Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was simply one of those days. A day where the clouds had built to bursting, grey bellies split wide open. The pattering of rain masked the beat of guilty hearts thumping with life and a seemingly endless supply of treacherous intention.

Detective Pominerva “Pomni” Shutov flicked the safety switch back on her issued handgun with a begloved thumb and a mind as clouded as the morning sky, swirling with dissatisfaction as she toed a shard of broken glass with her booted foot. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth and she holstered her weapon back to her side. The once beautiful antique jewelry shop storefront sat in absolute ruins before her, the gilded glass of the front window obliterated into pieces that had been smashed inward by something heavy and solid.

It was the third jewelry store break-in in the past two weeks, and Pomni was exhausted. Inside, she knew she would find the cash register emptied but not broken, any safe containing money or valuables precisely drilled and drained, display case locks picked, and most infuriatingly, a ribbon of receipt paper with a messily written inscription of “IOU :(“ printed on its blank side in sparkly red gel pen ink draped across the front desk. There would be no need to be wary of conflict now. The perpetrator was most certainly long gone.

“Not another one..” Pomni stepped over the shop threshold into the destroyed store to inspect, only confirming what she already knew. Her mentor and the lead detective on the case Agatha Anne trudged gloomily ahead, shaking rainwater out of her curly red hair and already pulling some latex gloves out of her coat pocket. Daintily stepping over the litter of shattered glass, she pursed her lips looking at the barren shelves.

“Who knows,” Agatha offered with a sense of false optimism that Pomni knew her mentor didn’t believe herself. “Maybe this one was the last one for them. It’s not like we have an endless supply of jewelry stores available in this city to be broken into. Or maybe they got sloppy this time.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Pomni murmured, mostly to herself, picking up the glittery receipt with two rubber gloved fingers and glowering at the mocking inscription. Whoever had been committing the string of robberies throughout the city had a cruel sense of humor and clearly took pleasure in their little taunt. Break-ins were a common enough occurrence, however specialty cases like this where the perpetrator had left a signature at every one were a little more rare. This string of robberies had happened faster than anyone could have seen coming, and were most certainly planned out based upon how carefully everything had been taken. Even Agatha's forced optimism couldn't cure the sinking feeling of impending dead ends and another rainsoaked walk home. Nothing, and truly, nothing had been left behind. Not even an impression of footprints remained visible on the bottle green nylon carpet of the store that now glinted with tiny specks of window pane. Their culprit or culprits were smart. Infuriatingly so. Pomni recalled the intrigue she had felt at the beginning of the first two break-ins. It had meant a break from the mundane administrative side of detective work, where she and Agatha could actually put feet on the ground. By the third occurrence however, it only meant longer shifts that bled into late evenings that smelled like microwaved instant coffee and printer ink.

“Creative as ever, huh.” Agatha deadpanned, jutting her chin towards the flimsy receipt paper. Pomni hummed quietly. The same joke for the third time would never be funny. Passing the slip of evidence to Agatha, Pomni moved further into the store, glass crunching under her boots. The break-in was identical to the prior three. Front window smashed to pieces, entry obvious, direct, and theatrical. The kind of thing you see in movies. Nobody just breaks in through a front window anymore. Who does this? There weren’t even any attempts to bypass security systems, the detective team had noticed. They had simply been altogether avoided. Cameras somehow inexplicably angled away. Alarms still live. Motion sensors untouched. Locks unpicked.
It made absolutely no sense whatsoever. To Pomni, the MO screamed sloppy, yet somehow, the outcome whispered surgeon. The criminals might have been made of air. She must have said so aloud, as she scanned the floor for what she knew she would never see, when she heard Agatha let out a dry chuckle from across the room where she was speaking with forensics. It was then however, looking for something that could be there, that Pomni saw something that wasn’t.
“Hey, Agatha.” Pomni carefully knelt down on the green carpet, careful to avoid the mess, and pointed at a spot on the ground right in front of an empty display case. Agatha stopped beside her and followed the direction of her finger to where a patch of carpet-- maybe eighteen inches-- lay far too clean. Glass had not touched it, nor had any scuffs of a shoe or boot. Chaos in the form of shards and dust and splinters flowed around the spot like water around a stone.

“That doesn’t make a lick of sense.” Agatha commented, though by the sudden light in her pretty blue eyes, Pomni knew that the new discovery was promising to the detective.
“They would have had to already be in the shop when the glass was broken, or maybe set something down,” Pomni noted, her mentor nodding beside her. Encouraged, the younger detective ran a gloved finger over the patch. “Do you think they were standing here? Or maybe they covered it?”

“It’s hard to say. None of the other MOs had anything like this, and I doubt the shop would have initially had valuables on the floor for them to take. We can review the camera footage.”

“If they were here, why would they have stood still while the glass broke? And what would have been the reason for breaking the window inwards in the first place if they had already gotten inside?” The younger detective's head was filling with more and more difficult questions.

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Agatha shook her head, curls bouncing around her freckled face. As Pomni drew her hand back, that’s when she saw it glistening within the overhead lights. A faint iridescent sheen had rubbed off on the latex of her glove. Synthetic? Cosmetic? Oil? Her pulse ticked upward. Finally, A misstep. No hard evidence yet, but a direction.
Agatha crouched beside Pomni, her gloved hand reaching toward the faint shimmer on the fabric. She rubbed her thumb against her fingertips, inspecting the film with the narrowed gaze of someone flipping through mental archives.
“Could be glitter glue. Could be resin. Maybe some kind of lacquer.” She sniffed it cautiously. “No scent. We’ll send it in.”
Pomni nodded, already standing. Her eyes roved the broken shelves, the hollow velvet pads where necklaces once nestled like sleeping cats. She found herself less focused on what was missing and more drawn to what didn’t quite belong. Her instincts weren’t screaming, but they were muttering, and Pomni had learned that those quiet mutterings were the ones that mattered most.
“I don’t think they stood there,” she murmured, gesturing back to the untouched carpet. “It’s too clean. Too deliberate. I think something was placed there, and then taken.”
Agatha straightened up, exhaling slowly. “Like what? A bag? A decoy? You thinking inside job?” Pomni didn’t answer right away. Her thoughts were coalescing, shapeless but moving fast. The glass had been broken inward, like a show of force. But what kind of professional thief made noise on purpose?
A distraction.
A flourish.
A message.
“They want us to think this is about theft,” she said at last. “But I don’t think it is.”
Agatha’s head tilted. “Then what’s it about?” Pomni looked again at the display cases-- undisturbed aside from their emptied contents. Everything was taken, but nothing was ransacked. Each lock had been opened cleanly. And that signature- the IOU -felt less like a calling card and more like a performance.
“It’s about being seen,” she said finally. “Or… not seen. Either way, they’re making sure we look.”Before Agatha could respond, a forensic tech stepped around a busted display stand with a clipboard in hand.
“Detectives,” she said. “We finished dusting the cases. No prints, no fibers. Not even a sneeze. Whoever did this, they were in and out without leaving anything. Except—” She held out a sealed evidence bag containing a tiny object: a red plastic cap, no larger than a fingernail. Childish. Glittery.
“Top of a gel pen,” the tech confirmed. “Found lodged under the corner of the register. Same kind of ink used on the receipt.” Pomni took the bag, staring at it through the fogged plastic.
So. A mistake. Or a taunt.
“I want to see the footage,” she said. “Now.”

***
The footage was worse than nothing.
Pomni stood shoulder to shoulder with Agatha in the musty back office of the jewelry store, squinting at the grainy, flickering security feed looping over and over. The screen hummed softly, casting blue light across their faces. The timestamp blinked mockingly in the corner, reading 02:47 AM, precisely the same time as the other two hits.
In the footage, the camera shifted subtly at 2:52 AM, as if nudged by a breeze. Then static. A ten-second black out. When it resumed, the display cases were empty. Not even a blur passed across the frame. No figures. No motion. Just a minor rearrangement of shadow and silence, and then the empty velvet cushions gaped like open mouths.
“Dammit,” Agatha hissed. “It’s like watching a ghost robbery.”
“They moved the camera,” Pomni murmured. “Just slightly. Enough to redirect it, but not trip the feed.” She rewound it again, frame by frame. “They were already in here before this even started. Or someone gave them access.”
Agatha crossed her arms. “You said something similar earlier. Are you that dead certain it could be an inside job?”
Pomni’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Or someone who knew the security layout like the back of their hand. Blueprints. Alarm codes. The kind of knowledge you can’t Google.”A beat of silence passed between them, then Agatha exhaled, long and slow.
“We’ll start tracing the pen. I’ve got a couple of techs who might be able to ID the make or find a match to the ink.” She turned away from the monitor, rubbing the back of her neck. “God, I hope this isn’t another ‘Phantom Thread’ situation.”
Pomni gave her a look.
“Back in ‘08,” Agatha explained with a half-grin. “Guy stole fabric swatches from high-end fashion boutiques. Left behind Polaroids of mannequins wearing his mother’s clothes. Took us months. Turned out he was just trying to make her a wedding dress.”
Pomni blinked. “Did it work?”
“Wedding didn’t. Dress wasn’t bad.” A dry chuckle passed between them, but it didn’t last.
The knock on the office door was sharp and immediate. A uniformed officer stepped inside. “Detectives. Chief Kinger’s on-site. Wants a word. Now.”
Agatha raised a brow. “Both of us?”
“No, ma’am. Just Shutov.”
***

Chief Kinger was waiting by the busted front window, hands stuffed into the pockets of his soaked trench coat. Rain dripped off of the strands of his silver-white hair and fogged the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. He didn’t wipe them. He just stood, staring out at the street like it might confess something if he looked long enough with his piercing blue eyes.
Pomni approached, cautious. Kinger wasn’t a yeller. He didn’t need to be. He had a way of talking so calm, so quiet, that it made people twice as afraid of disappointing him.
“Sir,” she said. He nodded once, still watching the street.
“You ever read stage magic manuals, Detective Shutov?”
She blinked. “Can’t say I have.”
“There’s a principle they teach called misdirection. Not just what the audience sees, but where you force them to look. One hand shows you a coin, the other steals your watch.” Pomni frowned, unsure where this was going. “Three stores,” Kinger continued. “Same signature. Same lack of evidence. Same mocking little note. That’s not sloppiness. That’s control.”
“I know. Agatha and I—”
“That’s why I’m pulling her off the case.” Pomni’s heart skipped.
“What?” He finally turned to look at her, and behind the fogged lenses, his eyes were unreadable, though not angry. Perhaps thoughtful.
“This case doesn’t follow any of the usual patterns. It’s not about the jewelry. It’s not about money. It’s something else, and I think you know it.”
“I—sir, respectfully, Agatha’s experience—”
“—is exactly why she’s not right for this.” Kinger cut her off with quiet finality. “She’ll keep chasing suspects. You’ll chase the question.” Pomni looked past him, toward where Agatha was still speaking to forensics. The idea of continuing without her made something twist low in her chest.
“You’re saying I’m on my own?”
“I’m saying you’re the only one seeing this for what it is. Theatrics. Artistry. The psychology of attention.” He paused. “You’re not just chasing a thief, Shutov. You’re chasing a message.” Pomni clenched her jaw.
“And if I don’t get it?” Kinger smiled, thin and weary.
“Then we’ll find out what happens when the audience looks away.”
He turned and walked out into the rain without another word.
Pomni stood there in the shattered doorway of the jewelry store, the IOU note still fresh in her mind, the glide of lacquer or resin still faint on her gloves in her clenched fists, and the red plastic pen cap tucked in her pocket like a tiny, plastic punchline.
She was alone on the case now.
But maybe that’s exactly what the thief wanted.

***

Spudzy's Pizza smelled like charred toast and cheap marinara sauce. It was the kind of place where grease lacquered the impossibly stained tables and the bright neon lights flickered SOS in morse code. The cracked vinyl of the booth stuck to Pomni’s coat as she sank into it, spreading her case notes like tarot cards across the table. The slice of pepperoni in front of her had cooled into a reddish-yellow rubber tile.

She was starving, yet couldn’t seem to find the energy to tear her unfocused eyes from the endless scribble of notes and weighted responsibility now placed on her shoulders. This was her case now. Pomni almost wished that Kinger had kicked her off the case instead.
‘Then again, there must be a reason he thought I was good enough to lead it solo.’

She took a deep breath, pen hovering over her notebook, praying her swirling thoughts could compile into some magical resolution of evidence.

Residue inconsistent.
Entry likely premeditated.
Inside job?
Suspect—

A deep shadow spilled over the table, effectively blotting out her notes.

“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to escort your pizza away and charge you with neglect.”

The lanky brown-haired restaurant worker she had ordered from earlier stood there holding a rag that was somehow both greasier and dirtier than the tables. His nametag, tilted at a jarring 45-degree angle, read JAX in Sharpie, as though no one had trusted him with a label maker.

Pomni looked back down at her notes, a crease already forming in between her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, but I’m pretty busy at the moment.”

“Busy ignoring perfectly good cheese? That’s a crime.” Pomni lifted her eyes once again just in time to watch ‘Jax’ toss the disgusting rag haphazardly into his blindingly yellow apron which was emblazoned with bright red letters across it. “OUR CHEESE IS LEGALLY CLASSIFIED AS A WEAPON!”

“Do I know you?”

“Ouch,” he said, not sounding hurt at all. “Not knowing who I am should be a crime on its own. Gonna write that down in your little report book?”

She sighed. “Can I just have ten minutes of silence? Then I’ll get out of here and let you get on with your night.”

“Absolutely you can,” Jax said, taking no time before rounding the table and sitting down across from her, obnoxiously trying to turn his head so he could read her upside-down notes.

Pomni pinched her eyes shut, massaging her temples. “I didn’t invite you.”

“And yet,” he gestured around at the empty pizzeria, “I am the only other living organism in this establishment apart from maybe the sauce buckets. So congratulations! You’ve clearly chosen me as your emotional support acquaintance.”

“I did not choose anything.”

“You came to my booth.”

“This is not your booth.”

Jax placed a hand solemnly on the table. “This is Booth Seven. I’ve bled in this booth.”

Pomni recoiled. “What? why—”

“Pizza cutter accident. Very tragic. Funeral was beautiful.”

She stared at him, horrified.

He grinned wider, delighted.

“…Can I help you with something?” she snapped, finally losing what little temper she had left.

“Yes!” Jax clapped his hands together. “Icebreaker questions.”

“No.”

“Too late. What’s your favorite crime?”

“I don’t—what?!”

“Favorite crime,” he repeated. “Not to commit, obviously — to investigate. You give serious ‘burglary enthusiast’ vibes.”

Pomni stiffened. “…That’s such a specific question. Have you been reading my notes?”

Jax raised both brows. “Very specific answer from someone supposedly not into this conversation.”

She cursed under her breath. “You’re infuriating. I need to leave.”

“I get that a lot. Usually right before people give me their number.”

“I’m not giving you my number.”

“See, that sounds like a challenge.”

Pomni tossed her pen back down onto the disgusting table where it promptly rolled down its uneven surface and clattered to the floor. “Why are you actually here?”

Jax leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Maybe I’m being friendly.”

“You don’t strike me as the friendly type.”

“And you don’t strike me as the relax-and-enjoy-a-pizza type. Yet here we both are, subverting stereotypes. I just thought you were just trying to exploit this place for money laundering.”

Pomni hesitated just long enough for his smirk to widen into a shitfaced grin in victory. She narrowed her eyes. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Oh, constantly,” he said. “But only when people are interesting enough to make me listen.” The silence that followed was unexpectedly heavy.

Pomni shifted in her seat. “…I’m not interesting.”

“Lady,” Jax said softly — unsettlingly earnest for the first time — “you walked in here with lab gloves sticking out of your pocket like you’re about to DNA test the mozzarella. You’re certainly something.”

He stood before she could answer.

“Enjoy your pizza, Detective. Or don’t. I don’t really care.”

He sauntered away, leaving her staring after him. She looked down, speechless. She hadn’t told him she was a detective.

Her slice was still untouched, but her appetite was suddenly gone.

Chapter Text

The farther outward one traveled in Torchwick city in any direction, the farther away from the hustle of busy shopfronts and luxury apartment buildings one would find themself. If they were particularly naive-- or perhaps simply stupid, they might travel west, where the Fantasma district lies with sinful intrigue. By day, merchants crawl the streets, pawning fake luxury items and flashing glittery golden-toothed smiles to the more unfortunate lost tourists from out of town.

By night, it is a different place entirely. Not cruel-- no-- just simply tired. Most who live here grew up surrounded by the peeling wallpaper of their apartments stacked on top of bars and corner stores like matchboxes. Laundry sags like flags of surrender across alleyways where children play, mindful of which dogs bite and which floorboards scream. Here, hope comes cheap, rolled in blunts, but the sensation leaves early before the feeling can truly hit.
Still, on certain nights, when someone leaves a widow open with a radio playing too loud, or laughter spills from the inside of a dingy bar, Fantasma remembers it’s alive.

Spudzy’s is located on a gloomy street corner, right next to the district theater ‘Big Top Cinema.’ At one point, the run-down pizza shop had been a part of its neighboring attraction, serving as a bar and restaurants for the local moviegoers to find a bite before and after the production. Now, it was divided by a sloppily built concrete wall with a few maintenance doors to bridge the gap into the theater’s basement, where the two businesses share power and amenities like air conditioning and water.
The pizza store had opened after its separation from the cinema 25 years ago, and had an average of fifteen paying customers a week. Against all odds, the shabby store with below-average pies rebelled against even the thought of a ‘for sale’ posting.

Jax liked to think of the place like one of those roaches that never seemed to die, no matter how many times you stepped on it. Idly, he tapped his yellow gloved fingers against the counter, humming along with the music that filtered through the thin walls between the restaurant and the theater next door.

He wasn’t much for musicals, but he hadn’t been counting how many times ‘The Greatest Showman’ had been aired. It was Caine’s favorite, so it didn’t matter that the film had made its infuriating debut nine years ago. The show would-- must-- go on.

A loud chime of a bell rudely interrupted Jax’s murderous thoughts of what he might do if he could just get his hands around Hugh Jackman’s neck, and the brunet scowled at the front door where a familiar face made their entry. He pretended he didn’t see the pink haired figure and looked back down, spreading marinara sauce all over the counter with his signature filthy rag.

“We’re closed, pal. Only thing I can offer you now is salmonella, in which case, five bucks.”

“Not interested, loser. I’m not here for whatever biohazard you call food.”

Jax feigns a surprised grin and tosses the sauce covered rag over his shoulder where it slaps wetly against a wall in the kitchen.

“Zooble! To what could I possibly owe the displeasure? Finally realizing I’m the only thing in this dump worth seeing?”
Zooble rolls their eyes, shooting the gangly twenty-two year old a look he does his best to dodge. “I’ve seen cleaner things at the landfill.” Uncrossing their leather clad arms, soaked with rain from the outdoors, they toss their motorcycle helmet onto a nearby table,-- then think twice and pick it back up, gingerly dusting it off. “ Take your costume off, Caine wants to see us.”

Jax’s mood effectively sours, but he masks it behind an ostentatiously loud groan. “Ugghh, Zoob, I’m on shift. Can’t anyone just leave a hero of the working class be? I’ll have you know I’ve worked very hard-”

“You know Caine couldn’t give a damn whether or not you’re flipping pizzas around or flipping the law. I believe his exact words were “Pull that rabbit out of a hat if you have to. The or else part was implied.”

Jax leans over the grimy counter, peeling off his gloves, a sour grimace flashing across his weary face before quickly being replaced by his signature shit-eating expression. “Did he say what he wanted? Or please?”

Zooble was clearly over it, gesturing rudely at the boy from across the counter. “Screw what he said. I say now, or I’ll skin you myself.”

“Ah, poetic as ever, pinkie-pie. You could have just said you missed me.” Stripping himself of the god-awful apron, Jax reaches under the counter for his coat, jerking his head towards the back to where the maintenance door looms past the ovens; unremarkable to most. “Let’s see what his royal overcompensation wants this time, shall we?”

“Just try not to mouth off this time, Jax.”

The brunet's smile drops the moment he turns around, morphing into a weary frown. He could’ve acknowledged the care in Zooble’s tone if he wanted to, but brushed it off as he always does. It's not like anyone caring ever had mattered anyways.

“No promises, Zoobie.”

The pair of them make their way through the gaping maw of the maintenance door, and it shuts with an eerie finality behind them.

It was about to be a long night.

***

The Greatest Showman is about halfway through; muffled dialogue and the heavy vibrato of Hugh’s voice filtering up through the unswept floorboards.

Caine’s office sits above the screen like a royal viewing box at an opera; one-way glass allowing him to watch the production-- and most importantly-- his audience unseen.

The room is decadence layered on decay. Velvet curtains over cracked plaster, fake gold trim flaking under the weight of many years of dust.

A desk shaped like a ticket booth sits at the center, and behind it reclines the root of all evil: Callum “Caine” Dorman, dressed like a ringmaster who had mated with a Wall Street banker. Pinstriped coat, sink gloves, cane propped up against his char -- all ornamental. At least that’s what Jax wants to believe.

Caine doesn’t look at the pair as they enter, eyes glued to the faraway screen below them.

“Sit, stand or juggle, I’m not picky!” His annoyingly sing-songy voice instantly gives Jax a migraine. He flops dramatically into an uncomfortable chair at the faux-warm invitation. Beside him, Zooble stays standing, arms crossed while holding their biker helmet.

“So,” Jax breaks the momentary silence.”You summoned us, oh great popcorn king. What’s the emergency? Someone underpay for a bag of Jolly Ranchers again?”

Zooble mutters curses under their breath as Caine fully spins around in his chair, smiling like a magician about to pull a corpse from a hat instead of the cute rabbit.

“Jax, darling boy, your humor is like stale soda. Maybe try again when it’s less flat.” His pale heterochromatic eyes twinkle and as if just noticing them, he gestures fondly towards Zooble who seems to cringe at the attention. “And Zooble. My favorite embodiment of ‘Terms and conditions may apply. How lovely it is that you’ve taken the time to visit your old man.”

Zooble is unimpressed, as always.
“Just tell us what you want, Caine. I have much more pressing things I need to address.” Caine pretends he doesn’t hear Zooble, instead standing up out of his chair and grabbing his walking stick with a flourish. Rounding the desk, he grins sharp as a dagger, spreading his arms and gesturing as if to both those sitting in the theater and to the two inside his office at once.

“Look at them, blissfully unaware,” he croons, the theatrics in his voice growing ever louder as it does whenever he gets into one of his self-righteous performance spiels. “They paid for two hours of a glorious illusion. Immersing themselves within the spell of performance and fantasia!” He drops his arms, head cocked to the side and fully turns towards Jax and Zooble. Running a gloved hand through his icy blond hair, he barks out a short hysterical laugh. The sound sends shivers down Jax’s spine, and the boy offers a nervous grin as the ringleader takes three sudden steps forward, sharply grabbing Zooble by the jaw.

It occurs to Jax how strong Caine is, watching Zooble drop their motorcycle helmet in apparent surprise. His nervous grin widens.

“Yes… they paid for two hours. But you two? You each owe a lifetime. There is nothing-- nothing more important than paying back what you owe.”
Caine releases Zooble after just a moment, already whisking himself back into his chair, propping his boot-clad legs up onto his desk while Zooble stands in apparent shock.

“It’s interest day, my lovely marble pawns. Jax, your tragically late friend’s gambling debts have reproduced like catholic rabbits on adderall. Zooble, your little parts fabrication workship missed its payment three days ago. What ever are we going to do?”

Jax arches an eyebrow at Caine with an overconfident scoff.
“You already know we’ll get you the money.”

“You’ll do more than that! You’ll perform for it, won’t you?” The man behind the desk clasps his hands together and bats his eyelashes. Jax barely represses the urge to launch himself at the crime lord, acutely aware that they weren’t the only presences in the room.

Zooble sounds weary when she next speaks. “What do you want from us, Caine.” Her voice is flat, exhausted.

Caine sits back up straight in his chair, walking his fingers across his ticket-booth desk.

“There’s another pawn out there who has refused for several moons to pay back a debt they owe, despite my kindness. I need them to understand why this was not the correct move to make in our little game.”

“You want us to rough someone up?” Jax is more than tired of Caine’s game of cat and mouse.
“No, no, no, roughing up is amateur work. I want the show of a lifetime! Convince him with fear, with charm-- improvise! If there are casualties, may it be yourselves or anyone else, do it poetically. You do know how the audience loves a tragic ending.”

Caine leans in close, voice softening like silk over a blade. “Do keep in mind that this is the kind of fate that befalls those whose performances fall…below standard.”

“Sure.” Jax makes a face. “Whatever you say, boss.”

“Excellent!” Caine leans back in his chair again, apparently satisfied. “Zooble, you are dismissed. Jax, I must have a word with you in private.”

Great.

***

After Zooble is escorted out by a surly masked bodyguard Jax has only ever heard Caine refer to as “Bubble,” he finds himself alone, face-to-face with his biggest regret.

The air of the room swiftly changes, all theatrics suddenly dropped. Caine fixes his now calculated gaze on Jax, who does his best to seem disinterested.
Caine’s eyes glittered in a way that had nothing to do with the theater lights and everything to do with appetite. He tapped the ledger again, but this time the rhythm was different--sharp, like someone tracing the edge of a blade.
“You made quite an entrance on the front pages, Jax,” he said, slow as syrup. “Three shopfronts, same MO. Front windows smashed after the goods were gone. A violent tableau staged after the theft-- very theatrical. Very violent. Very… efficient.”
Jax met him with that grin, bright enough to hurt. “Better than a boring mugshot, eh? Makes for good copy.” His voice was breezy; his fingers toyed with an imaginary coin at his thigh. Inside, his ribs tightened. He’d cleaned his tracks the way he always did--small movements, practiced and precise. No fingerprints, no hair, no glossy shoe-tread left in the glass. Caine had a gift for making impossible things look inevitable.
“And the signature,” Caine continued, leaning forward until the chiffon of his sleeve brushed the ledger. “The receipt paper. The IOU in red gel.”
Jax forced a laugh that was too loud. “Right. Your idea. Cute, right? Leaves a little puzzle for them to chew on and adds a flourish. People like a story. They connect dots and forget to look at the ledger.”
“You are modest, darling.” Caine’s smile tightened into something sharp. “It wasn’t merely a flourish. The inscription--‘IOU :('-- is perfect. Childish, sentimental, exactly the sort of thing that makes men in suits look for poets instead of thieves. Gel pen in sparkly red. The sort of handwriting the public assumes belongs to an unprofessional vandal, not an organized job. It puts them off the scent.” He drummed his gloved fingers together, amused. “And it smells of you: theatrics with a small, guileless heart.”
Jax’s grin didn’t flicker. “All part of the act. Make it look personal. Make it messy.” He shrugged once, practiced and easy. “They’ll chase ghosts while Spudzy’s counts clean cash.”
“And they will chase ghosts,” Caine agreed. “Which is why your discretion was crucial. No prints; no cameras link back to the theater; no rogue accomplices singing for their supper. You did what a proper performer does, left only the props.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Tell me, delightful boy, how…how did you enjoy the smashing?”
Jax’s fingers twitched; the grin stretched across his face like a painted mask. “I don’t… enjoy the breakage. Enjoyment isn’t the point. It’s the message. You wanted them to feel violated, to think the ring of security is a joke. It gets mouths talking. It sends the right kind of fear.” He kept his tone light, but his throat made a small, wet sound at the back of it. He remembered the cold of the glass under his palms, the way that he had held his breath and waited for the shop alarm to scream like a trapped animal. It never did. Caine’s people had already vanished into the night. He remembered the weight of the receipt paper in his pocket, and the ridiculous sparkle of the gel ink against his thumb.
Caine hummed, delighted. “You handled the details with creativity. Placement, timing-- perfect. And those receipts? Sublime. They are our calling card without being our calling card. A wink to anyone clever enough to read between the headlines.” He tapped the leather ledger again as if checking an old, familiar rhythm. “You left a paper every time. The same inscription. That consistency tells a story without pointing at us. It’s far better to have the city invent a perpetrator than for the city to look for a man.”
Jax swallowed. “So… we’re done, then?” His voice tried for casual; his hands wanted to be anywhere but where they were.
“For now,” Caine said. “But remember: interest accumulates. The show is ongoing. You are a necessary prop. Spudzy’s launders the cash…the right cover, the right faces. You keep the tills plausible, and the world assumes the honest, greasy work of greasy hands. Meanwhile, receipts and red gel steer the headlines.” He spread his hands, palms up. “It’s elegant.”
“You’re pleased,” Jax said, the sentence tasting like accusation and relief all at once.
“Very.” Caine’s eyes gleamed. “But one thing, Jax. The police are persistent creatures. They smell patterns like hounds. You’ve been careful--impeccable, even--but care must be a daily rehearsal. No slip-ups. No souvenir DNA, no reckless joyrides. And if you must make a show, make it so artful they don’t suspect the stagehand.”
Jax’s grin cut into his face like a coin. “Got it. Keep my hands clean. Keep the pen sloppy and sentimental.” He laughed softly, too quickly. The joke landed flat because it was a joke he’d told himself since Ribbit died: that the red gel was a joke, a little winking cruelty that shifted blame into the hands of the bewildered. The truth--Caine had coached it, insisted on it; it was another knot around his throat.
“And Spudzy’s?” he asked, changing the subject like a quick step in a dance. “You still want me on the late shift? I can cover deliveries, y'know. drop the right bags at the right hands.”
“You will do more than cover,” Caine corrected. “You will manage. Keep the cash flow honest in appearance. Funnel us what must be funneled, and burn the rest via the charity nights.” He smiled fondly, as if discussing a pet. “You are the little hand on the clock, Jax. Move when I tell you.”
Jax’s grin was a practiced thing, and when he nodded, every ounce of him betrayed the lie that nod trusted. “Consider it done.”
Caine’s satisfaction was a quiet, possessive thing. “Good. And Jax?”
“Yes?”
“Keep the handwriting pretty.” He tapped the ledger with a single nail, an almost affectionate reprimand. “Have a heart in that frowny face. Make it personal. The more human the IOU reads, the less human we will seem when they hunt.”
Jax left the office with the grin stuck in place, the sunlight in the corridor catching the faint shimmer of red ink on the inside of his wrist--an imprint from a receipt he'd folded into a pocket that morning. He told himself it was just another mark, another instrument of survival. He told himself he’d be smarter next time. He told himself a lot of things and believed them all in the cheap, temporary way he believed in the glint of coin.
Beneath the grin, something small and cold settled: the knowledge that every staged smashing, every sparkly IOU, every clean hand at Spudzy’s only fed the ledger’s appetite. Ribbit’s debt had been the hand that pushed him into the theatre; now it was a play that fed on him. He smoothed his jacket, kept his eyes bright, and rehearsed the next performance, because in Caine’s world, smiles paid and fear was currency, and Jax’s debts were never supposed to be solved.
***

The detective was back.

He spotted her the second the door creaked open, that busted chime wheezing above her like it was dying for attention. Same as last time—brown hair pulled back in a crooked bun, bangs in her eyes, notebook clutched like it held the secrets of the universe. She jumped a little when the chime rang, same as before, and for a moment, she just stood there, staring at the empty pizzeria like she’d forgotten why she came.

‘Well I’ll be damned. Maybe she is here to expose this place.’
He’d been sure she wouldn’t come back. After all, he hadn’t exactly rolled out the red carpet on her first visit. A couple jokes, a little harmless poking. Enough to make most people take their pizza to go next time…if there was a next time at all.
But she came back. Same tired eyes. Same haunted look like the case she was working was eating her alive from the inside out.
Jax leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her settle in. She didn’t notice him yet--too busy staring into that beat-up leather notebook, flipping through pages like maybe this time they’d say something different. She looked like she hadn’t slept. Again. That made it two days in a row. The techno-jazz blaring from the jukebox was probably liquefying whatever was left of her brain.
He grinned.
“Ah, so you came back!” he called, letting his voice ring out like a damn stage cue. Her head snapped up so fast he half-expected her neck to crack. She looked--ah, there it was--like she’d just swallowed something bitter.
“I’m rather irresistible, aren’t I?”
Her lips parted like she might argue, but instead she just looked down and gently closed her notebook. Always polite. Always quiet. Not the type to throw an insult, even if he deserved one.
“Isn’t there anyone else who works here?” she asked, voice soft.
He leaned in with a shrug. “Sure there is.”
That was it. No follow-up. No names. Let her sit with the mystery.
She hesitated. Then: “I’ll have the same thing as last time. One pepperoni slice, please.”
Ah. So she remembered.
He gave her a little bow. “Coming right up, Detective.”

Back in the kitchen, he shoved a half-decent slice into the oven and kept one ear tilted toward the front. No footsteps. No notebook pages flipping. Just that quiet, exhausted presence she dragged in like it was stitched to her coat.
Jax had a sinking feeling that she knew exactly what she was chasing.
A petty theft was not enough to keep her up at night. A murder? Unlikely. She wasn’t wearing that hardened mask they all got after a while. She looked more like someone caught between questions, chewing on puzzle pieces that didn’t belong to the same box. Perhaps this was fate's cruel way of punishing him for his sins. Still, he carried on. Feigning blissful ignorance.
He brought the pizza out on a paper plate, setting it down in front of her like he was offering treasure.
“Bon appétit, Detective.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes flicking up just long enough to meet his. Not cold. Just… tired.
He lingered, watching her pick at the crust before she took a bite. Her hands trembled slightly when she put the slice down. Interesting.
“You know,” he said, tone light, “Most people come in here once and never come back. It’s sort of our thing.”
She nodded. “I guess I’m not most people.”
No pride in it. Just a fact.
He tilted his head. “What kind of case brings someone like you to this corner of town, anyway?”
She didn’t answer at first. Just kept eating, as if stalling bought her time to think of a version she could safely tell.
“It’s my first solo case,” she said eventually. “Not exactly glamorous.”
So she admits it. Not the full story, though. He could tell. Her eyes were too focused. Too haunted.
“Then why keep chasing it?” he asked.
She looked down at the table, then back at her notebook. “Because no one else is.”
Bingo.
He didn’t have a comeback for that.
The jukebox hiccupped again, slipping into some off-tempo tune that made the whole place feel a bit warped. Jax tapped his fingers against the counter, thinking. Watching.
She picked up her pen and started writing again-- tiny, neat strokes like she was afraid the page would snap under pressure. She wrote like someone recording something for future evidence. Or… for herself.
“You ever wonder,” he said slowly, “if something’s watching you while you’re working a case?”
She froze. The pen hovered mid-stroke.
“Like, you think you’re chasing a clue,” he went on, voice softer now, almost curious himself, “but maybe that clue’s been pulling you along the whole time. Maybe it’s not you doing the watching.”
She looked up, eyes wide. Not scared exactly. Just suddenly alert.
“Why would you say that?” she asked.
He smiled. Not to scare her--just because it was fun to stir the water and see what floated up.
“Something Spudzy said once. He’s been dead twelve years, of course, but you know how it is.” He gestured lazily to the grease-stained walls, the flickering lights, the place that time clearly forgot. “Ghosts and grease traps. Hard to tell the difference.”
She gave a small, nervous laugh. He watched her tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. No makeup. No jewelry. No attempt at blending in. Like she didn’t care who saw her--or maybe she’d stopped thinking she could hide at all.
What are you really looking for, Detective?
She didn’t touch her notebook this time--not while she ate, anyway. Just picked at the pizza, brows drawn together like she was stuck on a thought that wouldn’t give. Jax knew that kind of silence. The kind that meant she wasn’t sure if she was wrong… or very, very right.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye while pretending to clean an already-clean counter.
She was too smart to be here by accident. Too sharp to be following a dead trail.
She knew. Maybe not what, not yet-- but something subconscious. Enough to keep circling back.
And what would she do if she figured it out?
He didn’t get that far. Maybe he was giving her too much credit. Thinking she would think the way he did.
By the time she stood and slid the notebook under one arm again, her expression hadn’t changed. Polite. Tired. Focused.
She gave him a quiet thank-you and pushed through the door. The chime above her gave its usual broken chirp. Wind caught the tail of her coat, and then she was gone again.
Jax stood behind the counter, still as stone.
She hadn’t said anything direct. She couldn’t, for risk of compromising her job.
But Jax was observant. He had seen her notes her first visit, and the second only confirmed what could only be implied initially.

He exhaled through his nose and leaned on the counter, suddenly very aware of the buzzing hum from the jukebox. The next track had glitched again-- half a second of static, then silence, then a faint garbled note.
And that’s when he realized he was humming.
Soft. Subconscious. Barely more than breath.
“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do...”
No words. Just the rise and fall of the melody. Familiar. Wrong. Like a song sung by a machine trying to remember what being human felt like.
His jaw tensed, and he stopped.
The tune had been stuck in his head for days now. He didn’t know where it came from, just that it had followed him home after the last job. Or maybe the one before. He couldn't remember. It just… lingered.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair and glanced at the clock. The place was quiet now. No more customers. No more prying eyes.
Just the echo of her presence, still clinging to the empty booth in the corner.
He thought back to something Caine had said not long after the second job. After the vaults, after the shattering windows, after the payout:
“You pull off heists like that, Jax… clean as glass, no one even knows to look at you. That’s rare. Precious. So don’t go thinking you’re free. You belong to me until I say you don’t.”
Caine had smiled when he said it.
Not a pleasant smile.
A promise.
The kind that hung over you even when you weren’t in the room with him.
Jax had laughed it off at the time. Of course he had. What else could you do with someone like Caine?
But lately, when he thought about the jobs, when he thought about the silence he left behind after each one, he didn’t feel proud.
He felt trapped.
And watching Pomni chase something she couldn’t quite name…something that was him, in ways she hadn’t-- wouldn’t uncover--rmade him wonder, not for the first time:
Would it really be so bad to get caught?
He shook the thought off. Mostly.
Then leaned back on the counter, the last hum of that strange, broken little song still echoing behind his teeth.

Chapter Text

The city blurs past her as she walks, but Pomni hardly registers the streets she takes. She doesn’t go through downtown. She doesn’t pass any recognizable landmarks. She doesn’t need to. Her feet know the way to her apartment even when her head is buried three files deep.

She could afford to live closer to the precinct. She could afford a place with elevators that don’t shudder like dying insects, windows that actually close all the way, neighbors who don’t argue in three different languages at two in the morning.

But she chooses this district.

She likes the uneven pavement. The crooked balconies. The sagging streetlights that buzz like failing machinery. It reminds her of where she grew up--narrow alleyways and chipped brickwork and people who don’t look at you unless they have to. There’s comfort in that kind of anonymity. It keeps her sharp. Centers her.

Her shoes splash through a puddle she doesn’t bother dodging. Her coat drips steadily. Her thoughts drip faster.

The IOUs. The gel ink. The handwriting. They want attention--just not custody.

Not many criminals mix performance and precision that way. It isn’t arrogance. It’s orchestration.

At one point, she snorts under her breath at a passing thought--If Spudzy’s Pizza isn’t a money laundering front, it’s missing a career opportunity.

The joke barely registers. It’s a flicker on the surface of something deeper. She keeps 

There is a strange comfort Pomni finds in the Fantasma district. The streets are cracked, the buildings sag under layers of neglect, and neon signs flicker in tired rhythms. Places like Spudzy’s pull her in, dim and cluttered, with the smell of stale smoke and fried food hanging heavy in the air. Here, she doesn’t have to keep up appearances. People drift in and out for reasons only they know, and the chaotic charm of it all whispers the stories she craves--the stories that first drew her to detective work.

The cop job didn’t bother her. The benefits were decent, the rules clear, and following orders is easy. But slowly, everything changed for her over time. She began to notice the subtle tells that others miss: the flick of an eye, a foot pointed the wrong way, a hand that hesitates before it moves. Lies leave traces, and she could read them like an open book.

A careless step at a break-in, a scuff on a floorboard, a fingerprint left in the wrong place--they all speak to her. Every misstep, every half-hidden secret, every tiny slip tells a story. And Pomni learned to listen. 

It's what landed her the detective gig in the first place. She had driven chief Kinger up a wall with her theories and pointed out one too many details, to the point where he had essentially dropped her right into Agatha's lap as a mentee, promotion papers in hand.

She was not upset about it. Agatha had been a good mentor, steadying her habits without dulling her instincts, and for a while Pomni leaned on her presence like a crutch. But cases shifted, assignments rotated, and before long Agatha was gone--moved onto bigger things--while Pomni was left standing on her own.

Now, this was hers. Her case. No partner watching her back, no mentor to run her ideas through. Just her. The thought came with a flicker of pride, but also the quiet weight of responsibility pressing against her ribs.

She told herself she liked the challenge. But walking alone through Fantasma, she couldn’t shake the question: was she clever enough to solve it without anyone else to lean on? Agatha’s voice wasn’t there to ground her, and the silence pressed in heavier than the night air.

She had left Spudzy’s with that weight sitting heavier than usual. The Fantasma district smelled of fried oil and gasoline, neon lights buzzing overhead like tired wasps. She pulled her coat tighter as she walked, trying to convince herself the comfort she’d felt at Spudzy’s wasn’t anything unusual. Just greasy pizza, dim lights, and background noise she could disappear into. But she couldn’t quite shake the image of the waiter--Jax, that was his name--flashing a grin that felt a little too knowing, a little too deliberate. Her curiosity would turn her into a regular, undoubtedly. The otherwise horrible atmosphere was comforting to her in the depths of her case diving, and the unpredictability was something she could look forward to at the end of every work day. 

Pomni’s heels clicked a steady beat on the cracked sidewalk, the sound oddly loud against the low buzz of neon and the hum of a passing streetcar. The streets were half-asleep, their shadows watching from sagging doorways and broken windowpanes. A row of old flyers flapped weakly against a brick wall, their paper edges curling like they were trying to peel themselves free. The whole district had that tired, restless energy, and Pomni felt it stirring under her skin.

Her thoughts circled back, again and again, to the case that had been eating her alive for the past two-- almost three-- weeks. Three shops, three little jokes. The evidence bagged, filed, and labeled. But no matter how many times she combed the details, there was a nagging sense she wasn’t chasing a ghost so much as being invited along.

The hairs at the back of her neck prickled.

Her instincts--the same instincts that once drove Kinger crazy--were nudging at her now, whispering that something was off. Like a presence that had just stepped out of sight, or a laugh that still echoed after the voice had gone. She tightened her coat and scanned the sidewalk ahead.

That’s when she saw it. A faint glint of something red shimmering underneath a streetlight.

A pale scrap of paper, caught against the curb where the gutter dipped. At first it looked like trash, another receipt tossed aside and forgotten. But her gut had already gone tight, a cold knot in her chest telling her this wasn’t trash at all.

She crouched, tugging the slip free. The blank end of a register roll, curled and soft at the edges. Across its face, scrawled in glitter-gel ink, were the same words that had been haunting her case files for weeks:

IOU :(

And beneath them, a flower…twenty-five petals and a large round center, hand-drawn in shaky hurried lines.

***

By the time she reaches her building, her hair is plastered to her neck and her fingers are numb. Pomni fumbles messily with her apartment door handle, wrenching it open and letting it haphazardly slam behind her and sheds her coat without ceremony, tossing it over the nearest chair. Papers and photographs await her on the bed like patient ghosts, but she ignores them in favor of her tiny kitchen table, dusty from all of the nights spent with takeout at the precinct. 

She collapses into a rickety wooden chair, the legs creaking under her weight. The slip of receipt paper burns in her pocket like a hot coal.

Pomni pulls it free, flattening it against the tabletop. Under the harsh yellow light of her kitchen, the glitter-ink letters shimmer with a strange cheerfulness, too playful for what it represented. And that flower--drawn quick, careless, almost mocking.

She stared until the lines blurred.

This wasn’t just evidence anymore. It hadn’t been bagged and tagged at a crime scene; it had followed her home. Or maybe it had been waiting for her. Her mind whirled, cycling through possibilities. Was the thief watching her? Testing her? No, it was worse than that. They knew who she was. Knew where she walked.

Pomni pressed her palms flat to the table, trying to steady herself. She wanted to treat this like any other clue, catalog it with the same clinical precision she always used. But her instincts--the same ones that had earned her this detective badge--screamed that the rules had shifted.

Breadcrumbs at crime scenes she could handle. That was part of the story. That was normal. But this…this was personal. It was deliberate.

Her thoughts darted in too many directions at once. Was there a partner she hadn’t accounted for? A copycat trying to taunt her into chasing shadows? Or had she underestimated the thief’s arrogance? She had thought she was following their trail, but what if it was the other way around?

Pomni slumped back in the chair, rubbing at her temple. Her first solo case, and already it was starting to bleed into her life, slipping through cracks she hadn’t even realized were open. She hated the way it made her feel--cornered, unsettled, like the city itself had eyes on her.

She looked at the glittery letters again, and a chill ran through her chest.

For the first time since taking the case, Pomni wondered if she was chasing the truth…or being led into something far bigger than she could control.

She can’t tell anyone what she’s found. She was too far involved in the case…her first case, to be taken off of it now. They might argue for the sake of her own safety, but there was something there. A bit of intrigue, that kept her certain that she needed to stay. 

She is tracing the petals of the hand drawn flower on the receipt when her phone buzzes suddenly. She almost doesn’t answer.

“Detective Shutov?” The voice is crisp, professional. Forensics.

“Yes,” she says, voice tight.

“We ran the sample you submitted from the jewelry store--the oily residue near the display case.”

Her pulse quickens. “And?”

The technician clears their throat. “It’s a synthetic polymer of some sort, likely resin-based, mixed with microscopic glitter particles. Not a common substance. Lab databases didn’t return a direct match. However… it does indicate handling by someone deliberately trying to avoid leaving fingerprints or other trace evidence. The pattern suggests controlled application, not accidental contact.”

Pomni nods, more to herself than to the phone. “Controlled… deliberate. That fits with everything else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the technician continues. “We’re also running secondary tests to see if the composition links to anything commercially available. It might narrow down where this polymer could have originated. You’ll get an update once we have results.”

“Understood,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Thank you.”

The call ends. She sets the phone down and stares at it, letting the information sink in.

The residue. Not random. Not sloppy. Not a mistake. A message, just like the IOUs and the rest of the theatrics.The forgotten…or planted note in the gutter.

She could almost laugh. A criminal leaving breadcrumbs like a digital Hansel and Gretel--except she is the only one who notices.

Pomni reaches for her notebook. Pen hovers over the page, and she writes slowly:

Residue consistent with deliberate placement. Synthetic polymer, glitter-infused. Possible proprietary or uncommon substance. Source unknown. Same intent as prior jobs—signature left in plain sight, controlled.

She leans back, letting her shoulders slump. Exhaustion lingers, but she doesn’t allow herself to stop thinking yet. The case isn’t just about stolen jewelry. It’s about understanding why someone goes to such lengths just to be seen.

She would have to be much more careful from here on out.

***.

The morning air was sharp, carrying the sting of wet asphalt and exhaust fumes as Pomni stepped out of her apartment. She tugged her coat tighter around herself; the fabric was still damp from yesterday’s rain. Sleep had been shallow at best. Every time she closed her eyes, the glittering scrawl on that receipt paper flashed behind her eyelids. And the flower. Mocking, playful, deliberate.

She adjusted her bag over her shoulder, the familiar weight of her notebook grounding her thoughts. First solo case or not, she had no intention of letting nerves get the better of her. Still, a knot sat heavy in her stomach as she walked the cracked sidewalks toward the precinct. The city hummed its muted chorus of car horns and footsteps, pressing at her like an unspoken question: Are you really ready for this?

Inside, the precinct buzzed with its usual rhythm--phones ringing, printers chattering, the shuffle of boots on tile. Chief Kinger’s office was dark, his absence somehow heavier than his presence usually was. Pomni breezed her way to the back of the building where her office was located, far enough away from the hustle and bustle of the day shift to make focusing on files and notes only slightly easier. She dropped her coat neatly over her chair, opened her notebook, and tried to steady her thoughts by reshuffling yesterday’s scribbled notes. She barely had a moment to settle before a gentle knock sounded on her door.

“Detective Shutov?”

The voice was tentative. Pomni looked up to see a young uniformed officer at her door, black hair that likely fell to her shoulders pulled up in a neat tail at the back of her head. Fresh from the academy it would seem, by the look of her posture--straight as a rod, trying hard to hide nerves behind formality. Her name tag read L. Gangle.

“That’s me,” Pomni said cautiously, setting her pen down.

“Uh, Chief Kinger called and said to send you out. There’s been a situation at an abandoned warehouse on the west end.” Gangle hesitated, chewing her lip before continuing. “The victim… it wasn’t fatal, but they were roughed up. Chief said you’d, um, know what to look for. He mentioned--” She dropped her voice, like repeating the words might get her in trouble. “Tact and observation.”

Pomni raised an eyebrow, closing her notebook with deliberate calm. Her case would have to wait. “That’s flattering. Alright, Officer Gangle. Go ahead and take the lead. You can fill me in on the way.”

The drive through the Fantasma district was quiet, both women wrapped in their own thoughts. For Pomni, the streets themselves felt heavier than usual--like eyes peered out from every boarded window, watching her car pass. She hated how easily her mind drifted back to the glitter pen scrawl waiting sitting on her table in her apartment.

She took a moment to study her new counterpart. She drove cautiously through the city streets and seemed to sink into herself, as if she were concerned anyone might perceive her. Officer Gangle’s dark eyes were sharp, though, and Pomni had a feeling that her timid appearance served her well in getting people to look past her as a threat. 

In some ways, it was like looking back at her own beginning--quiet, uncertain, careful to the point of shrinking. Pomni remembered those early days of keeping her head down, saying little, observing everything. The resemblance was uncanny enough that she had to wonder if all rookies carried the same shadow in their posture. 

While this side errand pulled her form her main focus, Pomni’s intrigue grew, wondering what could be so important that a detective was needed on scene with last-minute notice. That question, however, would be answered for her shortly.

***

The warehouse rose against the pale morning sky like a half-sunken ship, its windows covered with boards, graffiti curling over concrete like scars. The smell of mildew and damp metal hung in the air. Pomni stepped out of the car, letting the cold morning sink into her lungs.

“First time out here?” Gangle asked softly, probably trying to make conversation.

“Not exactly,” Pomni murmured, scanning the building. Something about the silence felt staged. “But first time investigating a scene that’s already… theatrical.”

Gangle gave a nervous chuckle, shifting on her feet. “That’s one way to put it.”

Pomni pulled out her notebook, pen hovering above the blank page. She didn’t need to see inside to know what awaited them wasn’t just violence--it was a message. Theatrics meant intent. Someone wanted her to walk these halls and catalog the story exactly as it was written.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself. The city was reminding her how dangerous it liked to play. Still, she stepped toward the doorway, coat collar up against the wind.

The warehouse groaned with age as they stepped inside, the damp air swallowing the sound of their footsteps. Dust clung to the beams of light slicing through the boards, and every shadow seemed to stretch too far.

Pomni crouched near the entrance, running a finger along the concrete floor. The smear of something dark--still tacky--confirmed her suspicion. Blood. She pulled her hand back quickly, frowning.

“Victim was dragged,” she muttered, more to herself than to Gangle. Her eyes followed the uneven streaks across the floor, winding deeper into the warehouse. They zigzagged, punctuated by splotches and the occasional scuff mark, like the victim had struggled.

Gangle cleared her throat behind her. “His name is Ezekiel Kaufmo. He was found near the back wall. We think he crawled a little after they were finished with him, but…” Her voice wavered, and she tucked her hands behind her back, like she was afraid they’d betray her nerves. “The paramedics said it was a miracle he was still conscious when they arrived.”

Pomni straightened and glanced at her. “What condition was he in?”

The young officer hesitated, eyes flicking away. “Uh… his hands were gone. Both. Clean cuts.” Her voice lowered. “And he’s mute. He couldn’t tell us anything even if he wanted to.”

“His hands. Were they ever found?”

 The detective watched the younger officer visibly wince. “N-no, it looks like Kaufmo’s assailants either hid…or maybe took them away.”

Pomni’s jaw tightened. She didn’t write that down-- yet. Instead, she scanned the ground again. Shoe prints, half-smudged, overlapped near the wall. Too many for one attacker. Two, maybe three. Some heavier than others, pressed deep into the grime. She pulled out a small fingerprint kit from her bag, brushing over a rusted metal drum nearby. A faint, greasy handprint shimmered under the powder. Sloppy. Someone had touched it with bare hands.

“Whoever did this wasn’t worried about covering their tracks,” Pomni said. “Or maybe they wanted us to find them.”

Gangle gave a nervous laugh. “You sound like Officer Agatha when she talks about… symbolism and all that. You really think people plan like that?”

Pomni didn’t look up from dusting the print. “Theatrics mean intent.” She tucked the sheet of lifted print into her notebook. “This wasn’t just an assault. Someone wanted Kaufmo silenced. Permanently crippled, but not dead.”

They reached the back wall at last. The trail ended in a dark pool, soaked deep into the concrete. Drag marks led up the wall, as though he’d tried to climb out of his own suffering before collapsing.

And there--just off to the side, half-crushed against the stained floor--was a daisy.

Pomni frowned. Daisy flowers weren’t local in the area where the warehouse was located. Someone must have left or dropped it. The victim, maybe? 

The white petals were smudged brown at the tips, but it was unmistakably fresh. Out of place. Wrong. She crouched low, staring at it. Her first instinct was to dismiss it as coincidence, some stray weed trampled inside on someone’s boot. But her mind snapped back to the slip of receipt paper from last night--the childish scrawl, the lopsided milti-petaled flower drawn in glitter pen.

Her pulse picked up. A coincidence was possible. Twice in two days back-to-back was much less likely. This was so…wrong though. She couldn’t just assume two very differently executed crimes were linked…could she?

“What is it?” Gangle asked, leaning over her shoulder.

Pomni carefully pinched the stem, lifting the flower into the light. “A message,” she said softly. To herself, it sounded more like a warning.

Gangle tilted her head, uncertain. “You think it means something?”

Pomni pulled a ziplock bag out of her pocket, placing the flower inside like it was evidence. “Everything means something, Gangle. It just depends on what you do with that meaning that really changes things.” 

‘Everything is happening so quickly,’ the detective mused to herself, as she and officer Gangle made their way back through the premises and into the vehicle waiting outside.The slip of paper she found last night immediately being followed by a daisy left at a scene seemed almost too perfect. Too convenient. There had to be some kind of explanation for the back-to-back motifs. She couldn’t just make assumptions. That would be how she would get herself fired, or worse. 

The ride back to the precinct was quiet. Gangle drove with both hands tight on the wheel, her eyes fixed forward, while Pomni leaned against the passenger-side window, watching the blur of the city drift past--neon signs, cracked pavement, the kind of restless movement that mirrored her own thoughts. The jewelry thefts, the scattered notes, the timing of it all--those she could process. But the daisy lingered in her mind with a weight that felt out of place, too deliberate to ignore.

By the time they stepped back through the precinct doors, the smell of burnt coffee and stacked paperwork greeted her like it always did, grounding her in the routine. Yet, as she set her evidence folder down on her desk, her eyes kept drifting to the simple flower pressed between the pages of her report. A daisy.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. It should have been just another odd detail to catalog, to log away with the rest of the debris from the case. And yet, the image of it tugged at her thoughts, as though someone had left it not for the police, but for her.

Pomni exhaled slowly, pressing her palms against the edge of the desk. She wasn’t ready to admit what that possibility stirred in her chest--whether it was dread, intrigue, or something else entirely.

But she knew one thing for certain, though she wasn’t sure if she was ready to admit it yet. This case was no longer just about stolen jewels.

Chapter Text

The bell over Spudzy’s door gave its tired jingle as Jax shoved it open with his shoulder, letting the lingering smell of fryer oil and stale tomato sauce greet him like an old, unwelcome friend. The dining room was empty, save for a flickering neon sign that buzzed and sputtered overhead, casting pools of uneven light across the cracked linoleum floor. He tossed his apron onto the counter, letting it crumple in a heap, and leaned against the edge of the register, counting the drawer with one eye half-lidded.

Not that the money meant anything--not really. None of it was his. Every coin and bill had already passed through Caine’s tangled web of fronts and side hustles. Spudzy’s was just a mask, a way to keep appearances while the real work--the work that kept him tied to the criminal lord--waited in the shadows.

God, he was tired. He’d give just about anything to avoid tonight if he could. Not that it’d do him any good. Likely he’d end up just like the poor sucker who dared to disobey Caine in the first place. Jax put the idea out of his mind.

The side door creaked, and Zooble slipped inside, hood low over the burst of pink in their hair, green eyes darting briefly to the flickering light before settling on him. They moved with quiet precision, the kind of practiced stealth that came from a lifetime of doing things that weren’t meant to be seen.

“You ready?” they asked, voice flat.

Jax shrugged, tucking his hands into his pockets. “As I’ll ever be. This Kaufmo guy better be at least halfway useful.”

Zooble sighed, the weariness of the week seemingly catching up to them. “Caine said he needed a lesson. Not a conversation. Asked for proof that we did it.”

Jax laughed, though it sounded brittle even to him. “Scary poetry as usual. He knows damn well we weren’t brought up doing this roughing-up crap.”

“It means fuck-all what we were brought up doing to him. Even you’re smart enough to know that.” Zooble toys with the hem of their jacket. “I can do it,” Zooble added, an afterthought. Jax snapped his head up, and really looked at them for just a moment-- something of an understanding passing between them before he slipped back into that carefree indifference. 

“Yeah, whatever. You can do what you want. Let’s get going, I’m falling asleep just staning here.”

They moved through the darkened streets of the West End, the neon of Spudzy’s fading behind them, replaced by the cracked concrete, graffiti-tagged walls, and the lingering smell of oil and mildew that clung to every abandoned lot and warehouse. Jax’s mind flicked over the little rebellion waiting in his pocket: a single daisy. It was a small thing, fragile and ridiculous in the face of everything else he did--but it was his choice. A signature that belonged to no one but him. Caine could keep the stupid glitter pen notations. Jax would keep this flower, and the song in his head. 

I’m half crazy…

***

The warehouse in the West End rose like a half-sunken ship against the pale night sky, its windows boarded, concrete walls scarred with graffiti. The faint smell of mildew and oil hung in the air. Jax adjusted his jacket, glancing at Zooble as they checked the latches on the side door, dying cigarette in hand.

“You ever think about it?” He asked suddenly.

Zooble glanced at him. “Think about what?”

“About walking away.” He didn’t look at them, eyes fixed instead on the oily puddles glinting under the streetlamps. “Dropping Caine. Dropping all of it. Just… out.”

Zooble flicked ash to the pavement, their smile thinning into something harder to read. “Every day.”

“Yeah?” Jax risked a glance at them.

“Yeah.” They ground the cigarette out under their boot. “And then I remember what happens to people who run.”

Jax let out a dry laugh. “Guess this Kaufmo guy is about to show us.”

Inside the building, Jax and Zooble waited behind a stack of crates that had long since been broken into and robbed of whatever items inside. They littered the expanse of the filthy floor along with spirit bottles and the charred ends of smokes. 

“Kaufmo actually going to show, or is this one of those Caine setups where we get here and he’s already hiding in the shadows?” Jax muttered, running a hand through his dark hair.

Zooble didn’t bother looking at him, instead thumbing the handle of their karambit that until now had remained concealed within her jacket pocket. “He’s coming. Caine called him personally. Told him he owed more than just money now--said he needed to ‘understand consequences.’”

Jax rolled his eyes. “Ah, always poetic with Caine. Real inspiring.”

Zooble smirked faintly. “Keep it down. Don’t want him thinking this is optional.”

They waited in the shadows, the dim light from a single flickering bulb cutting the space into uneven pools. A sound from the alley outside made Jax stiffen--A man’s heavy footsteps, hesitant, pacing. Their victim’s voice quavered when he called out.

“Hello? I know there’s someone here. Is it you, Caine?”

 “Step inside, Kaufmo,” Zooble said, her tone flat. “No tricks, no cops. Caine wants a face-to-face. You follow directions, nothing worse happens.”

Jax leaned back against the crate, hands in his pockets. “C’mon, man. Just do what they say. No need to overthink it.”

Kaufmo shuffled into the light, looking small and broken. He was a man in his middle years, the sweat beading on his forehead in compensation for the hair he was beginning to lack.

 Jax wondered what on earth a man like him could’ve been doing to get roped in with Caine. He and Zooble in sync stepped out behind the crate, now on either side of him. Trapping him

Kaufmo paled, eyes darting between the two.  “I—I got the money! Just… just tell me what--”

Zooble interrupted, moving forward faster than he could blink and shoving him into a stack of boxes. “Caine wanted us to send a message. You remember him, don’t you?”

Kaufmo tried to struggle. Jax thumbed the handle of the hammerless revolver he kept concealed in his jacket pocket, watching--unable to look away-- from the scene unfolding in front of him. 

Kaufmo stopped his squirming, despair filtering into his expression. He lowered his voice, though Jax could still hear the panic within his words. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to work for him. All three of us… we could take him down. We’re stronger than he thinks. You--us--we could be free. I don’t know who you are but I know how he is. I know he makes you do this.” 

Jax’s grin faltered. His fingers twitched at the gun in his pocket, then the flower, the soft petals itching against his skin. Zooble’s expression remained unreadable, but the tension in their jaw was clear.

“Easy to talk when it’s your hands on the line,” she said flatly.

Kaufmo’s words echoed in the empty warehouse. “I’m telling you--we could end him. No one would know. No one could stop us.”

“I don’t think  you-”

Jax moved before he could even think through what he was doing. Gun in hand, he whipped it out, striking the whimpering man in the back of the head with a crack. Kaufmo crumpled to the ground, where his head caught the corner of a crate, the resulting noise sickening. 

“Jax, what the fuck was that for?” Zooble’s shoulders were stiff with indignation, eyes moving between Kaufmo’s limp and now bleeding body to Jax who couldn’t quite believe what he had done. 

“Caine wants us to take something from him, right?” Jax’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet. “It’s better we do it when he isn’t awake to struggle. Makes things easier. I was tired of him sniveling anyways.” 

Zooble was quiet for a moment, then relented. “For once, you make a fair point.” 

Wrinkling his nose, Jax eyed the motionless man on the ground. “Just do it fast. We’ve been here long enough.”
He and Zooble moved quickly, dragging him to the wall, propping him upwards. It was then that Zooble pulled out their Karambit with the precision of someone who’d done this a hundred times. Jax looked away, but the wet snap and thud of body parts hitting the ground still found him. Blood spattered across the concrete floor, bright and obscene in the glow of a flickering bulb.

“Let’s go.” Zooble had collected Caine’s prize in an unmarked plastic bag, tossing it and its contents into their backpack. Jax repressed the urge to cringe, instead following them out of the warehouse and into the dark of the night, tossing the partially crushed daisy behind him, where it landed in a growing pool of blood. A final last punchline to the worst joke anyone had ever heard. 

***

Jax didn’t go home.

He couldn’t.

The thought of his apartment-- the peeling wallpaper, the sagging mattress, the silence broken only by the hum of his fridge-- felt suffocating. Too small, too loud with what they’d just done. The memory would crawl along the walls and press in on him until he suffocated.

So instead, he kept walking.

His boots scuffed against cracked concrete as he left the warehouse behind, the metallic stink of blood clinging to his nose no matter how hard he tried to outpace it. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, head ducked low as the city swallowed him back up-- neon bars buzzing weakly, a pack of stray dogs scrapping in a gutter, some drunk slurring curses to nobody in particular. It was all background noise, too thin to drown out the echoes in his head.

The snap. The thud. Kaufmo’s voice, desperate and pleading.

The sound had weight. It wasn’t just memory-- it hung there, vibrating, like a struck bell, resonating in his chest until he thought it might shake him apart. The alley smells, the neon hum, even the cold night wind could not cut through it

He tugged his jacket tighter around himself, shaking his head. “Shut up,” he muttered aloud--though whether he was talking to Kaufmo’s ghost or his own thoughts, he wasn’t sure. His breath came out in thin clouds that curled and broke apart in the cold air.

A ladder loomed in the next alley, its rungs slick with rust and grime, stretching up the side of an old brick tenement. He stopped, stared at it for a long moment. Climbing rooftops wasn’t new. He’d done it since he was a kid, half out of boredom, half because being above it all made things feel less real. Like the city and its problems couldn’t reach him if he was high enough.

So he grabbed on, fingers curling around the cold metal. His boots clanged softly against the fire escape as he hauled himself up, up, past windows glowing faintly with the lives of people he’d never know. Families at dinner. A couple fighting. A woman in curlers watching TV. All of it blurring past him, worlds he’d never belong to, until finally he pulled himself over the ledge and onto the roof.

The night air hit him like a slap-- cold, clean compared to the sour stink below. He stood there for a moment, hands on his knees, just breathing. Letting the city of Torchwick stretch out beneath him in all its crooked glory.  His lungs burned from the climb, but the ache felt good, grounding, something real that wasn’t memory.

From up here, the streets looked different. Smaller. Like toys scattered across a carpet. The neon signs blinked lazily, the traffic lights shifted without urgency. Even Spudzy’s, two blocks over, was reduced to nothing more than a tired rectangle of yellow glow. Its sign flickered-- SP DZ ’S -- like a dying heart monitor. God, he wished that place would really die.

Jax walked to the edge and sat, legs dangling into open space. He rolled the revolver in his hand, the weight of it both comforting and unbearable. Every spin of the cylinder seemed to echo Kaufmo’s words in his head.

We could take him down. We could be free.

Jax’s jaw tightened. “Free,” he said under his breath, and laughed. A sharp, ugly sound that cracked in the silence. “Yeah, right. That’s rich.” The laugh fell quickly, swallowed by the wind, leaving only the rasp of his own breathing.

He dug in his pocket, but of course the daisy wasn’t there anymore. He’d left it behind, tossed into that growing pool of blood like it was nothing more than trash. Maybe it was better that way. Still, he could feel the absence of it now-- the soft tickle of the petals against his fingers, the stupid hope bound up in something so fragile. A flower against a man like Caine. What a joke.

The thought of Ribbit slipped uninvited into his mind. It always did when the air was cold like this, when the rooftops gave him too much sky to stare at. Ribbit-- with his too-wide grin, his boundless energy, the way he could talk Jax into anything with that mix of charm and recklessness. This’ll be the one, Jax. This’ll be the last job before we’re free. Always the last job. Until the job that ended them both. In one way or another.

Jax pressed his thumb hard against the revolver’s steel, as though the pressure might grind the memory out of him. He didn’t hate Ribbit. He never had. It wasn’t hate-- it was gravity, pulling them both where Caine wanted. Ribbit had been a bad gambler, not a traitor.

Still, nights like this one made it feel heavier. 

He leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the sky. Cloud cover stretched across most of it, the stars smudged into faint pinpricks. For a fleeting second, he tried to imagine the world without the city’s noise-- without Caine, without Spudzy’s, without the weight of debts and blood and endless nights. A quiet world. A clean world. One where Ribbit hadn’t tripped the wire, one where Kaufmo wasn’t lying on a warehouse floor with arms that stopped at bleeding wrists, and a head wound. 

Jax often did this-- talking himself in circles with his “what ifs” or “if-onlys.” Not that it’d change the city he had been unfortunate enough to be born into. The company he chose to keep. The rules he had for himself, keeping him well and truly too terrified to even lift a finger to Caine. Caine knew it too. He’d never kill anyone. 

The silence pressed in too tightly, and it left him restless. He got to his feet, moving to the next building. One rooftop to another, the gaps between alleys yawning below like hungry mouths. His boots scraped on gravel and tar, breath puffing faint in the cold. Every leap felt reckless, unnecessary-- but he kept doing it anyway, because moving meant not thinking.

On the fifth rooftop, he slowed. From here, the city sprawled endless: streets curling like veins, windows shining like eyes, smokestacks coughing into the night. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed, then cut out. Somewhere closer, a bell rang-- a streetcar maybe, or a ship in the harbor out east-- but it hit Jax’s ears wrong. Too sharp. Too much like the ringing inside his skull.

He sat again, pulling his knees up, resting his chin on them. The daisy song looped in his head, stubborn as ever. I’m half crazy, all for the love of you. His mouth twitched into something between a grin and a grimace. It wasn’t about anyone, not yet. Maybe it never would be. It was just noise, the kind that filled the cracks when silence got too dangerous.

Jax rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down over tired eyes. He knew he couldn’t stay out here all night. But going back meant walls closing in on him, meant Kaufmo’s eyes staring from the dark, meant the creeping fear that maybe-- just maybe-- the man had been right.

We could be free.

Jax spat onto the shingles. “Yeah, and pigs could fly.”

But still he didn’t move. Not yet. Not until the city below started to thin of its lights, not until the wind off the river cut colder, not until he could convince himself he was tired enough to pass out without dreaming.

For now, he stayed where he was. High above it all. Alone. Balanced between the fall and the sky.

Chapter Text

Pomni kicked her shoes off the second she got through the door, letting them clatter across the warped hardwood before collapsing onto the couch. Her apartment was still and dim, only the faint buzz of the fridge filling the silence. She sat there a moment, slouched, staring at the ceiling as though it might offer answers she didn’t have questions for.

Work had dragged-- the day shift seemed to inch by as slow as possible, impatient officers with questions she couldn’t even begin to answer yet, the kind of day where the minutes stretched like gum on the sole of her shoe. She rubbed her eyes, then reached for the remote, flicking the TV on just for the background noise. Some old game show flickered across the screen, bright colors and canned laughter filling the room. It felt wrong, artificial in the face of the week she’d had.

Her eyes wandered to the stack of unopened mail on the counter, the empty coffee-stained mug abandoned in the sink, the half-finished sketchbook on the coffee table. Life’s small clutter, the ordinary. The kind of things she used to find comfort in. Now, they just seemed to underline how little had really changed-- even as everything else in her world kept tilting sideways.

Pomni pushed herself up with a groan, wandering into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. She drank it in long gulps, staring out the window at the city lights bleeding through the blinds. Her reflection hovered faintly in the glass, tired eyes staring back at her.

She had gone to visit Ezekiel Kaufmo that day, holding out a hope that maybe…just maybe he could give her any inkling of an idea as to who had done the damage, but the man either was too scared-- or too heartbroken to cooperate. 

As officer Gangle had found out to her horror, Kaufmo had a history of drug addiction that had landed him in a bit of trouble a few years back. Several months of grueling rehab and therapy had turned the once absent father and partner of a man into something better. He learned to cope with his urges through music, and had become something of a protégée with his studies in the violin. It was the first healthy thing he had truly enjoyed in years. 

And he would never be able to play again. 

The young officer kept it together the whole visit, the drive back from the hospital, and through the precinct into the elder detective’s office, meekly closing the door before she finally broke. Pomni held the distraught girl in her arms, silent, for there was nothing to be said. 

Somewhere in a house buried in the city, a violin case sat untouched, strings waiting for hands that would never find them again. Pomni imagined the bow collecting dust, the last note Kaufmo ever played still hanging in the air of some quiet room. It struck her how fragile it all was-- how easily something beautiful could be turned into a gut-wrenching memory. When Gangle finally left, Pomni stayed behind, staring at her reflection in the one-way office window. The city lights beyond blurred together until they looked almost like candle flames, burning for the people she couldn’t save.

***

She thought of not going. Of staying in, curling up under a blanket, pretending her day ended here. The thought had weight to it--soft and warm, the kind that promised quiet and the illusion of rest. She imagined the hum of the TV still playing in the other room, the glow of the screen spilling against the wall, maybe even making herself tea she’d forget to drink. For a moment, she let herself picture it: stillness, safety, the world kept at bay by the thin walls of her apartment.

But the thought didn’t stick. It never did. There was a restlessness underneath her skin, something brittle that wouldn’t let her stay still for long. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was just the way the city seemed to hum through her veins the longer she tried to ignore it. The longer she sat still, the louder it got—the quiet pressing in like a hand against her chest.

With a small sigh, Pomni pushed herself off the couch. Her coat hung limply by the door, the same one she’d been meaning to replace since last winter. She ran her hand over the worn fabric before slipping it on, the weight of it familiar, grounding. Her badge caught a sliver of light as she passed the table. She glanced at it, hesitated, then turned away. Tonight wasn’t about work. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

Her steps felt automatic as she grabbed her keys, checked her pockets, and headed out into the night. The air outside was sharp and cold, carrying that faint metallic tang of rain on concrete. Neon lights bled into puddles along the sidewalk, and the sound of distant traffic filled the spaces her thoughts left behind. The city looked different after hours-- less like a place to live, more like something alive, watching.

She didn’t know what she expected to find at Spudzy’s this time. Maybe nothing. Maybe that was the point. Some part of her just needed the noise, the people, the sense of something still moving when everything else in her life felt stuck. As she walked, she pulled her collar tighter and kept her gaze low, her breath curling in faint ghosts before her.

And somewhere between one streetlight and the next, she caught herself wondering if Jax would be there again-- then quickly dismissed it. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t about him. It was just a place to sit for a while, somewhere the world didn’t demand so much from her.

Still, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was already waiting.

***

The bell over Spudzy’s door gave its usual tired jingle when she pushed it open. The familiar smell of fryer oil clung to the air, clashing with the faint scent of tomato sauce and melted cheese. Pomni noted that the place was nearly empty, save for Jax behind the counter, his posture loose but his eyes carrying the weight of something he wasn’t saying. 

He looked up as she entered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth-- all traces of his faraway stare gon in an instant. “Back again? Gonna start thinking you actually like this dump.”

Pomni slid into her usual booth without answering right away, pulling her coat tighter around herself as though to shut out the world outside. When she finally spoke, her voice was dry. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for the atmosphere.”

Jax snorted, rounding the counter and planting himself right at the table’s end. “Yeah, because nothing says cozy night out like flickering lights where all the flies in the city go to die and grease stains.”

“Exactly.” She scoffed faintly, though couldn’t meet his gaze without a smile working its way on her face to meet his ridiculous grin. “A real five-star experience.”

They sat with the silence for a moment, the faint hum of the fryer and the buzz of the lights filling in the gaps. But there was something else under it tonight, something heavier in Jax’s expression. His fingers drummed idly on the counter, but the rhythm was off, uneven.

Pomni noticed. She always did.

“You look worse than usual,” she commented, tilting her head. “Did you lose a fight with your own reflection, or what?”

Jax chuckled, low, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Psychoanalyzing me already? You barely walked in the door. I could say the same about yourself, Detective.”

Pomni raised an eyebrow. “You’re observant tonight.”

“Only when the company’s interesting,” he shot back. His tone was flippant, but there was a spark of something sincere behind it-- something that didn’t quite fit the smirk he wore.

She leaned back in the booth, studying him. The light above them flickered, briefly washing the table in an off-white glow that made the deep shadows on his face look sharper. “You’re traveling light tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding toward the empty space beside her. “No notebooks, no case files, no stack of existential scribbles to ruin the mood. Should I be worried or relieved?”

Pomni gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “I figured I’d give your paranoia a night off. Besides, if I keep showing up with work, you’ll start charging me by the hour.”

“Please,” he scoffed, “you couldn’t afford my rates.”

“Right. You’d take one look at the precinct’s payroll and cry.”

That earned her a low laugh-- genuine this time, a little surprised out of him. It softened something about his face, even if only for a second. He rubbed the back of his neck, then nodded toward her again, his voice quieter. “So, what’s the story tonight, huh? You look like you’ve been ‘Final destinationed’ by a truck carrying paperwork.”

She huffed a small laugh. “You ever have one of those days where everything’s moving and you’re standing still? Like the world’s got a current and you’re just… stuck in it?”

“Every day that ends in Y,” he muttered.

“Figures.” She hesitated, fingers tracing a faint scratch in the tabletop before she went on. “We had a rough one. Someone got hurt. And not in the way you can just… patch up and forget about later. Ruined their whole life.”

Jax didn’t answer right away. His usual smirk faltered, eyes flicking away for the briefest moment before finding hers again. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I get it.” He said it like someone who did.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward-- it was the kind that sits heavy but doesn’t crush. Pomni leaned back against the booth, studying him in return. “What about you? You look like you’ve been losing arguments with gravity.”

He barked a laugh at that, shaking his head. “You should see the other guy.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. The guy’s me.” He tapped his chest with mock solemnity. “Toughest bastard I ever met.”

Pomni snorted, but there was something in his tone that caught her off guard-- that same offbeat rhythm she’d noticed earlier. “So… trouble again?” she asked, keeping her voice casual.

Jax tilted his head, pretending to think. “Depends on your definition. If you mean ‘mildly illegal but creatively justified,’ then yeah, maybe a little.”

“Should I be taking notes for this confession?”

He grinned, but it didn’t stick. “Nah. Nothing that sticks to the record. Just old debts collecting interest, y’know? World’s got a funny way of reminding you when you owe it something.”

Pomni studied him for a long moment, then said softly, “You don’t have to make a joke out of everything.”

He blinked, caught off guard-- then smiled again, smaller this time. “Yeah, I do. Otherwise the room gets too damn quiet. Can’t have an awkward silence with someone whose name I don’t even know.”

The weight of that hung between them. Pomni looked away, her gaze catching on the streak of yellow light reflecting off the window beside them. “Guess I can’t argue with that,” she murmured.

Jax straightened, clearing his throat like the mood had drifted too close to something he didn’t want to name. “So,” he said, voice back to that lazy drawl, “what’ll it be tonight? The usual heart-attack special or something classy like fries and regret?”

She huffed, pulling the pizza restaurant's battered menu towards her, then thinking twice. “Surprise me. You always have something tragic lying around in that kitchen.”

“Coming right up,” he said, tapping the counter as he turned away. “One existential crisis, extra crispy.”

He disappeared into the back, the sound of clattering pans echoing through the near-empty diner. Pomni leaned against the booth’s torn leather cushion, her eyes half-closed as she listened-- the scrape of metal, the faint hum of the radio he always left on, the comfort of something ordinary. When he returned, he set a steaming plate in front of her-- something simple: a sandwich, fries, and a small cup of soup that actually smelled decent.

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you for the nurturing type.”

“I’m not. But you look like you haven’t eaten since the Great Depression.”

She picked up a fry, smirking faintly. “You cook this yourself?”

He slid into the opposite side of the booth, his own plate in hand. “Nah. I just glare at it until it fries itself. Works every time.”

Pomni laughed, quiet but real this time, and Jax’s grin followed suit-- tired, but genuine. The kind that chipped away at walls neither of them realized they’d been holding up.

For a little while, they just ate. No case files, no riddles, no ghosts of the day following her in through the door. Just two people in the flickering light of a pizza shop that never closed, pretending for a moment that the world outside didn’t exist. 

“It’s Pomni.” 

“Come again?” Jax raised an eyebrow, french fry half way to his mouth. 

“My name. I never did introduce myself.”  

Jax thinks about it for a moment. Seemingly swirling the flavor of the name around his mind before raising an eyebrow that had Pomni instantly regretting her decision. 

“Detective Pom-pom. I’m charmed.” 

Pomni rolled her eyes, focusing her attention back on her meal 

***

The food was better than she expected.
Or maybe she was just hungrier than she’d realized.

Either way, the fries disappeared one by one, the soup’s steam curling lazily in the air between them. Jax ate slower, absently tearing pieces of bread from his sandwich, not so much eating as keeping his hands busy. The hum of the diner’s ceiling fan filled the silence when their words ran out, a tired rhythm that felt--oddly--safe.

Pomni finally broke it, pushing her plate aside. “So, tell me something,” she said.

He looked up, mouth quirking. “That’s a dangerous invitation.”

“I’m serious.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Why keep this place open so late if no one ever comes in? I think I’ve seen maybe two customers total since I started showing up.”

“Two’s a crowd,” Jax said with a shrug. “Besides, I like the quiet.”

“Liar. You like the control.”

That earned her a grin-- slow, wolfish, impressed. “Detective instincts working overtime, huh?”

“Always.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, maybe you’re half right. The quiet’s good for thinking. Or not thinking, depending on the night.”

Pomni watched him for a moment. He wasn’t fidgeting anymore-- just sitting there, fingers drumming a slow beat on the tabletop. “You do that a lot,” she said.

He blinked. “Do what?”

“Deflect.”

Jax laughed under his breath, tilting his head back. “That so?”

“You answer a question with another question. You turn everything into a joke.”

He smiled at her like someone caught in the act but unbothered by it. “Yeah, well, it beats crying in public.”

Pomni smirked despite herself. “I’ll give you that.”

They lapsed back into quiet for a moment, both of them picking at what was left on their plates. Outside, the rain had started again-- soft, almost lazy, tapping against the windows like a rhythm neither of them minded.

Jax was the one to speak next, his tone light but with that undercurrent of curiosity that he used when he wanted to see what people would give him. “So what about you, Detective Pomni? No notebook tonight, but I can still smell the casework on you. What’s got the precinct all wound up these days?”

Pomni hesitated. She glanced out the window, at the faint ripples of light running down the wet pavement. “You don’t really want to hear about that,” she said.

“Sure I do,” he said, leaning back with that careless grin. “I live for thrilling crime drama. Keeps the place lively.”

Pomni huffed, half-smiling despite her better judgment. “You’re impossible.”

“I get that a lot. Usually right before someone starts trusting me.”

“That’s not how that sentence usually ends. Like, at all.”

“Guess I’m an optimist.”

She shook her head, laughing quietly. But the way he was looking at her--head tilted, eyes soft but sharp underneath--made it harder to stay walled off. He wasn’t prying, not exactly. Just giving her enough space to talk if she wanted to.

So she did.
A little.

“There’s been a string of break-ins lately,” she said, keeping her tone measured. “Different spots around the industrial district. Always at night, always the same calling card-- someone with a flair for theatrics.”

Jax raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt. 

“No one’s been hurt,” she continued, “not really. But whoever’s behind it is… sending a message. We’re not sure what kind yet. They’ve left clues consistently at the MOs but recently one was found unconventionally being washed down a drain.”

“Sounds like someone with too much time and not enough hobbies,” Jax said, though he looked mildly confused.

“You’re not wrong,” she admitted, tracing her finger along the rim of her glass. “But there’s something strange about it. The way they plan things--it’s deliberate. Precise, but not… professional. Like they’re trying to prove something.”

Jax hummed lowly. “Trying to get attention, maybe.”

“Or trying to get caught.”

He met her gaze over the table, his smirk gentler this time. “You sound like you’ve already built a whole story in your head.”

“That’s my job.”

“And what’s the story say about them?”

Pomni paused, considering. “They’re not just stealing. They’re talking. Each scene says something different. Like they’re building a pattern, or a--” she stopped herself, realizing she was slipping too deep into case talk. She shook her head. “Sorry. You don’t need the details.”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” he said easily. “It’s hilarious watching you get all intense. You get that look like you’re trying to solve me, too.”

She gave him a dry look. “I wouldn’t waste the energy.”

He grinned. “Good. I’m a terrible mystery.”

“Everyone says that until they slip up.”

“Then I guess we’ll see.”

The silence that followed was comfortable in a way Pomni hadn’t expected. The kind that makes you aware of every small sound--the clink of cutlery, the steady hum of rain, the faint crackle of an old radio in the kitchen.

Jax finally pushed his plate away, stretching his arms with a groan. “You know,” he said, voice softer now, “you’re not half bad company for someone who keeps showing up here to insult my décor.”

Pomni smirked. “And you’re not half bad for someone who hides his whole personality behind bad jokes and worse pizza.”

He laughed quietly. “Touché.”

She checked her watch, grimacing. “I should head out before the rain floods the whole block.”

Jax stood as she did, grabbing her empty plate. “Don’t worry about the tab,” he said. “Consider it an employee discount for morale support.”

“I’m not your employee.”

“Sure you are. Emotional labor counts.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. The corner of her mouth twitched upward instead.

At the door, she paused and turned back toward him. “See you around, Jax.”

He leaned against the counter, hands in his pockets. “Count on it, Detective.”

The bell chimed again as she stepped out, swallowed by the rain and the glow of the streetlight.

Jax watched her go, his reflection faint in the glass. The grin he wore slipped the second she was gone, replaced by something quieter--something thoughtful. He glanced toward the back room, where the register and his worn-out notepad sat waiting. His fingers twitched like he was already writing the first line of something he couldn’t quite explain.

The beginning of a riddle.

***

The bell over the door jingled one last time as it closed behind her. The rain had lightened to a steady drizzle, the streetlights blurring into long, golden streaks against the wet pavement. Pomni tucked her hands into her coat pockets, walking without hurry, her thoughts still lingering somewhere inside that dim diner.

The city was quieter now. The usual chaos of traffic and late-night chatter had thinned, leaving only the soft hum of electricity and the hiss of tires on wet asphalt. Every few steps, she caught her reflection in a shop window-- faint, fragmented by raindrops-- and almost didn’t recognize the faint half-smile resting on her lips.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

By the time she reached her apartment, her hair was damp, the chill biting through the seams of her coat. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, greeted by the same stale stillness as before -- the hum of the fridge, the faint creak of the floorboards underfoot. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite as heavy tonight.

She hung her coat, toeing off her shoes this time instead of letting them scatter. The couch waited, just as she’d left it, a small island of familiarity in the middle of the half-lived-in room. She sank into it, exhaling deeply, the day unwinding from her shoulders inch by inch.

Her mind wandered back to Spudzy’s; the flickering neon light, the smell of grease and stale coffee, Jax’s crooked grin. He was strange, unpredictable, and a little too sure of himself for someone slinging fries at midnight. And yet… there was something else there too. Something unguarded, buried beneath the sarcasm and bravado.

She hadn’t expected to find herself laughing tonight. She hadn’t expected to feel… lighter.

Pomni let her head fall back against the couch, eyes half-lidded. “Maybe he’s not so bad,” she murmured to the empty room.

It was a small thing to admit, but it carried a surprising warmth with it, a subtle thread of connection that tugged against the loneliness she’d stopped acknowledging long ago.

She stared at the ceiling for a while longer, listening to the steady patter of rain against the windows. Somewhere out there, the city kept turning; the cases, the chaos, the darkness she’d have to dive back into tomorrow. But for now, for just tonight, she let herself drift.

The faint echo of laughter-- hers and his-- replayed in her mind, cutting through the static.

Maybe she’d made a new friend.
Maybe that was dangerous.
But maybe, just this once, it didn’t have to be.

Pomni closed her eyes and let the thought sit quietly in the dark, a fragile, fleeting thing that still somehow felt real.

***

She drifted off on the couch without meaning to. The TV still muttered to itself in the background, half-faded infomercials looping into static, a low white hum that filled the edges of her dreams.

When she stirred, it was to the faint grey of dawn leaking through the blinds; soft light spilling over the room, catching on the empty glass beside her and the coat she’d left hanging crooked on the door. Her neck ached from the awkward angle, and the blanket she must have pulled over herself sometime in the night had slipped halfway to the floor.

For a few blissful seconds, she didn’t move. Didn’t think. The stillness was fragile, like glass-- and she wanted to stay there just a little longer.

Then her phone started to ring.

Pomni groaned, fumbling for it between the couch cushions. The name flashing on the screen made her sit up straight in an instant.
Agatha.

She answered, still half tangled in the blanket. “Detective Shutov,” she mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

“Fourth one,” Agatha said, no greeting, no warmth. The clipped tone woke Pomni faster than any alarm could. “Downtown, off Baker Street. Bicycle shop.”

Pomni sat up, the sheets tangling around her legs. “A bike shop?”

“‘Spokes & Dreams,’” Agatha clarified. “Lock was jimmied sometime between two and four. Owner came in early to prep for the weekend sale and found the place ransacked.”

Pomni rubbed a hand down her face, swinging her legs off the bed. “Anything taken?”

“Not much. Just the registers emptied. But that’s not the part you’ll want to hear.” A pause--and in that brief silence, Pomni could already feel the shape of the words waiting to fall.

“Tell me.”

“They found another note. Same paper. Same handwriting.” Agatha hesitated just long enough for the weight of it to sink in. “And a daisy. Pressed flat this time. Underneath it.”

Pomni’s stomach turned to ice.

She didn’t realize she’d already started dressing until she was halfway through buttoning her coat. “Send me the address.”

***

The morning air hit her like cold water as she stepped out onto the street. The city was just waking; shopfronts lighting up one by one, delivery trucks grumbling through intersections, the scent of cheap coffee and exhaust bleeding together into something familiar. But the world still felt off-kilter, like the ground hadn’t quite settled beneath her.

By the time she reached the block, the usual blue-and-yellow of patrol lights painted the storefront in thin, fractured streaks. “SPOKES & DREAMS” was spelled out in cheerful bubble letters above the window, a smiling cartoon bicycle plastered beside it. The glass was cracked but not shattered-- a neat job, surgical, like someone had wanted to make a point rather than a mess.

Agatha stood near the door, arms crossed, her expression tight. “Owner’s giving a statement inside. You’ll want to see the back room.”

Pomni followed her through aisles lined with glossy frames and stacked tires, the faint scent of rubber sharp in her nose. The back office was dim-- a small space cluttered with tools, invoices, and a crooked poster of a man in goggles riding a penny-farthing.

On the desk sat the note.

Pomni recognized the handwriting instantly: looping, deliberate, every letter balanced like it was trying too hard to look casual. Each word in that sickening sparkly red.

“A wheel turns and turns again,
Two become one, then part as friends.
The song keeps playing, soft and true —
I owe you more than just what’s due.”

And just beneath it--pressed between two torn receipts-- lay the daisy. Its petals had browned at the edges, its stem brittle. Yet somehow, impossibly, it still smelled faintly sweet.

Pomni stared at it for a long moment before speaking. “They’re escalating.”

Agatha frowned. “You’re sure it’s the same person?”

Pomni nodded, eyes flicking over the note again. “Same rhythm, same precision. But this one…” Her voice trailed off. “This one feels… personal.”

Agatha raised a brow. “Personal how?”

Pomni didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Because deep down, she already felt it-- that creeping recognition that had been itching at her since the first daisy. The way the lines bent toward her, not random, not anonymous. Like someone out there was speaking to her, not the department.

She took a step back, the corners of the paper fluttering faintly in the draft.

“Whoever they are,” she said finally, “They’re not done talking.”

Chapter Text

Jax had been watching for a while. Long enough for the shadows to change shape on the opposite wall, long enough for his legs to start going numb from crouching.

From where he sat--an old fire escape bolted to the side of a laundroma-- he could see the whole street below. The early morning light was the color of dishwater, thin and hazy, stretching across the cracked asphalt and the rows of chained-up bicycles that had survived the break-in. The shop itself--Spokes & Dreams--looked like every other building in this part of town: narrow, tired, the paint peeling in long vertical strips like shed skin.

It was quiet now, except for the occasional rumble of a passing truck or the rhythmic whine of a distant siren. The quiet was fine by him. He didn’t like noise unless he was the one making it.

He’d arrived before dawn, slipping through the back alleys and scaling the ladder like he’d done it a hundred times--because he had. Watching from above was second nature. Safer up here, where no one thought to look. The city was full of watchers, but very few of them bothered to look up.

Now, he leaned against the cold railing and watched the investigators pick through the scene below. Two uniforms by the curb, one taking notes, the other looking bored. Inside, behind the police tape, an unfamiliar woman with curly red hair that reminded Jax of Raggedy Anne was speaking to the store owner, who kept wringing his hands like he might squeeze the guilt out of his own skin.

And then, right on time, came Pomni.

Even from this distance, Jax could tell she was tired. Not the kind of tired that came from long hours, but the kind that dug into the bones, like the world had been pressing on her a little too long. Her coat was buttoned all the way up despite the mild morning, her short brown hair pinned back just enough to stay out of her eyes, though a few strands had slipped loose. She moved quickly, focused, the kind of woman who had somewhere to be but couldn’t quite remember why anymore.

Jax felt something stir-- a flicker of curiosity he didn’t want to name.

He’d told himself this whole game was just that: a game. A riddle to keep the night interesting, a little jab at the system that fed on men like him and spat out the bones. But watching her now, crouched beside the counter where the register had been forced open, frowning at the small white note he’d left behind, it didn’t feel like a game anymore.

She picked up the daisy first.

Her gloved fingers brushed its stem, delicate, like she was afraid it might bruise. Then she turned the note over—his note—and Jax could almost see her lips move as she read the familiar scrawl:

IOU.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

But beneath it, tucked just out of sight, was the real message. The four lines written in the same red ink.

She read it twice. He could tell. The second time, her brow furrowed, her mouth softening into something unreadable. Not frustration-- something quieter.

“Not bad, Detective,” he murmured, his voice low enough to be carried away by the wind. “You’re starting to listen.”

He shifted his weight, careful not to make the old metal groan. Below, Pomni said something to the red haired woman-- Jax couldn’t hear what, but he caught the gesture, the small motion of her hand toward the daisy. The other woman shook her head, unimpressed, already onto the next piece of evidence. But Pomni lingered.

Of course she did.

She crouched again, examining the counter, tracing the scrape marks from the crowbar, the faint footprints he’d intentionally left in the dust. Every clue, every little imperfection-- it was all part of the story he’d chosen to tell.

The truth was, he’d been careful. He hadn’t taken anything of real value-- besides the cash of course-- just cracked the lock, left a mess convincing enough to be called a serious robbery. Caine wouldn’t like that. Caine never did. But Caine didn’t care about stories. Jax did.

He watched her stand again, tuck the daisy carefully into a plastic evidence sleeve, and for reasons he didn’t understand, that small motion made something twist behind his ribs.

She looked up then--across the street, across the mess of flashing lights and the morning haze--and for a heartbeat, he thought she saw him.

Jax froze.

Her eyes scanned the rooftops for only a second before moving on. But that second was enough.

He let out a slow breath, a grin cutting across his face. “Getting sharp, Pomni. You’ll catch a ghost at this rate.”

He stayed there a while longer, watching her take her notes, watching the way the light shifted over the cracked pavement. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, the cold edge of the roof biting through his coat. Below, the little crime-scene ballet was already winding down--officers trading notes, flashlights cutting through the dark like restless insects. Pomni was there again, crouched near the storefront window, hair falling over her face as she examined something in the dust. Same steady focus, same dogged rhythm to her movements.

Jax let out a quiet hum. She really had come back swinging. The look in her eyes last night had been all calculation, like she was seeing the shape of something forming just out of reach.

He hadn’t forgotten their conversation. In fact, it had kept him up most of the night.

Recently one was found unconventionally, being washed down a drain.

Those words had landed heavier than they should have.

He’d played it off well enough in the moment-- raised a brow, thrown out a half-sarcastic line about people with too much time on their hands-- but the second she left Spudzy’s, his stomach had dropped.

That damn note.

He hadn’t meant for anyone to ever see it. Certainly not her.

It hadn’t been a clue or a calling card, just a scrap of irritation he’d scrawled one night when Caine’s orders had grated too deep. A half-formed thought, a pressure valve-- something to throw off the edge of the roof when the city felt too small and his own head felt too loud. He remembered the feel of it leaving his fingers, fluttering away into the dark. He hadn’t even looked to see where it landed.

And now, apparently, it had found her.

Pomni had no way of knowing what it was, but she’d remembered it. Mentioned it. Filed it away in that meticulous mind of hers like every other detail she couldn’t yet explain.

Jax rubbed at his jaw, grimacing. It didn’t fit the pattern; didn’t fit him. His jobs were clean, precise, practiced down to the breath. Even his riddles had rhythm. This? This was messy. Emotional.

And it gnawed at him that she’d seen that piece of him--the slip beneath the mask-- without even realizing it.

He exhaled, watching the steam of his breath fade into the cold. “Nice work, genius,” he muttered to himself. “Real mysterious. Maybe next time you’ll leave her your diary while you’re at it.”

Still, a part of him couldn’t help picturing the scene: Pomni kneeling near the gutter, fingers fishing the note from a puddle, brow creasing as she read it. The faint, knowing frown she always wore when something didn’t add up.

She’s not like the others.

He wasn’t sure what had made him write it. Anger, exhaustion—maybe something closer to curiosity. Whatever it was, it was out now. Out where she could find it, interpret it, chase it.

That thought should have bothered him more than it did.

Jax leaned back, resting against the cool brick, eyes still fixed on the street below. Pomni had started talking to another officer, gesturing toward the window display, her expression unreadable. Determined, though. Always determined.

He couldn’t decide if it made him nervous or impressed. Maybe both.

He stayed there a while longer, watching her take her notes, watching the way the light shifted over the cracked pavement. When the last cruiser finally pulled away, he climbed down from the fire escape, his boots catching on the ladder’s rusted rungs. The morning was already brightening, and he didn’t want to be caught out in daylight.

He moved through the alleys like he belonged there, shoulders loose, steps unhurried. 

***

Jax’s apartment sat over a pawn shop that had been boarded up for years. The sign out front still read BUY GOLD – NO QUESTIONS ASKED, the letters half gone, the paint faded to a sickly yellow. The front door stuck when he pushed it open, and the hinges shrieked in protest.

He didn’t bother locking it behind him.

The space inside was small--too small, sometimes. A single window looked out over the street, its blinds crooked and bent. The furniture was sparse: a sagging couch, a table with one good leg, a bed that had long since given up pretending to be comfortable. There were papers scattered across the table, blueprints for old jobs, sketches of mechanical parts that would never work, half-finished puzzles that no one would solve.

In the corner sat an old record player, the kind that had to be wound by hand. A single record leaned against it, its sleeve worn soft at the edges. Daisy Bell (Bicycle Built for Two).

The irony hadn’t been lost on him.

He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch, and ran a hand through his hair. The room smelled faintly of dust and oil and the metallic tang of something old and forgotten. He liked it that way. It was honest.

He crossed to the window, looking out at the street below. There had been a robbery at the corner store overnight-- this one basic and classless. Possibly done by someone who actually needed the money.  The police tape was gone now, the shop owner sweeping up glass, stopping every few minutes to shake his head and look upwards, as if he were cursing god. The world moved on fast. It always did.

But not him.

Not yet.

Jax let himself sink onto the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His hands were still rough from the job, a thin streak of oil marking one knuckle. He turned his palm over, studying it like it belonged to someone else.

He hadn’t hurt anyone tonight. That was something. That was his rule. Always had been.

Don’t kill. Don’t cripple. Don’t leave anything you can’t take back.

That line had kept him human, or close enough.

He leaned back, exhaling slow. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and then faded. The city was never quiet, not really. Even when it slept, it muttered in its dreams.

His gaze drifted to the workbench against the far wall. Tools scattered, half-assembled bits of junk, a stack of playing cards pinned under a wrench. One card lay on top: the Joker. Someone had drawn a daisy in the corner with blue ink.

Jax smiled faintly.

On the windowsill, a real daisy stood in a chipped glass, its petals curling inward. The stem had started to wilt. He reached out, touched it gently, then pulled his hand back before the petals could fall.

“Still hanging on,” he muttered. “Guess that makes two of us.”

He rose and crossed to the record player, setting the needle down. The soft static filled the air first, followed by the tinny melody, bright and sweet against the tired hum of the room.

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do...

The tune felt almost mocking now. He could see Pomni’s face again, bent over that daisy in the bike shop, brow furrowed like she was trying to read between the petals.

She was curious. Too curious.

And that scared him a little.

Because curiosity had teeth in this city, and Caine loved to see what it could bite through.

Jax’s eyes drifted to the far wall, to a single photograph tacked up beside the door. It had been there so long the tape had yellowed. The photo showed two men leaning against an old blue car, both laughing like the world wasn’t already cracking around them.

Jax and Ribbit.

Ribbit had been shorter, leaner, all nervous energy and quick ideas. The kind of guy who could talk his way into or out of anything. He’d been Jax’s friend once-- maybe the only one who really understood him. And then, like everyone else who got too close, he’d burned out.

Jax told himself he didn’t blame him. That it wasn’t Ribbit’s fault he’d ended up under Caine’s thumb. That the man hadn’t meant to sell him out, not really. He’d just been scared.

Everyone was scared of Caine.

Still, the memory of that last job haunted him-- the sound of the engine idling in the rain, the way Ribbit couldn’t meet his eyes when Caine’s men closed in. The sound of the door slamming, the sudden, sharp absence of a friend.

He rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest, right where the ache lived.

“Guess we both made our choices,” he said softly.

The record hissed, the song looping into its second verse.

He turned it off. The silence afterward felt heavy, dense, alive.

Jax stood, pacing once across the room, then again. He wanted to sleep but knew he wouldn’t. Sleep was dangerous. Sleep meant remembering things he didn’t want to.

He stopped by the window again, watching the faint orange light from the noon-day sun bleed into the fog. Somewhere out there, Pomni was probably still wide awake, going over her notes, connecting dots that weren’t supposed to connect on her supposed-to-be day off. 

He should’ve felt threatened by that. He didn’t.

Instead, he felt... something else. Something quieter.

He didn’t know what game he was playing anymore. He only knew he didn’t want it to end.

***

Jax stared at the cracked screen of his burner phone, its dim glow painting his apartment in cold, sickly light. The place was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional rattle from the pipes in the wall. He’d been pacing; counting steps, losing count, starting over. The floorboards had memorized the sound of his boots by now. He told himself he wasn’t waiting for a call. Maybe, just this once, Caine would leave him alone for just one night.

The phone rang anyway.

He froze mid-step. The sound was jarring-- an old rotary ringtone Caine insisted he keep because “modern tones lack drama.” He thumbed the green button, dragging in a breath before forcing his voice steady.

“Evening, boss.”

“Oh, Jaaaaaax~!” Caine’s voice came through the line in a silken shriek, bursting with false cheer and just enough venom to make Jax’s teeth grit. “What a delightful little performance you staged last night! Truly riveting! The papers are already whispering, the police are scratching their heads, and my dear accountant nearly choked on his espresso reading about the damages!”

Jax sank onto the arm of the couch, resting his elbow on his knee. “Glad I could add some sparkle to your morning, then.”

“Sparkle?” Caine laughed-- a loud, manic sound that barely fit inside the speaker. “Sparkle is what you add to the grease-stained tables at Spudzy’s, darling boy. What you did last night was theater! Grand, reckless theater!”

Jax rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It was a bike shop.”

“Exactly!” Caine clapped once, the sound sharp enough to make Jax flinch even through the phone. “A bicycle shop! No jewelry, no high art, no predictable temptation. The choice had flavor. You subverted expectations, and I do adore a good twist.”

Jax leaned back, letting his head hit the wall. “Glad my impulse control makes for good entertainment.”

“Oh, don’t sulk,” Caine crooned. “You know I love it when you improvise. Though, admittedly, I wasn’t expecting that kind of improvisation. The receipts, the timing, the complete lack of subtlety-- mmm, sublime chaos.” His tone darkened. “But the little flower, Jax. The daisy.”

Jax’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”

“That wasn’t part of the plan, now was it?” Caine’s words were velvet and blade all at once. “You do remember the rules, don’t you? Every gesture means something, my dear. You leave one innocent daisy, and suddenly everyone thinks you’re sentimental. The whole point of our little enterprise is to avoid sentiment.”

“It wasn’t deliberate,” Jax said quickly. “Wind must’ve caught it, or--”

Caine clicked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. A thief of your caliber shouldn’t be leaving anything to the wind.”

From the background, a dull, low voice murmured, “Messy.”

Jax’s brow twitched. “Evening, Bubble.”

“Evening.”

“Don’t mind him,” Caine said with a dismissive wave audible in his tone. “He’s simply concerned. Aren’t you, dear Bubble?”

A grunt.

Caine continued, “The poor thing frets like an old mother hen whenever you color outside the lines. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Adorable,” Jax muttered.

“Indeed! But let us get to business, yes?” Caine’s tone shifted from playful to predatory in a single breath. “The IOU was found, of course—our signature touch. But our lovely Detective Pomni has started asking the right kinds of questions. Oh, I’ve been watching, Jax. She’s clever, methodical, and terribly curious about you. Almost fond, even.”

Jax’s grip on the phone tightened. “She’s doing her job. I couldn’t give two shits about what she cares for.”

“Ah, but she’s doing more than her job. She’s making you think.” Caine’s voice softened, coaxing. “You’ve gotten sloppy since she showed up. You dropped that note--yes, yes, don’t bother lying, I already know. The one about debts and lilies or whatever sentimental nonsense you scribble when you’re brooding.”

Jax shut his eyes, exhaling slow. “It was an accident.”

“There are no accidents in our business,” Caine purred. “Only improvisations you can’t take credit for. You’re unraveling, dear boy. All that empathy leaking out of you…it’s unsightly.”

“Maybe I’m just tired,” Jax said flatly.

Caine gasped like a stage actor struck by lightning. “Tired? My leading man? Don’t you dare say such a pedestrian thing! Fatigue is for the audience. You, my darling, you perform exhaustion--you don’t feel it! You-- my little Joseph Haydn-- write Surprise symphonies to tear the spectators from their slumber. Certainly not the other way around!”

Jax pinched the bridge of his nose again. “You called me about the job or to give me a pep talk about Austrian classical composers?”

“Oh, this is the job,” Caine said, his tone suddenly dripping with poisoned honey. “Spudzy’s still needs to clean last night’s proceeds. Our associates expect the drop by tomorrow’s closing. You will, of course, make the delivery yourself. I trust your sense of showmanship will not interfere with punctuality.”

Jax didn’t answer right away.

“Jax.”

“I’ll handle it,” he said finally.

“Splendid.” Caine’s glee returned, as effortless as a change in costume. “And do try to smile more at work, won’t you? Customers adore the illusion of warmth. You’re such a charming little fraud when you want to be.”

Jax’s throat was dry. “Anything else?”

“Just one teensy thing.” Caine’s tone turned razor-smooth again. “Stay away from the detective.”

He blinked. “What? I hardly talk to that little girl.”

“Oh, don’t sound surprised,” Caine sing-songed. “I can hear her in your voice. The softness. The hesitation. You’re letting her crawl under that armor of yours. Tragic, really. You were so much more fun when you were all teeth.”

“She’s just a regular,” Jax lied. “Just another cop with too much money to spend and no friends besides the moths that swarm the shop lights outside.”

Caine’s laugh was low, almost pitying. “Then keep her that way. You may play your little games, but attachments are messy, and messiness attracts the wrong kind of spotlight.” He paused. “We can’t have our star performer caught weeping in the wings, can we? Don’t become one of her moths, Jax.”

Bubble, somewhere off to the side, muttered, “No.”

“Quite right,” Caine said brightly. “You see? Even my mute muscle agrees. Keep your heart locked up, Jax. It’s the one prop you can’t afford to lose.”

The silence stretched long enough for Jax to hear his own pulse in his ears. He tried to picture Caine’s face-- painted smile, slick blond hair, bi-colored eyes that gleamed like stage lights-- but the image only made him feel smaller.

Finally, he forced a laugh. “You talk about worrying too much, Caine. When have I ever let you down?”

Caine clapped once, delighted. “And you don’t talk enough! That’s what makes us such a wonderful duet. Don’t worry, darling. Keep your receipts tidy, your conscience wrinkled, and your pretty lilly or whatever the hell it is out of the headlines. I’ll be in touch.”

The line clicked dead.

Jax lowered the phone slowly, the phantom of Caine’s laughter still buzzing in his ears. He sat there a while, staring at the empty screen. His reflection wavered faintly in the dark glass-- tired eyes, unkempt hair, a grin that looked painted on and ready to crack. Fifty-three hours of being awake sagged underneath his brown eyes.

He tossed the phone onto the couch and rubbed at the inside of his wrist, where the faint shimmer of red ink still caught the light. Caine’s voice lingered like smoke: Keep your heart locked up.

Easier said than done.

He stood, moving toward the window. From this height, the city looked almost soft, the streets bleeding gold and violet under the polluted sky. Somewhere out there, Pomni was probably writing her report, trying to make sense of the IOU and the daisy that didn’t belong with Caine’s story, but did with Jax’s.

Jax leaned on the sill, letting his head fall forward. He wanted to tell himself it was still just a game. That he could keep playing both sides-- smiling for Caine, smirking for Pomni, pretending the two halves of him didn’t hate each other.

But he’d seen how that story ended once before.

Ribbit’s name rose unbidden, a ghost taste on his tongue. He muttered a quiet curse and turned away from the window, kicking the empty takeout box on the floor.

“Messy,” he heard Bubble’s voice echo faintly in his mind.

He huffed out a laugh—small, humorless. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess I am.”

And for the first time in a long time, Jax didn’t bother with a grin.

He needed to talk to Zooble.

Chapter Text

Morning bled into the precinct like a tired apology.

Pomni sat at her desk, surrounded by the soft chaos of open folders, half-drained coffee cups, and a pinboard of evidence that looked like it could start whispering secrets if she just stared long enough. A shaft of early light cut across the mess, dividing her notes into halves-- the clean and the chaotic -- and she wasn’t sure which side she belonged to anymore.

She’d been awake since before sunrise, though she couldn’t remember exactly when she’d sat down. She was still in yesterday’s shirt, sleeves rolled past her elbows, a faint crease marking her cheek from where she must have rested her head on the desk sometime before dawn. The room smelled like dust, paper, and burnt coffee -- the detective’s trinity.

Across the desk, a row of photos stared back: jewelry stores, three of them. Shattered glass. Glittering debris. The kind of high-end thefts that made the news for a day before people moved on. And now, a fourth. The bicycle shop. A break from the pattern so sharp it felt like a slap. Whoever this thief was, they’d suddenly gone off-script.

That bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

She flipped through the first report again, then the second, tracing her finger along the written notes in her neat, meticulous handwriting. Entry points were different, but the style was the same: glass broken inward, no forced locks, no alarms tripped. Precision. Control. Every movement calculated, like the thief had choreographed their own shadow.

Except now, at the bicycle shop, something had changed. No precision. Just energy. Frenzy. And for what outcome? A few thousand dollars from the registers and the safe?

Pomni leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. “What are you doing?” she murmured under her breath. “And why now?”

The door to her office creaked open. She didn’t look up right away; she didn’t need to. Only one person had that particular rhythm to their steps -- hesitant, but soft enough not to interrupt.

“Morning,” came Gangle’s voice, small and uncertain.

Pomni exhaled and glanced up. “You’re early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Gangle admitted, hovering awkwardly in the doorway before stepping in. Her long fingers clutched two paper cups. “I brought you coffee. It’s not good, but it’s hot.”

Pomni smiled faintly and accepted one. “You’re a saint.”

“I’m underpaid,” Gangle corrected, sitting on the edge of Pomni’s desk. Her shoulders hunched, like she was trying to take up less space than she did. “You’re still on the break-ins, huh?”

“Still,” Pomni echoed. “I’ve gone over these files three times. The first three made sense, in their own way -- jewelry, precision, speed. Then the fourth hit a bicycle shop. What changed?”

Gangle tilted her head, scanning the photographs. “Maybe they’re bored.”

“Bored?” Pomni raised a brow.

“You ever draw something so many times that you stop caring if it’s perfect?” Gangle said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Sometimes, you just want to ruin it. Smear the paint, see what happens. Maybe your thief’s the same way.”

Pomni considered that. It wasn’t a typical investigator’s logic, but sometimes Gangle’s abstract way of seeing things hit closer to truth than hard data ever could.

“Maybe,” Pomni said. “But criminals don’t usually change their pattern unless something spooks them. Or unless the job changes.”

Gangle looked at her curiously, a dark look suddenly taking over her features. “You think this could tie into Kaufmo’s case? Flower and all?”

Pomni hesitated.

The Kaufmo case had been a month-old wound; still sore, still unhealed. Kaufmo had been a smudge of a question mark initially assumed to be a temporary break from the jewelry store cases. What they’d found of him later hadn’t given them any clean answers. There’d been talk of accomplices. There always was, but nothing they could get from the poor battered man.

But this string of break-ins… they didn’t match the violence of Kaufmo’s world. They were cleaner. Smarter. Almost playful. And yet, part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a thread -- something thin and fragile -- tying them together. Something more than the matching daisies.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “It doesn’t fit. But maybe it’s not supposed to. Whoever’s doing this -- they’re clever. Careful. I don’t think they want to be caught, but I think they want to be seen.”

“Show-offs,” Gangle murmured, wrapping her hands around her coffee. “The worst kind of artist.”

Pomni smiled faintly. “Coming from you, that’s saying something.”

“I’m not a real artist,” Gangle said automatically. Her voice dropped an octave, almost apologetic. “I just… doodle.”

“You sketch entire reconstructions by hand,” Pomni said firmly. “That’s not doodling. That’s seeing what the rest of us miss.”

Gangle’s cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head. “Maybe. But I still can’t figure out why this person left that daisy.”

Pomni followed her gaze to the evidence photo -- the small white flower flattened beneath the IOU note like a pressed memory. It didn’t belong there. Everything else about the thief screamed precision, even the tone of the message. But the daisy felt… human. 

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Pomni said softly. “It doesn’t feel deliberate. More like it fell out of a pocket. Or was… dropped.”

“By accident?” Gangle frowned. “You think they slipped up?”

Pomni exhaled through her nose. “Everyone slips eventually, but no. It wouldn’t make sense to find two coincidental drops by both the Kaufmo case and the bicycle store break-in. It just wouldn’t add up to be unintentional.”

They sat in silence for a while, the hum of the city outside filtering through the blinds. Pomni turned the page in one of her folders and stopped on a section marked in red: Residue samples.

Her pulse quickened.

“The lab found something strange on all the scenes,” she said. “It’s not just oil or dirt -- it’s a polymer mixture. Clear, tacky. The same one each time. It coats the glass and surfaces wherever the thief touches.”

“Latex gloves?” Gangle guessed.

Pomni shook her head. “No. This isn’t just a barrier. It’s engineered. It’s designed to prevent fingerprints -- something used in industrial settings, like a release agent for machine molds. It also corrodes slightly when it comes into contact with skin, so whoever’s using it must know what they’re doing. It’s not common. Or safe.”

“So, they’re either an engineer,” Gangle said slowly, “or an idiot.”

Pomni gave her a thin smile. “I’m leaning toward engineer. No idiot could do the things they’ve done without any obvious slip-ups.”

Gangle tapped her notebook nervously. “You think they could’ve worked with Kaufmo’s attackers?”

Pomni frowned. “Unlikely. Kaufmo’s issue was more of a standalone, but dealt heavy. This is too small-scale, too… elegant. It doesn’t feel like organized crime. Feels more like one person.”

Gangle hesitated, then said quietly, “Or one person trying to prove something.”

Pomni glanced at her, impressed. “You’ve been listening to me too much.”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing,” Gangle said, smiling shyly.

Pomni didn’t have the heart to let the younger officer know how right she was. 

***

They left the precinct just before noon, armed with their notes and too little sleep. The city had shaken off the morning haze, the streets now alive with motion. The bicycle shop stood at the far end of a quieter district -- old brick, faded signage, the smell of oil and rain mixing into something that belonged only to places like this.

Yellow police tape fluttered lazily in the wind. A bored officer on guard nodded them through.

Inside, the place felt hollowed out. The racks stood half-empty, and shards of tempered glass still glinted faintly still in the window frame like a spider’s web. The air carried the stale tang of rubber and cleaner. Pomni crouched near the counter, running her flashlight along the seams of the tile.

The silence between her and Gangle was comfortable, the kind built from habit. Gangle took out her sketchpad and began a slow, deliberate drawing of the counter’s edge.

“You know, you could just use the photos,” Pomni said without looking up.

“I see better when I draw,” Gangle murmured. “The details stay longer. Cameras forget faster than people.”

Pomni didn’t argue. She respected Gangle’s methods, even if she didn’t always understand them. Sometimes, Gangle’s sketches caught things no photo ever did -- small marks, changes in shadow, the emotional shape of a place.

Pomni ran a gloved finger along the counter’s surface and stopped when she felt a faint residue. It shimmered slightly under the beam of her flashlight.

“There it is again,” she said. “The polymer.”

Gangle leaned closer. “It’s like they coated everything they touched.”

“Exactly. It doesn’t just stop prints. It destroys trace evidence too -- sweat, oils, skin cells. It’s… obsessive.” Pomni frowned. “Like they’re terrified of being known.”

Gangle tilted her head. “Isn’t everyone?”

Pomni smiled at that, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not like this.”

She stood, brushing dust from her knees. Her gaze drifted toward the door -- the hinges still slightly warped from being forced inward.

“This one’s different,” she said softly. “The others were surgical. This one… rushed. They didn’t plan it the same way.”

“Maybe they didn’t plan it at all,” Gangle offered.

Pomni nodded slowly. “Which means something went wrong. Or they wanted to send a message.”

Gangle bit her lip. “You think they’re escalating?”

“I think they’re getting emotional. That message might not be for us.”

They stood there for a long moment, the air heavy between them. Gangle broke it first, quietly.

“You ever get tired of it?” she asked. “The guessing, the chasing shadows?”

Pomni looked at her partner -- really looked -- and saw the faint dark circles beneath her eyes, the way she held her shoulders too tight. “Every day,” she admitted. “But then I think about the people who don’t have the luxury to stop caring. So I don’t.”

Gangle nodded, chewing her lip. “You always sound so sure.”

Pomni chuckled softly. “I’m not. I just fake it better.”

That earned a small laugh, one that Gangle immediately tried to smother. The sound softened the room in a way no light ever could.

***

By mid-afternoon, they’d walked through every inch of the scene. Pomni had taken samples, measurements, more photos than she’d ever use. Gangle had filled four sketch pages and lost two pencils to over-sharpening.

As they stepped back outside, the wind had picked up. The clouds were low and gray now, threatening rain.

“You think we’re any closer?” Gangle asked, pulling her scarf tighter.

“Closer than we were this morning,” Pomni said. “But still too far.”

“You ever wish the bad guys left business cards instead of riddles?”

Pomni smiled faintly. “Some of them do. They just call them mistakes.”

They started walking toward the car. Gangle hesitated halfway there, glancing back at the boarded-up shop. “You think they’ll hit again soon?”

Pomni didn’t answer right away. She watched the street instead -- the passing cars, the half-seen reflections in windows, the hum of a city that never stopped pretending it didn’t notice the things it couldn’t explain.

“Yes,” she said finally. “But when they do, I’ll be ready.”

Gangle’s expression softened. “You sound like you’re waiting for a ghost.”

“Maybe I am.”

***

The precinct had grown still by the time Pomni finally stopped writing.

The city outside murmured beneath the rainfall, a constant, tired hush that seeped through the window seams and into her bones. The glow of her desk lamp threw long shadows across the evidence board -- all thread and paper and blurred faces. A map of the city’s pulse, dissected and reassembled, yet no closer to beating in rhythm with hers.

She leaned back in her chair, eyes burning from strain. Her notes filled half a legal pad -- sketches, scribbles, half-formed theories that looped in on themselves. The daisy. The residue. The sudden switch from jewelry to bicycles. All of it felt wrong, like pieces from different puzzles forced to fit the same frame.

Pomni exhaled, slow. “You’re missing something,” she told herself softly. “Something simple.”

Her words vanished into the hum of the heater.

She stood, stretching the stiffness from her limbs, and wandered toward the window. The city lights rippled faintly in the slick pavement below. Neon signs blinked and faltered. The world was still awake, restless as she was.

Down there, beyond the glass, someone was walking briskly under a red umbrella. Another figure darted across the street, coat pulled tight, a small shape in a wide, indifferent night. Pomni watched them both, thinking of all the lives that brushed past hers without ever touching -- the millions of private stories happening at once. She wondered how many of them had secrets sharp enough to cut through the rain.

Her reflection in the window stared back at her -- pale, exhausted, the faint bruise of sleeplessness under her eyes. She hardly recognized the woman standing there. There’d been a time when she could leave the office, go home, make dinner, laugh at something on TV, fall asleep without replaying every case in her head. That time had vanished quietly, without ceremony.

Pomni pressed a hand to the glass, felt the faint vibration of the wind against her palm.

She thought again of Kaufmo -- of the way Gangle’s voice had cracked when she’d told her about his injury, the way Pomni had held her without knowing what to say. Kaufmo had been one of the good ones. Flawed, yes, but trying. Trying had to count for something. Now he was another name on a file, another story without an ending.

And still, somewhere inside her, she wondered if he had known something about all this. About the thief, the residue, the IOUs. Or if she was reaching for patterns that weren’t there -- building ghosts out of coincidence.

She hated that doubt most of all.

Turning away from the window, she looked at the evidence board one last time. The daisy photo had slipped slightly askew, hanging by a single pin. She fixed it gently, straightening the edge. Her thumb lingered on the corner of the paper, the faint imprint of the flower’s pressed outline catching the light.

A symbol of innocence, of apology, of something once soft. Now it was just another artifact in a case file.

She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and began tidying the desk -- stacking papers, capping pens, leaving the illusion of order for the morning. But her eyes kept returning to that note, to the curve of that childish frown scrawled in red gel pen:

 IOU :(

The ink sparkled faintly, catching the lamp’s glow. She wondered who they’d been before this -- the person who could write something so flippant, so sentimental, in the middle of a crime scene. Someone reckless, maybe. Or lonely.

That last thought stuck longer than she wanted it to.

When she finally turned off the lamp, the room fell into shadow. Only the glow from the city bled through the blinds, streaking the walls in thin lines of light. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful -- it was heavy, anticipatory. Like the breath before a confession.

Pomni stood there a moment longer, coat in hand, her reflection now half-lost to the darkness. She thought of Gangle, probably home by now, sketchbook open on her lap, pencils smudging under nervous fingers. She thought of Kaufmo in his hospital bed. She thought of the daisy, and the residue, and the IOU note swirling down a gutter that she still didn’t understand.

And she thought -- against her better judgment -- of Jax.

 The ridiculous grin. The way he could make her laugh without meaning to. The strange, guarded light in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking.

He was harmless. He had to be.

Still…

Pomni exhaled, forcing herself to let the thought dissolve. It was nothing. Just the exhaustion playing tricks, weaving connections between people who didn’t deserve them.

She switched off the last light and stepped out into the hallway.

The precinct was nearly empty-- the echo of her footsteps the only sound. Somewhere down the corridor, an old radio hummed faintly in another office, crackling with a late-night talk show. The voice on it was cheerful, manic, insisting that everything in the world was fine.

Pomni smiled thinly at that. “If only.”

Outside, the rain had turned steady and fine, clinging to her hair and lashes as she stepped out into the cold. She didn’t bother with an umbrella; the walk to her car wasn’t far. The night smelled like wet pavement and old engines, like endings and beginnings at once.

She unlocked the car, tossed her coat in the passenger seat, and sat behind the wheel without starting the engine. The silence pressed in again, gentle but insistent.

Her phone buzzed once -- a notification from the department’s messaging board, timestamped at 11:42 p.m. She didn’t open it. Not yet. She’d deal with it in the morning.

For now, she just sat there, watching the water bead and race down the windshield, each droplet catching the glow of the streetlights in brief, trembling flashes. In the reflection, she saw her own tired eyes. The green and brown mix of color in each iris. The purple bags beneath them. The exhaustion they held, and the horrible things they’d been witness to.

Rain had a way of making the city look clean again, even when it wasn’t.

Pomni leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

Tomorrow would bring more questions. More photographs. More residue and red ink and sleepless nights. But for tonight -- for just this quiet, passing hour -- she allowed herself to feel something close to stillness.

Not peace. Not yet. But stillness.

Outside, the rain began to slow. The lights of the city blurred together into a soft, fractured glow.

Somewhere out there, the person she was chasing was watching too.

 She didn’t know how she knew that. She just did.

And as she started the engine, the headlights cutting through the wet dark, she felt the first real certainty she’d had in weeks settle in her chest like a quiet vow.

Whatever this was -- whoever they were-- it wasn’t over.

Not even close.

***

She drove off into the wet streets, taillights fading into the mist.

 Behind her, the precinct lights flickered once and went dark.

And with that, Act One closed -- the city holding its breath, waiting for the next move.

Chapter Text

Jax liked to pretend he was fine with the silence.
That he could stomach mornings like this -- all color drained out, the city sweating mist and memory. But silence always pressed too close, breathing against the back of his neck. It was the kind that made him feel watched by the walls themselves.

He’d been up since dawn, though “up” was generous. He hadn’t slept, not really -- just drifted between thoughts until the light changed. The ceiling of his apartment had started to look like an audience: blank, patient, waiting for his next act. So he’d left before the city fully woke, just to feel like he was ahead of something.

The streets were damp, slick with a light drizzle that hadn’t decided whether to fall or float. Every sound seemed too loud -- the hiss of tires, the wet slap of newspaper against concrete. Somewhere down the block, an old sign flickered: SPUDZY’S, the z barely glowing.

He hesitated outside the pizza shop’s window. Inside, it was empty but for the hum of the freezers and the faint glow of the fryers cycling on. His reflection stared back at him -- hollow-eyed, smirking, like he was watching himself through a two-way mirror.
He thought about going in. About frying something just to smell it burn. But the thought passed. He wasn’t hungry. Not for food, anyway.

So he kept walking.

The city looked different when it was half-awake -- washed-out storefronts, puddles that held more color than the sky. He passed a fruit stand already setting up for the day, the vendor whistling through his teeth as he stacked oranges in perfect pyramids. Jax paused, staring at the fruit -- round, bright, ridiculous in their optimism. He picked one up, tossed it from hand to hand, and grinned at the vendor.

“How much?”
“Two bucks.”
He flipped a coin. It clinked on the metal counter, gleaming gold in the gray light. “Keep it.”
The man blinked, half-confused, but Jax was already walking away, peeling the orange with his thumbs, the scent sharp and bitter. He still wasn’t hungry.

That was the thing about pretending to be normal -- it worked best when you didn’t think about it. Grocery stores, fruit stands, cracked sidewalks, people pretending not to notice you -- all the props of ordinary life. If he kept walking long enough, he could almost convince himself he belonged to it.

But the hum never left his skull. That song.
It had started as nothing -- a tune hummed under his breath while he worked, something Caine had once mocked him for remembering.

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do…”
It was the kind of melody that didn’t ask to be remembered -- it just settled in, burrowing under your ribs until it pulsed with your heartbeat.
Now it followed him everywhere.

Almost as an afterthought, he tossed the meticulously peeled orange into a streetside trash can, hearing it hit the bottom with a satisfying thunk.

He took a long detour through the park that sat on the farthest edge of the westernmost district, cutting past the cracked stone fountain that hadn’t worked in years. The air smelled like wet leaves and the faint metallic tang of the city’s edge. He sat on a bench, orange residue sticky on his fingers, and pulled out a small spiral notebook from his jacket.

The pages were a mess of scratches, doodles, half-written lines -- thoughts that wanted out but never made sense once they landed. He flipped past them, stopping at a blank page.

“A hunter hums through the silence,
not for hunger, but for proof.
The world watches the rabbit,
and forgets who’s holding the knife.”

He stared at the words. Then he laughed -- a short, bitter sound. “Pathetic,” he muttered, and crossed the lines out hard enough to tear the page.

Poems used to come easy, back before the stage lights and ledgers, before Caine’s velvet voice started dripping through the cracks in his brain. He used to think in rhythm -- now everything just clattered. Even his thoughts felt borrowed.

Still, there was a thrill to it. That edge between creation and collapse. Writing was safer than breaking something, even if it left the same mark.

He lit a cigarette -- not to smoke it, just to watch it burn. The tip glowed, hissed faintly in the mist. A small, controlled fire. He liked the way it looked, how easy it was to destroy something meant for use.

He could almost see Pomni’s face then, serious and sharp, the way she’d looked at him that night at Spudzy’s. Like she’d been reading him -- not his words, not his grin, but the small hesitations between them.
The thought made him grin wider. She’d make a terrible poker player, he thought. All heart, no bluff.
He wondered if she’d thought about him since.

And that, right there -- that was the dangerous thought. Because he had. Too much.
She had gotten under his skin, not because of who she was, but because of what she saw. The way she spoke about her cases -- cold facts, deliberate details -- it was like listening to someone dissect him without realizing it.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be caught or applauded.

He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the rain tap against his eyelids. “Pomni, Pomni, Pomni,” he whispered, testing how her name tasted on his tongue. It came out like a curse and a confession both.

When he opened his eyes again, the fog had thickened. The park was emptier than before, the city beyond it just shadows and sound. A bus hissed by, trailing wet air in its wake. He stared after it until it disappeared, then stood, stretching until his shoulders popped.

He needed to move. Sitting too long made his thoughts too loud.

By the time he reached the grocery store, the drizzle had turned to real rain. He shook his hood back as he stepped inside, greeted by the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. The place was nearly empty -- a few old women debating bread brands, a kid scanning produce like it held secrets.

He grabbed a basket out of habit, wandering the aisles without purpose. Bread, milk, canned soup -- the normal things people filled their carts with when they wanted to look ordinary. He didn’t even know what he’d do with half of it. He just liked the sound of the basket wheels squeaking.

As he passed the flower stand, something caught his eye -- a bucket of daisies, fresh and white against the gray day. He stared for a moment, chest tightening with something that wasn’t quite guilt, wasn’t quite nostalgia. Then he reached out and plucked one. Just one.
The petals were soft, weightless between his fingers. He twirled it absently as he walked toward the register.

“Forgot your umbrella,” the cashier said, nodding toward the rain streaking off his hood.
“Forgot a lot of things,” Jax replied with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

Outside again, he walked the long way home, daisy still in hand. The city lights had started to bloom through the fog, smearing themselves across the wet pavement. He liked it better this way -- the world all blurred at the edges, like nothing had to be real if you didn’t focus too hard.

He hummed again, quietly this time. “I can’t afford a carriage, but you’ll look sweet upon the seat…”

The sound of his own voice unsettled him. It was too calm, too careful, like a lullaby meant to soothe a monster.

When he reached his building, he stopped outside the stairwell and looked up. His window was dark. It always was. He stood there a long time, rain running cold down his neck, until the cigarette between his fingers burned out completely.

He didn’t go inside. Instead, he turned and started walking again.

By the time he looped back toward the park, the rain had eased into mist again. He found himself back on the same bench, half-amused by his own predictability. He sat down, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and started tearing the daisy apart one petal at a time.

“She loves me,” he said under his breath. “She loves me not.”
He laughed when the last petal fell, voice echoing too loud in the empty space.

It was almost peaceful, that kind of madness -- the small, private kind. Like pressing a bruise just to prove it still hurt.

He didn’t notice the figure until they were almost beside him. The rain had muffled their footsteps; only the faint jingle of metal -- earrings or chains -- gave them away.

“Been looking for you,” a familiar voice said.

Jax glanced up, and his grin came easy this time. “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal prophet.”

Zooble stood in the light’s edge -- olive skin damp from the rain, short pink hair clinging to their forehead, piercings glinting like constellations. Their coat was too big, shoulders hunched in against the cold, eyes bright and sharp even through the fog.

“You’ve been busy,” they said simply.

“Busy’s a strong word. I’ve been… wandering.” Jax gestured at the daisy petals littering the ground. “Philosophizing. Gardening. Having a mental breakdown -- the usual.”

Zooble’s mouth quirked -- not quite amusement, not quite pity. “Caine’s been asking about you.”

“Of course he has.” Jax leaned back, hands behind his head. “The man can’t stand a mystery unless he wrote it himself.”

“He’s not in a good mood, Jax. The bike shop was… sloppy.”

Jax’s grin sharpened. “Was it? Or was it convincing?”

“He doesn’t see a difference.”

“Then maybe he’s forgotten what real art looks like.”

Zooble sighed -- a soft sound that made the metal in their ear sway faintly. They looked at him for a long moment, eyes tracing the fatigue behind his smile. “You’re pushing it,” they said finally. “Whatever game you think you’re playing--”

“It’s not a game.”

“Then what is it?”

Jax smiled without warmth. “A performance.”

Zooble shook their head. “You keep calling it that, but no one’s applauding, Jax.”

“Not yet,” he murmured.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving only the faint drip from the trees. Jax looked down at the crushed daisy stem in his hand. He twirled it once, twice, before letting it fall.

Zooble’s voice softened. “Whatever this is -- this thing between you and Caine -- you can’t keep playing both sides. He finds out you’ve been freelancing, he’ll skin you alive.”

Jax tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Who says I’m freelancing?”

“The way you talk lately,” they said quietly. “The way you look at people. You used to play along. Now you’re performing even when no one’s watching.”

He laughed, sharp and humorless. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

Zooble stepped closer, rain-damp hair catching the streetlight. “No,” they said. “I think I’m giving you just enough.”

And for the first time in days, Jax didn’t have a clever answer.

The quiet between them stretched thin. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty, just heavy -- as if it knew too much and didn’t trust either of them to say the right thing.

Jax broke it first, because of course he did.

“You ever notice how people talk about each other like they’re puzzles?” he said suddenly, his voice drifting. “All corners and edges and missing pieces. Nevermind that sometimes the picture ain’t supposed to fit.”

Zooble blinked, uncertain if it was a question. “You’re in one of your moods.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, a lazy motion, eyes still on the ground. “But maybe I’m onto something. Maybe some people want to be figured out. They just make it fun for the ones doing the guessing.”

He looked up then, grin crooked, eyes too bright. “Like our dear detective.”

Zooble’s shoulders tensed. “The one on your case?”

“Mm yes. Her name is Pomni, I found out.” The hum of her name seemed to please him. “She’s got that look about her, doesn’t she? The kind that sees everything, but doesn’t know what she’s looking at yet. I can’t decide if it’s charming or tragic.”

“You’ve been thinking about her,” Zooble said, too evenly.

Jax laughed, head tipping back. “Oh, come on, you make it sound like I’m writing poetry in her honor.”

“You might as well be,” they replied, tone soft but sharp. “Every time I see you lately, your next riddle for her is somewhere between your teeth.”

He smirked, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m saying it’s dangerous.”

Jax leaned back against the bench, stretching his legs out into the path. “You think I’m dangerous?”

“I think you’re reckless.” Zooble’s gaze was steady now, cutting through the dim like glass. “And you’re confusing curiosity with control. And I know that she’s dangerous. You really think she would hesitate to cuff you and throw you in a cell to rot?”

That made him pause -- just a flicker -- before he laughed again, quieter this time. “Curiosity, control… same dance, different tempo.”

“Jax.”

He glanced at them sidelong, half-smiling. “Relax. You sound like my conscience, and we both know I haven’t got one of those.”

But even as he said it, something in him itched. He hadn’t realized until now how much her name lingered in his mouth -- like smoke he couldn’t exhale. Pomni. The detective with the watchful eyes, with the questions that made him want to answer wrong just to see how she’d react.
She was supposed to be part of the game -- nothing more. A variable. A spark. Yet somehow she’d crawled past the walls he built for everyone else and set up camp in his head. 

He wanted to know what she thought when she wasn’t thinking about work. What she dreamed about. What she feared. God, he hoped that she feared him.

And that -- that wasn’t normal for him.

Zooble watched him, head tilted. They’d known him long enough to read the subtle fractures -- the shift in posture, the restless twitch in his fingers. Something was slipping under his skin.

“Come on,” they said finally, pushing off from the bench. “You’re going to spiral if you sit here any longer.”

“Spiral?” He grinned. “That sounds like an adventure.”

“Bar’s still open down the street. You can at least spiral somewhere with lighting.”

He hesitated, then stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re buying.”

“Not a chance.”

They walked in silence, the wet pavement reflecting the hazy streetlights like melted gold. Jax’s steps were loose, casual, but his mind was elsewhere -- looping back to Pomni’s voice, the way it had cracked just slightly when she’d talked about the break-ins. She’d been worried, though she’d tried to hide it behind professionalism. He’d heard it.
He always heard things like that. The tremors in people.

He smiled to himself, the expression unreadable.

The bar was a narrow place tucked between two shops, its neon sign sputtering half-dead against the rain. Inside, it smelled like wood polish and old jazz. There were only a few patrons scattered across the room -- a couple talking quietly in a booth, a man hunched over a pint at the counter. The kind of place that didn’t ask for names.

Zooble found a seat at the end of the bar. Jax slid onto the stool beside them, tapping the counter lightly with his knuckles.

“Whiskey sour,” he told the bartender. “And an extra shot of Jack with it.”

Zooble raised an eyebrow. “Starting strong.”

“Starting honest.”

The glasses arrived -- amber and sharp in the dim light. Jax held the shot up, studying the reflection that bent through the liquid. He smiled at himself, then downed it in one go.

He winced. “Still burns.”

Zooble’s mouth twitched. “That’s the point.”

“Reminds me I’m real,” he said, setting the glass down, already reaching for the coctail. “Can’t say that about much else these days.”

They didn’t answer. They’d learned, over time, that silence made him talk more than questions did. And sure enough, he leaned on the bar, turning the glass between his fingers.

“You ever get that feeling,” he said slowly, “that someone’s… watching you, but not in a bad way? Like they’re studying you. Trying to make sense of what you are.”

Zooble looked at him carefully. “Who’s watching you, Jax?”

He smiled faintly. “Maybe no one. Maybe everyone.”

“I automatically assumed the detective. You’re literally on the cusp of revealing yourself as a suspect in a case you started.”

He laughed softly. “You really are psychic.”

“I don’t need to be. You keep saying her name like it’s a prayer.”

He tilted his head. “Or a threat.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

The look Zooble gave him was half worry, half exhaustion. They’d seen him like this before -- teetering between brilliance and self-destruction, holding a match too close to his own hand. But there was something different now. Something… fixated.

“You’re playing with fire,” they said quietly. “And she’s not part of your game.”

“Everyone’s part of the game,” he murmured.

“She’s not. She’s a byproduct of it.”

He turned to look at them, the grin softening just slightly. “You don’t get it. She sees me. Not the act. Not the mask. Just… me.”

Zooble frowned. “And what exactly do you think she sees?”

For the first time, he didn’t have an answer ready. The silence that followed was brittle.

He finished the rest of his drink, the warmth crawling up his throat. He wasn’t drunk -- not really -- but the edges of the world had gone pleasantly soft. The kind of haze that made his thoughts louder and easier to mistake for truths. He’d never been one to hold his liquor very well.

“She looks at me like…” He paused, searching for words. “Like she’s standing in the middle of the road and can’t tell if the headlights are coming toward her or away.”

Zooble exhaled, rubbing a hand over their face. “That’s not romantic, Jax. That’s terrifying.”

He smirked, though it faltered around the edges. “Maybe that’s what makes it honest.”

“Or maybe it makes it an obsession.”

That word stuck. He stared into the empty glass, his reflection fractured into amber ghosts. “You think I’m obsessed?”

“I think you’re getting close to it.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Funny. Caine used to say the same thing.”

Zooble stiffened. “Does he know about her?”

“Does he need to?” Jax shot back, tone light but dangerous. “It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong.”

“Not yet. You know Caine doesn’t see attachments as anything but leverage, though.”

He looked at them, eyes darkened by the dim light. “You really think I’d hurt her?”

Zooble hesitated. “I think you don’t always know where your games end.”

The bartender passed by, refilling Jax’s glass without asking. He stared at it for a long moment, then pushed it away. “You’re starting to sound like him.”

“Maybe he’s right.”

“Maybe you should mind your own--” He cut himself off, the words slurring slightly, not from drunkenness but from something heavier. Something emotional slipping its leash. He blinked hard, then gave a low, humorless laugh. “You think she’d understand me, Zooble? If she knew?”

“Knew what?”

He almost said it -- that he was the reason for the break-ins, the riddles, the daisies. That he’d been playing both sides just to see how far the world would bend before it snapped. But the words curdled in his throat. He swallowed them with a grin that didn’t fit.

“Never mind.”

Zooble’s expression softened, but their voice stayed firm. “Whatever this is, Jax -- end it. Before it ends you.”

He waved a hand, dismissive. “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” His grin widened, a fraction too sharp. “Don’t worry so much. I always land on my feet.”

“You’re not a cat.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I’ve got nine lives all the same.”

They stared at each other for a moment -- two tired souls orbiting the same storm. The bar’s low music crackled through an old speaker, a melancholy piano line threading the silence. Jax’s gaze drifted to the window, where the rain had started again, faint and steady. He thought about Pomni walking through it -- head down, coat pulled tight, eyes scanning everything.

He could almost see her there, framed in the glass.
And for a moment, he forgot Zooble was still beside him.

“Jax.” Their voice cut through, quiet but grounding. “You’re scaring me a little.”

He blinked, turning toward them. “Scaring you? I’m sitting here drinking bad whiskey and talking about feelings. That’s practically therapy.”

“You’re talking about her like she’s an idea, not a person.”

He frowned, the smile slipping for real this time. “She’s… more than that.”

“No,” they said gently. “She’s exactly that. A person. One who doesn’t deserve to get pulled into whatever spiral you’re building.”

He looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly, whether from the buzz or the thought, he couldn’t tell. He laughed again, softly. “You make it sound like I’m a danger.”

“I think you could be,” Zooble said, just above a whisper. “To her. Or to yourself. We hurt enough people in this job, Jax. Don’t make her part of that list.”

That silence again -- that dense, electric stillness that settled right before something broke. Jax leaned forward, elbows on the bar, and for a heartbeat his mask slipped -- the grin gone, the bravado hollowed out.

“She’s the first person who’s made me feel something in a long time,” he said, voice low. “You don’t just walk away from that.”

Zooble didn’t answer right away. They reached out -- almost, but not quite -- as if to touch his arm, then stopped themselves. “Then you’d better make sure that feeling doesn’t ruin you.”

He turned his head slowly, meeting their gaze. There was no smirk this time, no clever retort. Just something raw and unsteady flickering behind his eyes.

“Maybe ruin’s the point,” he said quietly.

Zooble looked at him a moment longer, then stood. “I’m heading out before I say something you’ll hate me for.”

“Too late,” he said softly, though there was no heat in it.

They tossed a few bills on the counter, then hesitated. “Go home, Jax. Sleep. You sound like someone else when you’re tipsy.”

When they were gone, the silence folded back around him. The bartender cleared glasses at the far end of the counter; the rain whispered against the window. Jax sat there a while longer, the taste of whiskey and words still bitter on his tongue.

Eventually, he stood and left, the door’s bell jingling like an afterthought.

Outside, the world was wet and quiet again. He walked without thinking, back toward the park, back toward the bench where the daisy petals still clung to the ground.
He stopped there, breathing in the cold.

Pomni’s name echoed somewhere behind his teeth, soft and dangerous as prayer.

Chapter Text

A month had dragged by with agonizing slowness, as though time itself were testing its endurance--stretching each second thin, just to see how far it could pull before something broke. The calendar pages didn’t turn so much as wilt, days melting into one another until Pomni began to lose track of where one ended and the next began. The mornings came gray and reluctant; the nights lingered far too long, pressing in against the windows like a restless fog that refused to move on.

Every tick of the clock had started to sound deliberate--mocking, even. The office lights hummed, the radiator groaned, and the world carried on at a crawl that felt almost personal, as if the universe itself was playing a private joke on her. Pomni found herself staring too long at coffee rings on her desk, at motes of dust caught in the lamplight, at the slow drip of rain crawling down the window. Everything seemed to take its time, and in that sluggish rhythm, she began to wonder if she was the one who had stopped moving altogether.

Yet somehow--miraculously, stubbornly--the month ended. Not with a bang, not even with a sigh, but with the quiet turning of a page. And then another month came, dragging its heels like the first. It arrived without promise and left without ceremony, as if time had learned it could move on without her noticing.

And through it all, Pomni endured--half-convinced she was living in some looped illusion, half-afraid she’d wake to find the days repeating again. But the world didn’t end, and neither did she. The clock kept ticking, slow but steady, daring her to keep up.

No incident had happened since the bicycle store-- at least nothing that was helpful to Pomni’s ever present search. The radio-silence-- while relieving-- was remarkably unhelpful in the progression of her case. She had sat for hours pouring herself over notes and potential fingerprint reports and clues, hoping that every time she reopened that infernal case file, something might jump out at her and smack her upside the head with understanding. 

Much to her chagrin, that something would never jump, and so she secretly hoped. Hoped for another clue…another bit of pattern. Something to tie the notes and riddles together in a bow of clarity. 

Those dreams would not come to life until two agonizing months had passed, when she finally got the call that she had secretly been praying for. 

Finally.

It was early in the morning once again-- a crime performed under the cloak of night. By the time Pomni arrived, the sirens were already gone. What lingered was worse -- the hush that came after, the strange calm where even the air seemed to be holding its breath.

Pomni’s heart sank in dismay for every wrong reason the moment she stepped out of the police cruiser.

The antique shop looked like it had been chewed up and spat out.

The front door hung open, one hinge twisted, the glass cracked-- holes even punched through the glass by some kind of tool-- but not fully shattered -- as though whoever broke in hadn’t been strong enough to commit to the act. A bell above the frame lay crushed inside a display case of porcelain clocks.

The smell hit first: old wood, metal, and the faint tang of dust kicked up by careless hands.

Pomni stepped under the tape, scowl already forming on her face. Her shoes left quiet prints in the layer of gray powder across the floor -- residue from the fingerprint dusting, scattered like ash. A uniformed officer looked up from the counter, startled by her sudden appearance, but one glance at her badge and the expression melted into relief.

“Detective Shutov,” he said, straightening. “Didn’t think you’d be here this early.”

“I didn’t either,” she murmured, scanning the room. “But I heard someone decided to start writing love notes again.”

The officer smiled uneasily. “Looks like your thief’s back at it.”

“No,” Pomni said flatly. “They’re not.”

The word cut through the air like a clean blade. The room quieted; even the soft hum of the overhead lights seemed to fade.

She walked forward, gloved hands clasped behind her back. The display cases were smashed -- not with precision, but with panic. Shards of glass spread like ice around the room, crisscrossed with dirty footprints. There were fingerprints everywhere -- on the cash register, on the cabinet handles, even on the ink-smeared note left beside a toppled display.

Pomni crouched beside it. The paper was cheap, lined, torn from a notebook. The writing was rushed, uneven. IOU, scrawled in red. But it wasn’t the careful, looping gel ink she’d seen before -- it was dull ballpoint, bleeding slightly through the paper fibers.

She didn’t have to think about it. She knew.

“This isn’t them,” she said again, quieter now, almost to herself.

The officer frowned. “Looks the same to me. Same note, same pattern.”

“Pattern?” she repeated, glancing up. “You think the Daisy Thief leaves a mess like this?”

The man hesitated. “Well, there’s the note, and the--”

“There’s no residue,” she cut in. “No solvent. No powder. No attempt to hide evidence.”

She gestured toward the counter, where the technicians were swabbing glass fragments. “See that? You’ll get half a dozen usable prints off that surface alone. The Daisy Thief doesn’t leave fingerprints. Ever.”

One of the crime techs, a woman with streaked gloves and tired eyes, nodded faintly. “She’s right. The surface film’s clean. Whoever did this didn’t know what they were doing.”

Pomni stood, scanning the shop again. The air here was wrong -- noisy, unplanned. Every previous scene she’d studied had been almost… elegant. The Daisy Thief’s break-ins had rhythm. Even their illegality had intent. This was imitation without comprehension.

It made her skin crawl.

She turned back to the note. The ink had pooled where a raindrop landed, smearing a corner. She noticed a smudge of something dark near the bottom -- oily, mechanical. Not the faintly perfumed solvent she was used to finding.

“Grease from the door hinge,” she murmured. “They leaned too close when they forced it open. Short, right-handed, wearing gloves too thin to hide prints. See the indentation? They wrote this fast, standing up.”

“Meaning what?” the officer asked.

“Meaning they were nervous,” she said. “And stupid.”

The words were sharp, but her tone wasn’t cruel. Just deliberate.

If she were here, Gangle would’ve called it “missing the poetry.” The Daisy Thief’s crimes had poetry -- terrible, deliberate poetry. This was mimicry.

Pomni sighed and rubbed her temple. It had been two months since the last real incident -- two months without another cleanly executed break-in, two months of silence from the one person who haunted every report she wrote.

She’d tried to file it away -- as a case, as a curiosity. But every time she saw a daisy, every time she passed a window display at night, she felt that pull again.

Whoever they were, they were out there. Watching. Waiting.

And this--this insult of a copycat felt almost personal. A spit in the face to her and everyone else who had been working this infernal case for the past several months since they began.

She turned back to the officer. “Bag the note, photograph everything twice, and run prints. Whoever did this isn’t who you think. We’ll find them before the end of the week.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

She glanced once more at the counter, where a glass paperweight had been left untouched -- the only object spared in the chaos. It caught the light like a frozen raindrop. Her reflection shimmered inside it.

“They wouldn’t have missed that,” she said quietly. 

A vein throbbed at her temple, and Pomni kicked at a piece of display glass that had sat by her foot, sending it flying across the shop in a sudden burst of anger. A woman from the forensics team arched a disproving eyebrow in her direction, and Pomni offered a mumbled apology, already leaving the way she came.

This copycat was a damn joke. Nothing like her daisy thief. 

Empty handed and with a heavy heart, she headed back towards the precinct, no closer to an answer than she had been before, tired of chasing a line without a hook.

***

Pomni burned a path through the precinct, her heels striking the tile in sharp, even bursts that echoed through the hall like gunfire. Every officer who glanced up from their desk thought better of it the moment they caught her expression -- a storm carved into the delicate bones of her face. Her scowl alone was enough to clear the walkway ahead of her.

It was the first sunny day in weeks, sunlight spilling through the tall glass windows in syrupy streaks, glinting off the polished badge on her chest and the flecks of dust floating lazily in the air. The kind of day that would normally thaw the mood of even the most overworked detective. But not her. Not today. The brightness only seemed to mock her, painting everything in a warmth she couldn’t feel.

She’d woken up with a pulse of purpose that morning -- that instinctual hum in her chest that meant something was about to break open. For a few fleeting hours, she’d believed the quiet might finally end. Leads had a rhythm, and she had been sure she’d finally found the pattern hidden beneath the chaos. But the scene at the antique shop had ripped that hope from her hands.

Of course it had to be a copycat. Sloppy, noisy, and absolutely meaningless.

Her jaw tightened as she reached the bullpen. The image replayed in her mind -- the uneven scrawl of red ballpoint ink, the smudged fingerprints on glass, the lack of precision that used to define her criminal’s work. It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be. And yet every eager new recruit had swarmed the scene like it was Christmas morning, convinced they’d cracked the city’s most elusive case.

Idiots.

Pomni pushed past a pair of detectives chatting near the coffee machine, her voice clipped when she muttered a curt, “Excuse me.” Her badge caught the light again, and the conversation behind her died instantly. They all knew that look.

The precinct was alive with chatter -- phones ringing, papers shuffling, laughter spilling from somewhere near the breakroom -- but for Pomni, the noise blurred into one long, dull hum. She didn’t hear it. Not really. All she could hear was the hollow ring of realization echoing in her head: that all her focus, all her sleepless nights tracing ink patterns and chemical residue, had led her straight into a dead end.

She’d thought she had a lead. For the first time in months, she’d felt that thrill again -- that electric closeness, like the thief was just around the corner, one more clue away. She’d driven there herself, heart pounding, fingertips trembling with that quiet, dangerous kind of hope that made detectives reckless.

And instead, she’d found chaos. A cheap imitation. A mockery of everything she’d studied.

She reached her desk and dropped the folder hard enough that a few heads turned. Her hand hovered over it for a moment, resisting the urge to throw it across the room. The file’s label -- Incident 482-B: Possible Daisy Thief Link -- glared up at her like an accusation.

She exhaled through her teeth, a hiss of frustration that did nothing to ease the pressure in her chest. The sun through the window hit her desk, and the warmth of it only deepened her irritation. It felt wrong -- the world shouldn’t be this bright when everything inside her was still clouded, still unfinished.

Pomni rubbed her temple with two fingers, trying to breathe past the pounding behind her eyes. The smell of burnt coffee and printer ink hung in the air, and the constant clicking of keyboards grated against her thoughts.

She’d been chasing a ghost for months -- and now, instead of a trail, she had a fool with a pen and no sense of artistry pretending to be her thief.

Pomni straightened, sighing. The motion pulled at her shoulders; she hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself.

For a brief moment, she stared through the precinct window at the city beyond -- clean sunlight brushing across the skyline, the glint of cars streaming along the streets below. It all looked deceptively peaceful, like nothing had ever gone wrong there. Like no one had ever broken into a stranger’s shop just to leave behind a crimson “IOU.”

Her reflection stared back at her from the glass: pale, tired, but still burning with that same stubborn focus that had carried her this far. She didn’t even need to speak to herself to know what the thought was.

It wasn’t them. It wasn’t you.

The repetition was both comfort and curse.

With a low breath, she turned back to her desk, flipping open the case file again. If the real thief was still out there -- and she knew they were -- she couldn’t afford to waste time being angry. Still, anger was better than emptiness. It gave her something to hold on to.

And so, while the rest of the precinct bathed in the rare warmth of a spring morning, Pomni sat in the middle of it like a thundercloud that refused to dissipate -- focused, fuming, and waiting for the next storm to break.

***

The precinct clock ticked too loudly.
Each second felt like a small provocation.

Pomni sat at her desk for a long time, staring down at the case file without really reading it. Her fingers traced the edge of the top page -- a photograph of the antique shop’s shattered display window. The reflection in the glass captured a warped image of the night sky, the moon stretching long and thin, almost mocking.

The thief -- no, the pretender -- had left a trail of fingerprints so clear they could’ve been framed. The crime scene techs had found at least seven partials and three full sets on the register, the door handle, even the ink pen left on the counter. Idiocy masquerading as boldness.

A real artist didn’t leave a mess.

She flipped through the photos with a kind of restrained violence, eyes narrowing at every amateur mistake. Smudged ink. Uneven pen pressure. And the note -- the supposed “IOU.” It had been written in common red ballpoint ink, the sort used in every corner store in the city. Not the slick, glossy red of gel pen ink that her criminal favored. The pen itself had been left behind, half-open, rolling lazily near the counter when forensics arrived.

The entire thing screamed inauthentic.
A copycat trying to wear the skin of a ghost.

She should’ve been relieved. A copycat meant her real suspect was still out there -- careful, deliberate, and most importantly, alive. But the relief never came. Instead, it hollowed her out further, like even the false thrill of pursuit had been stolen.

She’d spent the better part of the morning pushing back against other officers’ theories, too nosy to focus on their own cases, dismantling their excitement with facts sharp enough to draw blood. It hadn’t earned her many smiles, but at least it had earned her silence. 

Now, as she sat in the flicker of sunlight against the blinds, Pomni could almost feel the day press against her skin -- too bright, too vivid. The kind of light that showed every flaw, every missed clue.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling.
Another wasted lead. Another wall to run headfirst into.

***

Her phone buzzed across the desk -- a short, clipped vibration that broke the rhythm of her thoughts. The display read:
CHIEF KINGER – INTERNAL LINE

Pomni hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering.
“Detective Shutov,” she said, tone professional, brisk.

“Detective,” came Kinger’s voice -- deep, deliberate, the kind of baritone that could fill an interrogation room even without shouting. “In my office. Now.”

The line went dead before she could reply.

Pomni stared at the phone for a heartbeat, then sighed. She stood, smoothing her blazer and brushing off a fine film of dust from her desk -- a reflex more than a concern for appearance. Conversations with Chief Kinger were rarely casual.

As she crossed the bullpen, she caught a few looks from her colleagues -- some curious, others wary. No one wanted to be summoned by the Chief before lunch. Pomni ignored them, heels steady and sharp against the floor.

Kinger’s office sat at the far end of the corridor, glass walls framed in dark metal, blinds half-drawn to cut the glare. The door bore his name in clean gold lettering -- Chief H. Kinger -- though the shine had long faded from the edges.

She knocked once.
“Come in,” came the voice from within.

Chief Kinger’s office was lit like a museum -- blinds half-drawn, dust suspended in a stripe of sunlight cutting across the room. His desk was an uneven fortress of reports, folders, and two half-empty coffee mugs that probably predated half the precinct.

He looked up as she knocked. “Detective Shutov,” he said, voice carrying that familiar gravel of fatigue. “You’ve got timing.”

“Good or bad, sir?”

He gestured to the chair across from him. “Depends on your update.”

Pomni sat, the folder from the scene resting on her knees. Kinger leaned forward, fingertips pressed together like he was about to pray.

“Well?”

“It’s a copycat,” she said immediately. “Sloppy one. Amateur.”

His brow arched. “That confident?”

“Yes.”

He studied her for a moment. “Walk me through it.”

She opened the folder, flipping past the photos until she reached the close-up of the IOU note. “Ballpoint ink, not gel. Cheap paper, smudged under pressure -- whoever wrote it had unsteady hands. Prints on every surface, including the glass case and register. And no trace of solvent film or chemical masking residue.”

Kinger nodded slowly, eyes flicking between her and the photograph. “And you’re certain that residue pattern’s consistent across all prior incidents?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Interesting.” He leaned back, tapping the edge of his mug with one finger. “You realize you just spared us weeks of running in circles.”

She hesitated. “I figured as much.”

“That’s not a complaint,” he said, tone softening slightly. “You did good work. The rest of the department wanted to treat it as a match -- neat and tidy. Saves them the trouble of thinking.”

A rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You didn’t take the bait.”

Pomni felt heat rise faintly to her face. “Just doing my job.”

“That’s what the good ones always say.” Kinger stood, pacing toward the blinds. The sunlight caught in his hair, revealing the faint streaks of silver that hadn’t been there a year ago. “You’ve got good instincts, Shutov. But instincts can get you killed if you stop questioning them.”

“I haven’t stopped,” she said quietly.

He looked back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. “I know. That’s what worries me.”

She blinked. “Sir?”

“You’ve been knee-deep in this one for months. You’ve got every pattern, every note, every scrap of data memorized. That’s not wrong -- it’s commendable. But there’s a difference between studying a suspect and inviting them to take up residence in your head.”

Pomni swallowed. “I’m managing it.”

Kinger turned fully, resting a hand on his desk. “I don’t doubt that. But make sure it stays managed. Cases like this one have a way of getting under people’s skin.”

His tone softened then, almost paternal. “You’ve got a good eye, Shutov. You saw through a copycat before half this department even got the file. I’m proud of that. But pride doesn’t mean you’re invincible.”

Pomni met his gaze. “Understood, sir.”

“Good.” He paused. “Now get that report written and take a breather. I’ll need your official assessment by morning.”

She stood, tucking the folder under her arm. “Yes, Chief.”

As she turned to leave, Kinger added, “And Shutov--”

She stopped in the doorway.

He nodded toward her badge. “You wear that name well. Don’t let it wear you down.”

She managed a small smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

***

Pomni slid into her chair upon her return to her office, dropping the evidence file on her desk, exhaling slowly. The hazy sun outside smeared the window into soft orange lines.

Across from her, Agatha looked up from the collection of papers balanced on her knee. “You look like you’ve been through a blender.”

“Crime scene,” Pomni said shortly, flipping open her notepad. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

“I just got here. And I heard. Antique shop downtown?”

“Mm.” She scribbled a few words, arrows connecting half-formed thoughts. “The rest of the team think it’s the same thief.”

Agatha leaned back, arms folding. “And you don’t?”

Pomni shook her head. “Not even close. The ink’s wrong, the residue’s missing, the writing’s rushed. The real one leaves nothing unintentional. This one left half their DNA on the counter.”

Agatha smiled faintly. “Sounds like you’ve memorized your real guy’s habits.”

Pomni froze mid-note, knuckles whitening on her pen. “It’s part of the job.”

“Sure,” Agatha said, voice soft. “Part of the job.”

Pomni ignored the tone, choosing to add more gasoline to her own burning fire. “This one didn’t even know what they were stealing. They took a handful of brooches and a watch, left items five times as valuable. There’s no method. No rhythm. I’ve never seen a break-in less coordinated.”

“Rhythm,” Agatha repeated. “That’s an interesting word.”

Pomni paused. “What?”

“Nothing,” Agatha said, though her expression lingered somewhere between concern and pity. “You talk about them like you know them.”

“I study them.”

“Maybe not as different as you think.”

Pomni glanced at her. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not,” Agatha said, gentler now. “I just know what it looks like when a case gets too close. You’ve been living in their headspace for months. Why do you think this fake one has gotten so deeply under your skin?”

“Because they’re still out there,” Pomni said quietly.

“I don’t doubt that.” Agatha sighed. “I just doubt they’re thinking about you half as much as you’re thinking about them.”

That one hit too close. Pomni looked down, pen trembling slightly between her fingers.

Agatha’s tone softened. “You’re good, Pomni. One of the best we’ve got. But this thief -- they’re starting to sound less like a suspect and more like a story you’re telling yourself.”

“This isn’t that,” Pomni said, forcing steadiness.

“Then what is it?”

Pomni hesitated. “They’re deliberate. Careful. Almost… thoughtful. The way they plan things, the way they leave no trace -- it’s like they’re trying to prove something. I just want to understand what.”

Agatha tilted her head. “And if you do?”

Pomni didn’t answer.

Agatha leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper. “Be careful that when you finally catch this ghost, you don’t end up staring into a mirror.”

The words hung there, heavy and true.

Pomni looked past her, at the evidence board pinned to the wall -- photographs, maps, strings crossing over the same focal points she’d stared at for months. Her own handwriting everywhere, looping, annotated, obsessive.

And at the center -- the daisy. The photograph of the first one left beneath the note. Pressed white petals, a yellow core dulled by time.

It looked almost innocent.

“Take the rest of the day,” Agatha said softly. “Go home. Sleep.”

Pomni nodded faintly. “Just a few hours.”

“Good,” Agatha replied, and then added, “And Pomni--”

The young detective looked up.

“Ghosts don’t chase back.”

***

Pomni gathered her papers, tucking them neatly under her arm. The pages whispered against one another -- case files, photographs, reports -- the residue of two months spent chasing a phantom. Each sheet was a fragment of the same puzzle, and none of them fit cleanly together.

The bullpen had thinned out since she’d left Kinger’s office. Afternoon light filtered through the slats of the blinds, stretching across the floor in thin, uneven stripes. Someone laughed in the distance -- a bright, ordinary sound that didn’t belong here. Pomni ignored it, her heels clicking softly as she made her way toward the exit.

When she passed the window overlooking the street, she slowed.
The city below was washed in a dull gold, sunlight still clinging to the glass like a second skin. Pedestrians moved in loose, disconnected streams -- an ebb and flow of coats, briefcases, hurried footsteps. The world looked almost peaceful from this high up, detached from the grime and noise that pulsed through it.

Almost.

She caught her reflection in the window -- pale light bending across her features, tired eyes framed by the soft distortion of glass. For a heartbeat, she didn’t recognize herself. She looked… haunted. Like someone halfway between dream and duty, living on the edge of both.

Then, just beyond her shoulder, the reflection shifted.
A flicker -- faint, uncertain -- as though another shape stood just behind her.

Pomni froze.

It was nothing at first. A trick of light, maybe, the smear of a cloud breaking apart in the sun-washed glass. But in that single, impossible instant, it felt real. The presence of someone unseen, just out of reach.

When she turned, there was only the empty corridor behind her.
The murmur of the precinct. The steady hum of the vending machine.

Still… she couldn’t shake the cold that crawled down her spine.

Her gaze drifted back to the glass, and though the reflection now held only her, she felt the weight of eyes somewhere else -- distant, patient, waiting.

The case was still open.
The thief was still out there.

Pomni pressed a hand against the window’s cool surface. Her reflection met her touch, fractured slightly by the ripple of her own breath against the pane. She thought of the IOU notes, the faint scent of the residue that clung to every scene, the meticulous precision of every theft. There was a rhythm to it, a deliberate kind of art -- too precise for chaos, too strange for greed.

Whoever they were, they hadn’t vanished.
They were watching. Thinking. Planning.

And -- a thought she hated to admit even to herself -- maybe they were watching her.

The city outside blinked with color -- streetlights humming to life, the horizon dipping into dusk. Somewhere out there, among the fog and the hum of rain-slick pavement, her thief still moved unseen.

Pomni straightened, exhaling slowly. “You’re not done,” she whispered, more to herself than to the ghost in the glass.

Then she turned away from the window and walked down the hall, her reflection breaking apart in her wake.

Chapter Text

Jax found the article by accident.

It was late -- the kind of hour where the city seemed to sag under its own exhaustion, streetlights bleeding gold onto cracked pavement and the faint hum of traffic seeping in through his half-open window. His apartment looked like it had been caught mid-chaos: papers stacked haphazardly on the table, a couple of empty mugs crowding the counter, a half-eaten takeout container that had stopped pretending to be food.

He sat slouched on his lumpy couch, the glow of his battered old laptop lighting up his face in flickering tones of blue and gray. The screen reflected faintly in his eyes, catching the restless twitch of movement as he scrolled. He wasn’t really looking for anything -- not consciously, anyway. Just noise. Distraction. Some minor scandal or burst pipe or politician caught doing something predictably stupid.

He liked to keep tabs on the city -- not because he cared, but because it entertained him. The chaos, the small absurdities. A world constantly stumbling over its own feet. But then his scrolling stopped.

There it was.

“Antique Shop Burgled: Authorities Believe It’s the Daisy Thief.”

For a heartbeat, he just stared at the words. Then he laughed -- a sharp, incredulous bark that startled even him.

“Oh, that’s rich,” he snorted, dragging a hand down his face. The laugh built again, uncontrollable this time, spilling out in that cracked, high-pitched sound that always seemed a little too sharp for humor. It rattled through the room like the sound of a broken music box winding itself down.

He clicked the article open, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees.

The photos attached were a disaster -- grainy, overexposed, some poor journalist’s attempt at crime-scene glamour. The shattered display cases. The tipped-over shelves. And the note.

Ah, the note.

He zoomed in on the picture until the pixels began to break apart, his grin widening as the words came into focus.

IOU.

Written in a garish, uneven scrawl with -- he squinted -- a cheap red ballpoint.

“Regular pen ink?” he muttered, voice flat with disbelief. “Oh, come on. Amateur hour.”

He leaned back, shaking his head in mock pity. The rhythm was all wrong -- the spacing, the slant of the letters. There was no art to it, no intention. Just a pale imitation of the real thing.

He knew what a proper note looked like. He’d spent too long crafting them -- the perfect curve of the letters, the weight of the gel ink, the faint shimmer of residue that blurred fingerprints but left behind a ghost of his presence. The act of writing had always been deliberate, almost ceremonial. This? This was vandalism disguised as imitation.

He read further, lips curling into a grin when he saw the name appear midway down the article:

Detective Pominerva J. Shutov refutes claims of a connection to the Daisy Thief…

“Of course you did,” he murmured. “You’d never let someone else take my credit.”

He could practically hear her voice as he imagined it -- calm, steady, full of that quiet irritation she carried like armor. He pictured her standing in front of the press, jaw tight, hair probably pulled back, a faint glimmer of dark circles under her eyes from too many nights chasing shadows.

It made him grin wider.

He tossed his laptop aside and laughed again -- really laughed this time. A bright, unrestrained sound that filled the dim apartment, bouncing off the walls and the cracked windowpane. There was something wild in it, something brittle. It wasn’t quite joy, not really -- more like relief with sharp edges. Vindication.

It wasn’t pride, either. Pride was too clean a word.

It was something messier.

A possessive kind of satisfaction that the world -- in all its noise and confusion -- still knew who had started this little dance. The city was full of pretenders, but there was only one Jax. One thief who knew how to turn a crime into theater, a scene into a statement.

And she -- his detective -- she knew it too.

He slouched deeper into the couch, one leg draped lazily over the armrest, the grin softening until it became something closer to thought. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, unfocused, as the memory of her face crept into the room.

Pomni Shutov.

Detective Shutov when she was in control -- when the badge was shining on her chest and the city looked to her for order. But to him? She was just Pomni. The woman who scowled like it was second nature. Who treated suspicion like oxygen. Who got under his skin without even trying.

He could still see her the last time they’d spoken -- sharp but measured, always holding back. Her gaze like a scalpel, peeling him apart and pretending she wasn’t enjoying it.

And now? She was out there, somewhere, probably pacing her cluttered office, fuming over the latest crime scene, furious that someone had dared to muddy her perfect little case file.

He could see it clearly: her jaw working, her eyes darting between photographs and evidence bags, searching for meaning where there was none. The copycat’s mess must’ve been torture for her -- all noise, no rhythm.

“Poor thing,” he said, and though the words were mocking, there was something quieter beneath them. Something almost fond.

The thought of her -- of how she must look right now, brows furrowed, lips pressed thin in frustration -- pulled another laugh from him, though this one was softer. More like a sigh that had forgotten to give up halfway.

He dragged a hand through his hair, stood, and looked around his apartment. The walls were gray with old paint, the carpet worn down to a map of stains. A city pigeon cooed somewhere outside the window. The place smelled faintly of coffee grounds and the lingering sweetness of smoke from his last half-burned candle.

It all suddenly felt too still.

He grabbed his coat from the back of a chair -- the same threadbare thing he always wore, pockets full of odds and ends, receipts, a pen, and a single crumpled daisy petal he’d pressed flat between two folded scraps of paper weeks ago.

He hesitated just long enough to glance back at the laptop, the article still open. The blurry photo of that IOU stared back at him, taunting in its mediocrity.

He smirked. “Guess I should show them how it’s really done.”

He slipped the coat on, adjusted the collar, and headed for the door. The hallway outside was dim and smelled faintly of fried oil from the downstairs deli. The neon from the street bled in through the stairwell window, washing his face in pale pinks and blues.

He descended the stairs two at a time, hands in his pockets, whistling low under his breath. Something old, tuneless -- maybe a half-memory of “Daisy Bell,” maybe just the ghost of it.

Either way, it followed him out into the evening.

The night air was damp but soft, the sky painted with the faint orange haze of the city lights. People passed by -- strangers with grocery bags, taxi drivers shouting halfheartedly, a couple laughing drunkenly as they stumbled toward the corner. He moved through it like a ghost in familiar territory, unseen but not unwatched.

When he reached the end of the block, he paused, looking toward the faint glow of Spudzy’s sign flickering a few streets down.

He could already smell the grease and coffee, hear the lazy buzz of the fluorescent lights. The thought alone brought the grin back.

He’d go there, he decided. Get a drink. Sit in his usual booth. Watch the city through the reflection in the window and maybe, just maybe, imagine her walking in.

A little celebration for himself.

After all, he had earned it.

It was his day off-- a rarity in his life-- but Jax didn’t care. Spudzy’s was calling.

***

The pizzeria buzzed with its usual low hum of conversation winding down as the evening struck --the comforting clatter of plates, the soft whine of the ovens, and the syrupy hum of an old pop song leaking from the jukebox in the corner. The scent of toasted dough and scorched mozzarella hung in the air, heavy and nostalgic. The kind that clung to your clothes and followed you home, whether you wanted it to or not. The cracked tiles underfoot gleamed with dirty mop water, reflecting the fading gold of evening light that filtered through the slatted blinds and sliced the room into ribbons of amber and shadow.

It was nearly sundown --that slow, quiet hour when the city outside began to exhale. Cars hissed past on wet pavement; the sky bled from gray to rust, caught between evening and night. Inside, Spudzy’s glowed like a tired lantern. The walls were lined with faded photographs of regulars from decades ago, the kind of decor that had long stopped meaning anything but routine.

Behind the counter was Ming.
He was always behind the counter when no one else wanted to be. A quiet guy in that infernal yellow apron Jax loved to hate, and a baseball cap that didn’t match the uniform. He only ever seemed to show up for dropped shifts or nights when the schedule went wrong. He didn’t ask questions --didn’t gossip, didn’t pry --just worked silently, the kind of employee who could vanish into the background even while standing under a spotlight. His movements were neat and unhurried, as though the world couldn’t rush him if it tried. Jax often wondered how Caine managed to get ahold of someone like him. 

The brunet slid into his usual booth near the back --the one with the cracked vinyl seat and a perfect sightline to the counter. He liked it here: half-hidden, half-seen, close enough to listen but far enough to remain a shadow in the crowd.

He caught Ming’s eye as the man passed by with a tray of empty glasses.
“Coffee,” Jax said, then grinned. “Black. And… a milkshake.”

Ming blinked once, expression unreadable. “Both?”
“Why not?” Jax said, spreading his hands in mock innocence. “Balance.”

Ming gave the smallest shrug, as if he’d long stopped being surprised by strange orders in stranger hours, and walked off without another word.

Jax drummed his fingers against the tabletop --restless, rhythmic, like the beat of a song only he could hear. The air around him buzzed faintly with the hum of the old refrigerator and the jukebox’s static-laced melody. He could almost forget, for a moment, what waited outside: the endless gray sprawl, the whispers of his own name under headlines.

The newspaper lay folded beneath his elbow, its ink still slightly tacky. Antique Shop Burgled: Authorities Believe It’s the Daisy Thief.

The headline might as well have been a parody. He’d read it at home, laughed until his throat hurt, and brought it along anyway. Maybe as a trophy. Maybe as a mirror. He wasn’t sure anymore.

When Ming brought the drinks, Jax nodded his thanks and reached for the coffee first. Bitter, burnt, exactly how he liked it. Then he switched hands and took a sip of the milkshake. The cold shock of it burned his throat in the opposite direction --sweet, creamy, childish. The contrast was refreshing, somehow.

He liked contradictions. They made him feel alive.

He was mid-sip when the bell over the door chimed.

And there she was.

Pomni.

The sound of her name echoed in his mind before he even thought it, pulled like a trigger.

She stood in the doorway for a moment, framed by the orange haze of the sinking sun. Her coat was buttoned to the collar, hair slightly disheveled, a few strands catching the light like threads of gold spun through darker silk. She looked like she’d walked straight out of one of her own case files --sharp, meticulous, but fraying at the edges in ways she probably hadn’t noticed yet.

Jax froze, half-grin still plastered on his face. “Well,” he whispered, voice curling like smoke, “speak of the devil…”

She hadn’t seen him. Not yet.

Pomni moved through the room with the kind of awareness that came from habit, not fear. Her eyes swept over each table, casual but calculating, like she couldn’t turn off the part of her brain that catalogued everything --the placement of a napkin, the way a stranger’s hand lingered on a glass, the tone of laughter across the room. She could dissect silence if she had to.

When she reached the counter, Ming was the one who greeted her, and Jax delighted in the brief confusion that crossed her face.

They were too far away, with voices too hushed, but Jax rehearsed her order of a single slice of pepperoni in his mind.

Ming also poured her a cup of coffee without asking how she took it --because spudzy’s never served it any other way --and set it down in front of her. She thanked him, tucked a bill under the saucer, and turned away from the counter.

Jax watched the entire exchange from behind his newspaper, the thin edge of a smile tugging at his mouth. She hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d seen her up close --maybe a little paler, a little thinner. The kind of wear that didn’t come from time but from chasing something that wouldn’t slow down for you.

She chose a seat near the window, two down from his instead of her usual booth seven. From there, she could see the street, the door, the whole room reflected in the glass --a tactical choice, the mark of someone who never quite let her guard down.

Through the reflection, Jax could see her perfectly.

She looked tired, yes --but not defeated. There was still that fire in her eyes, that refusal to let the world stay blurred. Her fingers curled around the mug like it was something to anchor her. She stared into it for a long moment before taking her first sip.

And damn, he thought, if she didn’t look like she belonged there --a lone figure framed by the dying light, half-lit, half-shadowed, the kind of picture that stuck in your mind long after you stopped looking.

He leaned back in his booth, let his grin grow. He pretended to read his paper, but every flick of her wrist, every subtle change in her posture kept tugging his focus back to her.

That dangerous spark flickered alive again. The same one Zooble had warned him about. You’re pushing it, Jax.

He ignored it.

He’d always ignored it.

He could have finished his coffee, tossed some change onto the table, and left before she ever looked his way. He could have gone home and told himself it was enough --that watching her from a distance was safer. Smarter.

But then again, when had he ever cared for safe or smart?

Jax glanced down at his cup, the reflection of the pizzeria’s lights rippling across the dark surface. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw both of them there --his own smirk, her distant stare --sharing the same warped reflection.

It sent a quiet thrill through him.

Maybe fate was just another stage trick, but tonight, it felt like the curtain was rising again.

***

The steam rising from Pomni’s mug coiled lazily in the air, pale ribbons twisting in the evening light. Jax watched her lift the cup and stare into it for longer than she actually drank from it. The way she moved tonight wasn’t the same as before. Normally, she had a kind of sharp, precise energy --the walk of someone perpetually five steps ahead of wherever they were. Either that, or a sleepy panic of building pressure. But tonight, there was a drag to her rhythm. A slump she was too proud to admit. Something Jax had never seen from her before. 

She was unraveling in increments. He could see it in how long she took to exhale.

Jax’s thumb drummed once, twice, against the side of his coffee cup before he made up his mind. He slid out of the booth, slow and deliberate, the newspaper tucked under one arm like a prop he wasn’t quite finished using.

When he reached her table, Pomni didn’t look up right away --though her shoulders stiffened slightly, a tiny tell that she’d already clocked his approach.

“Detective,” Jax said lightly, as if the word was the start of a joke. “You know, one might start thinking you’re following me.”

She blinked once, then looked up, unimpressed. “I could say the same to you, Jax.”

He grinned and gestured at the empty seat across from her. “May I?”

Pomni hesitated --a fraction too long for it to be pure annoyance. Then, with a resigned sigh that was halfway to a growl, she waved at the seat. “You’re already standing there. You might as well.”

Jax slid in, folding his hands together on the table. “Generous as always.”

Ming, quiet as ever, passed by on his way to clear another table. He gave Pomni a polite nod, then glanced briefly at Jax --not judgmental, just assessing --before moving on. Jax caught the flick of recognition in the man’s eyes and smiled faintly. Ming had seen him here enough times to know he wasn’t trouble, at least not in any way that would show up on a police report.

Pomni took another sip of coffee. “You’re not working tonight. Quite the rare occasion. Something amusing happen? You seem less sardonic than usual.”

“Oh, you know me too well, detective,” he said easily. “The city’s papers have been full of jokes lately.”

That earned him a sharp glance. “Oh you don’t have to remind me. I dealt with that one at work all day today.”

“Bingooo.” He leaned back, the vinyl squeaking under him. “Can’t say I’m surprised. A headline like that? Practically begging for someone to step into the role.”

Pomni’s jaw tightened --not at the words, but at how close they brushed something raw inside her. “You read too much into headlines.”

“And you don’t read enough between them,” he said, smiling in that way that suggested he was both teasing and testing her.

She didn’t respond right away. Her eyes drifted toward the window, where the streetlights had started flickering on one by one. “It’s been a long week,” she murmured.

“That’s one way to put it.”

He watched her closely. The tiny muscle in her temple twitched --she was holding something back, that much was clear. She looked like she wanted to crush the frustration out of herself by sheer will. He leaned in just a little, lowering his voice.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Someone tried to mimic your thief. Got the details wrong. Sloppy execution. Too obvious to take seriously.”

Pomni’s head snapped back to him, eyes narrowing. “You sound oddly sure of yourself.”

He shrugged, battling the backflips of joy at her irritation that he concealed within his chest. “Maybe I just know people. The kind who try too hard to make noise.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The pizzeria hummed quietly around them --the hiss of the ovens, the clatter of a dropped fork, the low murmur of voices too soft to make out. 

Pomni finally exhaled, shoulders lowering slightly. “It’s infuriating,” she admitted, surprising herself as much as him. “Weeks of dead ends, and the first sign of something new turns out to be some idiot with a Sharpie and no sense of subtlety.”

Jax’s grin softened into something closer to genuine amusement, and he felt that spark of obsession twinkle in his eye. The one that Zooble had warned him about. He brushed it off. “You sound personally offended.”

“I am,” she said flatly. “If you’re going to commit a crime, at least be… consistent. Methodical. Not—” She gestured vaguely. “Sloppy.”

He tilted his head, delighted. “So you do appreciate craftsmanship.”

Pomni shot him a look. “Don’t twist my words.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But he would. He always did. Her words were like wet paint --and he loved dragging his fingers through them, seeing what colors they’d make when smeared.

He watched her for a moment, how she leaned forward when she was serious, how her thumb tapped her coffee cup twice before she spoke. He’d started to notice the small things without meaning to --the pattern of her impatience, the rhythm of her curiosity. Obsession had a tempo, and hers matched his in a way that unnerved him.

“You know,” he said, swirling his straw through the dregs of his milkshake, “most people wouldn’t get this worked up about a bad imitation.”

“It’s not just that,” she muttered, eyes darting toward the window where the rain had started again, faint and fine as static. “It’s the principle. Whoever did it is using the same name, the same signature, and doesn’t even understand what it means.”

“And what does it mean?” he asked softly, too softly.

She hesitated --not because she didn’t have an answer, but because she wasn’t sure she wanted to say it aloud. “It’s… a message,” she said finally. “Or it was. A conversation of sorts. Between the thief and—” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together.

“Between the thief and who?” he asked, leaning in, voice dipped low and teasing.

Pomni’s jaw tightened. “The public. The world. Whoever they’re trying to get attention from.”

He could see it in her eyes, though --that flicker she couldn’t hide. She didn’t believe that. Not entirely. She’d already started narrowing the world down to two players: her and him. Even if she didn’t realize it yet.

“You think about them a lot,” he said.

She scoffed. “It’s my job.”

“No,” Jax said, almost gently. “You think about them more than your job requires.”

That earned him a glare, sharp and unguarded. “I think about justice.”

He grinned, lazy and wolfish. “Sure. Justice with a name and a calling card.”

Pomni shook her head, clearly done with humoring him, but he didn’t stop watching her. He couldn’t. There was something magnetic about her frustration --the way her control cracked just enough to let a little of her real self bleed through. The detective, so careful and composed, slowly losing her grip over something --someone --she couldn’t see clearly.

And he was the one behind the fog, pulling the strings.

It should’ve made him smug. Victorious. But it didn’t. It made something twist in his chest --some half-recognized ache that wasn’t quite guilt and wasn’t quite pride.

He liked being the mystery she couldn’t solve. He liked the way her voice went sharp when she talked about him, the way her eyes narrowed as if trying to draw him out of thin air.
And more than anything, he liked that she didn’t stop --even when the trail went cold, even when everyone else in her department had turned their attention elsewhere.

She kept searching.
For him.

“You’re staring,” Pomni said, voice cool but not cold.

He blinked, slow, letting the ghost of a smile return to his lips. “Maybe I’m just taking mental notes.”

“For what? A report?”

“For art,” he said simply. “Observation’s half the work.”

Pomni frowned. “You sound like one of them.”

“Maybe I’ve just met a few,” he countered, then, more softly: “You’d make a decent thief yourself.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “Flattery won’t get you a discount with the law, you know, in case you have any plans.”

“It’s not flattery,” Jax said. “It’s an observation. You notice everything --how people move, what they say, what they don’t. You’d know which alarms to avoid, which locks are bluffing.”

“I’d know because it’s my job to stop people like that.”

“And yet,” he said, tone dipping into something that wasn’t quite teasing anymore, “you understand them so well.”

Pomni stuttered-- then stopped,  for just a second. In that silence, something unspoken passed between them --not trust, not recognition, but the faint hum of danger, the kind that made the air feel charged.

She was staring at him now, eyes steady and searching, as if trying to decide whether he was mocking her or telling her something truer than either of them wanted to admit.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Understanding isn’t the same as sympathizing.”

Jax leaned back, grinning faintly. “No. But it’s close.”

Pomni let out a breath through her nose, shaking her head like she could dispel the weight of the conversation. She reached for her cup again, took a sip, then murmured, “You’re strange, Jax.”

He smiled. “You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep proving it.”

She said it like an accusation, but there was something softer underneath. A flicker of curiosity.

The kind that had gotten her into trouble before.

He could feel it then --the pull. The dangerous, electric thread between them tightening, drawing the conversation closer to something it wasn’t supposed to become. She was frustrated, yes, but more than that, she was alive again. The copycat had drained her, but this --the mystery, the real game --it lit her up in ways she didn’t seem to notice.

And Jax, damn him, couldn’t help but bask in it.

He tilted his cup, watching the melted milkshake swirl like oil in the bottom. “You ever wonder,” he said softly, almost to himself, “what drives someone to do it? The thief, I mean.”

She looked at him, expression unreadable. “Money. Power. Ego. Take your pick.”

“Maybe.” He swirled the glass again. “I’m sure you’ve heard all kinds of reasons.”

Pomni shook her head, a weary sigh escaping her. “You could say that again.”

Jax smiled to himself and looked away before she could catch it.
Because in that silence, in that small, flickering pause between her heartbeat and his, he realized he’d just given himself away --if only a little.

And she’d felt it too.

***

Ming came by again to refill their coffees. Pomni murmured a quiet “thanks,” and Jax raised his cup in mock salute. Ming just nodded, eyes flicking between the two of them before he drifted away again, expression unreadable.

Pomni stirred her coffee absently, the spoon clinking gently against the ceramic. “You know, most people avoid me after I’ve had a day like this.”

Jax smiled. “That’s because most people bore easily. I happen to find you fascinating when you’re furious.”

She sighed, setting the spoon down. “You’d better find new hobbies.”

He leaned his chin on one hand. “Maybe I already have.”

For a moment, her gaze caught his --tired but alive, the faintest spark buried beneath exhaustion. Jax could see her fighting not to engage further, but her exhaustion had dulled her edges just enough for him to slip through.

She finally asked, quietly: “Why do you care, anyway? You don’t strike me as someone who reads the morning paper for civic duty.”

He gave a slow, lazy shrug. “Maybe I like stories. Especially ones with recurring characters.”

Pomni rolled her eyes but didn’t push him away. “You’re impossible.”

“And you keep talking to me,” he countered.

That earned him the faintest smile --small, fleeting, but real. It flickered across her lips like a brief surrender before she caught it and buried it again under composure.

He decided to savor it. “There it is. Thought I’d never see that again.”

Pomni lifted her cup, half to hide the expression, half to buy time. “You really have a habit of overstaying your welcome.”

“And yet,” Jax said, spreading his hands, “you haven’t told me to leave. Also I work here.”

Her answer came softly: “Not yet.”

They sat in the quiet that followed, a truce drawn not in words but in shared fatigue. Outside, the city rumbled --the faint echo of sirens, the dull hum of traffic, the pulse of neon lights washing through the window.

Jax studied her face, how the light played over her features --tired eyes, the faint trace of ink smudged on her wrist, the way her fingers tightened around the mug when she was thinking.

He wanted to ask more --about her theories, her frustrations, maybe even the loneliness she tried so hard to disguise under her professionalism --but he stopped himself. Some things were better learned through silence.

Instead, he leaned back, crossing his arms. “You know,” he said, almost idly, “I think you’ll catch your thief eventually.”

She shot him a skeptical glance. “That supposed to be encouragement?”

He smiled faintly. “Something like that. You’re too stubborn not to.”

Pomni exhaled a quiet laugh, the first real one of the night. “You really don’t know when to quit.”

“Never learned how.”

Ming reappeared one last time, setting the bill between them. Pomni reached for it out of habit, but Jax was faster, sliding a few crumpled bills onto the tray before she could protest.

“Don’t—”

“Consider it my apology,” he said lightly. “For interrupting your brooding.”

Pomni hesitated, then let it go. “Fine. But next time—”

“There’s going to be a next time?” he interrupted, grinning.

She froze halfway through her sentence, realizing what she’d said. “Don’t push your luck.”

Jax chuckled, standing. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He slid his coat back on, casting one last glance at her before turning toward the door. The bell chimed softly as he stepped outside into the cool night air.

Behind him, through the glass, Pomni sat still for a long moment, staring into her coffee like she was trying to read the future in it.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized that for the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel quite so tired.

***

The bell over Spudzy’s door gave a soft, metallic chime as Jax stepped out into the evening. The city was cooling into that in-between hour --when the streets were half-alive, the neon signs flickering against the slow creep of dusk. He lingered on the sidewalk, hands shoved into his pockets, breathing in the sharp, familiar scent of asphalt, pizza grease, and far-off rain.

Behind him, the door opened again.
Pomni stepped out, coffee in hand, her coat pulled tighter around her shoulders.

“You always disappear without saying goodbye?” she asked, voice dry.

Jax glanced over, smiling. “Only when I think the goodbye might ruin the moment.”

She huffed out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been frustration. The streetlight above them flickered once, humming faintly. For a heartbeat, the world felt like it was holding its breath --the traffic muted, the sky bruised with violet clouds.

He tilted his head toward the corner. “Come on. Walk with me. I’ll give you your goodbye later.”

Pomni raised an eyebrow. “You make a habit of asking detectives to stroll around with you at night?”

“Only the interesting ones.”

She hesitated --long enough for him to notice. Then, with a quiet sigh, she fell into step beside him. The rhythm of their shoes filled the silence for a while --a syncopated pattern on the wet pavement, half in step, half out.

Downtown had begun to quiet, the chatter of late-night diners and the hum of the tram blending into a kind of low, steady pulse. They passed shuttered storefronts, puddles reflecting bits of red and gold light, the smell of rain clinging to everything.

Pomni was the first to speak. “You do a lot of walking at night?”

“Sometimes,” Jax said. “City looks different when it’s tired. Feels more honest.”

“That’s one word for it,” she muttered.

He shot her a sideways glance. “You don’t trust it?”

“I don’t trust anything when I can’t see where it’s going.”

Jax chuckled. “You sound like my mother.”

“Didn’t think you had one with those manners,” she said before she could stop herself --then winced, almost apologetic.

He didn’t seem offended. Just amused. “Oh, I had one. She just wasn’t particularly good at her job.”

Pomni frowned. “That’s… unfortunate.”

He shrugged. “So’s the world. And that shade of blush you wear.”

Jax couldn’t keep the laugh down as he watched the detective touch her face, gaping at him in offense.

They turned a corner as their bickering continued, following a narrow side street lined with old brick buildings. Somewhere in the distance, a saxophone was playing from an open window --slow, blue, melancholy. The sound followed them like a ghost.

Pomni sipped from her cup eyes still flashing with dying indignation. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like everything’s a metaphor. Or in insults”

He grinned. “Maybe everything is.”

She gave him a look. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet you’re still walking with me.”

“That’s because I don’t trust you not to get into trouble if I don’t. Maybe I’ll catch my guy if I stick around you long enough,”

Jax laughed quietly --not mocking, but warm in a way she seemed to not expect, from her expression. He couldn’t help but notice the irony. “You sound like you’re starting to care.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The park came into view ahead of them --the same one where Jax had met Zooble days before. At night, it looked almost foreign: lamplight bleeding through the fog, the faint smell of wet grass and distant cigarettes. A couple sat under a tree on the far end, whispering to each other. Somewhere near the playground, a can clattered against pavement.

Jax led them to a bench overlooking the small pond in the middle. He dropped down onto it, stretching his arms across the backrest, leaving space beside him. Pomni stood for a moment, clearly debating whether this was a good idea, then sighed and sat down.

The pond reflected the orange shimmer of the streetlights, rippling every now and then as something small disturbed the water’s surface. For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence didn’t feel heavy --just complicated.

Pomni was the one to break it. “You said earlier you like stories. That why you follow the news?”

“You could say that.” He tilted his head. “Maybe I like watching people pretend to make sense of chaos.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You say that like you’re not one of them.”

“I’m not.” He smiled faintly. “I stopped pretending a long time ago.”

Pomni leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You ever think maybe pretending’s what keeps people sane?”

Jax considered that. His gaze wandered to the water, where the reflections broke and shimmered with every faint breeze. “Maybe sanity’s overrated.”

“You would say that.”

“I mean it,” he said, softer now. “Sanity’s just another word for following rules that don’t make sense anymore. Sometimes you’ve got to… bend things. Just to breathe.”

Pomni’s brow furrowed. “You talk like you’ve done that before.”

He smiled without looking at her. “You talk like you haven’t.”

She almost responded --almost --but stopped herself. The quiet that followed was long, filled only by the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of leaves.

Jax looked at her again, studying the lines of her face under the dim light. “Beating yourself up again?”

“That obvious?”

“Only to someone who pays attention.”

Pomni exhaled, her shoulders loosening slightly. “It’s been worse. Just feels like I keep circling the same drain.”

“Maybe you’re not supposed to catch what you’re chasing,” Jax said, leaning back again. “Maybe the point’s the chase.”

She frowned. “That’s a terrible philosophy for law enforcement.”

“It’s a good one for survival.”

Pomni turned to him fully this time, meeting his eyes. “You really believe that?”

“Every damn day.”

There was a beat --a long, steady look --before she laughed quietly, almost despite herself. “You’re infuriating.”

“I’ve been called worse. You really should come up with something more creative.”

They sat like that for a while --two people orbiting something unnamed, both too wary to name it, too intrigued to leave it alone.

The conversation softened after that. Jax asked her about the first case she ever solved, and she surprised herself by telling him --some small-time forgery case that no one else wanted. She talked about the rush of it, the way the world had seemed briefly clear. He listened, genuinely, fingers idly tapping the bench in rhythm with her words.

When she turned the question on him --“What about you?” --Jax’s answer was vague, but there was a truth buried somewhere in it. “You could say that I grew up getting up to no good for a living. First place I ever truly worked for a living was Spudzy's. But it felt like freedom. Guess I’ve been chasing that feeling since, so there’s no point to me leaving now. It pays the rent.”

Pomni gave him a strange look. “That sounds… lonely.”

He met her gaze, his grin fading just slightly. “Maybe it is.”

For a moment, the mask slipped. Just enough for her to see the exhaustion hiding under his bravado. The kind of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep but from trying to live as someone else for too long.

And for a fleeting second, she felt it --empathy. Real and disarming.

Then Jax stood, breaking the spell. “Come on,” he said, voice lighter again. “Before you start psychoanalyzing me.”

She rose too, brushing off her coat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

They walked back toward the street, the glow of the city pulling them out of the quiet of the park. The air had turned crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain again.

When they reached the corner where their paths would split, Pomni stopped. “You’re hard to read, you know that?”

Jax smiled, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Good. Means I’m doing it right.”

She shook her head, but there was a ghost of a smile there too. “Goodnight, Jax.”

He tipped an imaginary hat. “Goodnight, Pomni.”

She turned and started down the block, her silhouette fading into the wash of streetlights. Jax stood there for a long moment, watching her go, the grin slowly sliding off his face until all that was left was thought.

He looked up at the hazy glow of the skyline and exhaled through his teeth. The thought came unbidden as the chill in the spring air.

‘Be careful, Detective. You’re starting to make me like you.’ 

***

Jax didn’t start walking home right away.

He lingered at the corner long after Pomni’s silhouette had vanished down the street --just stood there with his hands in his coat pockets, feeling the echo of her presence in the air. The rain had started again, light as mist, brushing against his skin like static. He tilted his head back, eyes half-closed, letting it gather in his lashes.

The city around him hummed --soft, constant, unfeeling. Somewhere far off, a siren cried and was swallowed by distance.

He started walking, slow at first, then faster as the rhythm of the streets pulled him along. The soles of his shoes slapped against wet concrete, each step syncing with the low beat that had replaced Daisy Bell in his mind. A new tune. Quieter, less manic. But it pulsed the same way --a heartbeat he couldn’t separate from his own.

Pomni’s laugh --short, surprised, real --replayed in his head. He hated that he remembered the sound. Hated that it made the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

He cut through an alley to avoid the noise of the main road. The light there was dim, fractured by puddles and broken signage. Steam rose from a vent nearby, curling up like ghostly fingers.

When he caught his reflection in a window, he stopped.

The glass showed him something that didn’t feel quite like himself --eyes too bright, smile too faint, posture all wrong. He leaned closer, studying it. “You’re losing it,” he murmured. “You’re actually losing it.”

The reflection, of course, didn’t argue. It just looked back --weary, fascinated, a little in love with the very idea of breaking.

He walked on.

By the time he reached his building, the drizzle had turned into a steady patter. His jacket was soaked, hair plastered to his forehead. He fumbled with his keys longer than usual before finally pushing through the door.

Inside, the air was stale --the kind of stillness that reminded him how rarely he came home to anything. His apartment was exactly as he’d left it: dim light from a dying bulb, cluttered table full of half-scribbled notes and empty coffee cups. That single daisy he picked up weeks ago, already wilting, sat in a glass jar by the window.

He paused, staring at it.

It had been bright once --vivid white petals, crisp yellow center. Now it drooped under its own weight, color fading into a dull brown at the edges. He reached out, twirled the stem between his fingers, then let it fall to the table.

“Should’ve known better,” he muttered.

He moved to the couch, dropped onto it with a soft thud, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The laptop still sat where he’d tossed it earlier, the article headline frozen on the screen:
ANTIQUE SHOP BURGLED --AUTHORITIES SUSPECT THE DAISY THIEF

He stared at the photo again --the fake note, the sloppy penmanship, the clumsy red ink. It should’ve amused him the way it had that morning. But it didn’t. Not now.

All he could think of was Pomni standing there at the real scene, sharp eyes dissecting every detail, her mind already two steps ahead. He could see her in his head --coat pulled tight, expression hard, but that flicker of intensity burning behind her eyes.

She’d gotten close before. Too close.

And yet tonight, sitting beside her, listening to her talk about chasing something she couldn’t name --he’d realized something terrifying.
He didn’t want her to stop chasing him.

The thought made his stomach twist.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was supposed to be the mark, the audience, the counterpart that made his performance worth something. A symbol --not a person.
But the way she looked at him tonight, the way her voice softened when she wasn’t trying to sound like the detective --it felt like she’d caught a glimpse of the person underneath.
And worse --it felt like he’d let her. 

He rubbed his face with both hands, groaning quietly. “You’re in deep, idiot.”

The words bounced off the walls, thin and hollow.

He stood up suddenly, pacing the narrow stretch of floor between his couch and the door. The walls felt smaller tonight. Closer. Every reflection --every piece of metal, every glossy surface --seemed to hold a pair of eyes he couldn’t escape.

Caine’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, sweet and cruel as syrup:
You play with your food long enough, Jax, and it starts thinking it’s special.

He clenched his jaw. “She’s not—”
But the lie broke before it finished.

He stopped by the window again, staring out at the city below. The rain slicked the streets, turning the lights into long ribbons of gold and crimson. Somewhere out there, she was probably home --writing notes, rearranging timelines, trying to make sense of the chaos he’d built.

He’d always admired her precision. The way her mind worked like a clock. The way he knew she would stop at nothing to find her criminal. To find him.
And maybe that’s what scared him most.

Because he could feel his own gears slipping.

He wanted to see her again. Not as the detective, not as the adversary --just her.
He wanted to ask her what she’d see if she would ever look at him without exasperation.

But he couldn’t. Because that wasn’t the story he’d written for himself.

He reached for the crumpled notebook on the table and flipped through the pages, stopping where his last poem had been crossed out. Beneath the tear in the paper, he started writing again, the words coming slow, uneven, like they were being dragged out of him:

“She hunts what isn’t lost,
and I hide where I’m most found.
Between us, only distance —
but it’s the distance that keeps the world sound.”

He stared at it for a long time. Then he drew a line through the final word --sound --and wrote safe above it.

It didn’t make it better. But it made it honest.

He closed the notebook and leaned back, the faint buzz of the city bleeding through the walls. His head tipped against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded.

Outside, thunder murmured somewhere over the bay. The lights of a passing car swept briefly across his window, throwing a fractured reflection across the room. For just a second, it looked like someone else was standing there --tall, blurred, haloed by rainlight.

He blinked. Gone.

Jax exhaled through his teeth and laughed softly. “Losing it,” he said again. “Definitely losing it.”

Still --when he finally closed his eyes, the image that lingered wasn’t the city, or Caine, or the ghost of his reflection.
It was her --Pomni’s face half-lit by the neon through the pizzeria window, expression somewhere between suspicion and understanding.

He could still hear her voice, that single, clipped goodbye.

And beneath it all, a quiet thought whispered through the back of his mind, steady and certain:
This isn’t a game anymore.

It was time for his next riddle. 

Chapter Text

The phone was ringing long before Jax realized it wasn’t in his head.

He’d been half-dozing in the crooked chair by the window, a damp towel still clinging to his hair from the rain. Torchwick never stopped raining this time of year -- it just changed moods. Tonight, it was a thin, silvery drizzle that made the city blur together like a watercolor gone wrong. His reflection in the glass looked tired, unfamiliar. Somewhere beneath the hiss of cars and the hum of neon, he could still hear her voice.

You talk like you’ve done that before.

Jax smiled at the memory -- not warmly, but like someone testing a bruise. Pomni had that way of sounding curious and accusing at the same time. Too sharp for her own good. Too genuine for a place like Torchwick. And for reasons he didn’t care to name, that was exactly what kept her lodged in his mind.

The phone trilled again, shrill this time. He let it ring twice more before reaching across the cluttered table and snatching the receiver.

“Yeah?”

“Jax, my boy,” purred the voice on the other end -- smooth, theatrical, and smiling far too wide. “You sound half-dead. Busy night on your day off?”

He glanced at the clock. 2:47 a.m. “You could say that. What do you want, Caine?”

“Straight to business,” Caine said, mock-affronted. “Where’s the charm, the flair? You’re losing your touch, now aren’t you! I’m offended.”

“I’m losing my patience more than anything else, to be honest with you.”

A pause. Then the faint, familiar rustle -- the sound of a card deck being shuffled. Caine never made a call without the cards. Some people smoked when they were thinking; Caine dealt invisible hands to the universe.

“I’ve got a job for you,” Caine said at last, his tone completely shifting into a more businesslike octave.. “A simple one, relatively speaking. You know Harlan’s Fine Timepieces in the city center?”

Jax sat up a little straighter, rubbing a thumb against the scar on his wrist. “Yeah. The one by the high-end boutiques near Crescent Plaza?”

“Exactly. The one where the gold and diamonds shine so bright you’d think they were laughing at the rest of us.” Caine’s voice hummed with amusement. “Harlan’s been late with his contributions -- his little IOUs. The fellow has been working with me for his investments of course-- He’s got something valuable stashed away, something he thinks he can hide from me. That’s where I rely on you to come in.”

“Retrieve,” Jax echoed, leaning back with a grin. “Or steal?”

“Let’s not mince words,” Caine chuckled. “You’ll take everything of value. Cash from the register, whatever’s in the safe. Gold, silver, watches, trinkets -- the works. And you’re after one specific piece. A watch. Gold casing, Roman numerals, engraved: To my darling E. Nothing more. I want it brought back to me, intact. And I want Harlan’s business driven into the ground while you’re at it.”

Jax traced a line in the condensation on the window. “Drive him under. Everything? Not just the watch?”

“Everything,” Caine said, tone clipped now. “I want him shaken. Bank accounts emptied from their safe, customers running for the door, reputation shredded. Make him remember that defying me has consequences.”

“And if I skip the extras?” Jax asked, already knowing the answer. He couldn’t help the way his mind ticked, thinking of the potential gleam of each coin, the slap of cold metal in his hands.

“Then Harlan learns who he’s dealing with in the most painful way,” Caine replied smoothly. “But I don’t think that will be necessary. You’re careful. You’ve done this long enough to know the difference between a job and an amateur hour.”

Jax chuckled softly, almost to himself. “Yeah. Amateur hour.”

Caine’s voice softened, almost theatrical again. “But don’t let the thrill get to you, Jax. Remember, I saw your little bicycle stunt.”

Jax tensed slightly, but said nothing. He knew this was only a reiteration -- a reminder of his limits.

“Bold move, yes,” Caine said. “I admire initiative when it’s controlled. But leave the improvisation to me, hm? And the police…” His voice dropped, velvet-thick and threatening. “Don’t play with your food. Not anymore than necessary. Remember your heart, Jax. Keep it locked away while you’re working. Which is always, of course.”

Jax rolled his eyes, leaning back in the chair. “Sure thing.”

“Good boy.” Caine’s voice clicked into a lighter, more playful tone. “You’ve got a taste for performance, I know. And you’re my best. But that detective -- the one on your trail -- she’s not for you. Shutov, was it? Keep your hands clean and your focus sharper. A distraction could ruin everything, and you can’t afford those. Not with the mountains of debt and interest you still owe.”

He shuffled the cards again -- the faint flutter like wings. “You know I like my distractions,” Jax murmured.

“You’re allowed indulgence in your free time,” Caine said, almost affectionately. “But during a job, your hands, your mind, and your loyalty are mine. I’m after justice, boy. You of all people should know I’ll stop at nothing to get it. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good. Then we understand each other. Retrieve the watch, empty the store, ruin the business, and bring it to me. Nothing extra, nothing personal, nothing to leave behind -- save for my signature. That IOU is mine, as always.”

Jax’s fingers drummed on the table. He thought of the daisy he had tucked into his notebook, the riddles bleeding ink across the pages. His secret rebellion. Caine didn’t care for such touches. He didn’t approve of the flair Jax left behind -- the puzzles meant for Pomni -- and that made them all the more delicious.

“Understood,” he said again.

“And Jax,” Caine added, soft now, almost fond. “Don’t let sentiment rule your hands. This city rewards ghosts, not hearts. Remember that.”

Jax stared at the dim reflection in the window, half of him already calculating, half lost in thought. Caine had called him back to reality. The watch. The ruin. The obedience.

Caine’s chuckle echoed one last time, low and triumphant. “I have faith in you, my boy. Don’t make me regret it.”

Click.

The dial tone hummed in Jax’s ear. He set the receiver down slowly, letting the weight of it press into his chest. Everything Caine had said -- all the instructions, the threats, the carefully measured expectations -- lingered like smoke in the cramped apartment.

The rain had slowed to a faint hiss. Outside, the city glittered with neon, its lights fractured by wet streets and the distant rumble of traffic.

Jax stared at the table again -- at the notebook open in front of him, the glitter pen bleeding a crimson signature that was not his own, but Caine’s: IOU :(.

Beneath it, his own words sprawled across the page:

Tick-tock, little daisy--time’s on your side.
The bells will sing when the liar has died.

He ran a hand through his damp brown hair, thinking of Pomni. The detective’s sharp gaze, the tilt of her head, the way she asked questions as if the city itself whispered secrets only to her. She had no idea the truth, yet she haunted him, even in the small, dim apartment, even now.

Jax smirked faintly. The watch, the jewels, the ruin of Harlan’s Fine Timepieces -- it was all business, all Caine. But the daisy, the riddles, the little games left for Pomni? That was his. That was the chaos he created for himself, tucked inside the order of another man’s world.

He leaned back in the chair, letting the rain tap its rhythm against the window. The city murmured around him, alive, unfeeling, infinite.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, the refrain of Daisy Bell started to play again, looping softly beneath the hiss of the storm.

Jax’s fingers hovered over the notebook, tracing the red ink.

“Lock my heart away,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Sure thing, boss.”

The rain applauded against the glass, and for a moment, he let himself simply listen. The city hummed. The watch waited. Pomni waited. And somewhere in the middle of it all, he waited for nothing at all -- except the thrill of the next act.

***

The night breathed wet and soft, mist curling along the streetlights like slow smoke. Jax moved through the alley behind Harlan’s Fine Timepieces, each footfall measured, silent against the slick cobblestones that gleamed like black glass under the drizzle. His coat was pulled tight, hood brushing low over his forehead, the collar brushing against the back of his neck with a damp, sticky chill. Water beaded on the edges of his gloves, dripping silently into the puddles at his feet, the rhythm of the rain punctuating his heartbeat. He paused a step from the rear service door, letting the drizzle patter across his hood and the cobblestones, the hiss of moisture on stone acting like a metronome for the plan he had rehearsed in his mind all day yesterday, after receiving Caine’s phone call. Every detail had been logged, every motion rehearsed--he had walked these alleys in thought a hundred times, imagining the exact angle of shadows, the timing of a janitor’s creak, the tilt of a camera lens.

Harlan’s Fine Timepieces was more than a shop; it was a cathedral of wealth, a shrine to polished wood and glass that held centuries of care in their velvet beds. The faint hum of the security panel seeped through the walls, a low, almost sympathetic murmur that reminded Jax how alive the building was. Each tick of the digital clock somewhere inside echoed in his mind like a drumbeat, syncing with the rain, syncing with him. He could picture the brass locks, the subtle sheen on the wooden display cases, the glint of diamonds and gold in the muted lamplight--it was all mapped out in his memory.

He crouched slightly, pressing a gloved hand against the damp brick wall, eyes scanning for any movement. The alley smelled of wet stone, oil from a nearby lamp post, and the faint sweetness of the rain running through the gutters. Jax noted every shadow, every flicker of light from the street outside. There--at the corner window, the reflection of a passing car. Slow. Careful. Not a threat, but a reminder that even the perfect plan demanded vigilance.

This wasn’t just about theft. It was a dance, a performance where each step could unravel the story he had carefully written. Jax had watched the store for weeks: memorized the rhythms of the night--when the janitor rolled the empty trash cart past the side door, wheels squeaking softly against the stone; when the alarm lights blinked in their careful, almost imperceptible pattern; when the cameras swiveled toward the street and paused, unaware of the observer who already knew their every twitch. Timing was everything. Every second calculated, every movement rehearsed, a choreography of shadows and silence. One misstep could leave him exposed, one heartbeat off could turn a quiet masterpiece into chaos.

And yet, as he crouched in the mist, the wet stone cold beneath his knees, a thrill ran through him, sharp and electric. This city, this night, this shop--it was all his stage. And somewhere, just beyond the glass and the shadows, the first bell of the game was about to ring.

He pulled a small device from his pocket, an old thing, something that Ribbit had made years ago.  It was jury-rigged and occasionally unreliable, but perfect for tonight. It would make the cameras skip just long enough -- thirty-five seconds, maybe forty -- to let him do what he came for. His fingers traced the buttons. One press, one gentle hum, and the building’s glass eyes would blink, miss him, and return to normal as if nothing had happened. 

He slid the door open silently. No creak, no rustle. The smell hit him immediately: wood polish, the faintest tang of metal, the subtle perfume of leather watch straps. He inhaled it like a drug. Each breath reminded him why he loved this. The adrenaline wasn’t just for survival; it was for the show, the game, the message.
The hush inside felt sacred. The air was warmer than the street, stale with the memory of customers and money. Dust motes floated lazily in the light spilling from a motion sensor that hadn’t quite woken. The place looked untouched, waiting for someone like him to make the first cut. The silence was so deep that Jax could hear the faint tick-tick of the wall clocks around the room, all out of sync, a jittery orchestra of seconds. Their rhythm filled the gaps in his breathing, in the tiny rushes of air between movements.

He crouched by the first display case, a line of gold and silver watches glinting under the warm glow of overhead lamps. Each one had a story, a weight, a heartbeat of its own. Jax carefully brushed the fluoropolymer over his gloves and hands -- no prints. No evidence. Nothing to betray him. He touched each latch gently, the click almost imperceptible, a whisper that belonged only to him.
The glass reflected him for an instant -- a pale smudge of a man, more shadow than shape. His grin looked ghostly. He thought of Pomni again, how she might stand in this same spot later, her gloves dusted with chalk, her mind piecing together fragments of his signature. He could almost hear her voice, that clipped curiosity of hers cutting through the quiet: “Why this one? Why here?” He pictured her frown as vividly as he could see the shimmer of gold.

Inside the case, he started with the watches -- gold faces, delicate hands frozen in time, small engravings curling like whispers. He lifted each with reverence, sliding them into the padded cloth bag under his jacket. He counted in his head -- one, two, three -- like a man counting breaths. Each movement had a rhythm, each pause a punctuation.
He paused occasionally, listening. The faint groan of pipes, a hum of electricity, the low echo of rain tapping the window. Torchwick’s stormy pulse matched his own. The world outside was smeared and silent; in here, the clockwork kingdom held its breath for him. The air was heavy with wealth and age, thick enough to taste.

“Tick-tock, little daisy…” he muttered under his breath, the riddle spinning in his mind as he worked. “…time is on your side. The bells will sing when the liar has died.” He could imagine Pomni reading it, imagining her eyebrow twitch, the faint frown as she tried to decipher the code. She wouldn’t know he had been this close, had touched each object she would catalog in her mind, had orchestrated the dance around her attention. But she would feel it. That much, he promised himself.
He let the words roll in his mouth like poetry, the rhythm aligning with his pulse. A flicker of something unguarded stirred behind his ribs -- pride, maybe, or longing. He hated how often those two felt the same.

Next came the rings, necklaces, and loose coins in small velvet dishes. He picked each item with careful attention, noting how light or heavy it felt, imagining the subtle panic when the shopkeeper discovered the loss. He allowed himself a smirk at the thought -- not for the money, but for the artistry of the reaction, the elegance of chaos.
He worked like a craftsman, not a thief -- cataloging his movements with obsessive precision. A misplaced step, a rough touch, and the whole illusion would shatter. The thrill was in the balance -- the razor’s edge between control and collapse. The daisy thief never made mistakes.

He paused when he reached the back safe, a reinforced thing of steel that smelled faintly of oil and metal polish. He crouched, kneeling in the narrow aisle, eyes scanning for motion. The device in his hand blinked again -- cameras skipping in near-perfect silence. Timing was everything. The click of the safe door yielded like a whispered secret, and he opened it with deliberate precision. Inside: bundles of cash, marked envelopes, and the watch Caine had demanded he retrieve. He lifted it last, turning it in his hand, feeling its weight. Perfect. Untouched. A story waiting for its conclusion.
He studied it longer than he should have. The engraving caught the low light -- To my darling E. -- words tender enough to sting. He wondered briefly who E was, what promises had been wound around that watch, and whether they’d already broken. He thought about promises in general -- Caine’s, Pomni’s belief in justice, his own empty ones -- and felt the corners of his grin tighten.

He didn’t ransack. He didn’t smash anything except for the grand finale. But the daisy -- the signal, the message -- was not something he could ignore. From his coat pocket, he drew a pressed white bloom, its petals still crisp despite the damp night, and laid it atop the velvet cushion where the gold watch had rested. It was his signature, his rebellion, his message to Pomni -- a hint, a tease, a nudge toward chaos. Let Caine fume. Let the detective puzzle it out. Let the city murmur.

Jax found he didn’t really care.

He lingered a moment, admiring the flower’s delicate shape against the red velvet. The contrast pleased him -- purity over greed, softness in a room of steel and gold. The first time he’d left a daisy, it had been impulse; now, it was ritual.

The final step was the flourish. Jax drew the small hammer from beneath his coat, felt the weight of it in his hand, the potential for spectacle. The front window shattered under his blow, a rush of crystalline sound into the misty night. Alarm bells screamed, but it didn’t matter. The performance was over, the stage set. Inside, the theft had been ghostly, silent, perfect. Outside, it looked like disaster.
The sound thrilled him -- not the destruction, but the timing. Right on cue, like the cymbal crash at the end of a symphony. The alarms blared their shrill applause as he stepped back, admiring the reflection of the red lights flashing against the rain-slicked glass. The city would wake soon, and Pomni would follow the echo.

He left the glittery IOU note at the register as always; a splash of color amid the sterile glass and wood. The frown, the sparkles, the illegible handwriting -- all meant for everyone else to find. The riddle that he snuck underneath however-- for the detective alone. The daisy and the riddle would be found first, of course, proof that someone had been clever, playful, and frighteningly close.
Before he turned away, he glanced back once more at the bloom resting in the dark. The alarms painted it crimson for an instant, and it looked almost alive. Jax smiled to himself -- a private, secret smile -- and whispered, barely audible over the din, “For you, detective.”

Then he was gone, swallowed by rain and smoke, the ghost of laughter trailing in his wake.

Jax lingered in the alley, listening to the echo of alarms and the drip of rain off the gutter. The world felt suspended -- caught between heartbeat and hush. He could taste metal in the air, the sharp tang of tension that came after the act, when the curtain hadn’t quite fallen yet.

He leaned against the wet brick, eyes half-lidded, breath slow enough to feel the fog pulse around him. The shop behind him -- Harlan’s Fine Timepieces -- was no longer just a store. It was a confession written in glass and shadow, the kind of message that didn’t need words to be understood.

He thought of Pomni.
Her sharp eyes, her quiet precision.
The way she moved through chaos as if it were choreography -- always deliberate, never rushed. He could picture her now, standing over the shattered display cases, tracing his trail not with outrage, but with intrigue. She would tilt her head the way she did when the puzzle began to make sense. He could almost hear her voice, low and certain: He wants to be found.

He smiled, faintly. She wasn’t wrong.

Then came the other thought -- the shadow behind the curtain.
Caine.
The name alone carried weight, like the hush before an execution. Caine’s disapproval was never loud, never immediate; it was patient, coiled. The kind of danger that smiled while it built the gallows. Jax could feel that leash even now -- the phantom tug of a master he’d long since stopped pretending to obey.

Tonight was his rebellion dressed as art.

Each heartbeat was a drum in the theatre of his mind, every inhale a cue, every exhale a line delivered to an unseen audience. The rain played its percussion on the awnings above, soft and relentless. He closed his eyes and listened. The rhythm matched his pulse.

He could still smell the leather from the cases, the faint trace of the janitor’s soap, the ozone hum of the disabled alarm -- all the tiny details he’d memorized, rehearsed, worshipped. There was no thrill like this: the instant between creation and discovery. Between chaos and meaning.

He crouched and picked up a daisy petal from the puddle near his boot -- one of the calling cards he’d dropped moments earlier, now half-dissolved by rain. Its white edges bled into the gray water like something surrendering.

“Every act needs a symbol,” he murmured.

He tucked the petal into his glove and turned toward the mouth of the alley. The mist there was thick, luminous under the streetlights -- a curtain waiting to be walked through.

As he moved, each step was deliberate, almost ceremonial. His reflection ghosted across the puddles, fractured by ripples. He looked like someone else -- or perhaps like all his selves at once. The thief. The poet. The liar. The man who wanted to be caught just enough to prove he existed.

He allowed himself one final thought before the city swallowed him again:

The stage was set.
The audience would arrive soon.
Pomni, the hunter, would follow every breadcrumb -- the daisy, the IOU, the riddle. Each clue a line in a story he’d written for her alone.

And somewhere, in the wings, Caine would be watching.

Jax smiled into the mist, breath ghosting silver.
“Let the curtain rise,” he whispered.

Then he was gone.

***

The rain had finally stopped by morning, leaving the city slick and shivering under a pale sun. The clouds hung low over Torchwick, bruised and heavy, their bellies dragging across the skyline. From somewhere down on the street, the faint hiss of tires on wet pavement rose and fell, a slow, tired rhythm that felt like the city trying to breathe again after holding its breath all night.

Jax slept like a man caught between worlds -- one eye open in the dark, muscles still humming from the night’s precision. His dreams came in flashes: glass breaking in reverse, a daisy unfolding petal by petal, Pomni’s silhouette blurred by mist. The adrenaline hadn’t fully left him; it pulsed beneath his skin like a quiet drum, a ghost of motion his body refused to forget.

His room sat in the dim half-light, where everything seemed touched by a dull gray haze. The curtains were half-drawn, stained from years of smoke and weather, and the thin stripe of daylight that made it through the slats carved across his bed like a blade. The air smelled faintly of rain and old dust, the kind that clung to his clothes and skin no matter how many times he tried to wash it off.

The bed was unmade -- sheets tangled and twisted, a pillow halfway to the floor. The rest of the room was a quiet disaster: a constellation of discarded clothes, sketches, and crumpled soda cans scattered across the floor. On the small desk against the far wall, a single lamp cast a weak orange glow over the clutter. Above it, the wall was plastered with clippings -- newspaper articles, photographs, notes scribbled on scraps of receipt paper.

Pomni Shutov Investigates Another Break-In.
Caine and Abel Enterprises Expands Theatre Holdings.
Daisy Thief Strikes Again -- Police Baffled.

The headlines overlapped like layers of thought -- a collage of obsessions, patterns, connections only Jax could read. Strings of red ink and pencil marks linked faces to places, words to gestures. It wasn’t madness, not exactly. It was choreography -- the architecture of control.

He shifted under the blanket, breath catching. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was awake or still dreaming. The faint tick of the broken wall clock filled the silence, irregular but steady enough to mimic a heartbeat.

Then the phone buzzed. Once. A low hum against the nightstand.
He didn’t move. The vibration tangled itself in the rhythm of the dream, another sound among many.

Then it buzzed again.
Persistent. Sharp.

Jax’s eyes opened. The ceiling swam into focus, the thin beam of light cutting across his vision. He turned his head toward the burner phone, still face-down beside the bed, the sound crawling through the quiet like a wasp trapped in glass.

A third buzz. Louder this time -- or maybe it just felt that way.

He reached for it lazily, dragging his hand across the sheets. His fingers brushed cold metal and plastic, and the motion was slow, reluctant, as if answering would make the night real again.

The screen lit his face in the dimness, and there it was -- the name he’d half expected, half dreaded.

CAINE.

The letters burned in the darkness, small and sharp as teeth.

Jax exhaled, long and low. For a few seconds, he just stared at the name. Then, finally, he thumbed the screen and brought it to his ear.

“Yeah,” he rasped.

“Good morning, Jax.” The voice was smooth, measured, too awake for this hour. “I trust you got some rest.”

A pause. Jax swung his long legs over the side of the bed, bare feet brushing the cold floorboards. “I was getting there.”

“I imagine it was… a long night,” Caine said. There was no warmth in the words -- only that dry, theatrical cadence he used when every syllable meant something else.

Jax glanced at the wall -- at the empty space where the daisy from last night’s job had been pinned before he took it. “You could say that.”

“You did well,” Caine continued. “But we need to discuss a few details. Come to my office.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.” The faintest click of ice against glass filtered through the line, a sound too civilized for a threat, but somehow worse for it. “I’d hate to think we’ve lost our timing.”

The line went dead.

Jax stared at the phone blearily for a long moment. He could still hear the echo of Caine’s voice, like the low hum of a stage before the lights come up.

He dropped the phone onto the bed and stood. His movements were slow, mechanical -- shower, shirt, coat. The ritual steadied him. He caught his reflection in the mirror on his way out: eyes red, mouth set in something between defiance and fatigue, as he ruffled the water out of his damp hair, preparing to grin his way out of trouble once more.

As he buttoned his collar, he muttered, “You want a meeting, you’ll get a performance.”

*** 

Jax ascended the narrow, creaking staircase that led to the upper floors of the theater. The greatest showman once again drifted faintly up through the cracked plaster, a ghostly reminder of the matinée still playing below. Hugh’s voice, too loud and too practiced, spilled through the floorboards in a vibrato that caught at Jax’s teeth. The melody should have been comforting. It wasn’t. It was a drumbeat marking the approach of what he both dreaded and anticipated.

His steps were measured, each footfall deliberate, the soles of his boots catching on the worn wood. The handrail rattled faintly under his fingers. He paused for a fraction of a second, listening to the creaks, the distant clapping of an oblivious audience, the hum of machinery from the projection room. Each sound layered over the last, creating a murmur that tightened in his chest. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, the theater breathed like a living organism, and in that rhythm, Jax felt the pulse of Caine’s expectations.

The door loomed above him, flaking paint giving way to the faint sheen of gold leaf that had survived decades. He hesitated, fingertips brushing the doorknob. Bubble leaned against the wall in the corner, an immovable shadow of quiet menace. One eye on Jax, one eye on the stairwell, the silent sentinel waited. His presence was suffocating, yet contained. A single word from him could unravel everything, but he said none.

Jax turned the knob, the latch giving way with a hollow click. He stepped inside. The theater room enveloped him immediately: the scent of dust, velvet, and faintly burnt popcorn clinging to the heavy air. Music floated up still, but here, in the upper box, it was drowned beneath a heavier, more oppressive hum. And then there was Caine.

He sat at his desk, legs crossed, cane propped elegantly against the wood. The pinstriped coat was immaculate, hands gloved, posture perfect. But the moment Jax’s eyes met his, all of that performance shattered. The man radiated fury wrapped in sugar. Chipper. Smiling. Too bright. The kind of smile that made teeth ache.

“Ahhh… my delightful Jax!” Caine’s voice was a bell, sharp and ringing, though undeniably theatrical. “Up so early? Or is it late? Time is a peculiar little thing, isn’t it? Slipping between our fingers like… like sand. Or blood.” He paused, letting the words settle, the tremor of menace barely masked beneath chirping cadence. “And yet, you’ve done something quite remarkable this time. A flourish most spectacular.”

Jax stood near the desk, grin fixed in place, posture casual but alert. His hands tucked into pockets, thumbs circling empty space. He met Caine’s eyes evenly, feeling the prickling heat behind them. He knew exactly what was coming.

“You left me a little gift, didn’t you?” Caine’s voice rose with sweetness that was all the more terrifying for its contrast. He tapped the desk, sharp, crisp. “A daisy, Jax. A poem. How… intimate. How…absolutely  unnecessary. Do you enjoy testing me? I gave you clear instructions.”

Jax’s grin didn’t falter, but his jaw stiffened slightly. He said nothing. Silence was safer than whatever sarcastic retort was bubbling up in his throat.

“Oh, I see,” Caine continued, leaning forward. His voice was still sugary, still theatrical, but every syllable dripped with controlled anger. “You believe it is a joke. You believe it is clever, yes? Little Jax playing at hearts and words, weaving charm into the very air of my theater. But this…” He gestured at the desk, at the invisible line where the daisy had been, “this is carelessness masquerading as art. Foolishness masquerading as whimsy. And I do not. tolerate. carelessness.”

Bubble shifted only slightly, silent as stone, eyes glinting with quiet judgment. One finger tapped the side of the chair. One word might ruin everything.

Jax’s body tensed under the attention, the familiar grin now a mask stretched a little thinner. His thoughts raced--calculated, careful. He had rules. One rule above all: never kill. Never. And he knew that Caine knew it. That knowledge made the moment heavier, more perilous. It included himself too. He would never waste his life on a moment running errands for the sake of one man’s gluttony. 

“Ahhh, but let us not dwell on the banalities of mistakes,” Caine crooned, rising from the desk with a slow, deliberate elegance. His cane tapped a soft rhythm on the floorboards. “Let us speak of opportunity. My darling, wonderful, infuriating Jax. You see, I’ve been watching our little pizza establishment next door. As a businessman does of course-- keeping tabs on his land. That’s why it was ever so curious to me when a certain new regular caught my eye. 

Jax’s fight against any sarcastic retort he could make immediately died a quick death in his throat, and for one horrifying moment, his grin twitched, giving him dead away. Caine’s heterochromatic blue and green eyes widened sickeningly in delight, pearly teeth glinting in the low light of his dramatically lit office. 

“Oh yes, the clever little observer, the curious eye that follows without ever being seen. The young upstart detective protégée, Pominerva J. Shutov. She’s a darling one, isn’t she.” Caine danced around his desk like a child who knew a secret they could hardly keep.

 And you…” His voice dropped into a velvet drawl, eyes narrowing with predatory focus. “You are… distracted. Enamored, are you not? Obsessed, perhaps? Such dangerous inclinations.”

Jax’s fingers flexed, curling briefly into invisible fists. He allowed the outward mask of casual detachment to remain, though the heat behind his eyes flared.

“Your little flirtations with chaos… they amuse me,” Caine continued, stepping closer, his smile impossibly bright. “But they also complicate matters. And complications are tedious. Nasty. Dirty. Expensive. And yet… they make for such exquisite games.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “You are clever, Jax. Imaginative. But do not confuse charm with immunity. Do not confuse wit with safety. You are fragile. Now, even more so than ever. A fragile pawn is useless to me. You. are useless.”

The theatricality was choking, wrapping around Jax’s chest like a vice. Bubble remained in the corner, silent and monumental, watching. Every instinct in Jax screamed caution. His mind flickered, thoughts darting like moths in a jar.

“Here is the crux,” Caine continued, pacing with a flourish that made the air shimmer. “You have been allowed leeway. A measure of freedom. And yet, this daisy, this poem…” He snapped his fingers, eyes blazing, smile still cloying. “You have left breadcrumbs. Clues! Playthings for the detective. And I do not leave my possessions--my tools--untouched.” Caine’s voice rose with every word he spoke. “Do you have any idea what it is you’ve been risking? My empire. Everything you have and own is from me. And this is how you repay me!?”

Jax’s lips pressed into a thinner line behind the grin, body coiled, ready to react if necessary, though outwardly immobile.

“You understand, Jax,” Caine said, stopping inches from him, voice now deadly quiet. “Every action has a consequence. Every misstep, a price. And yet… I am not cruel. I am merely firm.” His voice, light and teasing, belied the edge of terror beneath. 

“Due to your insolence of course, detective Shutov must be… removed. Permanently. And you…” He leaned closer, so close Jax could feel the wintery scent of his breath, “you will ensure it is done by your own hand. Or you may discover how interest grows when debts go unpaid. Let us not forget the fate of Ribbit, of course.”

The name hit like a bell of ice against bone. Jax’s chest tightened, every memory of his friend--the fall, the scream, the cold finality--flickering across his mind. His mask remained, grin fixed, but inside a storm roared. Ribbit’s death had been the instrument of his servitude. His ongoing debt to Caine, the chains on his life, had been built from that single, devastating loss.

Caine’s eyes glittered with sadistic delight. “Yes, Ribbit. My favorite cautionary tale. You see, my dear, every life is an investment. Every soul a coin in my treasury. And you…you are the steward of that capital. Fail, and the consequences ripple.” He let the word linger, a delicate dagger hovering.

Jax’s hands twitched at his sides. The thought of killing the detective--or even carrying out such an order--violated every rule he lived by. His chest tightened, throat dry. Yet outwardly, he remained composed. “I… understand,” he said lightly, voice clipped, neutral. A fiery rage burned hot within his chest, and he felt a bead of sweat drip down between his shoulder blades.

Caine’s smile widened, terrifyingly bright, even as the anger simmered beneath it. “Good. Yes, compliance. Obedience. But… do not mistake it for… enthusiasm.” He sat back down, gloved hands clasped theatrically. “You may try to play at morality, Jax, but the world does not reward niceties. The theater is merciless. And I am its director.”

The room seemed to shrink, the walls bending under the weight of his performance. Jax felt the pressure, the impossibility of the task pressing in. Bubble’s silent vigil only heightened the tension, an immutable force of observation.

“You will remove this obstacle of yours,” Caine continued, voice now lilting, almost cheerful, a marionette’s melody of cruelty. “Detective Shutov, the charming, persistent interloper. She is… inconvenient. And yet, I know your… affections… complicate matters. How deliciously tragic.” He leaned forward, voice dropping into the silken threat. “Remember, Jax, the alternative is far less theatrical.”

Jax’s fingers curled into fists behind his back. He did not speak. To speak would be to commit, even indirectly. Yet his mind spun, plotting, calculating. His loyalty, his survival, and the tiny, fragile life of Pomni now collided in a torturous equation with no solution.

Caine’s eyes gleamed, sensing the hesitation, the internal storm he could not see but could feel. “Ah, yes… the silent treatment. My favorite. It is dramatic, yes? It is tense. You feel it, do you not? The weight of choice? The impossibility? And yet… my sweet Jax, the theater must continue. The story cannot pause.”

He gestured with a theatrical sweep toward the thin crowd of moviegoers below, the theater lights catching the dust motes like tiny stars. “Outside, the audience claps for ignorance, unaware of the stagecraft that binds them. And you… you stand in the wings, holding the script… the power… the burden. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Jax’s jaw tightened, heart hammering, and he felt the mask begin to strain. Rage, dread, and desperation stirred inside him. To speak would be betrayal. To act would be death--or worse. And yet, silence alone could not protect him.

Caine tapped the ledger, eyes glinting. “You have until the end of the month. Until then, you may plot, scheme, despair… but remember this, my delightful little prodigy: the ledger waits. It keeps a careful tally of every debt, every loyalty, every failure. And it is unforgiving.”

Bubble shifted slightly, the only word leaving his lips, a low, gravelly “Unrelenting.”

Jax’s mind screamed behind the mask. Ribbit. Pomni. Himself. The mask of calm, the fixed grin, the carefully measured movements--they were all a lie. And yet, outwardly, nothing changed. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Understood.”

Caine’s smile widened, eyes sparkling like cruel stars. “Splendid! Such obedience! Such potential… constrained by something so useless as morality. How deliciously tragic.”

He waved a hand at Jax in dismissal, sitting back in his chair like a man unburdened from the worries of the world, though seemingly thought better of it before the brunet had the opportunity to move, leaning forward in a cruel earnest, fixing Jax with the stare he loathed the most. 

“You will kill the detective, Jax. And I will know if you do it the way I have asked, remember. My eyes are everywhere. Do this, and I might consider letting you back into my good graces.”

It was all too much. Jax’s nails pressed so hard into his palms from his clenched fists that he would have to nurse the resulting half circles imprinted there later. It took everything within him to meet his captors bi-colored stare, grin falling in defeat. 

“I understand, Caine.”

Caine did not smile, instead simply sighed, leaning back in his chair once again.

“Good. Now go. I’m tired of seeing your lying face in my office.”

Jax turned, careful, precise, every movement controlled. Each step toward the door felt like walking a tightrope over fire. The mask was perfect. The grin, unshakable. But the mind behind it was a storm, a war between who he was, what he would allow, and what the ledger demanded.

Once outside the office, the echo of Caine’s laughter followed him down the stairs, a haunting lullaby. Each step measured, every footfall deliberate. The music from the theater below swelled and then diminished, a ghostly chorus underscoring the impossible choice before him.

Alone in the dim hallway, he finally allowed a flicker of the storm inside to surface, just behind closed doors. He leaned against the wall, forehead pressed to the cracked plaster, hands curling against his chest. Ribbit. Pomni. And the ledger. A calculus of morality, survival, and vengeance that had no solution, no reprieve, no mercy.

Every instinct screamed, every muscle twitched, every thought circled back to the same impossible equation. He could not kill. He could not betray the only rule that had kept him sane-- kept him alive. Least of all…her. But Caine… Caine would not wait, would not forgive, would not allow hesitation.

And so Jax began to plan--not how to comply, not how to resist, but how to survive.

*** 

By the time Jax reached the building above the pawn shop, he felt the mask beginning to crack. The narrow staircase smelled faintly of mildew and wood polish, a mundane scent that contrasted horribly with the terror still clinging to his thoughts. He fumbled with the key to his apartment, hands shaking slightly--just enough for the lock to resist him as if mocking the boy who lived by rules and masks.

Inside, the room was small, cluttered, familiar. The bed was still unmade, a heap of tangled sheets and yesterday’s clothes, and the puddles on the street below caught the sunlight through the single window, reflecting fragments of gray sky across the walls. Jax dropped his coat on a chair and paced, bare feet brushing against the constellation of scattered sketches, receipts, and soda cans. Each step was sharp in the silent apartment, as if the floorboards themselves had become witnesses to the outrage in his chest.

He pressed his palms to his face, letting the weight of it all press against him: Caine’s chipper anger, the gleam of delight in his eyes, the casual cruelty of giving a death order as if asking for tea. His fists balled at his sides, then relaxed, then tightened again. He’d never killed anyone. Never. Not anyone who got in his way, not a stray alley cat, not even the rats that scuttled beneath Spudzy’s floors. That was his line. And now Caine had crossed it.

Jax’s jaw flexed as he walked to the window, staring down at the alley below. The puddles reflected the distorted city like broken glass. He could imagine Pomni there, unaware, as he had watched her walk past Spudzy’s day after day. Sharp eyes, relentless curiosity, always chasing, always unraveling. And now--because of him--she had become a target.

He moved to his desk, hands trailing across the clippings he had pinned there: Pomni’s articles, photographs, sketches. He lingered over them, fingers brushing the edges of each image, each word. Detective Shutov, the bold name, a flare that had ignited a storm. Rage coiled inside his stomach licking up his insides, and he barely made it to his grimy bathroom, dry heaving into the sink. 

He couldn’t do it. God, he couldn’t do it. He’d rather die. He would rather-

It was getting hard to breathe. The retching had paused, and Jax ran his hands wildly through his hair, stumbling backwards into the wall, where he sank against it, gasping for purchase against the invisible fist that was closing against his lungs. 

His eyes spun, unable to focus on anything. Desperately he tried to ground himself. To feel anything but the impending panic settling in on him. It wasn’t working, a dry--tearless sob ripping from his throat unbidden. What have I done. What have I done. GOD-

“Hey. Chill, fella.” 

He was suddenly twelve again, gaps in his teeth where the adult ones had just began to grow in. Knees scraped to all hell, blood spattering the sidewalk where he had taken the hardest tumble of his life. 

Ribbit stood there, crouched in front of him, a chiding smile on his freckled face. His blond hair had been long then-- tied back into a tail that fell over his shoulder. He reached forward, wiping the stream of tears off of Jax’s face. 

“That was a pretty hard fall, huh? You should be more careful on those fire escapes next time.” Jax responded the way any child would in his particular situation, and cried some more. Anger, frustration, grief over the now perished skin of his knees and the scars that would replace it. 

Ribbit had sighed, removing the green zip-up that he always wore, using it to wipe up the crimson mess around the wounds. It had shocked Jax enough to stop his crying-- watching as the older boy did his best to fix the worst of the carnage. 

“I never want to climb the escapes again.” he finally hiccuped, wiping his running nose with his sleeve. Ribbit didn’t look up at him, but chucked softly. 

“Don’t say that, bud. You just gotta be a little careful next time. We all have a good fall every now and again.” 

Jax hadn’t believed him then. It truthfully took months before he would consider stepping out onto a balcony, but by some miracle, he had gotten there. 

‘Not by some miracle. It was Ribbit.’ 

He was back in his apartment in a moment, staring at the cool tile of his bathroom once again, eyes dry and knees scarred, but whole. His body felt numb, though he was no longer heaving as if his life were depending on it. Gently, he traced the outline of a water-stained tile with his finger, longing for the company of someone he would never see again. 

He wondered if he would long for Pomni’s company late at Spudzy’s as well. 

He balled his fist, thinking of Ribbit. His kindness, despite his flaws. 

He wished he could have been like him. 

Maybe…a glimmer of something there. In the corner of his mind, where he housed everything he refused to let anyone else see. A thought, lazily drifting its way to the surface. 

Stupidity. Because of corse it was. God it was stupid. But- 

Jax inhaled, running his hands through his thoroughly tousled hair, a manic twitch at the corners of his mouth like his grin was hiding just beyond the numbness. 

It was a plan. A god-forsaken fucking stupid idea. 

But it was better than nothing. 

Chapter Text

The city still smelled like rain when Pomni Shutov arrived at Harlan’s Fine Timepieces.

It was early -- that bleached-gray hour when even the neon signs looked tired, their light bleeding faintly against the wet asphalt. The gutters murmured with runoff, and the last of the night’s drizzle slid down the shopfronts like sweat. The city, she thought, was always hungover at dawn -- reeling from its own noise, ashamed of what it had done in the dark.

She stood under the narrow awning of the shop, coat dripping, watching the water bead and fall from the edge in rhythmic little drops. The shop’s glass façade was fractured-- burst inward from the outside and shards clinging hopelessly to the gaping frame with nothing but a prayer. Behind that fractured mirror of glass, she could make out the dark interior -- still, silent, waiting.

It had been hours since the alarms went off, and yet the scene still felt fresh, raw, like a wound that refused to clot. Yellow police tape stretched across the doorway, its surface damp and fluttering in the breeze. The words DO NOT CROSS gleamed faintly beneath a slick of water, distorted by the dim reflection of streetlights giving up their shift.

She hadn’t been given the authorization to be here, but that wouldn’t stop Pomni.

A few uniforms lingered, too exhausted to pretend they weren’t curious. Their voices murmured low, half-swallowed by the whisper of rain and the slow hum of the city coming awake. One of them noticed her and straightened, the faintest flicker of relief crossing his face. “Detective Shutov,” he said, raising a hand.

Pomni nodded her head in a wordless answer. She didn’t need to say anything. Her presence said enough.

She ducked under the tape and stepped into the threshold. The click of her boots against the puddled tile cut through the quiet like punctuation in a sentence no one wanted to finish.

The smell hit her first -- metallic, but not blood. Sharper. The scent of wet dust, glass, and the faint antiseptic tang of polish -- expensive, artificial, the kind that clung to jewelry stores and old money. It was the smell of wealth pretending it couldn’t decay.

She paused and inhaled. She always did that -- took one long breath at every new scene. People thought it was a quirk, maybe even superstition. But to Pomni, it was calibration. She could taste what kind of crime it was before she even saw it. Panic had a scent. So did precision.

This was precision.

The light inside was fractured, uneven. Only half the fixtures still worked, and those that did buzzed with a sickly orange glow, trembling slightly in their sockets. It made everything shimmer, like the whole room was submerged beneath amber water. The glass from the cases caught that light and threw it back in scattered fragments, little mirrors reflecting her shape as she moved.

The cases themselves were gutted cleanly -- the velvet displays stripped bare, the watches gone, their outlines left behind in faint ovals of dust. A few untouched clocks ticked unevenly from the walls, though it had seemed that some stopped entirely. The sound they made wasn’t quite rhythm -- it was more like a collective heartbeat, weak and arrhythmic.

Her criminal had been here.

That thought came without ceremony, without thrill, just as a certainty.

She didn’t smile. Not really. But there was something behind her expression -- a minute tightening at the corner of her mouth, a flicker in her gaze that might have been satisfaction. She felt an uncharacteristic swell of excitement in her chest, looking around at the dusted but empty cases throughout the store.

For weeks she had chased him. The daisy thief.

The city’s phantom.

Pomni recalled how each of his jobs had been a poem in motion: clean, deliberate, mocking. He left IOUs scrawled in glitter ink like a child’s apology, and more recently, pressed daisies. The rhymes and riddles had been new, and it befuddled her to no end. To find another identical case was like finding treasure.

She had been the one to coin the name “the Daisy Thief.” It had started as a joke in the bullpen, but now the papers had picked it up. She should have hated that. She usually did when the press took something hers. But not this time. This time it felt almost earned.

And then there had been him -- the copycat.

The memory still irritated her like grit in a wound.

That one had botched it completely: no daisy, wrong ink, wrong everything. He’d crushed the flower flat, scrawled some half-hearted IOU that didn’t match, and left red ballpoint instead of glitter.

Ballpoint.

She had stared at it for a long time, that cheap, clumsy imitation, and something inside her had gone cold and bright. The others had celebrated -- “We got him!” -- but she had known immediately it wasn’t her thief.

Her thief was an artist. A perfectionist.

That night she’d wanted to rip the fake note in half and walk out before anyone could see her shaking.

Now, here, in the ruined precision of Harlan’s Fine Timepieces, she felt that old pulse return -- that sense of familiarity. This scene had rhythm again. He was back in control. 

And Pomni was not far behind.

She moved deeper into the shop. Her steps were careful, almost reverent. She didn’t move like a cop; she moved like a historian uncovering a lost civilization. Every footprint, every angle, every missing fragment told a story, and she was fluent in the dialect of crime scenes.

The glass had fallen inward. One clean strike. No struggle. No rage. This wasn’t about breaking in -- this was about entering correctly. Whoever he was, he had a sense of performance.

Her eyes traveled to the side hallway. The service door lock had been tampered with. Faint, almost invisible scarring near the hinge. And there -- just at the edge of the dust -- a single boot print, shallow but elegant. The kind that came from a well-made shoe. Expensive leather.

She crouched and examined it with the same quiet intensity she gave everything that mattered to her. The print was slightly angled, like he had turned mid-step. Confident stride, not hurried.

He was calm when he worked. She could feel that, somehow.

“Detective Shutov?” a voice said behind her.

She didn’t glance up. “Who was first on scene?”

“Sector Four patrol. Alarm tripped around one-fifteen. We arrived at one-twenty-five. He was already gone.”

“Footage?”

“The cameras seemed to have skipped somehow, just like the last ones.”

“He took more this time,” Pomni murmured.

The officer blinked. “Ma’am?”

“He’s been improving,” she said absently, still studying the print.

“Uh--right. The owner’s on his way. We cataloged the losses, but--there’s something you’ll want to see.”

She straightened, brushing dust from her gloves. “Show me.”

He led her toward the display counter. Her pulse didn’t quicken -- Pomni’s pulse never quickened -- but somewhere inside, a quiet spark lit. She already knew. Her body knew before her mind did.

And there it was.

A daisy.

A single pressed bloom, white and paper-thin, resting on a velvet display tray like a crown jewel.

It shouldn’t have looked beautiful in that ruin, but it did. It gleamed faintly under the orange light, defiant against the broken glass around it. It was perfect -- delicate, deliberate, mocking.

Pomni stopped. The rain outside faded into silence.

Her throat tightened slightly. The daisy didn’t just confirm what she already suspected -- it felt personal. Like a whisper meant only for her.

“He’s back,” she said softly.

No one asked who she meant. They knew.

She crouched and studied the flower. The edges were yellowed -- old, pressed days ago. Preserved intentionally. The stem trimmed neatly with scissors, not torn. There was a faint powdery residue near it -- not dust. Polymer, probably. Same as before. A chemical ghost meant to erase prints.

It wasn’t just evidence. It was art.

Behind her, one of the clocks ticked unevenly -- tick-tick-pause. Tick-tick-pause.

The sound made her smile, just barely. “Always in time,” she whispered.

Her eyes drifted to the register next. A scrap of paper, half-soaked and glinting red where the ink had bled. The usual: IOU :( in glitter pen. His humor. His code.

But then she saw it -- another note, tucked beneath. Folded. Smaller.

Her chest went tight.

She unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was the same: looping, quick, playful.

Tick-tock, little daisy -- time’s on your side.
The bells will sing when the liar has died.

A chill rolled through her.

She wasn’t sure what got to her more -- the words, or the implication that he thought she’d understand them.

She read it twice, then a third time, tracing the ink’s faint shimmer.

He was quoting himself now. Rewriting his own language.

She felt the faintest laugh catch in her throat -- dry, without humor. “Arrogant bastard,” she said under her breath.

But even as she said it, she felt that familiar spark again. Curiosity. Admiration. Something dangerously close to connection.

He had been here. He had stood where she was standing. Maybe even looked at the same clock, the same reflection. Maybe he’d thought of her when he left that note.

No. She pushed the thought down. The mere consideration was madness.

Behind her, one of the uniforms whispered, “The guy’s theatrical.”

Pomni turned slightly, her expression unreadable. “You’re right. He’s also quite consistent.”

The officers stood silent, apparently not knowing what else to say.

She slipped the note into an evidence sleeve and turned toward the door. Dawn had begun to seep through the fog -- faint orange light bleeding through the mist like a wound opening. The streetlights clicked off one by one.

In the fractured reflection of the glass door, she caught her own image: dark hair pinned back, eyes ringed with exhaustion, expression sharp and unreadable. She looked like someone halfway between dream and obsession.

He was talking to her again.

All of this -- the daisy, the riddle, the style -- was communication. He could’ve chosen anyone, but he hadn’t. Every clue, every theft, every taunt… they were meant for her.

She should have been terrified. Instead, she felt alive.

“Detective?” The same uniform hovered nearby.

Pomni blinked. “Yes.”

“What should we log this under?”

Her eyes drifted back to the daisy. “A love letter,” she said. Then, more firmly: “Evidence item number twenty-three.”

The officer scribbled something down, frowning faintly.

Pomni turned to the nearest shattered display, studying the sweep of glass, the angle of destruction. There was intent even in the mess -- a pattern of motion she could almost see. This wasn’t chaos. It was choreography.

He didn’t steal; he performed.

And that made him predictable.

She crouched again, this time near the corner of the counter. A faint indentation near the baseboard caught her eye -- almost invisible. Kneeling closer, she found a second mark -- a scuff, the kind made by something being set down briefly. A small box? A toolkit? She made a note.

He worked efficiently. But not invisibly.

Pomni felt the pulse of the city outside -- cars, sirens in the distance, the heartbeat of morning routine. And beneath it, another rhythm. Theirs.

Her and the thief.

Her criminal.

She hated herself for thinking it, but there it was. The possessive pronoun tasted like guilt and fascination all at once.

“Pull all camera data from one to one-thirty,” she said suddenly. “I want raw, not processed. And get me any witness statements -- especially anyone who heard singing.”

“Singing?” the officer echoed.

“I don’t believe he enjoys working in silence,” she said simply.

The officer nodded uncertainly and hurried off.

Pomni lingered.

She stared at the daisy for a long time. It wasn’t only evidence. Not to her. It was a conversation.

Her fingers hovered an inch above it -- close enough to feel its stillness. Then she withdrew her hand. No contamination. Not yet.

When she finally turned to go, her eyes caught the cracked mirror behind the counter. Her reflection split across its shards -- one Pomni, a dozen Pomnis, all looking back at her with the same hollow intensity.

And for a moment -- just the briefest, cruelest instant -- she saw him there too. A reflection behind hers, a shadow-- faint and smiling.

She blinked. Gone.

She exhaled slowly and stepped outside.

The drizzle had thinned to mist, coating the air in a fine silver shimmer. The city stretched pale and endless before her, its edges softened by fog.

She pulled her coat tighter and started walking.

Behind her, the yellow tape fluttered again, whispering across the broken doorway.

Pomni didn’t look back.

Her criminal had returned.

And for the first time in weeks, Pomni Shutov felt the city breathe again.

***

By the time Pomni made it back to the precinct, the morning rush had already begun.

The building loomed out of the mist like an old warship run aground, all cracked stone and metal trim that hadn’t been polished since the last administration promised to fund maintenance. Inside, the air smelled of burnt coffee, paper, and the faint tang of wet wool from officers shaking off the rain. The hum of conversation and phone lines bled into one another -- an orchestra of human exhaustion.

Pomni pushed through the glass doors, nodding to the desk sergeant without breaking stride.

“Rough night, Detective?” he called.

“They’re all rough,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching into something that was almost a smile. “Tell the coffee to brew stronger next time.”

“Tell my budget committee,” he muttered.

Pomni took a shortcut through the cubicles, boots thumping against the carpet. Her coat dripped as she walked, leaving small wet constellations in her wake.

Finally, she reached the back of the precinct and paused for a moment at the threshold. She always did that. The room had a smell she’d come to love and hate in equal measure: stale takeout, old carpet, and the faint ozone buzz of the ancient fluorescent lights overhead.

Her office and desk were where she left them -- the latter buried under a landscape of case files and coffee cups.

And sitting there, leafing through one of her folders like it was her own, was Agatha.

“Don’t tell me you missed me,” Pomni said, setting her bag down.

Agatha looked up, the half-smile she always wore cutting through the morning gloom. Her fiery red hair was pulled back in a rough bun, a pencil tucked behind one ear. “Oh, I missed you terribly,” she said dryly. “The peace and quiet was unbearable.”

Pomni gave a faint snort. “You say that like I’m loud.”

“You’re not loud,” Agatha said, closing the folder with a snap. “You’re… atmospheric.”

Pomni dropped into her chair with a sigh, rubbing at her temple. “Atmospheric. Great. I’ll put that on my badge.”

Agatha leaned back against Pomni’s desk, arms crossed. “So? I heard about the break-in.”

“Word travels.”

“In this place? Gossip travels faster than bullets. You find what you were looking for?”

Pomni hesitated, glancing at the evidence envelope sticking out of her bag. “He left a daisy again.”

Agatha’s smile faded a little. “So it’s really him.”

“It’s really him.”

For a moment, the only sound between them was the low hum of the lights. Agatha studied her -- the tired set of her eyes, the restless way her fingers tapped the desk.

“You look like hell, Pom,” she said softly.

Pomni didn’t look up. “Hell looks back.”

Agatha sighed. “You’ve been at this for months. You need to take a breath, before you drown yourself in poetic metaphors and paperwork.”

“Paperwork doesn’t drown people,” Pomni said, eyes still fixed on the daisy-shaped coffee stain that had dried on her desk weeks ago. “It just buries them.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “You rehearsed that?”

“Maybe.”

A laugh flickered between them -- thin but genuine.

At that moment, Officer Gangle appeared, carrying a precarious stack of folders in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. Her movements were careful, almost hesitant, as if she expected the papers to collapse into chaos at any second.

“Detective Shutov!” she said, a little too brightly. “You’re back early!”

Pomni gave her a small smile. “Gangle. You look rougher than I do.”

“Tell me about it,” Gangle said, setting the folders down with a sigh. “Most of this is for you. Forensics from the Harlan scene, plus the witness statements you wanted.”

“That was fast,” Pomni said, one eyebrow arching in surprise, flipping through the top folder.

“I pulled an all-nighter,” Gangle admitted. “Besides, it’s kind of fascinating, you know? The way he moves. The precision.”

Agatha groaned. “Don’t start. First Pomni, now you. We’re going to have a whole fan club soon.”

“It’s not admiration,” Gangle said quickly, cheeks coloring. “It’s--academic interest.”

Pomni looked up at her with a knowing half-smile. “That’s what I said, too.”

Agatha gave her a pointed look. “And how’s that working out for you?”

Pomni ignored her. She flipped another page, eyes narrowing as she scanned the report. “No prints. As usual. Entry from the service door, internal lock tampered with. He used a bypass tool, not brute force.”

“Security footage?” Gangle asked.

“None at all. Cameras skipped time entirely”

Agatha frowned. “You mean like last time.”

“Exactly like last time.”

A long pause settled between them.

Finally, Agatha spoke. “You think he’s escalating?”

Pomni didn’t answer right away. She stared at the report, her eyes unfocused, thoughts spinning behind them like gears. “No,” she said finally. “He’s refining.”

Agatha leaned forward, tone softening. “Pomni…”

“What?”

“You know this isn’t healthy, right?”

Pomni’s jaw tightened. “You sound like Kinger.”

“Well, he’s the chief. It’s literally his job to keep you from burning yourself out.”

Pomni smiled thinly. “Then he’s doing a terrible job.”

Agatha sighed. “He reassigned me for a reason, you know. You pour yourself into your cases-- but Pomni-- this is a bit far, no matter how close you are.”

“I am close to the case,” Pomni said sharply. “That’s how you solve it.”

“Or how it eats you alive,” Agatha said softly.

The words hung in the air, sharp and too true.

Pomni didn’t look at her. She busied herself flipping through another folder, pretending not to notice how her hand trembled slightly when she turned the page.

Gangle cleared her throat nervously, trying to bridge the silence. “Um… for what it’s worth, Detective, I think you’re doing great work. Everyone says you see things no one else does.”

Pomni gave her a small, tired smile. “That’s because I don’t sleep.”

Agatha snorted. “That’s not something to brag about.”

Pomni finally looked up, leaning back in her chair. “You both worry too much.”

“And you don’t worry enough,” Agatha said.

Pomni didn’t argue. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, watching the flicker of the fluorescent light stutter like a dying heartbeat. The sound filled the silence between them -- a steady, unnatural pulse.

It reminded her of the ticking clock at the crime scene. Tick-tick-pause. Tick-tick-pause.

It had felt like a countdown.

Her gaze drifted back to the evidence bag on her desk -- the daisy, sealed behind plastic. It looked smaller now, almost harmless. But even through the film, she could feel its weight.

Agatha followed her eyes. “You brought it here?”

“Chain of custody,” Pomni said automatically.

Agatha frowned. “You could’ve sent it through evidence processing.”

“I could’ve,” Pomni said quietly. “But I didn’t.”

The implication hung between them. Agatha exhaled. “You know, Pom… sometimes I think you like him.”

Pomni’s eyes snapped up. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Agatha didn’t smile. “Then tell me you don’t.”

Pomni hesitated -- just a beat too long.

Finally, she said, “He fascinates me. That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Pomni looked away. “We all chase something, Agatha. Some people chase sleep. Some chase justice. I chase understanding.”

Agatha studied her for a long time, then shook her head. “Just don’t let him catch you first.”

Pomni smiled faintly. “He’s not the catching type.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Before Pomni could answer, a knock came from the office doorway. Chief Kinger -- tall, tired, his tie slightly askew -- leaned in. “Shutov. My office, if you please.”

Agatha mouthed good luck as Pomni rose.

Kinger’ didn’t sit down when Pomni entered -- just stood behind his desk, arms folded. His demeanor immediately put her on the defensive.

“I hear you went to Harlan’s,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Without waiting for clearance.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Pomni, I’ve got reporters breathing down my neck, the mayor pretending he knows what due process means, and a DA who thinks your ‘Daisy Thief’ is just a tabloid myth. You’re not helping me here.”

“I’m not here to help politics,” she said evenly.

“You’re also not here to freelance,” he shot back. “You’ve been doing great things, especially in the past few weeks, but this puts you on thin ice, Shutov.”

The tone in his voice was harsher than it was in their usual conversations, and something inside Pomni twinged in shame. Regardless, she squared her shoulders, and looked the chief in the eye.

“I’ve been on thin ice since the academy, sir.”

Kinger gave her a long look -- part exasperation, part reluctant admiration. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But guts don’t keep you alive. Discipline does.”

“He’s getting bolder,” Pomni said quietly. “If we don’t stay ahead of him, we’ll always be reacting.”

Kinger shifted his weight, arms still firmly crossed. “You think you understand this guy.”

“I do.”

“That’s what scares me,” he muttered. Then, louder: “Take a day off. That’s an order.”

Pomni blinked. “I’m sorry-- A day off?”

“Yes. Go home. Sleep. Eat something that isn’t just microwavable. Whatever it is you do to pretend you’re human.”

“I don’t have time for--”

“That’s an order, Detective.”

Their eyes locked for a long, brittle second. Then Pomni nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

When she left his office, Agatha was waiting, leaning against the corridor wall. “Let me guess,” she said. “He told you to take a break.”

Pomni pulled on her coat, begrudgingly. “Something like that.”

“Are you going to listen?”

“Of course,” Pomni said, already walking toward the door.

Agatha laughed softly. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Pomni turned back just long enough to smile. “That’s what makes me a good detective.”

She passed Gangle on her way out. The younger officer called after her, “Detective! Don’t forget your umbrella!”

Pomni paused, then shook her head. “Keep it. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

And then she was gone -- out into the gray morning, the echo of her boots fading down the hall.

***

Outside, the sky was the color of wet steel. She stood for a moment on the precinct steps, coat pulled close, the city’s hum rising around her. Cars passed. People hurried by with umbrellas like muted ghosts.

She looked down at her hands -- one clutching her bag, the other still faintly trembling.

She told herself it was the cold.

She told herself she wasn’t thinking about the daisy. Or the riddle. Or the way the note’s words had lingered in her head, soft as a song.

But when she finally started walking towards her car, she realized she’d been murmuring it under her breath the entire time.

Tick-tock, little daisy--time’s on your side.
The bells will sing when the liar has died.

***

Her apartment building came into view, modest, red-bricked, narrow. The streetlight outside flickered on and off-- despite it being daytime, where she knew it would paint quivering shadows as the sun set. She took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders, steadying herself.

The door to the building was slick under her hand, keys fumbling as she entered. The lobby smelled faintly of mildew and the cleaning products of a conscientious superintendent. Stairs curved upward, their iron railing damp, whispering softly beneath her fingers. The elevator sat idle, a humming, metallic promise of ascent she did not trust. She took the stairs two at a time, the echo of her boots a quiet drumbeat of persistence.

She reached her floor, the familiar click of the hallway lights buzzing awake. The apartment door loomed ahead, unremarkable, solid -- but she had a sense of unease, a nervous electricity she could not name. The corridor smelled faintly of wet laundry-- from the neighbors, no doubt, and a faint trace of cooking drifting from two doors down. Ordinary. Safe. Deceptively so.

Pomni’s hand paused on the door handle. She caught her own reflection in the polished brass, dark hair damp against her cheek, eyes sharper than she remembered. There was no reason why the hair on her arms stood on end, a sense of unease coiling low in her stomach.

And yet.

The stillness pressed against her chest. She could feel the weight of the morning’s case in her mind, buzzing around incessantly. 

God, she needed a break, didn’t she.

With a sigh that didn’t relieve nearly enough of the tension in her body, Pomni pushed her way inside, unceremoniously dropping her bag and shedding her rain coat. 

 Within, her apartment smelled faintly of rain-damp air and the lingering notes of lemon cleaner. The faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette was the only sound beyond the distant drizzle tapping at the window. She dropped her coat over the back of a chair and ran a hand through her damp hair, letting her fingers press into the roots as if she could massage the tension out. Her chest still throbbed from the morning’s chaos at Harlan’s Fine Timepieces. The alarms. The shattered glass. The daisy, so pristine it almost hurt to look at. She had walked through the wreckage like a ghost, feeling the presence of someone brilliant and terrifying brushing against the edges of the scene, leaving only a trace for her to chase.

Her eyes flicked over the kitchen, taking in the familiar comforting clutter: the mug with its thin crack along the handle, the dish towel folded with military precision, the small stack of unopened mail that had been ignored for too many days. Everything seemed normal. Safe. Until her gaze drifted, almost casually, to the kitchen table.

At first, she barely registered it. The piece of paper lay folded in the center, nothing remarkable in size or shape. But its placement made her pause. It was too precise, too intentional. Her pulse hitched, an almost imperceptible staccato in her chest. She stopped mid-step, one gloved hand hovering over the countertop.

The apartment felt suddenly smaller, walls closing in with the weight of something unspoken. She could hear the faint trickle of water from the radiator, the subtle creak of the floorboards under the apartment above, the city’s distant murmur -- yet none of it mattered. All her attention had pulled toward that single, folded paper.

She leaned forward slightly, the reflection of the fluorescent light above glinting off the edges of the folded sheet. It was simple, small, almost innocent in its proportions, yet her instincts screamed that it was neither. The paper emitted a faint scent, subtle but unmistakable -- metallic, almost floral, like pressed petals trapped between the fibers. Her stomach clenched. The smell brought with it a memory of daisies left on the velvet tray at Harlan’s, that meticulous placement, the calculated calm of someone who moved through chaos with elegance and precision.

Pomni’s breathing slowed, deliberate, even as a thrill of apprehension traced along her spine. She drew the paper closer, tilting her head slightly, trying to see any hint of error, any imperfection that might suggest a trick. The overhead light caught the ink, a shimmer that seemed alive, pulsing faintly under her gaze.

Her mind ticked over possibilities, assessing, measuring, questioning. Had someone broken in while she was out? The door had been locked, the security intact. It wasn’t a burglary. There were no signs of forced entry, no scattered belongings, nothing to indicate a typical intruder. This was deliberate. Personalized. Intimate.

Her fingers hovered above the paper, trembling almost imperceptibly. She didn’t want to touch it -- not yet. She wanted to see it, to measure it, to understand it before acknowledging the truth.

The handwriting came into focus. Sardonic. Looped. Deliberate. Elegant. Unmistakable.

‘LEAVE. DO NOT RETURN. YOUR LIFE IS NOW IN DANGER. YOU WILL DIE.’

Her pulse surged, a fast drumbeat that echoed in her ears. A part of her tried to deny it, rationalize it. Perhaps it was a copycat, like the pawn shop incident. But no. The angles, the slant, the faint curvature of the letters, the confidence of each stroke -- it was him. Her criminal. Her daisy thief.

Pomni pressed her palm to her forehead for a brief moment, grounding herself. She had studied him for weeks, memorized the cadence of his crimes, the artistry of his thefts. Each act had been a puzzle, a performance, a message. And now, that performance had extended into her home. Into her life. Into the quiet of her kitchen, where she had thought herself safe.

She forced herself to breathe, slow and measured. The room smelled of rain and cleaner and tension, and in that mix, she felt the thrill she always did when tracking him, sharpened by fear. The danger was no longer theoretical. It was immediate, pressing.

The detective collapsed into her creaky wooden kitchen chair, flattening the note on the hard surface of the table, hardly believing her eyes. But no--it was so real. Right in front of her, glittering in the red and sparkles that she knew so well.

 In that quiet, rainy apartment, Pomni Shutov realized something she had long known in theory but never in practice: the daisy thief was no longer just a puzzle at a crime scene. He was in her world now, in her space, in the quiet, private corners she thought belonged only to her.

And now-- the gravity of the whole situation-- the case she had been so willing to sacrifice her time and energy on had turned into something much more dark and sinister. 

Pomni was in danger.

***

Pomni stared at the unfolded paper, her fingertips grazing the edges as though she could sense the pulse of the person who had left it there. Each letter seemed to ripple with intention, sardonic yet meticulous, a voice she knew without hearing. Her mind raced, cataloging details automatically, almost reflexively: the slant of the ink, the faint metallic sheen, the subtle pressure differences along the strokes. She recognized the faint smear at the bottom right--probably a momentary slip of the pen. Too intentional to be accidental, too deliberate to be careless.

Her breath hitched. This was more than a message. It was a tether. The daisy thief had crossed the invisible line into her private space. Into her home.

Pomni’s chest tightened. Logic screamed that this constituted a direct threat. Any other officer would see it immediately: intrusion, intimidation, personal risk. She imagined Chief Kinger’s voice, sharp and authoritative, calling her in to strip her off the case. She could almost hear him saying it: For your own safety, Detective Shutov.

Her hands clenched the paper unconsciously. The thought of giving it over, handing the control to someone else, ignited a slow, simmering anger. No. She would not relinquish the hunt. Not now. Not after the pawn shop copycat had cheapened everything with their clumsy imitation. Not after the daisy thief had returned to remind her exactly why she chased him in the first place.

Pomni’s mind flashed to the copycat incident -- the cheap imitation at the pawn shop, the flattened daisy, the misaligned rhyme, the wrong color glitter. She remembered the way her fingers had curled around the torn note in the precinct bathroom, the flush of irritation, the edge of humiliation that came with being so clearly fooled. That fool had thought they could step into the artistry of her criminal. That fool had failed spectacularly.

But this… this was different. This was precise. Personal. Targeted. Intended.

Her gaze drifted to the kitchen window, rain still spitting faint streaks along the glass. She could see the city beyond, streets slick and neon-washed, indifferent and infinite. Somewhere out there, he was watching. Or at least, that was the effect he had created -- the city felt smaller, every corner a potential stage for his performance.

Pomni pressed a hand to her forehead again, grounding herself. She let her eyes roam over the rest of the apartment -- her organized chaos, the spines of books, the neatly stacked mail, the faint traces of her own lingering habits. Her personal space, her refuge, had been violated. And yet, the intrusion only sharpened her focus.

Her fingers tightened on the paper. She knew the next steps. She knew she should call the precinct, hand it over, and have someone else chase the trail. But part of her recoiled at the thought. That wasn’t how she worked. She was methodical, deliberate, and precise. She didn’t hand over threads of a story mid-chapter to someone else to tie together. She followed the narrative herself.

A memory surfaced suddenly: the night she had walked to the park with Jax, a casual evening turned moment of improbable trust. He had handed her a small slip of paper, an afterthought--or so it seemed--scribbled with his number. He had laughed softly, brushing at the edge of seriousness with a grin. “In case you need a pizza delivery,” he had said, almost teasing, almost dismissive. “Don’t expect me to answer, though.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. It had seemed inconsequential then, trivial even. But now, with the note on her kitchen table and the faint metallic-floral scent hovering in the air, that number was no longer just a whimsical gesture. It was a lifeline.

Pomni exhaled slowly, deliberately. She ran a hand over the kitchen table again, fingertips brushing over the wood grain, feeling the weight of the decision pressing against her. Calling the precinct might-- no, would-- strip her from the case. The chief would insist. Officers might station her at home, at a desk, safe and removed. Safe. But safety was irrelevant. She had never been safe. Not when she chased this particular criminal. Not when she let obsession, fascination, and professional pride blend into a dangerous obsession.

Her hand moved to her pants pocket, pulling out her wallet and fingers brushing over the folded slip of paper Jax had given her weeks ago. The memory of the park was vivid -- the soft rustle of leaves, the distant hum of the city, the way he had smiled and handed her the number with a grace that was casual but precise. It had been easy to dismiss then. Not now. Now it was a tool. A conduit. A choice.

Pomni traced the edges of the daisy-thief note again, her mind racing in structured steps. She cataloged the potential threats: the timing, the delivery, the impossibility of accidental placement. Someone had been inside her apartment. Had seen her space. Knew where she lived. And yet, she also knew the thrill in that realization -- the stakes had escalated. The game was no longer abstract. It was personal.

She forced herself to sit, easing into the chair at the small kitchen table, her eyes never leaving the note. The apartment hummed around her -- faint sounds of the building settling, rain against the glass, the whisper of a neighbor’s movement in the hall -- and she let herself consider her options. She could call the precinct. She could involve Kinger. She could hand over the note and let someone else carry the risk.

Or… she could act herself. She could trace the clues. She could follow the breadcrumb, just as she had in the past. The daisy thief had chosen her, again, as the recipient of his riddles. And she would not hand that story over to anyone else.

Pomni’s fingers brushed the folded paper one final time before she pulled out the slip with Jax’s number, smooth and worn from prior handling. Her thumb traced the small digits. It was absurd, trivial, almost laughable -- a pizza delivery number, nothing more. But now it was something else entirely: a bridge, a lifeline, a chance to reach the only person she felt might understand the danger she was in.

She leaned back, letting the chair creak beneath her weight, her mind whirring with calculations. Calling him might be foolish. Dangerous. Immature. Unprofessional. All of it was true. Yet she didn’t hesitate. Not because she trusted him -- she didn’t, not fully -- but because she needed to understand the scope of the threat, the intent behind the note, and the mind that had crossed into her home. And he was the only one who had the privilege of being uninvolved-- who might even begin to understand.

Her breath slowed, pulse settling into a rhythm of anticipation. The rain continued to fall outside, tapping against the window like a drumbeat, marking time. Pomni picked up her phone, fingers poised above the keypad, and paused for a heartbeat. The room seemed to contract, the note on the table glowing with purpose, demanding recognition.

She typed the number slowly, deliberately. Each digit a careful step, a measure of control in a moment where control was fleeting.

And then, after a long, steadying exhale, she pressed call.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

***

Jax picked up on the fourth ring.

When he answered, his voice came as a small, soft intrusion: “Hello?”

She felt the sound settle something in her chest; the voice was annoyingly ordinary, human, coaxing calm like it had a right to. “Jax. It’s Pomni.” She kept the words clipped, professional -- the habit of the badge clung to her even now -- but the tremor she couldn’t fully hide found purchase in her throat. She didn’t bother to preface with protocol or explanation. She told him, plain and quick, because the faster she named it the less it could own her.

He listened, quiet at first; there was a hesitation in the line, the brief catch of someone computing. “You found a note?”

She read it to him, the lines like cold glass. He was silent in a way that made her uneasy. Then, with a steadiness she had come to know as Jax’s easy, practiced cadence, he said: “Pomni… you should leave this alone. Walk away.”

She bristled at the suggestion. “Walk away?” Her voice was precise, clipped with the insolence of someone who saw a life’s work in opposition. “This was left in my home. Someone violated my space. If I walk away, what message does that send? That they can scare me?”

“You don’t get it,” he said, and the casual quality of his voice sharpened: not angry, but insistent in a way meant to be persuasive. “This is coercion. It’s a tactic. They’re trying to get you off the case. It means they’re close. It means you’re visible. Stand down. For your own good.”

She could hear his meaning -- see his calculation through his choice of words -- but she would not accept his conclusion. This was not only about pride. It was principle. The thin road she walked as a detective forbade her the luxury of retreat when the prey was exposed. To yield would be to hand over the narrative.

“You think danger is a sufficient reason to leave my work,” she said quietly. “You think a piece of paper can sever my duty?” Her jaw hardened. “I refuse to let a note decide who catches whom.”

His answer was soft, and there was a current of frustration under it. “That doesn’t mean it’s smart to get hurt by it. I know what--” He stopped, a frictional sound in his voice that was almost like a sigh. “You’re being reckless.”

“You don’t get to decide that.” The words had a sharp edge. They were true and they were selfish. “I will not be told when to stop by a criminal who leaves threats when pursued. All this means is that I’m closer than I thought.”

There was a long silence. Somewhere beyond the phone the city breathed rain. In that pause she registered, for the first time, the way his voice had changed -- gentler, coaxing in a way that was intended to worry her into compliance rather than shock her into obedience.

His next words were quieter. “Look. I get it. You’re stubborn. Good. But being stubborn doesn’t mean you have to be stupid. Let someone else --”

Pomni’s laugh was a small, hard sound. “Someone else will sanitize my case into statistics and footnotes. They'll take the storytelling out of it and leave the ledger. I won’t let that happen.”

“Pomni,” he said, not patronizing, but with slow, measured urgency now, “I’m telling you this as someone who knows what it’s like to be useful to people who aren’t kind. If you keep pushing--”

“If I keep pushing, I’ll catch them,” Pomni finished, softer, not defiant so much as resolute. “Or I’ll die trying. Both are possible. But I won’t hand them the victory.”

There was a rawness in her voice she might have hidden in other company; over the line with Jax, it landed exposed. She felt her pulse in her throat. The paper on the table seemed suddenly a physical animal with a maw.

He said her name once, quietly: “Pomni.”

She could hear the plead threaded through it. It made her chest ache in an odd, private way. She hated that the effect was so immediate. She hated that she cared.

Finally, with a steadiness that bordered on brittle, she said, “I’ll handle it.”

The other side of the line was silent for a long time. Too long. Then finally-

“Be careful,” he said, the ordinary advice of someone who knew streets and shadows. “Don’t do anything reckless.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” she replied, and the line clicked as he ended the call.

She sat for a long time after, the note flat on the table like a map of intent. The rain grew softer until it was almost nothing. Her apartment seemed fuller somehow -- full of other lives and other hands and the idea that someone had crossed the fragile boundary of her private world.

She thought, not for the first time, of protocol and of pride. She thought of the precinct and what Kinger would do and how Agatha would say the words meant for protection not for capitulation. She thought of Gangle’s earnestness and the way danger made adults giddy with control, their uniforms armor against things the patrols could not prevent.

But she had chosen. The decision sat in her like a new bone. She would not hand this file over. She would not let fear be the author of her exit from the case she had made into grammar. The note had been a threat, and the threat had been met with defiance.

Yet beneath that defiance a quieter calculation took shape. She could not be foolish. She would not be reckless in the dumb way Jax feared; her obsession was measured, procedural, stubborn but strategic. If the game had changed -- and the note showed that it had -- then she would change with it.

She folded the paper carefully and slid it into an evidence envelope she labeled in small, exact letters: EVIDENCE -- POSS. DIRECT THREAT. DO NOT DISCLOSE. She tucked it into the bottom of a drawer where she kept things she wasn’t ready to show the precinct: personal notes, odd contacts, the slip with Jax’s number. She did not lock the drawer; that would feel like paranoia and paralyzing fear. She did not leave the note on the table to be found by the wrong eyes. She made it both a secret and a record.

Then she stood, pulled on her coat, and walked to the window. The street below glittered; a late tram sighed past, a smear of orange light. The city felt vast and small at once -- indifferent, plotting, full of other people’s acts and her own decisions.

She had been warned. She had been threatened. She had been told to leave. She had chosen not to. The choice was private and dangerous and exactly her.

She drew the curtains half across the window, not to hide but to see clearly the shape of the night. Somewhere out there, between puddles and neon and the soft machinery of the city, a thief had decided to make a game of her. She would answer. She always did.

But first -- because she was not an exhibition of bravado and because the night was a dangerous thing -- she wrote a short note of her own, not for the thief but for herself: checklocks, change patterns, retrace steps, surveil. Small, clinical things. Preparedness. A strategy.

She pinned it to the corkboard where the daisy photos were, then sat down and filled a notebook with the first ordered moves of the plan she intended to follow. Keep the case close. Keep the note secret. Call no one who would take it away. Be smarter. Be cleaner. Be more careful than the person who’d left the threat.

And somewhere under the sternness of the plan, beneath the cold facts and the meticulous checklists, was a human pulse: the faint, dangerous hope that she would find the person who’d dared to write that line in her kitchen and show them what it meant to be the hunted.

Chapter Text

The rain had followed him home like regret.

It began as a mist on the back of his neck, a cold whisper that turned heavier with every block he walked. The streets of the city were half-deserted -- puddles pooling under flickering lamplight, the occasional cab slicing through the wet with its reflection chasing behind it like a ghost. The sidewalks gleamed, slick and uneven, the kind of terrain that made every step sound louder than it should. Jax pulled his collar up, kept his head low, and tried not to think about what he’d just done.

He’d left the note on her table -- her table -- and now every raindrop sounded like an accusation.

LEAVE. DO NOT RETURN. YOUR LIFE IS NOW IN DANGER. YOU WILL DIE.

The words repeated in his head like a broken record. He could see them when he blinked, printed against the insides of his eyelids. He’d written them neatly, deliberately, in a hand that didn’t shake. That was the part that haunted him most -- the stillness of it. Like he’d stepped outside of himself to get it done. He had followed orders, just as Caine demanded, and the act had felt almost mechanical. But now, as he walked, the enormity of it began to settle into the spaces between his ribs, heavy as lead.

A few people passed him on the street -- late-night stragglers, soaked through, their faces lit by the sickly glow of shopfronts and signage. He kept his distance. The city didn’t care who he was or what he carried in his chest; it only swallowed sound and secrets, grinding them into its rain-slicked pavement. Still, every glance felt sharper than it should, every reflection in a window too aware.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and quickened his pace.

A passing bus sent a spray of cold water up his legs. He barely flinched. The chill grounded him, for a heartbeat, but then the memory came rushing back -- her apartment, her kitchen, the faint smell of lemon cleaner and ink. The paper folded precisely in the center of the table, his gloves leaving no prints. The overhead light had hummed softly as he wrote, a quiet metronome that seemed to count down his nerve.

He’d paused before leaving -- just a few seconds too long -- looking around her space. It wasn’t what he expected. It wasn’t cold or clinical, like a detective’s home might be in his mind. It was lived in. Real. A mug by the sink, an open notebook on the counter with handwriting that looped and tangled like thought itself. There had been a plant on the window ledge -- wilting, but trying. The kind of detail that should’ve meant nothing and yet wouldn’t leave him alone.

He had wanted to turn the note over and tear it up right there.

But Caine’s voice had been louder. Always was.
"Make her drop it. One way or another."

Jax swallowed hard and glanced up at the skyline. The towers loomed like accusations, their windows glowing in uneven grids of yellow and blue. He remembered when the city used to feel endless -- when he and Ribbit used to look up at those same lights and think they meant freedom. Now they only looked like open eyes.

The rain thickened. He ducked into an alley to cut through to his street, the air heavier here, thick with the smell of wet cardboard and old oil. A cat darted between trash bins, its movement so sudden it startled him. His hand went instinctively to the pocket where he kept his switchblade before he exhaled and let it go.

“Nervous wreck,” he muttered to himself. His voice sounded small, drowned out by the rain. “You’re just a nervous wreck with a death wish.”

He tried to laugh. It came out as a cough.

At the far end of the alley, the neon sign from the bar across the street blinked red and blue in the puddles -- the same colors that had flashed against the jewelry shop windows when Pomni arrived hours earlier. He could still picture her there, the detective’s coat darkened by rain, her eyes scanning every shard of glass like they were clues in a language only she could read.

He’d been watching from the crowd then, half-hidden behind an umbrella, heart hammering so hard he thought it would echo. Watching her work -- the precision, the composure -- had been unbearable. There was a strange reverence in the way she touched the evidence, as if the crime scenes were sacred. She called him “her criminal” once, half-mockingly, but he’d felt something inside him twist when she said it. It had sounded almost intimate.

Now, as the rain gathered at the edge of his jaw and slipped down his neck, he realized how badly he’d wanted to keep her out of this.
He’d done the opposite.

He reached the edge of the alley and stopped beneath a flickering streetlight. The bulb buzzed weakly, its light stuttering over the puddles at his feet. He stared down at his reflection -- blurred, distorted, the dark hollows beneath his eyes making him look older than he was. Somewhere above, thunder rumbled, distant but deliberate.

He thought about calling Caine. About saying it was done. But even imagining that conversation made his stomach turn. He could hear the man’s voice already -- smug, satisfied, praising him like a dog who’d fetched something vile. No. Not yet. He couldn’t hear that voice tonight.

So he kept walking.

Block after block until the city thinned, the glow of neon fading into the quieter part of town where his apartment waited -- a cracked brick building that leaned just slightly to one side, like even it was tired of holding itself up. The stairwell light flickered when he opened the door. Someone’s radio played faintly from another floor -- old jazz, the kind with static under the brass.

He moved slowly up the stairs, each creak of wood beneath his boots louder than it should’ve been. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind that hollow, aching clarity that came after any crime. He’d learned to live with it -- the comedown, the emotional hangover -- but tonight it hurt more than usual.

He reached his door, unlocked it, stepped inside. The room smelled faintly of damp concrete and cigarette ash from his neighboring tenants. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a long moment, eyes closed. The sound of rain on the window was steady now -- no longer a chase, just a rhythm.

That was when he laughed once, quietly, without humor. The kind of laugh that didn’t belong to someone winning.

“Guess you did it, Jax,” he said under his breath. “You scared her.”

He didn’t believe it.

He pulled off his gloves, one finger at a time, and stared at the faint ink stains on his skin. He could still smell her apartment -- that clean, domestic scent that didn’t belong in his world. He wiped his palms on his pants and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed.

That was when the thought came -- not as memory, but as intrusion: Ribbit’s voice again, soft, laughing through the years.

“You can’t scare people and stay human at the same time, Jax.”

The words stung worse in the quiet.

He sat there for a long time, letting the rain and the silence compete for his attention. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed -- high, then low, then gone.

And when he finally lifted his head, the city outside his window looked washed clean.
But he didn’t.

***

 The gray sunlight outside threw warped shadows across the wall -- soft, trembling patterns that reminded him of water rippling against glass.

His reflection in the window was little more than a smear, his features melted into the backdrop of the city. He could barely tell where his outline ended and the storm began.

He reached into his coat pocket absently, searching for a cigarette to burn, but his fingers brushed against something else instead -- small, metallic, familiar.

A coin.

Ribbit’s coin.

He stared at it in his palm. Old, tarnished silver with a single chip along the rim, smooth from years of use. Ribbit used to flip it before every job, claiming it was lucky. “Heads, we live. Tails, we try again,” he used to say, with that crooked grin that made you believe it, even when it shouldn’t have worked.

Jax closed his fingers around it. The pressure of the metal against his skin felt like a pulse, faint but insistent. The sound of the rain outside softened, dulled, until it became something else -- the echo of another night, another storm.

The walls blurred, and he was somewhere else entirely.

***

The alley had smelled like iron and cheap whiskey.
The kind of night that soaked through your shoes before you’d even decided to make a bad choice.

Ribbit was standing beneath a flickering sign for a pawn shop -- the same one Jax lived above now -- his blond hair plastered to his forehead, a grin pulling at his lips despite the downpour. He always grinned when he was losing. Jax found he was particularly awful at poker.

“You know what the thing about debt is, kid?” Ribbit asked, his voice slurred with exhaustion but bright with humor. “It’s got a better memory than people. You can forget about it for a week, but it doesn’t forget about you.”

Jax, younger by several years, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, had rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe if you stopped gambling every cent we make, we wouldn’t be here.”

Ribbit laughed -- a warm, reckless sound that filled the night. “You wound me, Jax. What’s life without a few bad bets?”

“Short,” Jax said flatly.

They’d been running jobs for Caine back then -- nothing big yet. Just collections, courier work, the kind of dirty errands that looked simple until they weren’t. Ribbit had gotten in too deep before Jax even realized it. It was supposed to be one favor to cover a bad night at the tables. Then another. And another.

Jax hadn’t known how fast it would snowball.

He remembered the first time Caine’s people came to their door. The knock had been polite, almost friendly. That’s how you knew it was serious. Two men in pressed suits, no badges, no names, just the smell of cologne and rain. Ribbit had tried to smile his way through it, as always, but Jax could see the fear and regret in his eyes even then.

That night under the pawn shop sign was months later, after everything had already started to unravel.

“You ever think we could just… walk away?” Ribbit asked. He was staring at the reflection of the sign in a puddle, his breath fogging in the cold air. “Disappear, find some nowhere town, start fresh?”

Jax gave a humorless laugh. “And what, open a diner? You can’t even make toast.”

“Fair,” Ribbit said with a grin. “But you could. You’ve got the hands for it. Steady, quick. You’d flip pancakes like a pro.”

Jax shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah. But I’m your idiot,” Ribbit said, bumping his shoulder against Jax’s. Then, quieter: “You’re all I’ve got, kid. Don’t forget that.”

Jax knew he wasn’t being entirely honest. The truth is-- Ribbit had an infernal sense of optimistic hope too, following him like a shadow wherever he went. 

Hope for a better life for him and Jax. Hope for one less rainy day during the city’s wet season. Hope for a few good jobs. 

Hope to win big and take the two of them far far away from this shithole.

Jax didn’t know how he did it. And maybe…just maybe…he already knew it would be the death of him one day.

The rain had been falling harder by then, drumming against the pavement like applause for a tragedy still unfolding.

***

The memory flickered. Jax blinked, and the sound of rain outside his apartment window returned -- steady, relentless. But he wasn’t ready to leave the past yet. 

He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and let another memory pull him under as if he were drowning.

***

The heist had been Caine’s idea, of course. They never planned their own downfall; someone else always wrote the script.

It was supposed to be simple. In and out. No noise. Ribbit was the lookout; Jax handled the lock. The building had been an old theater warehouse -- ironic, given how theatrical their boss turned out to be. Caine’s voice had echoed in Jax’s ear through his walkie, calm and detached, giving instructions like a director calling cues.

“Timing, gentlemen. It’s all about timing.”

Everything had gone smoothly until the sirens had sounded, surrounding any means of their escape. Until Caine was suddenly uncharacteristically silent on the other line. Until the gunfire. Until Ribbit, trying to buy him an escape, ran across the rooftop with the bag of useless items that Caine had suddenly decided he couldn’t live without.

 Jax could still see it in slow motion -- the way Ribbit’s sure-footedness betrayed him the moment a roof shingle gave out under his weight, the desperate grab for balance, the flash of panic in his eyes before gravity decided to intervene.

Jax had screamed his name, lunged forward -- but the sound was swallowed by the rain, by the distance, by the inevitability of it all.

The last thing he remembered was the dull, heavy thud from below, like a door slamming on a chapter that would never reopen.

Ribbit had died with an arm outstretched, reaching for a hand he had hoped would be there. 

And Jax could do nothing but watch as his body was taken from him. Away to where he would never see that hopeful face ever again.

***

Back in the present, Jax rubbed a hand over his face. His throat felt raw, though he hadn’t spoken a word. The coin was still in his palm, slick with sweat.

“Should’ve been me,” he muttered. “You were always the one who looked out for me.”

He turned the coin over, again and again, watching the way the lamplight caught its surface. Heads, we live. Tails, we try again.

Ribbit never got to try again.

He leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette blended with the sound of the storm -- two steady, indifferent rhythms. The world kept moving, uncaring.

That was what hurt the most.

He thought about the note again -- the one he’d left for Pomni. The threat in those words, the way it mirrored the tone of all the things Caine had ever said to him: Do this, or die.

Was this what he’d become? Just another echo of someone else’s cruelty?

The thought twisted in his chest, sharp and cold.

He pushed himself to his feet and paced the room, restless energy thrumming in his veins. Every time he thought about her reading that note -- about the fear in her eyes -- something inside him broke a little more. He told himself it was necessary. That scaring her off was saving her. But even he didn’t believe it now.

If Ribbit were here, he would’ve said something reckless and honest, like “You can’t save someone by becoming the monster they’re running from.”

Jax pressed a hand to his forehead, eyes closed. “You’d hate me for this, wouldn’t you?”

The room didn’t answer.

He moved to the window again. The rain had slowed to a drizzle now, and the clouds above the city were thinning, letting in a faint golden glow from the mid-day sun. Somewhere, far below, a siren started up again -- the same pitch, the same lonely wail.

He stood there, coin in hand, and flipped it absently into the air. The metal caught the light for a moment, spinning in place, before landing in his palm.

Heads.

He smiled bitterly. “Guess that means I live another day.”

But the look in his eyes said otherwise.

He pocketed the coin, turned from the window, and sat down at his desk. The clutter of blueprints and newspaper clippings lay scattered across the surface, remnants of the obsession that had consumed both him and Pomni from opposite sides of the law. Among them, a photograph -- Ribbit, half-drunk on cheap whisky, arm slung around Jax’s shoulders, both of them laughing like the world hadn’t started falling apart yet.

He stared at it until the image blurred. Then, quietly: “I’m gonna fix this, Ace. Somehow.”

The nickname burned in his mouth like it was forbidden.

It wasn’t a promise. It was a confession.

Outside, the storm began to ease. But inside that small room above the pawn shop, the air stayed heavy -- the kind of quiet that came before something broke for good.

*** 

Jax didn’t sleep that night.

He sat on the edge of his bed long after the call ended, the phone still clutched in his hand, the cracked screen dim and cold against his palm. The silence that followed was unbearable -- too full, too aware, too much like her voice still echoing somewhere inside his skull.

He hadn’t expected her to call ever anyways.
Least of all, after that.

The note had been clear -- short, sharp, impossible to mistake. A threat so direct it should’ve sent her packing, running, anything. That was the whole point. It was supposed to scare her. To make her stop digging before Caine decided she was better off gone by his own personal hand.

Instead, she’d called him.

He could still hear it -- her voice trembling just enough to make his stomach twist. She’d been scared, yes, but she’d been calm. Too calm. That quiet, infuriating calm she always wore like armor.

She said she’d “handle it.” Like this was just another progression in the case. Like she wasn’t standing in the crosshairs of something that would eat her alive.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, teeth grinding together.
“Stupid,” he hissed under his breath. “God, you’re so-- stupid.”

He wasn’t sure if he meant her or himself.

His chest felt tight, hot, like his ribs were too small to hold it all. He wanted to throw the phone across the room, to shatter the silence with something that broke, something that sounded like the inside of his head.

He’d told himself the note was the right thing -- a mercy, in its own twisted way. A warning before the real danger came. But now? Now he could still hear her saying his name. Just Jax. Small, shaky, almost tender.

He didn’t deserve that.

She wasn’t supposed to reach for him. She was supposed to run.

He laughed, but it came out broken -- too sharp, too close to a sob. “What the hell are you doing, Pomni?” he muttered, shoving both hands through his hair until it hurt.

The coin was still in his pocket, the edges pressing into his leg. He pulled it out, turning it over in his palm again and again until the skin there burned. Heads, tails, heads, tails. Like he could spin his way into a version of the night that made sense.

He wanted to believe she was just too curious. Too damn stubborn for her own good. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t that. She didn’t back off because she cared. About the case. About the victims. Maybe even -- God help him -- about him. Even if she didn’t know it.

And that made everything worse.

He clenched the coin in his fist so tight the metal bit into his skin. He wanted the pain -- needed it. Needed something to pull him out of the spiral before it swallowed him.

“This isn’t supposed to be your fight,” he said into the dark, voice low, shaking. “You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

But she wouldn’t listen. She never did. And the more he thought about that, the more the fear curdled into anger again. Anger at her stubbornness. At Caine’s threats. At himself for being stupid enough to care in the first place.

When dawn finally cracked through the blinds, it hit him like a slap -- too bright, too early, too merciless.

He sat there, eyes bloodshot and hollow, staring at the thin band of gold light creeping across the floorboards. The world outside was already moving on -- traffic starting, birds calling, the usual noise of life -- and it all felt obscene.

She should’ve listened.
She should’ve stayed away.

He pressed his thumb over the coin again, feeling its weight like a secret he couldn’t let go.

“This was supposed to keep you safe,” he whispered, but even as he said it, the words sounded like a lie.

“Why can’t you just be predictable like everybody else?”

***

The day cracked open gray and slow.

It wasn’t even proper daylight yet, just that bleak hour between night and responsibility when the city decided whether to wake up or stay half-asleep when Jax woke up. Even several hours later, the streets glistened with the ghost of rain, slick with puddles that caught the reflected neon in bruised colors. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed and then thought better of it, dying into the fog.

Jax walked with his head down, collar up against the afternoon humidity, hands buried in his pockets. His body moved, but his mind hadn’t caught up. Every sound was too loud -- the tires hissing on wet asphalt, the snap of a newspaper stand opening to curious hands, the distant clatter of a trash truck. He felt like the world was trying to drag him back to the surface and he wanted nothing more than to sink.

He had barely slept. He hadn’t even tried. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the note -- her kitchen table, that sterile light, the way the words looked like something torn out of his own guilt.
LEAVE. DO NOT RETURN. YOUR LIFE IS NOW IN DANGER. YOU WILL DIE.
He’d thought it would scare her. He’d hoped it would scare her.

But she’d called.
She’d called him.

The sound of her voice -- strained but still somehow steady -- had cracked something open inside him. She’d called him, the man she barely knew, after receiving a death threat from her own kitchen. He should have been relieved, should have told her the truth right then, but instead he’d just sat there in the dark, hand gripping the phone like a lifeline he didn’t deserve.

Now the afternoon felt wrong, too sharp around the edges. He told himself he was going to work because routine was all he had left -- and Spudzy’s didn’t ask questions.

The pizza shop crouched on the corner of Fifth and Ellis like a tired animal as it always did, its windows fogged with grease and the ghosts of last night’s cigarette smoke. The flickering sign buzzed in protest as he passed beneath it: SPUDZY’S PIZZA. Only the “Z” burned half-dead, stuttering like it couldn’t decide whether to exist.

The bell above the door gave a lonely jingle. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of oil and stale dough. The red vinyl booths gleamed in the half-light like dried blood.

No one else was there. There never was at this hour.

Jax flipped the “Closed” sign to “Open,” even though it didn’t matter. Regulars knew the hours better than he did, anyways. He tied on his apron with slow, deliberate motions, as though precision could keep the thoughts from leaking out. The rhythmic tasks -- wipe the counter, turn on the ovens, check stock -- usually helped. They were mechanical. Predictable. Safe.

But today, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He dumped marinara sauce from a bag into a bowl messily, the red tomato puree splashing up and over the side, burning his fingers. He swore under his breath and dumped the remainder into the sink. The splash echoed in the empty room.

He tried again. And again.

The city outside hummed faintly through the glass -- the soft breathing of engines, the sigh of passing wheels. He tried to match it, to let his mind drift, but every heartbeat dragged him back to the phone call.

She’d sounded tired. Not just end-of-the-day tired. Soul tired.
And still -- still -- she’d said she’d handle it.

The audacity of it made his chest burn.

He slammed the spatula down on the counter, the clang too loud in the silence.

“Handle it,” he muttered, laughing once, sharp and humorless. “Sure. Handle it.”

The fryer hissed behind him like something whispering in agreement.

Jax pressed his palms to the cool metal counter and tried to breathe, but his mind was a revolving door: Caine’s smirk, Pomni’s voice, Ribbit’s face -- that flash of fear before he fell.

It was an accident, he told himself for the hundredth time. He slipped.

But then came Caine’s voice, oily and amused:
“Interest, Jax. You can’t pay off debt with guilt. You work, or you follow your friend.”

The words crawled under his skin and stayed there like a disease.

He resisted the urge to flip the sign back to “Closed.” He didn’t care if anyone came in. Not today. He just wanted quiet. But he didn’t. Jax kept working.

He wiped the counter until it shone, likely for the first time in the years before Caine owned it. Wiped it again. The act was pointless, but he needed something to do with his hands.

The hours bled together. The clock ticked wrong -- slow, heavy beats like a heartbeat underwater. He poured himself a cup of coffee he didn’t want and drank it anyway. Bitter. Burnt. Perfect.

By the time the day crawled toward afternoon, the clouds had thickened again, bruised purple and gray. The pizzeria lights flickered once. Twice. Then steadied.

And then the bell above the door chimed.

He froze.

The sound was small, but it cut through him like glass. He turned before he could think better of it.

Of course it was her. Who else would it be?

She looked like the rain had followed her in -- hair slightly mussed, coat darkened at the shoulders, eyes shadowed from too little sleep. There was an ache in her posture that she tried to hide by straightening her spine, but he saw it anyway. Of course he did.

She hesitated at the door, scanning the empty diner before meeting his eyes. Then, she smiled. Just a small, polite thing, as if the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened at all.

“Hey,” she said, voice warm but thin. “No other customers today?.”

Jax couldn’t speak for a moment. He just stared.
Of all the damn places in the city, she had to walk into this one.

“Coffee?” she asked, tilting her head toward the counter. “I really don’t mind paying extra if you could afford a little cream and sugar this time.”

He swallowed the rise of panic clawing up his throat. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Her smile faltered. “Excuse me?”

He gestured vaguely, trying to keep his voice low but failing. “You should be home. Or at the your work or something. Or anywhere else.”

Pomni blinked, confusion and defensiveness tightening her features. “I… just came for a break. Long morning. Didn’t realize I needed a security clearance to order caffeine.”

“Pomni,” he said, and it came out sharper than he intended. The use of her first name instead of “Detective” registered in shock on her face. “You got a death threat last night.”

Something flickered behind her eyes -- fear, maybe, or hesitation. “And you think the whole city would suddenly become dangerous?”

He almost laughed. The sound stuck in his throat. “You’d be surprised.”

“On the contrary,” she said, shrugging out of her coat to Jax’s utter dismay, “it’s not exactly the first threat I’ve ever gotten. Comes with the job.”

He took a step toward her, begrudgingly dropping a chipped mug of coffee with a handful of sugar packets, watching as some of the burnt liquid inside splashed over the side and onto the pristine counters. “This one’s different.”

Her gaze met his, level and steady, but her voice softened. “You’re worried.” She reached for the coffee mug, wrapping her pale fingers around it and drawing it towards her, allowing the warmth to leech into her fingers from the ceramic.

“I’m--” He stopped. The truth was an exposed wire in his mouth. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

Pomni blinked, thrown by the intensity in his tone. “Since when was that your responsibility, Jax?” There it was again. His name from her mouth had his mind spinning in circles, though her timing could not have been any worse.

“I think you don’t take things seriously enough.”

Her brow furrowed, the warmth leaving her voice. Jax watched in dismay as her body language suddenly became more reclusive and shut-off. “And I think you’re overreacting.”

“You think I don’t know what people like that are capable of?” he snapped, voice rising. “You think it’s just a scare tactic? You have no idea what--”

He cut himself off, chest tight.

Pomni stepped back slightly, coffee abandoned now and arms crossing. “God, what’s gotten into you?” 

“Nothing,” he muttered, turning away, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”

“No, seriously,” she said, more sharply now. “You’ve been on edge since last week. First you give me your number out of nowhere, then you act like seeing me is a crime. Did I do something wrong?”

He looked at her -- really looked -- and for a second, he almost broke, barbed wire wrapping its way around his throat in a familiar fashion.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said coldly. “That’s the problem.”

Pomni frowned, clearly not following. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he hissed, pacing now, “you keep walking into fires expecting not to burn.”

Her tone dropped, almost icy. “And what, you’re the fireman now?”

“No,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m the one holding the match.”

The words hung there, heavy and electric, before either of them breathed.

Pomni stared, stunned, eyes flicking across his face like she was trying to read a confession between the lines. He looked away first, biting hard on the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood.

“Jax,” she said slowly, “Do you understand what you’re suggesting? If you know who--”

He cut her off, too fast. “I don’t.”

The lie rang so loud he could feel it echo. Maybe Pomni felt it too, with the way she suddenly fixed him with that look he only saw her wear at the scenes she inspected.

Her jaw tightened. “Fine. I won’t push. But whatever’s going on with you -- you need to get a grip. I can take care of myself.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He slammed his hand on the counter. The sound made her flinch. “Then why the hell are you here?”

Silence.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet, but tough as steel. “Because I thought you’d understand.”

The words hit him harder than he expected.

For a second, the anger drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion. He stared at her -- her coat still dripping faintly onto the floor, the dark circles under her eyes, the way she stood her ground even when he tried to push her away.

He wanted to tell her everything. To beg her to stop before it was too late.

But the words wouldn’t come.

So instead, he said, “You shouldn’t have.”

Pomni’s lips pressed into a thin line. She reached into her coat, pulled out a few bills, and set them on the counter. “Keep the change,” she said, voice clipped.

“Pomni--”

“No.” Her tone cracked just slightly. “Whatever this is, figure it out. But don’t take it out on me.”

She turned, walked toward the door. Her reflection shimmered briefly in the window -- distorted, fractured by raindrops. 

The bell gave its faint, melancholy jingle as she stepped out into the gray.

The detective didn’t look back.

Jax didn’t move for a long time.

The pizza shop was silent again, save for the faint hiss of the fryer cooling behind him. The smell of burnt oil hung in the air like regret.

He reached for the rag and started wiping the counter again, slow and aimless, the way you do when you don’t know what else to do with your hands.

Her coffee sat untouched at the end of the counter. He stared at it until the steam thinned and disappeared.

He whispered to no one,
“She’s going to get herself killed.”

And for once, the thought didn’t sound like a prediction. It sounded like a promise he didn’t know how to stop.

Chapter Text

The morning felt brittle, like something that might snap if she moved too quickly. The city streets were pale under a sun filtered through smog and heat, the occasional car rolling past with tires squeaking softly on dry asphalt. The air smelled faintly of dust and exhaust, nothing like rain, nothing to wash away the weight pressing on her chest.

Pomni walked slowly, boots clicking against the concrete, each step deliberate, as if by slowing down she could slow the whirl of thoughts threatening to spill over. The memory of the pizza shop lingered, curling stubbornly at the edges of her mind.

She had meant to just grab a cup of coffee, take a short break, and leave it at that. But Jax had been… impossible. Sharp. Intense. The kind of intensity that burned through polite conversation and left only raw edges. She could still feel the tremor of it in her chest, the way his hands had clenched against the counter, how his voice had cracked when he tried to pull her into his panic.

Her own words -- the measured, controlled replies she thought had steadied the exchange -- now felt small and insufficient. She’d told him it wasn’t his business. She’d reminded herself, reminded him, that she could take care of herself. But hearing it out loud again, replaying it in her head, she felt something close to betrayal.

Not because he had shouted, not because he had worried -- but because part of her had wanted him to.

Her mind twisted in the realization: she had cared, even if just a little, about the way he would react. And that care made the sting worse. Anger at his audacity, at his inability to hold himself back, mingled with the guilt of admitting she’d noticed, that she’d felt… something.

Pomni shook her head and tried to force her thoughts elsewhere. Her criminal -- the daisy thief -- still waited somewhere in the city, weaving riddles, leaving messages. But now her attention flitted uncomfortably to Jax. Why had she even gone to Spudzy’s? Why had she wanted to see him?

Her sixth sense that made her so adept at the job that she had been given seemed to have disappeared over the past weeks. She no longer noticed things that she wanted-- needed to do her job. Was there something wrong with her?

She hated that she asked herself those questions, hated that a part of her was already trying to reconcile worry and fascination into something coherent.

The precinct was still quiet when she arrived, the first-floor hallways empty except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. She passed her office at the rear and paused, hand on the doorknob. Her reflection in the glass panel looked sharp, controlled, professional -- but she didn’t feel like that at all.

Sliding into her chair behind the desk, Pomni tried to focus on the neat stacks of paperwork before her, as if straightening the edges could straighten her mind. But her thoughts refused to obey. They lingered on Spudzy’s, on Jax’s voice, his anger, his worry. Every time she tried to push the memory away, it crept back with stubborn persistence, like the shadow of a storm she hadn’t been able to outrun.

A soft knock on the open door pulled her back. “Hey,” Gangle’s voice was light, careful, but carried an edge of genuine concern. “How was your day off?”

Pomni blinked, startled. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. “Off?” she repeated, trying for casual, failing just slightly.

“Yeah,” Gangle said, stepping fully into the room. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed loosely, eyes scanning Pomni like she could read the exhaustion etched into the corners of her face. “You look… unrested.”

Pomni gave a half-smile, trying to mask the tightness in her jaw. “It’s been… a long week,” she said vaguely, avoiding the real truth.

Gangle didn’t press, not immediately. Instead, she perched lightly on the edge of a nearby filing cabinet, giving Pomni space while still being there. “Pom, I know you hate to admit it, but even detectives need a break. You can’t keep running on fumes.”

Pomni’s hands tightened around a stack of papers, the edges pressing into her palms. She appreciated the care in Gangle’s tone, the softness beneath the teasing. But part of her bristled. “I’m fine,” she said firmly, though her voice carried just a hint of defensiveness she couldn’t quite hide.

“I don’t doubt that,” Gangle said, giving her a small, knowing smile. “But fine isn’t the same as… not carrying too much.” Her eyes softened. “Whatever’s going on -- with the case, or… you know, in general -- you don’t have to shoulder it alone.”

Pomni wanted to say that she could handle herself, that she had always done so. But the words caught somewhere in her throat. Instead, she nodded slowly, letting Gangle’s presence linger like a small anchor in the swirl of her thoughts.

“Coffee?” Gangle asked lightly, glancing at the mug on Pomni’s desk. “Or do you need something stronger today?”

Pomni managed a half-smile this time, weaker than she would have liked. “Coffee’s fine,” she said quietly. “Thanks, Gangle.”

Gangle pushed off the filing cabinet and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder before heading out. “I’ll leave you to it. But… seriously, take care of yourself, Pom.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and Pomni sank back in her chair. Alone again, the silence of the precinct pressed closer, heavier than before. Her thoughts returned to Spudzy’s, to Jax, to the lingering ache of worry, irritation, and something else she wasn’t ready to name.

She reached for a pen, idly tapping it against the desk, but even the small, mundane movement did little to settle her mind. The day stretched ahead of her, unyielding and bright under the harsh fluorescent lights, and she realized just how exhausted she truly felt. Not just tired in the body, but in the chest, in the mind, in the part of herself that wanted to believe she could navigate this city -- and these people -- without ever breaking.

And for the first time in hours, she let herself acknowledge it: she didn’t feel in control at all.

*** 

Pomni leaned back in her chair, letting the weight of the morning press into her shoulders. The city outside the precinct windows was pale and still, the noise of traffic muted against the thick walls. She traced a finger along the edge of her desk, trying to anchor herself, but the rhythm of her thoughts refused to settle.

The hum of the fluorescent lights felt oppressive now, each flicker a tiny reminder that the world kept moving while she’d spent hours lost inside her own worry. Her mind, predictably, had wandered back to Spudzy’s -- to the sharp edge of Jax’s voice, the desperation she’d heard beneath the anger. It shouldn’t have hurt her as much as it did. It wasn’t her business, not really. And yet…

Her chest tightened at the memory of the coffee untouched on the counter, the way he’d looked at her -- terrified and furious in equal measure -- and she found herself replaying every word, every inflection. She hated that it lingered, hated that she thought about him instead of the criminal she was supposed to be hunting.

Her thoughts were cut off by the shrill ring of her phone. Pomni picked it up, her pulse jumping and thoughts scattering at the sight of the familiar number.

“Detective Shutov?” The voice belonged to Officer Felix, an officer on patrol of Torchwick’s East side, crisp but cautious. “We’ve got a situation at O’Malley’s Jewelers on the corner of Third and Vine. I just got there -- seems like another break-in. No one’s been dispatched yet.”

Pomni leaned forward, heart hammering. “What’s the scene look like?”

“Front window’s busted,” Felix said, voice tight but steady. “Interior’s mostly ransacked, but I didn’t see any flowers or anything unusual at first glance. Just… a mess.”

Pomni frowned, gripping the edge of her desk. “Did you see anything that stands out inside? Anything like our guy?”

There was a pause and then some shuffling. Pomni heard the sound of glass crunching underfoot as the officer likely walked deeper into the store. “There’s a note. Small, folded. Placed on the counter. I didn’t touch it.”

Her chest tightened. She felt the old pulse of dread from last night flare again. “Read it to me,” she said, her voice low, measured.

“‘On your head be it, little Daisy.’ That’s all it says. Written in sharp, messy handwriting.”

Pomni closed her eyes for a moment, letting the words roll over her. A chill ran down her spine -- the phrasing, the mix of threat and familiarity, set off a quiet alarm she couldn’t ignore. She’d seen the artistry in her criminal’s work before, and this… this was different, messy yet deliberate, careless yet deliberate -- and it pulled at the same patterns her mind recognized.

“Stay put, Felix. Don’t touch anything else. I’m on my way,” Pomni said, already grabbing her coat. Her pulse was fast, not from exertion but from that strange mix of dread and reluctant fascination.

“Copy that,” Felix replied. “Be careful. This one’s--different.”

Pomni hung up, taking a long, steadying breath. The day, pale and silent outside the precinct, felt suddenly sharp and unyielding. She tapped the side of her head with one finger, trying to push away the thoughts of Jax -- of Spudzy’s -- of the weight of their confrontation. But the pull was insistent.

She exhaled and started moving toward the door. Her criminal was out there, again, leaving a trail that demanded her attention. But beneath it all, she couldn’t stop thinking about Jax -- about the anger, the worry, and the raw, desperate way he’d tried to keep her safe, even when she hadn’t wanted him to.

For the first time, she realized how much that mattered to her.

***

Pomni arrived at O’Malley’s Jewelers within minutes, the streets now alive with the muted hum of mid-morning traffic. Sunlight had begun to wash the city in a thin, hard clarity, and she noted the stark difference from the rainy haze of the past few days. The broken window glinted sharply under the sunlight, shards catching it like fractured diamonds, each jagged edge a miniature sunburst on the floor. She inhaled slowly, the crisp air mingling with the faint scent of polished wood and jewelry polish wafting from the shop.

She ducked under the caution tape, boots crunching softly on the scattered glass. Officer Felix stepped back respectfully, giving her space as she crouched near the counter.

The note lay there exactly as Felix had described: small, folded, ink dark and jagged in a way that was almost rushed, almost careless -- but intentional in its own chaotic way. It was positioned neatly, almost ceremoniously, as if the thief had placed it with a flourish that only he could see.

Pomni’s gloved fingers hovered over it for a long moment before she touched it, unfolding the paper with deliberate care. The message inside was short, brutal:

"On your head be it, little Daisy."

Her breath caught. She blinked slowly, studying the handwriting. Sloppy, almost hurried, but there was rhythm -- a cadence she recognized without really wanting to. It tugged at a knot in her stomach. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. She had a job to do. She couldn’t indulge in the dangerous pull of conjecture. Not yet.

And yet… something nagged at her. The phrasing -- the diminutive “little Daisy” -- the way the note was centered, almost theatrically, on the counter… it echoed the cadence, the obsession for performance she had seen in her criminal’s past work. But this wasn’t like the previous notes. There was no flourish of glitter, no meticulous pressed daisy. It was urgent, selfish, raw -- stripped of artistry but heavy with intent. Was this a message to her?

Pomni’s mind flickered involuntarily back to Jax. The confrontation at Spudzy’s. His voice sharp, desperate, afraid for her. Her chest tightened at the memory, and she tried to shove it away. He hadn’t asked for this. It wasn’t his business. He had no right to be tangled in this, and yet…

Her eyes scanned the room like a microscope, cataloging the smallest details. Footprints in the dust near the service entrance. Tiny scratches along the display drawers. A faint smear of polishing cloth residue on the counter -- someone had brushed past in a hurry. And then she noticed it: the orientation of the shards in the window. They’d been forced inward, pushed with a blunt, hurried pressure -- reckless yet calculated. The pattern told her something: whoever had done this was moving quickly, leaving a message first, possibly anticipating a chase or a reaction before taking the actual objects.

Something red caught her attention near the far side of the counter. She reached for it with a gloved hand and lifted a crumpled slip of paper from beneath the scattered glass -- a ticket stub, half-torn, its edges faintly smudged with dust.

BIG TOP CINEMA – Admit One.

Pomni frowned, straightening slightly. The Big Top Cinema was all the way in the West End -- a gaudy old theater tucked beside Spudzy’s, where she’d seen Jax only the day before. What was a ticket from there doing here, across the city in the East End?

Her stomach tightened as the thought formed. It couldn’t be coincidence. Not with the note. Not with the phrasing. Someone had placed this here -- not dropped it, not lost it -- placed it.

“Felix,” she called softly, turning the stub over in her hand. “Was this logged?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. We didn’t see that before.”

She studied it again, thumb brushing the faint crease down its middle. It had been folded once, deliberately. Carried. Pocketed. Left behind.

It wasn’t litter -- it was a breadcrumb. And it led straight back to a place tied too closely to someone she didn’t want to think about.

Pomni’s pulse quickened. The thief had always been theatrical -- performative -- but never obvious. So why this? Why leave a trail leading all the way across town, to the West End, to the same block where  Spudzy’s stood like a quiet sentinel under the flickering lights of the Big Top marquee?

Her mind spun through possibilities. A taunt? A misdirection? Or worse -- an attempt to frame someone who didn’t deserve it?

She tried to push the thought of Jax out of her mind, scolding herself for being distracted. He was tangential to this. He had nothing to do with it. And yet the similarities tugged at her curiosity in a way that was impossible to ignore. Could it be a copycat? Another follower trying to mimic the flair of the original Daisy thief? But the recklessness, the rush, the personal tone -- it screamed urgency, not imitation.

Her pulse quickened. She hated that she was thinking about him at all. She hated the way her mind tried to connect dots that didn’t belong together. But she couldn’t deny the pull -- that strange, magnetic tug that made her stomach clench.

She tucked the note and the ticket stub each into separate evidence sleeves, forcing herself to catalog everything around her with precision. Nothing beyond the counter and display cases seemed touched. Whoever had done this wanted the message to arrive first. The theft might have been secondary. Or maybe it was always about the thrill, the chase.

Pomni’s shoulders stiffened as an unfamiliar sense of betrayal stirred within her. Not toward Jax, but toward herself. She shouldn’t care. She had no reason to. He was tangential. Yet somehow, he had wormed his way into her thoughts, complicating the clarity she prided herself on maintaining.

Her gaze drifted to the nearby streets through the window. The mid-morning bustle of commuters and delivery trucks carried on, oblivious to the tiny dramas tucked into the corners of the city. And she knew, somewhere in her mind, that the pattern she had been tracing -- the subtle echoes of previous crimes, the spacing of high-value targets, the rush and theatricality -- could point toward the thief’s next move. A small cluster of jewelry shops, art galleries, and boutiques along a quieter avenue not far from here fit the profile perfectly.

But that ticket still burned in her pocket -- a whisper of the West End, of Spudzy’s, of the looming circus themed theater towering over the neon sign. Too far to be chance. Too pointed to ignore.

Pomni exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “Focus,” she murmured, tracing the shards of glass that littered the counter and floor. The city went on, indifferent to the danger hidden in plain sight. She straightened, pulling off her gloves and placing them carefully in her pocket.

She looked toward Felix, who had been silently watching. “Call this in,” she said, her voice steady. “Full documentation. Witness statements. Anything that moved near here between one and four this morning. And check surrounding streets for any security gaps -- anywhere the thief could strike next.”

Felix nodded, already reaching for his radio. Pomni’s gaze lingered on the note one last time, the words etched in black ink -- a threat, a warning, a taunt. They were cold, but beneath them she felt something oddly human, something unguarded, something that resonated with the faint, persistent pull of familiarity.

Her chest tightened. That same pull she couldn’t name, that strange mix of frustration, fascination, and anger, whispered at the edges of her mind.

And she knew, with an uncomfortable certainty, that this wasn’t over.

Her criminal was still out there. But somewhere, quietly, Jax’s shadow had entered her thoughts -- uninvited, inescapable, impossible to ignore.

She allowed herself a moment, leaning against the counter, closing her eyes briefly as sunlight pooled across the floor. For just a heartbeat, the mess, the shards, the note -- all of it -- became a reflection of her own tangled emotions. Fear, curiosity, attraction, irritation, a sense of betrayal she didn’t fully understand.

Pomni opened her eyes and drew a sharp breath. She had to keep moving. Her mind couldn’t unravel here, not while the city -- and the thief -- waited outside.

***

Pomni lingered at the threshold longer than she meant to, her reflection fractured across the shards still clinging to the display window. For a moment, she saw herself divided -- the detective and the woman, each staring back with equal uncertainty.

The sunlight outside had grown harsher, bouncing off windshields and storefronts as the city began to fully wake. She exhaled slowly, turning from the broken glass and stepping out into the sound of engines and footsteps, the low hum of life resuming as if nothing had happened here at all.

By the time she slid into her car, the adrenaline of the scene had dulled to a heavy, restless hum in her chest. But then, as she reached into her coat pocket and drew out the evidence sleeve, it flared back -- sharp, electric, threading through her veins like static. She held it up so that both the note and the ticket stub caught the light.

"On your head be it, little Daisy."
And beneath it -- BIG TOP CINEMA – Admit One.

Two pieces of paper. Two points on a map. One in the East End, one in the West. The distance between them was a contradiction in itself. No thief worth their salt would risk that kind of signature unless they wanted to be found -- or to send a message.

Pomni’s fingers tightened on the sleeve. The ticket mocked her. That garish logo, the name stamped in red ink, the way the stub had been folded once, neatly -- the same way she’d seen Jax fold receipts at the counter of Spudzy’s when he thought she wasn’t watching.

Her throat went dry. No. She shook her head sharply, forcing air through her teeth. Coincidence. Correlation wasn’t proof. She’d built her career on knowing the difference.

But the thought wouldn’t die. It rooted itself somewhere deep and primitive, beneath reason. She could see it -- the way he’d leaned over the counter last night, fingers drumming in that restless rhythm of his, impatient but deliberate. It was the same rhythm she’d seen in the thief’s older crimes: method hidden inside chaos, an elegance trying to disguise panic. Even the placement of the note today -- centered, theatrical -- mirrored the strange, almost ritualistic symmetry of the Daisy Thief’s earliest work.

A shot of adrenaline spiked through her, uncoiling the calm she’d fought to keep. The same way he moved -- that unconscious grace threaded through carelessness, like a man performing for an audience he couldn’t quite see. She’d once found it charming in Jax, even humanizing. Now it felt like a trap she hadn’t realized she’d walked into.

Her mind began building the parallels on its own. 

Considering Jax had been a stranger not all that long ago, he cared an awful lot for a detective working a job he had only heard about through her late night ramblings. Pomni recalled their one and only walk together after he closed the store, the night he had given her his number. It seemed like the first steps toward a genuine friendship. 

Nothing like the obsessive concern she had seen on his face the day before. It was genuinely concerning, how quickly things had shifted. Where had the easygoing care-free smart-mouthed pizza shop worker gone that she had once loved to despise? 

And where was her calm collected daisy thief? 

She had been trained to profile, yes, but this was sudden and unexpected.

It was too much and not enough all at once.

She stared out the windshield, her eyes unfocused on the blur of sunlight and motion beyond. Her reflection in the glass looked uncertain, tired, and uncomfortably vulnerable.

If it was Jax -- if somehow he had slipped into this world she thought she understood -- then she needed to know before anyone else did. Before she let herself believe something she couldn’t take back.

But she couldn’t confront him outright. He would shut down, deflect, or worse -- see the fear she was trying to hide. She needed a way to ask without asking. It couldn’t be him, and he’d just dismiss any attempt she made at inquiring him about the case outwardly anyways. 

He had made his position on her own business very clear. 

Pomni leaned back against the headrest, thinking. She would have to pose a question that would seem harmless to him, ordinary. Certainly not back at spudzy’s again-- that had seemed to set him off last time. Perhaps a text with the number he had given her. Something that would draw him out, something that might reveal where he’d been that night -- or whether he’d seen what she had seen.

Her mind drifted back to the stub in her hand. Big Top Cinema.

The corners of her mouth tightened into the faintest, crooked smile. “Maybe,” she whispered, “I’ll just ask if the theater next door is open for showings.”

The idea sounded ridiculous as soon as she said it. The Daisy Thief -- the meticulous, calculating showman who’d taunted her department for months -- moonlighting as a tired pizza cook with a name badge and sauce stains on his sleeves? The thought was absurd enough to make her huff out a quiet laugh. Maybe she was more exhausted than she gave herself credit for.

And yet…

Her smile faltered almost immediately. Absurd didn’t mean impossible. Every pattern she’d ever studied had started as something unbelievable, something that didn’t fit until it did. Maybe that was what scared her most -- not that Jax could be the Daisy Thief, but that part of her was capable of believing it.

She let her head rest against the seat, eyes closing for a moment. The car hummed around her, warm sunlight filtering through the windshield, slicing her reflection into bands of gold and shadow.

If she was wrong, she’d laugh about it later -- maybe even tell him once this was all over and she could return to her booth seven. Turn it into a joke, even. But if she was right… then everything she thought she knew about the case, and about him, would collapse under its own weight.

So she smiled again, faint and weary this time, and whispered to herself --
she would prove it wasn’t Jax.
She had to.

Because the alternative was unthinkable.

Chapter Text

The city was too quiet tonight.
Even the hum of the streetlights seemed to pulse slower, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

Jax sat on the edge of his narrow bed, elbows on his knees, the lamplight cutting harsh angles across his face. His jacket hung half on his shoulders, boots untied and forgotten. The room smelled faintly of cold coffee and old sockets -- the stale scent of nights spent waiting for something that never arrived.
The walls were thin enough that he could hear the couple next door arguing about nothing, the rhythmic creak of a ceiling fan trying to die. The kind of noise that made silence worse.

He’d been trying to think, but his thoughts kept circling the same drain -- Pomni’s voice, the way she’d folded her arms and turned away in Spudzy’s, that small, stunned betrayal that looked, unnervingly, like hurt. The look pressed into his chest like a bruise. He could still hear her voice echoing behind the counter, sharp and disappointed in a way that made him wish she’d just yelled instead.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the stubble rasping under his palm, and leaned forward until his spine cracked. The clock on the wall ticked unevenly -- one tick faster, one lagging behind, like even time was struggling to keep rhythm tonight.

He turned the coin between his fingers until the metal burned warm. Reflex. Habit. A useless little ritual that passed for steadiness. Heads for survival, tails for regret. He didn’t flip it anymore -- not since the odds had started to look like a joke.

The phone buzzed once.
Then again.

The sound was sharp, mechanical, but somehow it still made his pulse stutter. A cold, reflexive spike of dread hit him square in the gut before reason caught up.

He didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Caine never called unless he wanted to be heard.

The name glowed across the cracked screen, cutting through the dim yellow light like a brand.
Jax stared at it -- not the letters themselves, but what they meant.
Caine didn’t call to talk. He called to remind. To test. To tighten the leash a little further each time.

The buzz stopped.
A moment of stillness.
Then it started again.

Jax’s fingers twitched. He could let it ring out. He could let it go to voicemail -- though that, he knew, would only make the next call worse.
Caine didn’t leave messages. He sent consequences.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, but it didn’t stop his pulse from quickening. The air felt heavier now, the room smaller. Even the lamp seemed to dim, shadows creeping further across the walls.

He thought, briefly, about not answering. About standing up, walking out, and letting the phone ring itself to death. He pictured leaving it there, face down, buzzing until the battery gave out. A small act of defiance.

But that fantasy evaporated before it could take root.

He already knew how that story ended. He’d seen it before -- the kind of quiet that followed when Caine’s patience ran out. And Jax wasn’t ready for that silence yet.

The phone buzzed one last time. Then stopped.
Then buzzed again -- harder, longer. A warning.

He closed his eyes and swore under his breath.
Then, before he could think better of it, he reached out and picked it up. His thumb hovered over the glowing answer button, the pulse in his wrist drumming in time with the vibration.

A breath in. A pause.
He pressed his thumb down.

“Hello?”

“Jax,” Caine’s voice purred through the receiver, warm and venomous all at once. “You sound tired, son. Been losing sleep?”

The tone was all warmth on the surface; underneath it the pettiest, most precise cruelty. Jax did not answer. He let the silence hold its own apology.

“That’s all right,” Caine went on, the faint clink of ice in a glass punctuating the words. “Sleep’s for people who can afford to be comfortable. And you, my boy, haven’t earned the right to be comfortable.”

“I’m on schedule, Caine,” Jax said finally, voice flat. “You’ll get what you asked for.”

“Oh, it’s always about the schedule with you,” Caine crooned. “Always the timetable. But schedules change, darling. Don’t be childish -- accept that sometimes the tide shifts and you have to swim faster.”

Jax’s mouth went dry. “What tide?”

“The tide of opportunity,” Caine said lightly. “It’s come in a little earlier than expected. I’ve got news that complicates things. I need these…delicate issues resolved sooner.”

Jax’s head dipped. He could feel the line tightening, the trap resetting. “How soon?”

Caine hummed, as if tasting the detail. “By the end of the week.”

The words landed like a stone.

Jax swallowed. “We set the end of the month.”

“And I set the end of the week,” Caine replied, with the easy air of someone who adjusted the scenery on a whim. “I prefer urgency. It sharpens the players. Besides -- why let a little thing like a calendar delay a perfectly good resolution?”

“You can’t just…move the date,” Jax said, heat rising under his skin despite the dimness of the room. “This is reckless.”

“It’s decisive,” Caine corrected, amused. “And decisive is what I pay for. Listen to me, Jax -- you’ve been muddling about, letting things become sentimental. That’s a dangerous habit.”

“I said I’ll handle it,” Jax snapped, more sharply than he meant to.

Caine’s chuckle was soft and disgustingly fond. “You always say you’ll handle things. But ‘handling’ has become sentimental. I want finality. I want tidy. I want this particular problem closed now.”

“You mean--” Jax’s voice nearly broke. “You mean her.”

“I mean the leak,” Caine said, and casually -- as if reciting a menu -- “the person making noise that threatens my ledger and my comfort. You know her. You like her. That is precisely why you’re the one I send.”

Jax pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. Every rational part of him wanted to hang up; every animal part of him wanted to throw the phone across the room and run. He did neither.

“Why the rush?” he asked. “What changed?”

“Circumstance,” Caine said, enigmatic and grand. “Call it supply and demand. There’s talk in the wrong places, and I don’t like talk. I like results. So I accelerate the plan. You will make things tidy.”

An ugly laughter bubbled in Jax’s chest. “And then what? After this--”

Caine was quick -- like a gambler turning a card. “After this, for your cooperation and finesse, I’ll make you an offer. Finish what I ask cleanly -- tonight, this week -- and after two more clean jobs, I will grant you your freedom.”

The words were honey and a blade. Freedom dangled in front of Jax like a mirage.

“Freedom,” Jax repeated, voice thin. “You promise that.”

“I promise,” Caine said, but the line in his voice was theatrical rather than sincere. “I make offers. I like to be gracious. Be clever with your gratitude.”

“You can’t promise me that,” Jax said, every syllable dragging. “You can’t get me out with words.”

Caine’s chuckle was soft, indulgent. “I am not a man of loose promises, Jax. I’m a connoisseur of leverage. But think of it this way: do the thing I ask, and I will sign your name off the ledger. Do it badly -- or refuse -- and the ledger will swell in ways you will not like.”

“You’re blackmailing me with my life,” Jax said. There was anger at the bottom of the statement now, brittle and sharp. The anger steadied him for the first time that night.

Caine hummed, nearly delighted. “You sound outraged. Good. A spark of something human left in you. Use that when you perform. It will make the finale more convincing.”

“You don’t get to talk about her like that,” Jax said, a brittle quiet.

“Oh, but I do,” Caine said breezily. “I own the stage, remember? And actors need direction. Consider this an improv exercise with stakes. If you succeed, your debts shrink. If you fail, your world collapses into a performance I will direct personally.”

Jax’s fingers dug into the sides of the phone until his knuckles blanched. “So -- two more jobs, clean, then freedom. That’s the deal?”

“That’s the dessert,” Caine said. “Finish the main course first.”

Jax almost laughed -- an animal sound that was half-wanted sob. “You can’t mean that.”

“Oh, but I do,” Caine sang. “I’m generous sometimes. Rewards are nice incentives. I find people try harder when a light exists at the end of a tunnel. Aren’t you the sort who likes the thrill of the run to the finish?”

The silence that followed felt like a noose. Jax thought of Ribbit -- the way laughter had once filled the spaces of his life; the way a single misstep had turned into a fall that became a permanent absence. He thought of the ledger, time and time again piling interest like some monstrous tide. He imagined a day without Caine’s voice measuring him in debts and threats.

“Why me?” Jax asked suddenly, though the answer had been a slow, ugly truth for years. “Why give me the promise now? Why not keep me tethered forever?”

“Because you are useful and hungry enough to do precise work,” Caine said. “And because I like the idea that, once in a while, I can dangle a carrot and watch the creature scurry.”

Jax’s throat closed. “And if I fail?”

Caine’s laugh dropped like a blade. “Then I write you out of the story. Quietly. The city has many ways to forget a man. And my people are very good at fables. We’d call it….The rabbit and the fool. A tragedy to last generations.”

The line clicked with a soft finality, then went dead.

Jax sat very still. Ribbit’s coin had fallen from his hand and now rested on the floor between his boots, glinting like the small lie he’d told himself for months. A promise: two jobs, freedom. A deadline: Friday.
Four days.

He breathed, shallow and fast, as if every intake of air might be checked. The small room seemed to contract, the walls leaning in closer. Jax felt like he had been nudged off a high ledge and told to fly.

He thought of Pomni -- not as a face or a curiosity this time, but as a full, living human being who laughed too loud and worked too hard and trusted, in ways that made him ache. He thought of the note on her table, the way her voice had sounded when she called him. He thought of the moment in Spudzy’s, the way she had turned away, as if she had already started to build walls.

Anger came then, hot and too quick: that Pomni would put herself into danger, that Caine would think to threaten the only quiet thing in Jax’s messy chest. But beneath it, lower and more dangerous, there was another feeling -- a hollowed dread that tasted like a promise.

He was not stupid. He had never been. He understood the bargain. Two more clean jobs, and a rope uncoiled. Two more and he could walk free.
But the price -- the immediate price -- was Pomni. The only person who ever looked at him like he wasn’t the monster Caine had created.
This truth turned his stomach into ice.

He had already told himself he would not be a murderer. That had been one of his rules: no killing. He had reasons for it that dug into him like roots; reasons that would make the ledger’s numbers meaningless if he broke them. Caine knew that rule. Caine had carved himself a grin out of knowing where a man’s principles lay.
Now Caine was pushing at that brittle thing with an iron fist.

Jax stood, walked to the window, and watched the street below. The city pulsed with indifferent life -- a tram clattered by, a dog barked, someone laughed into a phone -- the world continuing around an order he had no power to stop.

He wanted to be angry enough to refuse. He wanted to be brave enough to walk away and take whatever consequence came. He wanted to believe Caine was bluffing.
Instead he felt small and raw and trapped. There was no plan. There were only edges he could not see around.

He sat back down on the bed and let his head fall into his hands. For a long time he said nothing. The line between him and the monster Caine demanded he be was suddenly painfully thin.
Four days. Two jobs. Freedom promised like a candy tied to a string.

Jax’s hands trembled as he dialed the one number he had been afraid he’d have to call: a line that belonged to someone who was, by all rights, none of his business.
He didn’t know what he would say if she answered. He only knew that the clock had moved faster, and the stage curtains had already begun to open.

The dial tone hummed in his ear -- one, two, three -- then cut to the sound of ringing. Each chime felt heavier than the last. He watched his reflection in the window glass: hollow-eyed, jaw tight, the ghost of a man rehearsing a confession he couldn’t make. 

He imagined her voice on the other end. Hey, Jax. Light. Familiar. The kind of tone that might make him forget for a second who he was, or who he owed. He imagined her asking if he was okay, and how cruel it would sound when he said fine.

He tore the phone from his ear, quickly hitting the disconnect before it could even stop ringing. What was he thinking?

Caine’s words slid through his head like smoke: Do the thing I ask, and I will sign your name off the ledger.

The ledger. Ribbit. The roof and shingle.

Jax closed his eyes. The city beyond the glass blurred -- all light and movement, a world without him in it. For a brief, dizzy moment, he thought of what it might be like to disappear completely. No debts. No master. No ghosts. Just the clean, empty air of someone else’s life.

Then his phone buzzed again -- a text, short and sterile, from an unmarked number:
Tick-tock, J. Don’t be late to the finale. -- C.

Jax stared at it until the letters swam. Then, with a kind of resigned violence, he flung the phone onto the bed and pressed both hands over his face. The sound that escaped him wasn’t quite a groan -- closer to a laugh that had lost its way halfway through.

He sat there for a long time, shoulders trembling, until the tremor turned to stillness. The coin still lay on the floor between his boots, gleaming faintly in the lamplight. A promise. A lie. A reminder.

When he finally bent to pick it up, his fingers lingered over the metal’s warmth. It didn’t feel like comfort anymore -- it felt like an oath. A weight he could neither drop nor bear to hold.

He slipped the coin into his pocket, stood, and reached for his jacket. The motion was mechanical, deliberate, the way a condemned man might button his collar before the gallows.

He looked once more out the window -- the city lights blinking like indifferent eyes -- and whispered something that might have been an apology, or a vow.

Then he left the room.

Each step down the hallway sounded final. Not loud, not rushed -- just inevitable.

By the time the door clicked shut behind him, Jax had already decided.

He would do it.
He would make it tidy.
He would make it quick.

If freedom was the price, then the devil could have his due.

***

The days began to melt together after Caine’s call.
Jax couldn’t remember when one ended and the next began. It was all the same rhythm -- streetlight to streetlight, shadow to shadow, his heart beating somewhere between dread and denial.

He told himself he was planning.
That he was waiting for the right time.
But in truth, he was stalling -- the way a man stands on a frozen lake and tells himself the ice will hold if he just doesn’t move.

The first day passed in silence.
He stayed in his apartment, staring at the gun he occasionally kept with him for heists. He had taken it out to clean it, then left it on the counter. A gleaming silver. Unassuming. An object meant to be handled, not stared at.
But Jax couldn’t touch it.
He couldn’t even cross the room.

He’d left his coat on, his boots still laced, as if he were waiting for some emergency to pull him out of himself. The city outside blurred by -- he watched people through his window like they were a different species entirely. One man laughed too loudly. A child chased after a paper bag. The ordinary still existed, and it hurt to see it.

When night came, he walked. He didn’t know where he was going until he found himself outside the precinct. The lights were still on inside -- Pomni always stayed late. Always pushing herself too hard.
He lingered across the street, hidden in the orange wash of the streetlamps, watching her silhouette move behind the glass. She was talking to someone -- maybe an officer, maybe herself -- gesturing with her hands the way she did when she was thinking too quickly.
He felt it then, the weight of what Caine had asked, pressing like a brick to his ribs.
He couldn’t do it.
Not that night.

He turned away before she left, his pulse running ahead of him. He walked until his legs ached and the dawn light started to bleed through the fog. When he finally slept, it was on the couch, clothes still on, the city leaking into his dreams.

The second day was worse.
Everything looked the same but felt heavier. His reflection in the bathroom mirror seemed wrong -- older, thinner, meaner. His eyes looked like they’d been borrowed from someone else.
He tried to eat, but the food turned to ash in his mouth. Tried to shower, but the water felt too hot, like punishment.

Caine hadn’t called again. That silence made it worse. It meant he was watching, waiting for movement. Waiting for obedience.
Jax kept hearing his voice anyway, unspooling in his head -- “Finish it, and you’re free. Two more, and you’re done. Or end up like Ribbit.”

The way Caine said his name dug its claws into him. Ribbit had been a friend, once upon a time. A fool, perhaps, but a loyal one. He hadn’t deserved to be born into the life he had been unfortunate enough to be given. Jax remembered the way his shoulders had sagged, his empty handed return to Caine’s office. The crime lord had simply leered at the boy, shaking his head in disappointment of a failed mission. You see, this is what mercy looks like when it’s wasted, Caine had said. Don’t ever make me waste mine again.

That was the night Jax had stopped gambling with anything except himself.

By the third day, the walls felt too close.
He couldn’t stay in the apartment anymore. Couldn’t stand the sound of his own breathing. He walked again -- same route, same distance, until he was near the precinct just as the sun dipped under the skyline.

Pomni came out laughing that night -- a real laugh, small and surprised, one hand in her coat pocket. She was talking to someone from her team, eyes bright in the dim light. The kind of brightness Jax had almost forgotten existed.

He told himself he was making sure she was safe -- that he was protecting her by keeping watch. That if Caine sent someone else, at least he’d be here first.
But deep down, he knew what that was: a lie wearing the face of loyalty.

She walked home. He followed, keeping his distance -- far enough that her steps never faltered, close enough that he could still see the sway of her hair in the streetlight. She passed the coffee shop, the corner bodega, the rusted stairwell that led up to her apartment. Every piece of her routine was memorized now.
When she reached her door, she paused -- head tilting slightly, like she’d heard something.
Jax froze.
She looked over her shoulder once, the motion too smooth, too quiet, before unlocking the door and stepping inside.

He waited until the light behind her curtains went dark. Then he left. Again.

The next morning came too fast.
Jax sat at the edge of his bed, the gun finally on the table beside him. He couldn’t remember putting it there.
The air felt thick, like syrup. His pulse beat slow and hard, counting down something he couldn’t stop.

Tomorrow.
That was all the time he had left.

He pressed his palms to his eyes and saw her face -- her confusion, her hurt, her humanity. She had been the only one who ever looked at him and didn’t see the sum of Caine’s ownership. The only one who didn’t flinch when he spoke.

And now he was supposed to destroy that.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, whispering into the empty room:
“You can’t keep doing this.”
He wasn’t sure if he meant Caine, or himself.

Outside, the city hummed -- indifferent as ever. Somewhere in the distance, a train rattled by.

And Jax thought, maybe tomorrow I’ll finally do it. Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop being afraid.
But the thought made his stomach turn.
He already knew that once he started moving, there wouldn’t be any turning back.

***

When the final day came, the streets of the West End were empty, hollowed-out shells of their daytime selves, windows dark except where a single flickering bulb or late-night television breathed a faint, hesitant life into the apartments above. Jax moved like a shadow, the soft scrape of his boots against the uneven concrete almost swallowed by the distant hum of the freeway and the occasional wail of a siren. Every step forward carried the weight of the last several days, the endless circling thoughts that had refused him sleep, the gnawing guilt that had settled like ash in his chest.

Jax told himself it was just another walk. Just another night of following in the same footsteps of the detective. 

He paused at the corner of Pomni’s building, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his jacket, feeling the cold metal of the gun against his ribs, its presence a heavier reminder than the biting spring wind. It had made its way off of his nightstand and into his pocket. The cold of the steel bit into his skin, and he let it. A small price to pay indeed for what was to come.

 The fire escape of her building stared back at him, an old familiar route, and he didn’t want to climb, didn’t want to approach what he had promised would be just a step, a performance. And yet, every thought of turning away twisted him further inward, making the night’s darkness feel like a physical weight pressing him down.

He breathed shallowly, chest tightening, and leaned against the wall of the alley, eyes tracing the peeling paint and flickering neon of the apartment number. Two nights. Two nights he had watched from a distance, heart hammering, footsteps falling behind hers, timing each movement to see, to understand, to rationalize what he was about to do. Each night, she had walked home from the precinct, oblivious to him, and he had followed, keeping his distance, telling himself the space was for safety, for the act of restraint.

And each night, he had frozen at the threshold of the door, staring at the world she lived in, the life she led, the small, normal human things that made him feel… monstrous. Her laughter echoing down the hall as she took out the trash, the gentle creak of her door when she returned, the faint, warm scent of her apartment floating out when she opened it to let in the night air -- and each time, he had retreated.

The first night, the adrenaline had carried him, kept him from collapsing entirely. He had perched on the edge of the fire escape, the wind tugging at his hair, and imagined a hundred scenarios, none of them final, all of them hypothetical. He had gripped the gun like it was a lifeline, an anchor to reason, but had not even allowed the thought of aiming it to settle. He had watched her move around, arranging books, putting dishes away, humming quietly to herself, and each ordinary act had stabbed at him in ways he hadn’t expected. She was alive, and she was alive in a way that meant something, meant more than he was allowed to touch.

The second night had been worse. Numbness had crept in as the weight of inevitability pressed down. He had tried to make himself see the logic, see the bargain he had made, see the ledger, see the coin, see Caine’s laugh in his mind like it was the bell tolling for judgment. But the logic had turned hollow, and guilt had wrapped around him like a blanket soaked in ice. He had imagined her walking into his line of fire without knowing, had imagined the moment she looked at him and recognized the monster he really was, and it had nearly broken him. He had left then, gone home, pulled the covers over his head, pretending sleep would erase the shame, though it had not.

Tonight, the weight of the past two nights had fused into something heavier than the city around him. He climbed slowly, deliberately, the metal of the fire escape cold against his palms, each rung vibrating under his weight. He did not want to go up. He wanted to leave the gun in his jacket and turn back. But the promises, the deadlines, the whispered “freedom after two more clean jobs” that Caine had dangled in his ear like a blade and a carrot, pushed him forward. He felt sick at the thought, nauseated with the knowledge that the decision had already been made for him, that he was no longer choosing, only moving through a motion he could not undo.

She was the price to pay for his freedom. And god, it wasn’t fair.

The window to her apartment was ajar, the familiar scent of her life spilling outward. Warmth and wood polish, the faint tang of coffee, the subtle undertone of lavender she kept in a small diffuser on the counter. He had been here before, slipping in to leave a note he had thought would scare her off, that small act a bridge between his cowardice and the cruel intentions forced upon him. He remembered the way she had found it, the confusion, the annoyance, the little spark of suspicion that had made him almost laugh, had made him almost pause and reconsider the path that had led him here. But that was different then. That was something he could rationalize away. Tonight, the rationalization had been stripped bare.

He eased the window open further with trained gloved fingers, the familiar creak like a sigh from the building itself. He stepped inside quietly, each movement deliberate, rehearsed, his boots silent against the threadbare carpet. Her apartment was lived in, personal -- small, cluttered, but warm. A blanket tossed over the back of the chair, a stack of books carefully arranged on the shelf, a mug drying on the counter with the imprint of lipstick faintly visible on the rim. The small, human details made his chest tighten and his hands shake. She existed here, wholly and beautifully, in a way that he could not touch without destroying it.

He paused, the gun a cold, hard promise pressed against his side. Hesitation wracked him. Every instinct screamed to flee, to leave the room and never return. But Caine’s voice echoed in his mind, smooth and venomous, reminding him of the ledger, of the coin, of the debt, of the consequences. And beneath that, there was a hollow certainty -- if he did not act, everything he had been running from would collapse.

Jax’s knees buckled slightly as he crouched near the entrance of her living room, taking in the soft shadows that draped over the couch where she had fallen asleep, case notes littered around her in a cluttered ring. She lay there, curled into herself, the rise and fall of her chest steady, innocent. The sight cut through him like glass.

 He could feel the ache of every moment they could have shared, every conversation left unspoken, every laugh denied by his silence. She trusted him in ways he could never deserve, with her work and with her brief friendship, and that trust made the weight of the weapon clutched in his hands unbearable.

For long, suspended moments, he let himself feel the nausea, the guilt, the grief for the choices that had brought him here. Every possibility flashed through his mind, every alternative he had ignored, every retreat he had not taken. He could leave. He could climb back out the window, run through the streets of the West End and disappear. He could refuse Caine, refuse the ledger, refuse the carrot and blade and take whatever punishment came.

And yet, the numbness seeped in, quiet and insidious, wrapping around his thoughts until his panic and despair fused into a single, paralyzing certainty. He was here, and he was moving forward. There was no rewind, no chance for explanation, no possibility of stepping back. The night held him in place, a microscope lens focusing every failure, every moral fracture, every ounce of guilt.

His hands trembled on the metal of the gun. He breathed shallow, tasting the cold metal, imagining the echo of a single shot and the finality that it would bring. He thought of Pomni not as a detective, not as a curiosity, not as a threat to his survival, but as a human being whose life was wholly separate from the ledger, wholly separate from his debts. And that thought made him feel hollow in the pit of his stomach, a void that had no bottom.

Time slowed. Every tick of the radiator, every distant siren, every creak of the old building was magnified. He felt as though he were moving through a dream, one in which every wrong choice he had ever made was replaying, turning inward, folding into itself until it became the only path forward. He thought of the ledger, of Caine’s promises, of the supposed freedom dangling beyond the next two jobs, of Ribbit, and the debts that had begun with laughter and ended with blood.

The night air outside the window seeped in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and the faint tinge of garbage from the alley. He could almost imagine her rising, hearing him, seeing him, calling out, any one of a million interruptions that would save him from himself. But the numbness had set in so deeply, his panic sharpened into a brittle edge -- it was a paradoxical clarity.

He thought of all the times he had almost, and how the almost had hollowed him, made him weak, made him tremble. And now there was no almost. Only the moment, only the act, only the decision that had been foisted upon him and which he could not escape.

Jax’s eyes traced the curves of her blanket, the angles of her desk, the books stacked with intent and care. He thought of the conversations they could have had, the trust she had placed in him, the laughter and quiet moments that would never exist if he did not act. His stomach twisted, a burning knot of dread and obligation and grief. He would have to go back to Spudzy’s soon, knowing she would never walk through the door with an armful of notes and the weight of his crimes on her shoulders.

The gun felt impossibly heavy in his hands. His arms shook as he raised it, slowly, trembling, the shine of her soft kitchen lamplight off the muzzle nearly blinding. 

 He thought of the ledger, of freedom dangling just out of reach, of Ribbit, of debts that would never forgive him, and of Pomni -- the one person who had never looked at him like he was a monster. And it broke him down further, right there, to the point where logic and morality and fear fused into a single line of motion.

Jax’s hands trembled. 

Everything slowed. The night narrowed into a tunnel of sound and shadow. His breathing, rapid and shallow, became a soundtrack. His pulse throbbed in his ears, a staccato drum of inevitability. The world outside the window seemed impossibly distant, irrelevant, indifferent.

Tomorrow, the world would spin ever onwards. And he would be burdened with yet another sunrise and the weight of his sins on his back for the rest of his life. 

Jax had few rules for himself. Rules he had vowed never to break. Rules that kept him human.

But tonight? In the peaceful quiet, the numbness finally won, his humanity broken at his feet. 

Jax had always been a good shot.

Bang.

Chapter Text

The shot cracked through the apartment like rolling thunder.

Then silence -- raw, absolute, stretching wide enough to swallow a heartbeat.

Pomni’s breath came sharp and fast, but her hands didn’t shake. The acrid smell of gunpowder still hung in the air, metallic and biting. Her eyes scanned the room without moving her head, trained to see everything while staying still.

The figure in front of her -- tall, dressed in black, face hidden beneath a balaclava -- staggered back, clutching their dominant arm. The weapon they had been holding clattered to the floor between them, a dark stain spreading across the sleeve.

The detective pulled her gun away from where it had been poised-- perfectly concealed by the blanket that had covered her. She hadn’t been able to move-- to aim, for risk of blowing her harmless sleeping facade. Luck had indeed been on her side.

For one long, suspended second, neither moved. The apartment seemed to hold its breath: the low hum of the refrigerator, the soft tick of the clock, the faint whistle of wind sneaking through the old window frame.

Then the intruder ran.

Pomni didn’t hesitate. She threw the blanket aside, boots hitting the floor with controlled force, and pushed the window open further. Cold air rushed in, whipping her hair, snapping her senses awake.

She caught sight of him immediately: halfway down the fire escape, favoring one side, moving faster than anyone should after a wound. Her pulse raced, but her mind stayed sharp, flat, measured.

She climbed after him, fingers gripping the railing, feet sliding slightly against the cold metal. Every movement precise.

Below, the figure hit the pavement and stumbled, but didn’t stop. Pomni landed hard, knees jarring, pain flashing up her legs. No matter. Her focus was absolute: black shape, arm pressed to his side, moving through the shadows.

A faint trail of red: small, but visible against the pale concrete where he brushed the walls. Pomni followed, boots slapping against cracked pavement, her breathing loud in her own ears.

“Stop!” she shouted, voice sharp against the brick.

He didn’t look back.

Her mind cataloged every clue: gait uneven, left side favored, clothing tight but quiet, movement deliberate. He’d planned this -- careful, cautious, but not enough to conceal the slight hitch in his stride or the faint scent of chemical compounds that didn’t belong in her apartment.

For two nights, she had sensed someone watching her. Faint, static-like pressure in the air. She had dismissed it at first. But by the second night, the shadow had been real. Someone had been following her. Now she understood: the break-in wasn’t random. The intruder had come prepared, deliberate, skilled.

The alley turned, narrow and littered with trash cans and broken crates. The figure darted between shadows, a silent ghost, but Pomni stayed on him. Every stride calculated, every breath controlled. She didn’t panic. She cataloged: direction, movement, distance, speed, injuries.

A staircase led him toward the rooftops. She didn’t hesitate, sprinting upward. Wind tore at her hair and clothes, cold gnawing at her exposed arms. Metal stairs rattled under her boots, echoing through the empty alley below.

The masked figure reached the roofline first, landing lightly on the gravel-strewn surface. Pomni followed immediately, rolling to absorb impact. The night air bit harder at this height, sharper, cleaner. Neon and streetlights glimmered faintly across the rooftops, giving the city a ghostly, muted glow.

He sprinted across the slanted roofs, hand pressing against his arm, boots finding footing with ease. She matched him, leaping from one rooftop to another, heart pounding, senses focused. Every step measured, every shadow scanned. The distance between them shrank with each leap.

A fire escape jutted up from the next building. He climbed it nimbly, arm still pressed, eyes forward. Pomni followed, fingers gripping cold metal, boots scraping against rusted steps, lungs burning. She tracked his rhythm, anticipating the next jump.

Rooftop after rooftop, the city sprawled beneath them. Silent, indifferent. Occasionally, a distant siren or barking dog punctuated the night. The height didn’t slow her; it sharpened her focus.

The masked figure ducked behind a large vent. Pomni skidded to a halt, eyes narrowing, taking the angle. He was trying to shake her, cut her off. She adjusted, calculated, and leapt across a narrow gap, landing near him, boots sliding against gravel.

She kept the gun raised, senses razor-sharp, adrenaline coursing in long, even strokes. Every instinct told her he was dangerous -- skilled, patient, observant -- but he was human. She had the advantage of focus and familiarity with her environment.

He surged forward, and she followed, careful, deliberate, never hesitating. The chase continued across the rooftops, a silent dance of predator and prey, both moving fast enough to blur edges, but neither willing to falter.

Pomni knew one thing clearly: whoever he was, he had underestimated her. And now she would see this through.

***

Pomni vaulted onto the first roof, boots scraping against loose gravel. The masked figure had already cleared the gap to the next building, landing lightly on the slanted tar. She followed instinctively, rolling to absorb the impact, wind biting at her cheeks. The city stretched beneath her -- West End’s cracked streets and flickering neon a pale, indifferent grid.

The figure moved like a shadow, deliberate, almost effortless. One arm pressed against his side, the other balancing him with small, precise movements. Pomni’s eyes tracked him, noting each step, the way his weight shifted, the way the arm he favored twitched slightly with pain.

A narrow alley opened between two roofs ahead, too tight for a smooth landing. The intruder ducked behind a low parapet, disappearing from view for a heartbeat. Pomni skidded to a stop, catching her balance on the loose gravel, scanning rapidly. His footfalls were silent enough that she could only guess his position from the shadows he cast and the faint glint of light off metal.

She spotted the flash -- the black of his jacket catching neon from a nearby sign -- and leapt. Arms out, boots landing hard on the slanted surface, gravel skittering under her weight. Pain jolted up her ankle, but she ignored it, rolling forward to maintain momentum.

He was moving fast, too fast to predict, but she could see the patterns. Each building had its weak points: drainpipes, vents, fire escapes. He used them. She mirrored his path, lungs burning, focus sharp, every nerve tuned to the next movement.

The masked figure sprinted toward a taller building, its roof lined with broken tiles and scattered debris. He reached a pipe, grabbed it with one hand, and swung across a short gap to the next rooftop. Pomni followed, timing the leap perfectly, muscles coiling and releasing, boots clanging against the metal pipe before she swung over, landing on the next roof with a muted thud.

He turned sharply at the roofline, favoring his left side, and disappeared around the corner of a chimney stack. Pomni adjusted immediately, pressing herself low, peering around the brick. There he was, darting across the gravel, one boot catching the edge of the parapet.

“Not fast enough,” she muttered under her breath, and pushed harder.

She vaulted over the next gap, boots kicking against the side of the building to propel her forward. The wind tore at her hair, pulled at her clothes, but she didn’t flinch. Every heartbeat was measured, every breath calculated. She followed him across uneven surfaces: broken skylights, rusted ventilation shafts, stacks of old crates left abandoned on rooftops like traps for anyone careless enough to miss them.

A sudden misstep -- the intruder slipped slightly on loose gravel -- and Pomni saw it instantly. Her advantage: anticipation. She closed the gap. Her arm stayed steady, gun at the ready, every movement economical, precise.

He landed near the edge of a low wall and glanced down at the street below. Pomni mirrored his gaze, calculating risk. He was fast, but the wound slowed him more than he let on. His favored arm tensed with every leap, his pace uneven if you watched closely.

A sudden clatter behind her made her twist, but it was just a loose piece of metal dancing in the wind. She didn’t lose focus. He was moving ahead, every shadow he entered a potential hiding place, but she kept sight, trackable through the sparse neon glow and the outline of his form.

The rooftops grew more jagged, varying in height by several feet. She timed a leap, gripping the edge of one roof and swinging herself over a six-foot drop to land on the next. Gravel slid under her boots. Her lungs screamed, but her mind was crystalline: movement, observation, calculation.

The figure ahead paused at a higher roof. He looked back, a subtle shift in posture, as if sensing her closing. Pomni didn’t hesitate. She sprinted, heart hammering, adrenaline sharpening her senses. She hit the edge, ran across the gravel, jumped, and landed just ten feet behind him.

He grunted under the balaclava, a muffled sound carried away by the wind. He favored his arm more now, pain starting to dictate the rhythm of his steps. Pomni closed the distance, boots scraping against old tar, fingers brushing against a broken vent for leverage as she lunged over another gap.

The masked figure faltered for the first time: one step too long, a stumble. Pomni didn’t give him a chance to recover. She accelerated, keeping her gun aimed, fingers steady, every muscle coiled. She had learned long ago how to let adrenaline guide precision rather than panic.

The rooftops stretched on endlessly, black shapes against the muted glow of the city. Pomni’s lungs burned, her boots scuffing tar and peeling paint, the wind whipping hair into her face. Each stride brought the intruder closer to some invisible edge, a desperation that made them faster than seemed possible with a wounded arm.

Pomni’s grip tightened on her gun, her heartbeat drumming in her ears. The smell of blood -- faint but undeniable -- led her forward, a cruel guide. Every step told her he was slowing, faltering under the weight of the wound she had inflicted.

Then it happened.

A loose section of roof tile caught him mid-stride. His body pitched forward. Pomni lunged instinctively, but she was too late. He tumbled, arms flailing. One hand caught the edge of the roof; the other clutched his bloodied arm.

With a violent gasp of air, the balaclava slipped off of the assailant’s face.

Time fractured.

The mask fell to the side, revealing him. Jax. The face she had known for months. The boy who burnt pizzas, who rarely did his job to the fullest extent, who had made her laugh with absurd, sharp-edged humor. The boy she had never imagined capable of the person standing before her now -- a man with blood on his sleeve, desperate, cornered, and trying not to fall completely apart.

Pomni froze for a heartbeat, her gun still raised. Her mind fought with her instincts. Detect. Pursue. Arrest. Yet everything screamed to pause.

Jax’s eyes met hers. Wide. Shaken. Something in him broke -- recognition, fear, maybe relief?

He tried to rise, sway steady, but the blood loss and shock his body was  in began to betray him. His knees buckled. The muscles in his arm spasmed against her memory of their moments together -- the small kindnesses, the jokes, the way he had never looked at her with suspicion.

‘All this time…’

“You…” Her voice cracked despite her attempt to remain collected. “Jax?”

He shook his head slightly, clutching his arm, attempting to smile, though it faltered almost instantly. No words came. He was a man shattered to pieces. What was there to say?

Pomni’s chest heaved, adrenaline still coursing, but a new tide of fear, disbelief, and something else entirely -- betrayal, heartbreak -- flooded in. The rooftop had become smaller, claustrophobic, even as the city spread endlessly below them.

He was cornered. Every escape route gone. His arm a ruin of crimson and pain, his face exposed, his breathing ragged.

Pomni realized, with the brutal clarity of a striking bell, that the person she had been chasing, fearing, preparing for, had in fact, been someone she knew -- someone who had been close, someone who had existed in the space where trust and danger now collided.

The moment stretched, cinematic, frozen. The wind tugged at their clothes. The faint sound of distant cars echoed like a heartbeat in the night.

Pomni’s gun didn’t lower. Her mind didn’t pause on the instructions she had been trained to follow. All she could do was process the impossibility, the heartbreak, the betrayal, and the sheer, gut-wrenching shock of recognition.

Jax’s chest rose and fell erratically, the pain and panic written clearly across every line of his body. His dark eyes searched hers, a silent question -- pleading, maybe asking if she understood, maybe asking if she would forgive.

And she did understand.

The city around them disappeared. The rooftops, the alleys, the distant lights -- nothing existed except the boy she had known and the man he had become to her, wounded and cornered under the weight of choices he had made, and choices he had somehow felt forced to face.

Pomni’s finger remained on the trigger, her knuckles white. Her mind, trained for analysis, couldn’t parse the emotional storm within her. Her chest felt tight, every breath a fight.

The wind tore through the buildings, tugging at loose tiles, scraping the edges of the roof. Jax’s balance faltered again, and he sank lower to the tar, clutching his arm. A shiver of dread ran down Pomni’s spine.

This was the moment everything changed.

Recognition had struck. Trust had shattered. Every step they had taken, every shadow they had shared, now counted for nothing -- and everything.

Pomni’s heart thumped audibly in her ears. For the first time, she realized how close she had come to letting her own instincts fail her, how narrow the line between control and disaster had been.

Jax looked at her again. And this time, in the panic, in the blood, in the vulnerability, in the faint light of the rooftop, he wasn’t just the intruder. He was the boy she had laughed with, the friend she had leaned on, the human being she could no longer see as anything else.

Pomni exhaled, slowly, shakily. She didn’t lower her gun. She couldn’t.

The wind whipped harder, tearing at their clothes, rattling the loose bits of rooftop debris. She took a step closer, then another, careful, measured, every instinct screaming at her.

Jax, wounded, dizzy, cornered, looked at the street below. Escape was impossible. Every route was gone. Every decision had led to this rooftop, to this instant, to the silent collision of two lives that should never have intersected like this.

Pomni’s mind raced. Questions. Accusations. Fear. Everything bottled up into a single, sharp focus.

And in that moment, the city itself seemed to pause. The night itself seemed to hold its breath.

Recognition. Shock. Fear. Desperation.

There, on the edge of the rooftop, Jax’s eyes met hers, wide and unguarded, and for a heartbeat, time stopped. 

Pomni’s breath came in sharp, controlled bursts, the cool steel of her weapon leveled at Jax. He was slumped against the rooftop ledge, blood matted on his sleeve, his chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. His balaclava having fallen around his neck, his face exposed, pale and haunted under the dim city glow.

“How could you…” Her voice was a hiss, more to herself than to him. Her mind reeled with the impossibility of it all -- the person she had  foolishly trusted, laughed with, shared quiet moments with, now crouched on the edge of the rooftop, wounded and cornered. “…why?”

Jax didn’t answer. He blinked, slow and disoriented, a shadow of his usual sharpness dulled by blood loss and shock. The storm inside him--panic, confusion, exhaustion--twisted his features into something unrecognizable. Pomni’s finger tightened on the trigger reflexively. His eyes flicked toward her, wide but not hostile, reflecting a wild, fractured guilt that didn’t belong to a killer.

She had seen murderers before. Cold, detached, hungry for control or chaos. Jax wasn’t any of that. He didn’t look like a man who wanted her dead--he looked like a man who had been dying for a long time already.
Now, he was just a shell in motion.

His expression, slack and haunted, reminded her of the strays that haunted the west end alleys--skittish things that bit out of fear, not cruelty.

His delirium caught the light of the moon, and Pomni almost--almost--hesitated. Which was why she was caught off guard when he moved.

In a blur of desperation, Jax lunged.

Pomni staggered back, finger slipping from the trigger--training taking over, refusing to fire on instinct. Her heel caught a loose tile, sending her sprawling. The rooftop tilted beneath her in a dizzying lurch. Jax swept her legs out from under her and crashed down with her. She hit the tar with a grunt, gun still clutched tight, breath ripped from her lungs.

He was on her in an instant--blood-slick hands, trembling, frantic. He wasn’t graceful, not the smooth and sardonic thief she’d spent months chasing. He was sloppy. Scared. A man falling apart at the seams.

“You don’t understand,” he hissed, voice raw with something that sounded too close to grief. He pressed down, trapping her smaller frame beneath his own. “You--you wouldn’t understand!”

His words broke apart mid-breath, trembling with effort. Pomni could feel his pulse thrumming like a trapped bird beneath his skin. The heat of his body, the slick drag of blood on her sleeve--too human. Too fragile.

Training took over. She twisted, driving her knee up and wrenching her arm between them. The barrel of the gun pressed against his chest, steady, centered over his heart.

“Stop,” she said. Calm. Deadly. Her voice trembled, but her aim did not. “Or you die. Do you hear me?”

Jax froze, the gun digging into his chest, his arms quivering as he tried to maintain leverage with only one arm bracing him up. The delirium in his eyes was a dangerous mixture of panic, guilt, and something darker -- ‘fear? What could he possibly be afraid of? He just tried to kill me!’

“You don’t understand,” he whispered again, voice raw. “I’m trying to keep you away from--” His shoulders shook with the effort of staying propped up, and he shook his head with defeat. “Oh fuck this, you won’t listen to me anyways.”

“Keep me away from who?” Her mind spun, heart hammering. “Who? Who’s ordering this?!”

He shook his head--small, helpless, like he didn’t even have the strength to lie. His gaze darted to the streets below, then back to her, eyes glassy and unfocused. “You can’t…” he breathed, and the way he said it made her chest tighten. It wasn’t defiance. It was despair.

Pomni shoved him, sudden and sharp, forcing him flat against the tar. The cold bit through her palms. She pinned him there, her heart hammering so loud it drowned out the city noise. “Try me,” she hissed. “You’ve been lying, sneaking around. Tell me. Why? Why are you here? How could you--”

Her words faltered when she saw the look in his eyes. There was no rage, no hatred. Only emptiness.

Jax lay still, limbs splayed awkwardly, the tar sticking to his bloodied sleeve. For the first time since she’d met him, he looked small.

Pomni’s chest heaved with frustration, a mix of adrenaline and exasperation twisting her stomach into tight knots. She shoved him harshly at the shoulders, making him wince in pain, and she feigned disinterest, though her heart hammered in her ears.

“God, what the fuck is wrong with you!?” The words tore out of her. The wind whipped across the rooftop, stealing her breath. “You don’t even look like someone capable of this!”

She swallowed, voice breaking on the edge. “I’ve seen people cornered, scared, desperate… but you--” she shook her head, disbelief twisting her gut. “You’re something else entirely.”

Jax remained still, silent, an almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders the only admission of life beneath him. Pomni let her gaze wander to the edge of the roof, the faint halo of light drifting up from street signs painting everything in washed-out reds and greens. Then her thoughts snapped, memory firing in jagged bursts.

This was him. The daisy thief. The brilliant criminal mastermind who had the entire Torchwick PD wrapped around his finger like it was nothing.
He was her ghost. And she was his daisy.

Everything she had done…all the evidence that had been recovered…It was because of him.

His most recent break-in…The note. The broken glass. The East End. And… the ticket. That stupid, stupid ticket from the Big Top Cinema.  She hadn’t even considered it at first, just a detail tucked away in her mind like a bookmark in a chaotic chapter. But now, in the raw adrenaline of the moment, the pieces started fitting together. 

He may as well have left a neon sign with arrows pointing back to him. 

And it still took her this long to piece it all together.

“Why did you have to make it so obvious?” Pomni’s voice cut through the wind, sharp and incredulous, cracking with an anger she hardly understood. Her hands gripped the edges of his jacket tighter, as if steadying herself against both him and the revelation. “The note, the glass, the East End--and that ticket. Seriously? The Big Top Cinema? Did you think anyone wouldn’t notice?”

She leaned closer, almost nose-to-nose, the city lights flickering across his shadowed face. “Do you even understand how stupidly transparent you made yourself? All this time, all those games, and you leave breadcrumbs like a child trying to lead me straight to your door? Did you want to get caught!?”

Jax shifted slightly, a nearly imperceptible movement that made Pomni freeze. Just a twitch of his shoulder, but it was enough. His chest rose and fell a fraction faster, and his deep brown eyes, the small sliver she could see beneath the shadow of the night sky and his hood, flickered toward hers with something--alarm? Hesitation?

Her pulse quickened. “What’s that look for? You didn’t think I’d put two and two together? Did you? Huh?” She jabbed a finger towards his pale blank face, damn every protocol for capture she had ever learned. “Or are you scared? Afraid I’ll figure it out? Figure you out?”

Jax tensed beneath her grip, a shiver running along his spine despite the night air. Pomni’s gaze narrowed. The way he stiffened, the slight recoil at her words--it told her everything she needed to know. This wasn’t just any masked thief. This was him.

“This is all…so much larger than you could possibly realize.” Jax’s voice was raw, but steadier than it had been since the last time he spoke. “If you had only listened for once in your goddamn life-”

“No,  you listen to me,” she continued, voice rising, part disbelief, part fury. “I know that ticket wasn’t some random stub. It was a signal. A calling card. You were daring someone--me--to see it. And I did. I finally did! Don’t you dare tell me that I’ve failed at something that’s my fucking job to do. You’re going to tell me everything that you never got the chance to lay out in breadcrumbs.”

Jax’s eyes widened, just a fraction, and he pressed his hands lightly against her forearms, trying to steady himself, though his grip was weak and hesitant. Pomni caught it instantly--the momentary flash of panic, the almost imperceptible tilt of his head.

“That reaction,” she said softly, almost to herself, yet loud enough for him to hear. “That little flicker in your eyes. That’s guilt, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s fear? God, were you always this obvious?”

Jax’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes darting away for a second, the only acknowledgment he gave her of the truth. Pomni’s stomach twisted. This was it. Confirmation. The daisy thief was no longer an abstract shadow. No longer a story she’d pieced together from notes and crime scenes. He was real. Here. Alive. Standing--or lying, in this case--right in front of her.

“And all this time,” she breathed, letting her grip relax just slightly, “all the games, all the chaos you left behind… you didn’t just pick the East End for kicks, did you? It all leads back to you. To this ticket. To the theater. And now, here you are. Do you even realize what you’ve done? How stupid you made it for yourself?”

Jax’s body tensed again, a flicker of movement that almost seemed like he was weighing his options, calculating, trapped in a moment of stark realization. Pomni’s gaze bore into him, relentless, heart hammering.

He finally whispered, voice low, rough with something she couldn’t quite place--fear, frustration, desperation. “You’re a fool. You’ll never understand what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Pomni’s eyes narrowed. “I understand more than you think,” she said, stepping even closer. “And I’m not letting you walk away from this. Not now. Not with what I’ve finally seen.”

Pomni knew she had pushed a boundary, his muscles tensing enough to confirm what she had suspected all along. This wasn’t just a man hiding behind a mask. This was the daisy thief, and he had underestimated her.

“And that ticket,” she added, voice steady now, chillingly calm, “it’s the last piece of your little puzzle. And I’m holding the corner piece in my hand.”

Jax’s eyes flicked up to meet hers once more, wide, raw, and for the first time, unshielded. Pomni’s heartbeat sped up. The chase was no longer metaphorical. It was about to get very, very real.

***

Pomni’s breath came in shallow bursts, fogging in the night air. The barrel of the gun pressed against Jax’s chest, her hand shaking harder than she wanted to admit. She could feel his pulse hammering beneath her palm -- too fast, too human.

He looked ruined. Pale, sweating, eyes glassy from blood loss. Still, that same stubborn glint flickered somewhere in the wreck of his expression. He wasn’t pleading. He never pleaded.

“You have to let me go,” he rasped.
“Not a chance,” she shot back. “You’re going to tell me what this is about.”

Jax gave a small, broken laugh -- more breath than sound. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“Then explain it to me.”

But he didn’t. He just stared past her, toward the horizon -- or maybe something only he could see. The look made her skin crawl. Not defiance. Not guilt. Resignation.

Something cold coiled in her gut.

“Who’s ‘him’?” she pressed. “You said you were keeping me away from him. Who are you talking about?”

Jax’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he muttered, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Her mind raced, tripping over every detail she’d collected since this mess began. The ticket stub. The most recent break-in at the old East End antique store. The picturesque crime scene painted with the ideal hard-to-find criminal who left daisies in his wake. Each piece had felt disconnected, almost performative -- as if left out for her to find.

And then it clicked.

The Big Top. The theater. The damn ticket the thief…he had “accidentally” dropped when she inspected the last MO. She hadn’t thought much of it then -- just another dead lead in a case full of them. But now, with Jax trembling beneath her, whispering about him, it didn’t feel random anymore. It felt deliberate.

Like breadcrumbs leading to something he didn’t want her to see.

Her throat tightened. “You’ve been circling me this whole time,” she murmured. “All the dead ends, all the clues -- you made sure they pointed nowhere. Except…” Her eyes darted toward the city skyline, where the faint, flickering lights of the Big Top marquee glowed just visible above the rooftops. “…except there.”

Jax stiffened. It was slight -- barely a shift in his shoulders -- but she saw it.

Pomni swallowed. “What’s there, Jax?”

He didn’t answer. Wouldn’t even look at her.

That was enough.

She stood, holstering the gun only long enough to grab his collar and drag him to his feet. “Fine,” she said coldly. “You don’t want to talk? You can show me.”

He stumbled, almost falling, but she yanked him forward toward the fire escape. “Pomni,” he started, voice frayed. “Don’t--”

“Move,” she snapped.

They climbed down the slick metal rungs in silence, the wind whipping at their clothes. Jax’s wounded arm hung limp, leaving a faint trail of red on the railing.

When they reached the alley below, Pomni shoved him ahead, her gun once again at his back. “You’ve been dancing around that place for weeks,” she said. “The Big Top Theater. That’s where this all started, isn’t it?”

Jax didn’t respond, but his steps faltered for just an instant.

Pomni’s heart pounded. The glow of the theater’s marquee -- flickering, half-dead -- rose above the neighboring rooftops like a grin in the dark.

“You’re going to take me there,” she said, steady now, cold. “And you’re going to tell me everything.”

Jax gave a bitter half-smile, voice hoarse. “You really don’t want to meet the ringmaster unprepared, doll.”

Pomni’s jaw tightened. “We’ll see about that. This case gets solved. Tonight.”

And together, they disappeared into the shadows of the street -- heading straight for the Big Top.

Chapter Text

What had once been a carnival in miniature -- gaudy stripes painted on plaster walls, fake velvet curtains framing the ticket booth, brass sconces shaped like juggling pins -- was now a ruin of its former spectacle in the form of a movie theater. The air stank of popcorn oil gone rancid, the sweetness turned sour.

Jax pushed through the warped double doors with his good arm, his shoulder protesting the motion. The hinges groaned, a drawn-out moan like something dying.

A sharp pulse of pain radiated through his wounded arm as he staggered inside, hand instinctively pressing against the sticky warmth seeping through his sleeve. The blood had slowed, but the burn beneath the cloth hadn’t. His pulse throbbed there -- steady, stubborn, too loud in his ears.

Dust spiraled through the dim light from a flickering marquee bulb. He stepped into the lobby, boots sinking into a carpet patterned with faded clown faces, each one worn down to a blur. Every step sent another tremor up his arm, sharp enough to blur his vision for a moment. He blinked it away, jaw tightening, refusing to show weakness.

The concession stand was still there -- unused by the moviegoers. Its glass had always been cracked, shelves littered with wrappers and ticket stubs turned to mulch. The air was heavy with the smell of stale sugar and rust. Above it, a half-broken neon sign buzzed, its light stuttering in and out like a dying heartbeat:

WELCOME TO THE SHOW! 

Jax almost laughed, but the sound that left him was half a wince. He’d spent years running from this kind of irony, and here it was, staring him in the face.

His reflection flickered briefly in the cracked display case -- pale, blood-streaked, eyes hollow. He looked like one of the animatronic clowns that used to grin from the theater lobby when he was a kid -- smiling because it had been built to, long after the programming had died.

Behind him, Pomni’s footsteps echoed with precision -- sharp, deliberate, the sound of someone who still believed control could fix everything. He used to find that rhythm comforting, back when she was just a regular at Spudzy’s or a charming ghost on his trail. Now it felt like the tick of a clock counting down to something he didn’t want to face.

Jax adjusted his stance, swaying slightly, the edges of his vision going soft for half a second before he forced his focus back. The pain was manageable if he didn’t breathe too deep -- if he kept moving. If he didn’t think about the way her gun had almost found his heart instead of his arm. About the way that he almost wished that it had.

He wondered, distantly, if the theater could smell the blood.

It certainly was the kind of place that would.

“So,” Pomni started, jutting her chin toward the darkened hallways on either side of the lobby that led to the theaters. “Explain this.”

Jax didn’t answer right away. He stood there, listening to the faint buzz of the dying neon and the sound of their breathing mingling in the silence. His arm throbbed in time with his pulse -- a steady, red reminder that every second counted, though he wasn’t sure for what anymore.

“Explain what?” he said finally, voice roughened by exhaustion. “The décor? The smell? The part where you dragged me here at gunpoint?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Pomni shot back. “You led me here. Don’t pretend otherwise. Despite what you’ve shown me tonight, all of my other evidence suggests that you're smarter than this.”

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so full of pain. “You’re giving me too much credit, Detective. I’m just trying not to bleed out on your shoes.”

Her grip on the gun didn’t falter, though he noticed the flicker in her jaw -- the way it tightened, not out of fear, but something closer to disappointment. “You’re not stupid, Jax. Every lead, every breadcrumb -- you left them for me to find. You wanted me to come here. So tell me why.”

He turned slightly, the movement sending a hot lance of pain through his shoulder. “You ever think maybe I just wanted to see if you’d keep up?”

Pomni stepped closer, the toe of her boot scuffing against the faded clown carpet. “You think this is a game?” she hissed.

“It’s always been a game,” he said, and for a heartbeat, he almost smiled. “Just not the one you think you’re playing.”

She blinked, thrown for a moment -- the same look he remembered from those late nights at Spudzy’s when she’d tried to read him and failed. “You don’t get to make riddles now. Not after what you--”

“What I what?” He turned to face her fully, the gun now pressed against his chest again. “What I didn’t do? You think I  actually came here to kill you?” He gestured loosely with his good hand. “You think I’m that kind of man?”

Pomni’s breath hitched. The certainty she’d held only moments ago wavered, if only for an instant. He saw it -- the profiler in her brain running through data points that didn’t fit.

“You stalked my house for days,” she said, the words brittle. “You left me a death threat. You almost shot me while I was sleeping.”

“But I didn’t,” he countered, then grimaced, clutching his shoulder. “ ‘S not like you have an issue shooting anyone.”

“Don’t turn this around--”

“I’ve never killed anyone, Pomni,” he said, the humor bleeding out of his voice. “Not for lack of trying to play the part, maybe, but…” His gaze flicked toward the dark corridors again. “Games. That’s all it ever was supposed to be. You and me, chasing ghosts. Cops and robbers with clever rules and little rhymes.”

Pomni stared at him, searching his expression. The deflection was still there -- the wry tilt of his mouth, the charm that used to keep her guessing -- but beneath it was something else. Something stripped raw. He looked like a man running on fumes, not adrenaline.

“So what changed?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Just that flicker in his eyes again -- pain, guilt, maybe both -- before he dropped his gaze to the gaudy carpet that smiled back up a him.

Pomni’s grip tightened. “Talk.”

Jax lifted his head slowly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

“Try me.”

He sighed, a slow exhale that rattled in his chest. “Fine. But when the curtain falls, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And then the lights snapped on.

A jarring flood of color -- red, gold, teal -- spilled across the lobby, bright and theatrical, the flickering bulbs overhead roaring to sudden life. A blaring trumpet note echoed through unseen speakers, followed by a laugh that didn’t sound quite human.

Pomni flinched, aiming the gun toward the source of the sound. Jax just closed his eyes.

“Ahhh, what a performance!” boomed a voice from somewhere above -- rich, exaggerated, dripping with glee. “And such tension! Such emotional stakes! You two really know how to fill a room.”

Pomni spun, eyes narrowing, trying to locate the source. “Who the hell--”

“Caine,” Jax muttered under his breath, more a curse than a name.

A spotlight flickered to life at the far end of the lobby, illuminating the cracked mural of a big top tent. And then -- impossibly -- it swung forward. A secret door seamlessly hidden behind it. A figure stepped out of it, as if the painting itself had decided to peel from the wall and take form.

Caine emerged with a flourish -- all teeth, color, and grinning grandeur. His coat shimmered like static, his smile too wide for his face. “Bravo! Bravo! I was starting to think you’d never make it to the main event!”

Pomni froze. “What--”

“Showtime,” Jax whispered, voice flat, defeated.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t look at Caine either. He just stared straight ahead, blood soaking through the fabric of his sleeve, as the air around them shifted from stale and real to something else entirely.

Something that hummed with wrongness.

And for the first time, Pomni felt it too -- the sense that the world she knew had been peeled back like a stage curtain, and what waited behind it was laughing.

***

Caine stood there, framed by the false light of the broken marquee like he belonged to it -- all showmanship and menace stitched together in human form. His blond hair caught the glow like spun gold, his suit immaculate despite the ruin around them. One eye glimmered a piercing blue, the other an unnatural green, and when he smiled, it was all teeth and knowing.

“Well, well, look at you,” Caine said, clapping once. The sound echoed through the theater, sharp as a gunshot. “Bleeding on my carpet, bringing guests without an invitation -- where’s your sense of decorum, Jax? I know I’ve trained you better than this.”

Jax said nothing. He’d long since learned that silence was the only real weapon you could use on a man like Caine.

But Caine hated silence.

“Oh, come now,” he crooned, spreading his arms wide. “You can at least pretend you’re happy to see me. I gave you direction, didn’t I? Clear, simple instruction. Follow the trail, keep the game going, keep it contained. And yet here you are, dragging an outsider into the tent.”

Pomni’s stance shifted slightly beside him, the barrel of her gun twitching toward Caine before she even seemed to realize it. “Who the hell are you?”

Caine’s grin widened. “Oh, my dear, I’m the ringmaster.”

The air seemed to tighten, hum -- like the whole theater was holding its breath.

Then movement at the edge of Jax’s vision: a shadow stepped forward from the left hallway. Bubble. Towering, silent, usually armed with nothing but his absurd strength. But tonight, for the first time, he carried a shotgun -- matte black, sawed short, held like a promise.

Jax felt something cold settle under his ribs. That wasn’t right. Bubble didn’t need guns.

And then more shapes -- three, four, maybe five -- emerging from the gloom behind him. Faces he half-recognized from old jobs, old corridors, old mistakes. Caine’s people. The kind of men who didn’t need orders twice.

Caine tutted softly, pacing in slow circles around them like a lion examining the state of its meal. “You disappoint me, Jax. Truly. I gave you a purpose, and you turned it into melodrama. I told you to dispose of the anomaly, not fall in love with it.”

Pomni’s jaw tightened. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.” Caine turned his mismatched gaze on her, and even through the fatigue and pain, Jax saw her flinch. Caine had a way of looking at people -- like he was reading every line of their script before they’d even opened their mouths. “You’re just the catalyst. The thing that makes my little experiment unpredictable.”

“Experiment?” Pomni echoed.

Caine chuckled, low and delighted. “You wouldn’t understand. Simpletons never do.”

“Enough,” Jax rasped. His throat felt raw, his voice too thin, but it cut through the air all the same. “You gave me a mission. I didn’t succeed. It’s over.”

“Oh, Jax…” Caine sighed, almost fondly. “It’s never over. You of all people should know that. You always think you can change the ending.”

He stepped closer, close enough that Jax could see the faint reflection of himself in Caine’s mismatched eyes -- pale, trembling, bleeding. “But some endings,” Caine whispered, “were written long before you learned to read.”

Jax forced a breath, slow and uneven. “You said--”

“Oh, I know what I said,” Caine interrupted, his voice lilting, smooth as silk over broken glass. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”

He began to circle again, hands clasped loosely behind his back, the way a man might stroll through a museum exhibit of his own making. “You were told to investigate, to observe, to confirm the anomaly’s behavior patterns -- and then, when the time came…” His tone softened to something almost tender. “Eliminate her. Clean and quick. Two more jobs after that, and you’d have earned your exit papers and a quiet little life somewhere warm. A beach. A bar. Sunshine instead of this miserable city. Instead of running stolen funds through Spudzy’s deplorable register.”

Pomni’s eyes snapped toward Jax. “What?”

Jax didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. The pain in his arm was nothing compared to the one pressing down on his ribs now -- a pressure that felt almost like shame.

Caine smirked. “Oh, he didn’t tell you? Tsk.” He tilted his head, feigning sympathy. “You poor thing. You think he’s been protecting you. In truth, he was only ever protecting himself.”

“That’s not--” Jax started, but the words caught somewhere between his throat and his teeth.

Caine’s grin turned sharp, delighted. “You could have walked away, Jax. That was the deal. One last job, one last dance under the lights. You find her, pull the trigger, and the curtain falls. You’d have been free.”

He drew closer with every sentence until Jax could feel his breath against his face. It smelled faintly of sugar and something metallic, something too clean to be human.

“But no,” Caine murmured. “You had to improvise. You always do. You went off-script, you felt something. You got attached. And now…” He gestured lazily to the blood on Jax’s sleeve, to the gun still shaking slightly in Pomni’s hand. “Now, you’ve traded your freedom for her heartbeat. Touching, really. Tragic, even.”

He turned to Pomni again, voice syrupy and cruel. “Do you know what kind of man he is? He’s a marionette who thinks he’s the puppeteer. I pull one string, he bleeds for me. I pull another, he lies to you. And every time, he thinks he’s choosing it himself. Isn’t that adorable?”

“Shut up,” Jax bit out, the words edged with a growl that cost him more strength than he had.

“Oh, there’s the spark I missed,” Caine cooed. “But really, my dear boy, you should have known better. There’s no such thing as freedom. You don’t earn it -- you’re given it, or you’re not. And after this little act of rebellion…”

He snapped his fingers once. The sound cracked through the air like a whip.

“…You’re not.”

For a moment, everything was silent again. Caine just stood there, smiling, basking in his own theater of cruelty. His mismatched eyes gleamed under the flickering lights -- one like ice, the other like wildfire.

Then, softly, like a stage direction whispered into the wings:

“Dispose of them.”

The words slid into the air with such finality that Jax’s body moved before his mind caught up. A heartbeat later, Bubble stepped forward, racking the shotgun with a hollow chck-chck that echoed off the walls.

Caine didn’t even watch. He simply turned away, humming under his breath as if the matter had already been settled.

And maybe it was.

Jax could feel it -- the weight of inevitability pressing down on him like the heavy red curtains overhead. His arm was numb now, his breath ragged, but his mind was clear in a way it hadn’t been in weeks.

He’d tried to play the game, to cheat the system one last time. But Caine had been right about one thing: Jax always thought he could change the ending.

And now, there was no more script left to follow.

Only instinct.

And survival.

***

The moment that followed hit like a gunshot.

Bubble raised the shotgun. The others moved in, slow and methodical.

Pomni reacted first -- gun up, stance tight, expression hardening into something ruthless, but before she could fire, Jax caught her wrist with his good hand.

“Don’t,” he hissed. “Not yet.”

She looked at him like he was insane, but there was no time to argue.

The first shot tore through the concession stand, sending glass exploding outward. Jax dropped low, dragging Pomni behind the half-collapsed counter. Pain flared white-hot in his arm, the shockwave nearly knocking him flat.

“Any bright ideas?” she snapped.

“Yeah,” he grunted, grabbing a metal popcorn scoop off the floor and hurling it toward the nearest gunman. It hit a wall, uselessly. “Stall.”

Pomni rolled her eyes. “That’s your plan?”

“It’s worked before. I’d say shoot them, but someone shot my good arm.”

She didn’t get the chance to argue again -- the next shot blew apart the “WELCOME TO THE SHOW” sign, showering them in sparks and broken glass. Jax ducked, grabbed her shoulder, and pointed toward the emergency exit sign flickering near the hallway.

“This way!”

They bolted. Jax stumbled twice, arm screaming, but momentum carried him. Bullets bit at the walls beside them, each impact too close, too loud. Pomni fired back blindly, her shots buying them seconds -- just seconds -- but seconds were enough.

They burst through the hallway doors, smoke and dust curling around their feet. The smell of mold and burnt wiring filled the air. Behind them, Caine’s laughter followed -- rich and delighted, echoing through the theater like applause.

“Run, my little players!” he called after them. “Let’s see how far you can get before the curtain falls!”

Jax didn’t look back.

He didn’t have to. He could still feel those mismatched eyes burning into him -- not angry, not even disappointed. Just entertained.

And somehow, that was worse.

***

Jax didn’t think. He moved.

Caine’s laughter followed, echoing through the theater like applause.

“Oh, this is delightful!” he called. “Run faster, my little stars -- the audience demands a chase!”

Jax grit his teeth, dragging Pomni toward the back corridor. The emergency lights still burned dimly along the floor, pulsing red like veins leading deeper into the theater’s belly.

Pomni jerked free just long enough to snap, “You knew this would happen, didn’t you? You knew he’d come for us!”

“Not like this,” Jax hissed, checking the hallway ahead. “He doesn’t usually make it personal.”

“Personal? He just tried to kill us both!”

“Yeah,” Jax muttered, watching the detective reload her pistol with trembling fingers. “That’s what makes it personal.”

Footsteps pounded from the lobby -- the goons moving fast, heavy boots scraping against the tile. Jax pressed his back to the wall, motioning for Pomni to stay low. His vision pulsed with each heartbeat, the blood loss making the edges of the world swim.

“Left theater,” he whispered. “Through the maintenance corridor. There’s a back stairwell--”

A bullet snapped past his ear, embedding itself in the wall. Pomni didn’t wait for a second invitation; she grabbed his uninjured arm and pulled him into the nearest screening room.

It was like stepping into a grave.

Rows of cracked leather seats stretched toward a tattered movie screen, its surface sagging under years of decay. A flickering reel still spun somewhere in the projection booth above, casting ghostly flashes of carnival scenes onto the walls -- distorted clowns, juggling rings, a spinning carousel frozen mid-turn.

Pomni ducked behind a row of seats, gun steady, eyes wide but sharp. “You’re going to tell me what the hell this is,” she said, voice low but shaking. “Right now.”

Jax crouched beside her, breathing hard. “Later.”

“There might not be a later!” she hissed.

The detective peeked over the seat, caught sight of two of Caine’s men entering the aisle, and fired twice. One went down, the other dropped behind a row. Jax ducked back from his watch, teeth gritted against another spike of pain. “You think I don’t know that?”

Pomni’s glare could’ve cut glass. “Then start talking.”

Jax exhaled through his nose, bitter and short. “He sent me after you. Said you were a breach. A distraction. Said if I didn’t handle it, he’d handle me. Gave me a deadline and everything”

Pomni blinked, the disbelief written plain on her face. “A breach? What the hell does that even mean?”

Jax shook his head, pressing a hand to his arm. “Doesn’t matter. He wanted you gone. I didn’t--”

The rest of the sentence was lost as the door burst open. Bubble stepped in, the theater’s dying light glinting off the barrel of his shotgun. He scanned the rows methodically, calm, almost bored.

Jax mouthed, Go. Pomni shook her head.

Before he could argue, she stood, fired twice -- not to hit, but to draw attention. Bubble turned, and Jax used the distraction to launch himself up and over the aisle. His boot connected with the side of Bubble’s knee; the big man grunted but didn’t fall. Jax ducked under the swing of the shotgun and slammed his shoulder into Bubble’s gut. It was like hitting a wall.

Pomni fired again. The shot caught Bubble in the shoulder, staggering him just long enough for Jax to wrench the shotgun away and take off down the aisle. It discharged one last deafening round into the ceiling in the struggle, sending drywall and ceiling tile raining down on them.

“Go!” Jax shouted, holding onto the gun for dear life with his good arm, the other hand wrapped as tight as he could around her wrist.

They tore through the side exit into the hallway. Alarms screamed as they passed an emergency sensor, the shrill wail mixing with Caine’s distant laughter.

“Oh, bravo! Such chemistry!”

Jax half-dragged, half-followed Pomni down the corridor. His boots slipped on spilled soda, the floor sticky and uneven beneath their feet. They burst through another door and into a maintenance stairwell that plunged down into the dark.

Pomni skidded to a stop at the landing, gun raised. “We can’t keep running. We have to--”

“--Get out alive first,” Jax interrupted, catching his breath. “Then we can argue.”

Her glare softened for just a heartbeat -- frustration giving way to something else. Concern, maybe. Then she turned back toward the noise of boots and shouting above them.

“Downstairs,” Jax said, motioning with his chin. “There’s an old projector room. Leads to the loading bay. Caine has half the west end working for him though. Outside won’t necessarily mean safety at this point. I’m sure he’s called in all his favors.”

“And then?”

He hesitated, glancing down at the shotgun he held, metal glinting red with the alarm lights. “Then we improvise.”

Pomni let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You and your goddamn games.”

Jax managed a crooked grin, breathless and grim. “It’s what I’m good at.”

They descended into darkness, the stairwell swallowing the sound of pursuit -- but not for long. The voices were growing louder again, echoing down the concrete walls.

For the first time in a long time, Jax felt something like clarity -- the strange calm that came when there was nothing left to lose. Pain, guilt, blood, chaos -- it all faded into one razor-sharp truth.

Caine had taken everything from him.

Now, he was going to take it back.

Chapter Text

Pomni could hear her own heartbeat louder than the alarms.
Every step down the stairwell echoed like gunfire, every breath ragged and sharp in her throat. The air smelled like mold and rust -- the rot of something left to die long ago.

Jax moved ahead of her, his shoulders tense, the sawed-off shotgun gripped in his good hand. The other arm hung stiff against his side, blood seeping dark through the torn fabric of his sleeve. He didn’t complain. He just kept moving, his silhouette flickering in the red emergency lights like a phantom refusing to fade.

Somehow, he still looked steady.
Pomni wasn’t sure if that made her angry or impressed.

They reached the bottom of the stairwell, where a metal door waited half off its hinges. Jax kicked it open and ducked through, gun raised. Pomni followed, sweeping her pistol across the dark.

The maintenance level was worse than the lobby -- low ceilings, walls lined with broken film reels and rusted projector parts. Strips of old celluloid trailed from hooks like ghostly ribbons, fluttering in the stale air. The faint smell of burnt film clung to everything.

“Why are we here?” she whispered.

“Only exit left,” Jax said, voice flat. “Loading bay’s behind the projection room. If Caine hasn’t blocked it, we can make it to the street.”

“And if he has?”

He looked back over his shoulder, eyes dull but steady. “Then we make a new door.”

Before she could answer, a voice crackled to life overhead -- Caine, filtered through the intercom system. His tone was sing-song, delighted.

“Oh, you’re still alive? How positively stubborn of you, Jax. I suppose I should have known…your behavior is rather predictable.”

Pomni froze. The voice echoed through the metal halls, too loud, too close.

“Careful down there,” Caine continued. “The last time I was in that basement, I found rats the size of terriers. Adorable little things. They just love the smell of blood.”

Jax’s jaw tightened. “Ignore him.”

Pomni’s hands trembled around her gun. “You worked for that?”

“I didn’t work for him,” Jax said. “I survived him.”

The sound of footsteps cut him off -- heavy boots against concrete. Goons. At least three, maybe four.

Jax motioned toward the projector room, and they slipped inside just as flashlights swept past the hallway.

Inside, the space was claustrophobic -- a narrow chamber with walls of cracked tile and machines hulking like dead beasts. A shattered projector sat at the center, its reels tangled in spiderwebs of film. The glow from their flashlights made the celluloid shimmer, throwing warped images onto the walls: carnival rides spinning in endless loops, laughing faces frozen mid-cheer.

Pomni ducked behind a metal cabinet as the door banged open. She could see Jax crouched behind the projector, shotgun angled upward. His chest rose and fell fast, shallow -- pain or adrenaline, she couldn’t tell.

The first man stepped inside. Jax fired.

The blast lit up the room in a strobe of orange and shadow. The man dropped with a shriek, grabbing his knee. Another yelled and opened fire. Bullets tore through the machinery, sparks spraying across the floor. Pomni flinched, instinctively pressing herself lower, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might split her ribs.

She caught Jax’s eyes across the chaos -- a flicker of command, wordless. Move.

Pomni rolled out from cover and fired twice, taking one of the goons in the leg. He fell, screaming. Jax swung around the projector, finished him with a clean shot. The last one ran.

For a moment, the only sound was their breathing.

Pomni leaned against the cabinet, trying to catch hers. The air was thick with gunpowder and dust. Her hands were slick with sweat.

She wanted to scream at him -- for dragging her into this, for knowing too much, for bleeding and smirking and acting like this was all some bad joke. But when she looked at him, she saw something raw flicker through the mask. Not guilt. Not fear. Something worse.

Resignation.

He was used to this.
He didn’t expect to live through it.

Pomni swallowed hard. “You could’ve told me,” she said.

Jax reloaded the shotgun with shaking fingers. “You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Try me.”

He met her eyes then -- just for a second -- and she saw how pale he’d gone, how the wound in his arm had bled a dark stain all the way down his sleeve. She shoved away the sudden twinge of guilt she felt. This was no time to be feeling sorry for anyone.

“I was supposed to take you out,” he said finally. “He said you’d… been apart of something you shouldn’t have. That you were a liability.”

Pomni felt cold all over. “And you were just going to hand me over?”

“I was going to warn you,” he snapped. “Didn’t get the chance.”

Before she could respond, the intercom clicked again.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Caine sighed. “So much anger. So little gratitude. I give you both a stage -- and this is how you perform?”

A loud metallic clang came from behind them -- the loading bay door slamming shut.

Pomni turned. A red light blinked over the exit: LOCKDOWN ENGAGED.

Caine laughed, the sound high and bright. “Intermission’s over, my stars. Let’s make this act your last.”

Then came the roar of engines.
The sound of something mechanical grinding to life -- deep, heavy, crawling.

Jax’s expression darkened. “He’s sending in the sweepers.”

Pomni’s stomach dropped. “The what?”

He pumped the shotgun, eyes hard. “You’ll see.”

***

The floor trembled.

At first Pomni thought it was her heart -- the way it pounded in her ears, how everything felt like it was vibrating with fear. But then the sound sharpened -- mechanical, grinding.

A low hum crawled up through the vents. Then came the click-click-click of metal treads on tile.

“They’re coming,” Jax muttered, urgency weaving its way through his tone.

The first Sweeper burst through the maintenance corridor -- knee-high, a squat metal sphere rolling on jointed wheels, painted in the same garish red and gold as the theater’s curtains. Its “face” was a static clown mask with a wide painted grin, lenses glowing orange where the eyes should’ve been.

It chirped once -- almost cheerful -- and then opened fire.

A thin arc of blue flame hissed from its nozzle, sweeping across the floor and catching the edge of a torn movie poster.

Pomni yelped and dove behind a row of seats stacked on top of one another outside of another viewing room, darting through its open doors. The air filled with burning plastic and acrid smoke. Another Sweeper whirred in behind the first, spraying flame in wide bursts. The aisle lit up like a fuse.

“Fire?” she gasped. “He built flamethrower robots?”

Jax fired the shotgun. The blast slammed into the nearest Sweeper, flipping it onto its back. It twitched, wheels spinning helplessly before the fuel tank ruptured in a small explosion.

He didn’t pause -- just chambered another shell. “Cheaper than hiring constant security. He’s got the money for it.”

Pomni ran low between the aisles, firing her pistol as sparks danced around her boots. Every shot that hit a Sweeper sent a puff of smoke and a spray of sparks, but they just kept coming.

More rolled in through the side doors -- three, maybe four -- like a little army of mechanical jesters, their painted grins catching the firelight.

“Backstage!” Jax barked, pointing to a side hallway near the exit.

Pomni bolted first, ducking as a jet of fire seared past her shoulder. The heat was unbearable; the sound -- a mix of laughter from the intercom and the hiss of flame -- felt like being inside a furnace. God, she needed backup.

Jax followed, favoring one leg over the other now, his right arm useless at his side. Blood trailed down to his fingertips.

They crashed through the door into a narrow maintenance hall, lined with pipes and old popcorn machines stacked for scrap. Pomni slammed it shut behind them -- but the metal was already glowing faintly through the cracks in the edges from the heat outside.

“Those things--” she panted. “They’re--”

“Caine’s toys,” Jax said grimly, pressing his shoulder to the wall. “Cheap, obedient, and disposable. He’s got far too many.”

Something hissed above them -- the ventilation grates vibrating. Pomni looked up just as a small Sweeper crawled through the vent, legs skittering like a spider’s. Its little pilot light flared to life.

“Oh, screw this,” she yelped, grabbing a metal chair, and slamming it into the bot mid-descent. The thing crumpled to the ground with a sad electronic beep.

Jax gave her a weak smirk despite himself. “Nice swing.”

“Shut up.”

The wall behind them shook -- the door they’d sealed glowed orange as the firebots cut through.

“Move!” Jax snapped.

They sprinted down the hall, dodging the steam that hissed from broken pipes. The corridor led into a massive storage room filled with broken seats, reels, and mannequins from old promotions. The shadows danced in the flickering red light.Jax kicked over a canister marked CLEANING SOLVENT. “Help me,” he said, voice strained.

Pomni didn’t need to ask why. Together they upended it, spreading liquid across the floor near the doorway. When the first sweeper rolled in, fire glowing in its maw, it was already over.

The explosion was small, but the fire spread fast -- racing across the floor like a living thing. The robots’ sensors went haywire; two of them collided, spinning helplessly before their tanks burst.

Pomni coughed hard, covering her mouth as smoke filled the air. 

“Come on!” Jax grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward a stairwell at the back. He stumbled halfway up, knees giving out. Pomni caught him under the good arm, hauling his weight as they climbed.

At the top, they burst into the projection booth. The view below was chaos -- the theater floor awash in smoke and flame, the Sweepers rolling through it like angry fireflies.

Jax sank to the floor, breath ragged. The shotgun clattered to the ground, the shells he had collected in his pocket long since spent. His sleeve was thoroughly soaked through, crimson spreading fast.

“Jax!” Pomni crouched beside him, sighing in dismay at the trail of crimson lining his nailbeds . “You’re going to bleed out if we don’t address this soon.”

He tiredly raised a judgemental eyebrow. “Yeah, well. Tell that to the guy who shot me. That being said, I’d rather this than being burned alive.”

She shot him a glare, but there was urgency under it. “We can’t stay here. I don’t have anything I could use to call for backup. We’re on our own until we get out or the police respond to the fire.”

He nodded weakly towards the door that loomed against the far side of the room. “It  won’t be long. There’s a ladder -- other side.”

Before she could move, the emergency door behind them creaked open -- slow, deliberate.

Pomni spun, gun poised to fire. Her pulse spiked, every muscle wound tight. The room glowed red from the fire below, heat warping the air. For a split second, she could only see a silhouette framed in smoke -- tall, lean, carrying the posture of someone who’d seen too much and learned not to flinch.

“Easy,” the voice said -- low, tired, but with an edge of humor buried somewhere in the gravel. “You shoot me, and you’ll regret wasting the bullet.”

The figure stepped into the light.

They were dressed in a worn leather jacket scorched at the edges, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Olive skin streaked with soot and old ink. Pink hair, shaved on one side, the rest falling messily over a pair of sharp green eyes that gleamed like glass in the firelight. Metal caught the glow -- piercings in one brow, another along the curve of their lip. They looked like someone who didn’t belong to any side but their own.

Pomni didn’t lower her weapon. “Who the hell are you?”

“Zooble,” they said simply. Their tone made it sound like that should’ve been explanation enough.

Jax gave a hoarse laugh from where he was slumped against the wall. “Zoobie…where the hell have you been, loca? I missed you.”

Zooble’s eyes flicked to him, narrowing as they took in the blood on his sleeve, the way his face had gone gray. “Yeah, looks like it.” Their voice softened -- barely. “You look like shit, Jax.”

He did his best attempt at his usual grin, though it looked more like a grimace. “You should see the other guy.”

Zooble huffed a humorless laugh and turned back to Pomni. “If you want to live, we need to go. Sweepers’ll torch this place clean in no time at all. I already got some bystander idiot outside to phone the fire department and the cops, so don’t waste your time being heroes.”

Pomni hesitated, studying them -- the steadiness in their stance, the sharpness in their eyes. Whoever they were, Jax trusted them, even if he wasn’t in much shape to trust anyone.

“Who sent you?” she demanded.

Zooble’s jaw tightened. “No one. Just didn’t feel like watching another friend burn.”

That word -- friend -- caught Pomni off guard. She looked back at Jax. He wasn’t meeting her eyes anymore. His hand hung limp, ribbons of red cascading down his fingers.

The roar of flame was getting louder -- the Sweepers below still scouring the theater, setting everything they touched ablaze. The floor trembled again, heat blooming through the metal underfoot.

Zooble stepped closer, voice low but urgent. “You can shoot me later if it makes you feel better. But if we stay here, we’re done.”

Pomni’s fingers trembled on the trigger, then loosened. She holstered the gun, turned back to Jax, and slung his good arm over her shoulder. He was heavier than he looked -- or maybe she was just running on fumes.

“Fine,” she said. “Lead the way.”

Zooble nodded once, their expression unreadable, then turned and pushed through the emergency door.

The three of them moved fast, boots crunching over broken glass, smoke curling around their heads. The hallway beyond was lined with peeling carnival posters -- The Amazing Spectacle!, Step Right Up! -- all half-melted, the colors bleeding into the walls.

Behind them, the fire reached the projection room. The sound of bursting glass filled the air, followed by the electronic shriek of Sweepers dying in the blaze.

Pomni glanced back one last time -- saw the theater she’d first stepped into as a mystery now collapsing into ash.

And over the roar of destruction, Caine’s voice echoed through the intercom -- warped by the heat and his own insanity, amused, cruel.

“Curtains up,” he gargled, the sound distorted from the fire. “Let’s see how long you last.”

***

The maintenance corridor was narrow, claustrophobic -- a winding artery beneath the dying theater. The walls sweated condensation, paint peeling in long strips that curled like dead skin. Emergency lights pulsed at intervals, bathing everything in sickly red.

Zooble led the way, flashlight cutting through the dark. Their voice came low, steady, all business. “Keep close. If you hear the Sweepers’ servos, duck and stay quiet. They don’t sense anything too well in tight spaces.”

Pomni swallowed hard and nodded, though her throat ached too much to speak. Every sound echoed -- the slap of boots on concrete, the rasp of Jax’s uneven breathing.

He was getting worse. His weight pressed heavier against her side, his steps dragging more with each turn. The smell of blood clung to him -- sharp, metallic, grounding in a way that made her stomach turn.

“You’re bleeding through again,” she whispered.

“I noticed,” Jax muttered, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

Zooble glanced back but didn’t slow down. “He’ll make it if he keeps moving. We’re almost there.”

The tunnel sloped downward, then leveled out into a narrow hall lined with old circuit boxes. Wires hung loose, some still humming faintly with power. Pomni brushed one by accident, and a spark jumped, bright and violent. She flinched, nearly losing her grip on Jax.

“Watch it,” Zooble warned. “These things are older than we are.”

“Where are we even going?” Pomni asked, breath coming in short bursts.

“Back door,” Zooble said. “Caine’s people don’t use these tunnels anymore. Too messy.” They glanced over their shoulder, green eyes flashing in the light. “Lucky for you, I do.”

They reached a metal gate at the end of the passage, rusted nearly shut. Zooble sheathed the glittering knife that Pomni hadn’t noticed before into the side of their boot and threw their shoulder into it. The metal screamed but gave way, popping open into a storage corridor thick with the smell of fryer grease and bleach.

Pomni blinked as the light changed -- warm, yellow, humming. For a second, it almost felt normal.

Then she saw the wall of boxes stacked high with frozen patties and bulk soda syrup, and it clicked.

“Wait,” she said, realizing where they were. “This is--”

“Spudzy’s,” Jax finished, voice hoarse but amused. “Just let me die here. It’d be poetic.”

Zooble pushed through the swinging door into the back kitchen. Fryers and prep tables gleamed faintly in the dim after-hours lighting, everything too familiar, too clean after the carnage they’d left behind. The smell of old oil lingered, layered over the faint sweetness of cheap buns.

Pomni felt dizzy. The world had gone from fire and ruin to fluorescent normalcy in the span of a breath. It didn’t feel real.

Zooble stopped by the back exit, scanning the alley beyond through a crack in the door. “It’s clear,” they said. “You two go. Get as far from here as you can.”

Pomni frowned. “You’re not coming?”

They shook their head. “Someone’s gotta make sure the fire doesn’t take the whole block. The departments are incompetent-- take offense if you want. And besides,” they added with a faint grin, “Caine’s not done sniffing around. Better he finds me than you.”

Jax stirred beside her, forcing himself upright against the wall, suddenly serious. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Nah,” Zooble said with a wave of their hand, as if talking about the weather. “Might lose the other leg though.” It was only after they said anything that Pomni noticed the glint of a silver prosthetic peaking out from the tears in Zooble’s dark jeans.

They stepped forward, clapped a hand on Jax’s uninjured shoulder. “Try not to die before I do, yeah?”

Jax’s answering smirk was weak, but genuine. “No promises.”

Pomni watched the exchange, something twisting in her chest. There was history there -- not words, but a familiarity that only came from surviving the same kind of hell.

Zooble turned back to her, expression softening just a touch. “Keep him moving. He’ll tell you what you need to know when he’s ready. Oh…and if you turn him in, I’ll kill you myself.”

Before Pomni could ask what that meant, Zooble was already slipping back into the tunnel, the flashlight beam vanishing behind the door.

The silence that followed felt heavy -- thicker than the smoke they’d escaped.

Pomni looked at Jax, at the blood crusted down his sleeve, the exhaustion carved into his face. “You can walk?”

He nodded once, though the tremor in his jaw said otherwise. “More or less.”

She opened the door and stepped into the cool night air. The alley was quiet, save for the distant wail of sirens.

As the door swung shut behind them, Pomni caught one last flicker of movement -- Zooble disappearing into the red-lit dark, back toward the fire.

Jax exhaled slowly beside her, his voice barely above a whisper. “They shouldn’t have come back.”

Pomni looked at him. “Why did they?”

Jax’s eyes stayed fixed on the distant glow of the theater burning. “Because they’re better than me.”

And then they started walking.

***

The alley spat them out into the night -- damp air, neon reflections in puddles, the hum of a city that didn’t care about the blood drying on their hands.

Pomni kept one arm around Jax’s waist, half-carrying him as they moved. He was heavier than he looked, all wiry muscle and dead weight, his breath ragged against her shoulder. Every few steps he stumbled, muttered something under his breath, and she had to tighten her grip just to keep him upright.

The city’s usual noise felt muffled somehow, distant -- the traffic, the hiss of rain against metal. She couldn’t shake the sense that eyes were still on them, somewhere in the dark, even though Zooble had said the coast was clear.

They passed through a narrow service corridor, stepping over trash bags and shattered glass, the glow of the burning theater still visible over the rooftops behind them. The smell of smoke followed them, clinging to her hair, her clothes, her skin.

Pomni’s voice came out quieter than she expected. “Does he know where I live?”

Jax didn’t answer right away. He was somewhere between conscious and gone, eyes glassy, skin pale under the streetlights. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely there. “No. I don't think so. He knew your name but that's all."

The reassurance gave her a flicker of relief -- small, fragile. “Then we’re going back to my place. Just temporarily. ”

He gave a weak laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Bit forward, don’t you think?”

“Don’t start,” she muttered, dragging him toward the end of the alley.

The streets were nearly empty -- a ghost version of downtown after hours. The only movement came from flickering billboards and the occasional patrol car gliding by at a distance. Pomni stuck to the shadows, cutting through the backstreets she’d memorized after too many long walks home from stakeouts.

Each corner felt like a risk, each passing light a spotlight waiting to find them.

Jax’s weight grew heavier with every block. By the time they reached the narrow stairwell leading up to her apartment, his boots were dragging. She took one look at the climb and nearly cursed aloud.

“Don’t pass out yet,” she warned, adjusting his arm over her shoulders. “We’re almost there.”

“Define ‘almost,’” he rasped.

She glared at him, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. “You’ll live.”

“Optimistic,” he muttered, though there was a faint smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth.

They reached her door -- third floor, old building, faded green paint peeling from the walls. Pomni dug her keys out with trembling fingers, the metal slipping twice before she finally got the lock to turn.

The moment they stepped inside, the quiet hit her like a wave. The faint hum of the fridge, the smell of cheap coffee grounds, the scatter of papers and evidence files across her desk. All of it suddenly felt fragile -- a small, ordinary world that had no idea what was burning just a few blocks away.

She kicked the door shut behind them and helped Jax to the couch. He collapsed onto it with a low groan, one arm clutching his wound. Blood smeared across her sleeve as she pulled away.

“Stay still,” she said, already heading for the bathroom cabinet.

He chuckled weakly behind her. “Not planning on running laps.”

Pomni returned with her old first aid kit -- dusty, half-stocked, but better than nothing. She knelt beside him, setting it open on the coffee table. Carefully, she cut away the damp sleeve of his jacket with a pair of sterile scissors. The gash in his upper arm was worse than she’d thought -- deep, angry, rimmed in dried blood and dirt. The bullet seemed to have torn through the muscle, exiting out the rear. So no need to remove any shrapnel, thank goodness. 

Pomni bit her lip, rolling up her sleeves as she worked. Her mind was on overdrive, the past few hours a blur in her head. The faint sirens indicated that a response team was addressing the blaze at big top…Though what they’d find was to be determined. This Caine individual set alarm bells off in her mind. He seemed far too crafty to stick around waiting for the police to discover his place of refuge with him inside it. 

Pomni shook her head, tossing those thoughts away. There were much more pressing matters at hand, and they didn’t have time to waste.

“You’re lucky,” she muttered, pulling out a collection of antibacterial agents and salves from the aid kit. “Another inch and you would’ve bled out on that rooftop.”

“Awfully kind of you to aim poorly,” Jax said, wincing as she brushed a damp sponge around the wound, clearing out the debris and dried blood.

“Don’t test me,” she warned, but her hands were steady. She worked in silence for a while -- cleaning, wrapping, tightening the bandage until the bleeding stopped.

He watched her the whole time, though his eyes kept fluttering shut. “You’re good at this.”

“Comes with the job.”

“Hunter or savior?”

Pomni hesitated. “Depends on the night.”

A silence settled between them -- heavy, full of questions neither of them were ready to ask.

Outside, they listened to sirens wailing faintly in the distance. She wondered if anyone had been killed. The thought made her chest tighten.

Pomni finally leaned back, exhaling. “You’re going to tell me everything,” she said quietly. “About him. About what he’s done. About all of this.”

Jax didn’t answer right away. He stared at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded, as if he was trying to find the right lie to tell -- or deciding if she’d earned the truth.

Finally, he spoke. “Then you’d better make some coffee.”

Pomni blinked. “What?”

He smiled faintly, though his voice was soft, almost a whisper. “It’s a long story.”

And before she could press him, his head tilted back against the couch, eyes slipping closed -- out cold.

Pomni sat there for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the faint rhythm of his breathing.

The city hummed on outside, indifferent.

And somewhere beneath that hum -- faint, impossible to pinpoint -- she swore she could still hear Caine’s laughter echoing through the static.