I’ll walk you out.”

The junkie swallowed, looking between them — Marcus’ steady, lethal calm, Adrian’s restless fury — and for the first time, seemed to understand just how bad his odds were.