Morning found Alice before she was ready for it.
The sun pressed through her blinds in hard, rectangular slices, dust drifting in the light like it was suspended there just for her to stare at. For a second, she lay still, waiting for the hum of dread that usually rose with her heartbeat.
Nothing came.
Just quiet.
She rolled out of bed, showered cold, tied her hair back in a loose knot, and brewed the kind of coffee that could strip paint. The burner phone lay in pieces beside the sink, completely dead. The envelope and photo remained tucked away in her closet, but she refused to look at them.
Today wasn't about ghosts.
Today was work.
And work made sense.
She holstered her weapon, clipped her badge to her jeans, and stepped out into the early-morning city air — the kind that smelled like warm asphalt and too many cigarettes.
Her favourite.
The call came in before she even reached the precinct.
"Pierce," Logan's voice drawled through the speaker. "Hope you didn't plan on breakfast. We got a bloodbath at the docks."
"Level?"
"Messy. Not cartel messy, just… stupid messy."
That, at least, was comforting.
"On my way," Alice said.
The warehouse stood like a rusted ribcage against the waterfront, yellow police tape snapping in the breeze. EMTs moved around like tired ants. Officers paced the perimeter. The whole place smelled like stale chemicals, cheap cocaine, and desperation.
Detective Ortega was already there, trench coat flapping like he was auditioning for his own noir film. He turned as she approached, raising an eyebrow.
"Well,l well," he said. "I thought Rhodes benched you."
"Benched," she said, stepping under the tape. "Not buried."
Ortega smirked. "Good. You're too mean to kill."
Logan met them at the loading entrance, hands in his pockets, a toothpick between his teeth. Young, broad-shouldered, and always annoyed — the perfect counterweight to Alice.
"Inside's a mess," he said, leading them in. "Three dead, one alive. Barely."
The interior was chaos: crates toppled, blood smeared in arcs on the concrete, powder dusting the air like chalk. Half-opened duffel bag spilt white bricks across the floor.
"Robbery?" Logan suggested.
"Staging," Ortega countered. "Nobody in a rush takes time to scatter product."
Alice didn't answer either of them. She stepped into the centre of the room and let her eyes travel across the scene.
The blood patterns were wrong. The bodies were placed, not dropped. One man had bruising on his knuckles — he had fought someone. Another didn't. The third had burn marks on his fingers — residue from holding a gun that jammed.
She crouched near the edge of a crate, running a finger over the powder.
"Talcum," she murmured. "Not Coke. Most of these bricks are fakes."
Ortega whistled. "Inside job?"
Alice stood. "And a statement. Someone didn't just kill them. Someone wanted it known."
Logan crossed his arms. "A rival crew?"
"Or someone in their own," Alice said.
That's when the EMT waved them over.
They followed him to the back, where a young man sat slumped against a metal support beam, head wrapped, breathing shallow. Early twenties, face swollen, eyes darting like a trapped animal.
Cruz.
Alice knelt in front of him.
"Cruz," she said, voice steady. "You know who I am."
His throat bobbed. "Detective…"
"You're the only survivor," she said. "Which means someone wanted you to send a message."
His good eye widened. "N-no— I wasn't supposed to be here— I just—"
She leaned in slightly. "I'm not looking to bury you, Cruz. I'm looking to understand what happened before someone finishes whatever they started."
Ortega stepped forward. "Kid's in bad shape. We should take him in."
Cruz shook his head violently. "No precinct. No precinct."
"Why not?" Logan asked.
Cruz swallowed. "Because Reed'll find out. He'll know I talked."
Alice stood slowly. "Reed," she repeated. "Local. Small-time street wannabe with big dreams."
Cruz's silence confirmed it.
"Get him to the car," Alice said. "I'll handle the rest."
The interrogation room was cold, fluorescent, and merciless — Alice's natural habitat.
Cruz sat across the table, shaking. Logan leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Ortega watched through the glass, his reflection faint and ghostlike behind the one-way mirror.
Alice placed a bottle of water on the table.
"You thirsty?"
Cruz didn't reach for it.
She sat, folding her hands. "Okay. You don't want to talk. I get it. Talking gets people killed."
His breath hitched.
"But let me ask you something…" she continued, voice soft and dangerous.
"When I say the word shipment, why does your left hand tense?"
Cruz froze.
"That's a tell," Alice said. "Means there was something in that warehouse that didn't belong to you — or Reed."
Cruz shook his head. "No— no, I can't—"
"You can," she interrupted. "Because Reed isn't a mastermind. He's an idiot with a gun and a dream. And whoever he works for? They don't care about you."
A tear slid down his cheek.
"It wasn't a robbery," he whispered.
"No," Alice said. "It wasn't."
"It was… a cleaning."
Logan's head lifted. "Cleaning?"
Cruz nodded rapidly. "Reed wanted the place. Wanted to start his own crew. He told his guys to trash the shipment, kill anyone loyal to Torres. I just— I just moved boxes. I wasn't—"
Alice leaned in, eyes sharp. "Where do we find Reed?"
Cruz pressed two shaking fingers to his forehead. "The docks. West slip. At night."
Alice stood. "Good. You just saved your life."
She walked out. Ortega met her in the hallway.
"Nice work, Pierce."
"Textbook," she replied.
He snorted. "You don't have a textbook."
"Fair."
Reed was picked up an hour later without incident.
Greedy, sloppy, loud — the kind of criminal who made Alice's life easier.
She typed her report, handed files off, and felt a strange, rare lightness in her chest.
A day with no shadows.
A day without the Martins.
Logan nudged her shoulder. "Diner?"
Ortega added, "I'm driving — you two maniacs always get us shot."
Alice cracked a tired smile. "Fine. But I'm not paying."
They ended up at a greasy 24-hour hole-in-the-wall where the coffee tasted like burnt tar and the burgers bled grease. Ortega told stories from the 90s. Logan swore half of them were lies. Alice didn't argue — she felt something loosening inside her, something she hadn't felt in weeks.
Normalcy.
At one point, when Ortega lifted his cup, he said, "To quiet days."
Alice lifted hers.
"May they last longer than they usually do," she said.
They all drank.
Her apartment greeted her in darkness.
She took off her boots, hung her jacket, and stood in front of the window overlooking the city.
Lights blinked. Cars honked distantly. Life pulsed without violence for once.
She touched her reflection in the glass, breathing out.
"Let it stay like this," she murmured.
"Just for tonight."
----
Behind her, the apartment stayed quiet.
No burner phone.
No messages.
No watchers.
Just peace.
The rarest currency she knew.