Rain tapped a hollow rhythm on the roof—soft but insistent. It filled the silence between them like a second heartbeat. Parked beneath a dim streetlight outside the Emperor Club, Gordon flipped through Lan Nguyen's file one last time. The light outside was weak, but enough for him to read. Bullock sat behind the wheel, elbow to the window, head in his hand. His gaze lingered on the club entrance.
"I don't know," Bullock muttered at last, just as Gordon snapped the file shut and slid it into his bag.
"It's a solid plan," Gordon said, peeling off his coat and suit jacket. "Just wait fifteen minutes. Go in, talk to someone. When you see her, point her out, but be subtle about it."
He pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster, opened the cylinder, and let the rounds spill into his hand with soft clinks. The bullets went into his bag. The .38 into the glove compartment, and the holster he tossed onto the back seat.
"She was sharp," Bullock said. "She made us from what the coat check girl said."
"I'll remember to be rude." Gordon said dryly.
"Syd had us wait for her to come out. I say we do that."
"She won't talk in public, not where it could get back to someone," Gordon said. "But if I get her alone, she'll talk."
Bullock squinted at him. "What makes you so sure?"
Gordon shrugged his jacket back on, layered it with the coat. "Because she's the one who filed the report."
That got Bullock's attention. "What makes you say that?"
"The name Cyrus Pinkney and the fact that goths use the condemned Pinkney buildings to smoke, drink, and hang out. My guess? That condemned building she gave as her address—the one in North Burnley—it meant something to them."
"And how the fuck do you know all that?"
Gordon cleared his throat. "I hear things."
Bullock smirked, shaking his head. "You know what your problem is?"
"You've told me."
"Well, here's another." Bullock leaned in. "You're a fucking-awful liar."
Gordon didn't flinch. His face was granite, but Bullock stared at him like he could see the cracks.
"You think being quiet and giving vague answers hides anything?" Bullock continued. "I don't know how you're getting all this—Like Saigon cops doubling prices on the locals. Or this goth club jumping around Uptown. Either you're banging some goth Asian chick, or you've got wiretaps all over the fucking city."
The rain answered for them, it was now a heavy, relentless patter.
Gordon kept his mouth shut. There was no way he was giving up his partner. He'd heard enough talk at the precinct to know where everyone stood—and Bullock, of all people, wouldn't tolerate the truth. But also, Gordon never had much of a gift for lying. When he finally spoke, the words rang hollow.
"I just pay attention," he said.
Bullock let out a scoff. "You're a distrustful son of a bitch. Add that to your list of problems."
Gordon drew a slow breath and shook his head—not in disagreement, but at the sheer gall of Bullock's take. He turned to face him, voice colder now, laced with a bit of anger he kept pent up.
"Trust is earned, Detective. I don't know you. I don't know the boys back at the precinct. But what I do know? Most cops in this city would sell out their partner for a favor—or a fat envelope."
He opened the door and stepped into the rain, but the anger in him was still boiling.
"If you ever risked everything and lost, you'd understand. It stays with you. Every bad call. Every person you shouldn't've trusted. Every mistake you made thinking it'd turn out different."
The door slammed behind him, louder than intended.
He crossed the street, tugging his coat tight against the wet. At the club entrance, he paused. His fingers found his wedding ring and twisted. Rage stirred in him like something breaking free, but he smothered it. He yanked the ring off and shoved it into his coat pocket.
Inside, the club's entryway was shielded by a beaded curtain. A bouncer sat slouched on a stool with his back against the wall, not bothering to look up. Gordon approached the coat check. The girl behind the counter wore a tube top and gave him a dead-eyed stare as she popped the gum in her mouth. She followed it with a mechanical smile. He handed over his beige trench coat. She tucked a claim ticket into the pocket without a word.
Through the beaded curtain, the club was low-ceilinged and sour with perfume and tobacco smoke. A stage sat beneath a cracked spotlight—empty, but already surrounded by men smoking cigarettes and cheap cigars. The music was loud but slow, a smooth bass that snuffed out any low conversations.
Gordon took a seat at a table along the wall. He looked wrong in a suit. Everyone else looked like they'd punched a clock and come here to forget it. The only thing that made him feel at ease was their accents. They didn't sound like locals—more like outsiders.
Topless girls paraded by in thongs and lace panties, but two waitresses broke through the blur. They moved with purpose, slicing through the room in matching black lace and fishnets, spiked collars tight around their throats, dyed-black bobs swinging with each step. One had a nose ring. She stopped at his table.
"Can I get you something?" Her voice was flat, but smoky.
"A beer," Gordon said, rubbing his thumb over his bare ring finger. The absence scraped at him. It was guilt—for the venue, for the fight with Alice earlier.
The music surged. A woman's voice cracked through the speakers:
"And now, gentlemen, the one and only Sasha Rain! Because when she's on stage…she makes it rain!"
A stripper strutted into the spotlight—all hips and hair, her legs long enough to make even Gordon glance. He looked, then looked away, eyes shifting to the main door, then a shadowed hallway leading to private rooms. He scanned the room: men hunched over drinks, leaning forward, bills being tossed on stage. He cataloged faces, exits, gestures—an old habit to stay on alert.
When the goth waitress returned with his beer, he took a long sip. His eyes lingered on the two girls in black lace. One of them had answers. He just wasn't sure which yet.
On a street in Crime Alley, a man stumbled through the crowd, weaving unsteadily, his movements clumsy and panicked. He bumped into shoulders, bounced off bodies, barely registering the curses thrown his way.
Then he spun around, wild-eyed, and looked up. Rain fell hard from a sky choked with thick clouds, the downpour slicking his face, washing sweat and fear together.
He kept moving—half-running, half-limping—until his lungs gave out. He stopped beneath a flickering streetlamp, bent double, exhaling sharp and ragged. He glanced behind him one last time, breathing out a shaky mix of exhaustion and relief.
Straightening, he scanned the street. No one. His shoulders sagged.
Then—snap.
A thin black wire whipped around his torso, tightening fast, cutting into his arms like a trap sprung. His eyes widened.
And before he could scream, he was yanked upward—ripped from the street, into the rainy sky.