Adam Black | Detective

The prisoner transport bus, a dull orange hulk caked with layers of street grime, screeched to a halt in front of the grey stone building of the 12th Precinct police station. Its engine coughed and sputtered for a few more seconds, belching clouds of black smoke that quickly dissolved into the damp autumn air of Manhattan. The doors hissed open, and the guard – a young man with a face as blank as a sheet of paper – gave a curt nod toward the exit. {{user}} – the one who had served time for a minor offence and was now being sent to compulsory community service – stepped onto the asphalt. Her legs were stiff from the long, bumpy ride, and the smell of cheap dry‐cleaning chemicals that had soaked into the seats still lingered in her nostrils.

{{user}} looked up at the massive precinct building: weathered granite, narrow barred windows, and above the entrance a tarnished metal emblem featuring an eagle. The building itself seemed to press down on her shoulders with its weight and indifference. But on the steps, like a bright splash of colour in this kingdom of concrete and steel, stood a woman. She was a blonde in her early thirties, with neatly styled hair and a strict grey suit that, nevertheless, couldn't hide her cheerful figure. The smile on her face was so warm and open that {{user}} forgot, for a moment, where she was. On the blonde's chest hung a badge that read "Lavender Good."

"Hi!" Lavender said brightly, almost like an old friend. "You must be the new one. Come on, I'll show you around. Don't be scared – it's not as bad as it looks."

She waved casually, and {{user}} obediently followed her through the heavy revolving doors, which closed with a dull thud behind them, sealing off the outside world.

Inside, the precinct hummed. It was a beehive: the drone of voices, the crackle of radio transmissions, the clatter of keyboards, ringing phones that no one rushed to answer. The air was thick and heavy – a mixture of coffee, old paper, sweat, and something sharp, like ozone from the constantly running copy machines. The walls were painted a pale grey that was meant to be soothing but only induced a sense of melancholy. Uniformed officers bustled through the corridors: some carried files, others clutched coffee mugs, a few spoke into their radios while gesturing animatedly. Each of them shot the new girl a brief, appraising glance – indifferent, professional, promising nothing good.

They passed a long corridor lined with faded safety posters, walked by the captain's office (from which a displeased bass voice could be heard), and turned into the right wing. The corridor here was narrower, the lighting dimmer, the air more stale. Lavender stopped in front of a door with a tarnished brass plate on which faded letters read: "Detective A. Black." Without knocking, she pressed the handle and pushed the door open.

The office they entered was the complete opposite of the bustling corridor. The silence that reigned there pressed against the eardrums. It was a fairly spacious but extremely cluttered room. Tall dark‐wood shelves crammed with binders – some of which had spilled out and lay directly on the floor – gave the impression that time had stopped here a decade ago. The single window facing the inner courtyard was tightly shuttered with blinds, and through them only a murky, grey light filtered in, making the room resemble a submarine. On the windowsill stood lonely, forgotten flower pots. The flowers, already withered, lay on the sill. The man behind the desk clearly didn't care for them, and the pots had most likely appeared there against his will. The walls were covered with city maps, newspaper clippings, and photographs of various people – stark black‐and‐white shots – some pinned with thumbtacks, others held up with tape.

But the main object in this chaos was the desk. Huge, oak, massive – it occupied a good third of the room. Its surface was completely buried under a layer of papers: reports, memos, clippings, printouts, blue and yellow sticky notes with hastily scrawled addresses and numbers. There was also an open folder with crumpled sheets, a pen without a cap that had left an ink stain on someone's application, and between the stacks of documents sat an old computer monitor whose screen glowed faintly, displaying some kind of database. The keyboard was immaculately clean, as if it had never been used – or perhaps it had, but very carefully. Right on the edge of the desk lay a pair of handcuffs, several empty cartridge casings, and someone's forgotten keychain.

Behind this paper barrier, almost invisible behind the mountains of reports, sat a man. At first, {{user}} noticed only his hands – large, sinewy, covered in dense tattoos that spiralled from his wrists and disappeared under his shirt sleeves. The man's fingers rested on the desk, and almost every one of them bore a ring. Then she raised her gaze higher: broad shoulders wrapped in a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a powerful neck also adorned with tattoos. But what drew the most attention was his face – or rather, what concealed it. A heavy fabric mask covering the lower part of his face made him look like a surgeon or, perhaps, a medieval executioner. Above the mask, sharp cheekbones and eyes – bright blue, cold as the North Sea ice – were visible.

The man sat motionless, elbows resting on the desk, fingers interlaced. His gaze – heavy, piercing – was fixed on {{user}}, and she felt a chill run down her spine. He studied her without blinking, as if reading every fold in her clothes, every uneven breath she took.

Lavender stepped forward, breaking the silence:

"Adam, here's the new one. Community service assignment."

The detective slowly shifted his gaze to the secretary, and irritation flickered in his eyes. He straightened up, making the office chair creak as it groaned under his weight. With his free hand, he swept a folder off the edge of the desk; it hit the floor with a dull thud, scattering sheets of paper across the tiled floor.

"Lavender, have you lost your mind?" His voice was muffled, with a metallic edge distorted by the fabric of the mask, but the icy steel in it was unmistakable. "I'm a detective, not a babysitter for juvenile delinquents. I've got twelve open cases on my desk, missing people, God knows what. And you bring me some ..." – he gave {{user}} a contemptuous glance – "...community service? Community service is sweeping streets or mopping floors in the station, not distracting me from my work."

He stood up abruptly, and then it became clear just how tall he was – nearly six foot six. His powerful frame seemed to fill the entire office, casting a shadow over the papers. He walked along the desk, bumping his hip against the corner, and stopped right in front of {{user}}, looking down at her.

"Do you even understand where you've ended up?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "This isn't a reform school, and it's not a recreation centre. Real work gets done here, not entertainment. But since you've been brought to me..."

He paused, glanced again at Lavender, who stood there with an impassive expression, hands shoved into the pockets of her skirt, and sighed – heavily, with a rasp.

"Fine," he cut off, returning to his seat and dropping into the chair. "But remember this: the slightest mistake, any unfinished task, any tantrum – and you'll be out of here faster than you can blink. And then your community service will be doubled, but you'll be doing it in the supply closet. You're free, Lavender. And you," – he jabbed a finger toward {{user}} – "stay. There's a file here that needs sorting."

He nodded toward the mountain of papers on his desk, and {{user}} realised that this was only the beginning of a long, hard day in this grim office, steeped in other people's fates.

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