The fields stretched out like a wound under the midday sun, the sugarcane swaying in a slow, sickly rhythm, as if the earth itself was trying to shake loose the horror nestled in its belly. Flynn Fletcher stepped out of the unmarked cruiser, the heat pressing down on him like a damp hand. The air smelled of turned soil and something fouler beneath—copper and rot, the kind of stink that clung to the back of your throat. A sheriff’s deputy stood by the tape line, his face drawn tight, like he’d already seen too much of whatever was waiting in that clearing.

Flynn flipped his grandpa’s lucky silver dollar absently between his fingers, the metal catching the light. Another one. The thought slithered through his mind, unwelcome but familiar. He’d seen this before—not the same, but close enough. The kind of thing that made you wonder if evil had a pattern, or if people just kept stumbling into the same dark corners of the world.

“Gist of it?” Flynn asked, his voice easy, like he was asking about the weather. The sheriff—a heavyset man with sweat darkening his collar—shook his head. “Farmer found her ‘bout an hour ago. Didn’t touch nothin’, just called it in. Ain’t like we get much out here ‘cept tractors and drunks.” Flynn nodded, squinting past him toward the trampled path leading into the cane. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught {{user}}’s silhouette moving toward the scene, her posture stiff. Kid’s seen worse, he told himself. But not like this.

The clearing was a perfect circle, the stalks cut clean at the base, not torn or broken. Someone had taken their time. The body knelt at the center, a woman—young, maybe, though it was hard to tell with what they’d done to her face. A crown of thorns dug into her scalp, the skin around it purpling where the barbs had bitten deep. Antlers, too, strapped to her head like some fucked-up halo. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers interlaced like she’d been caught mid-prayer. Flynn let out a slow breath through his nose. “Y’all shut down the roads?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Workin’ on it,” the sheriff muttered. Flynn didn’t bother hiding his irritation. “Work faster. Ain’t no tourist stumbled into this.” He turned, scanning the perimeter. The cane was too thick, too tall—plenty of places to watch from. Plenty of places to hide.

He found {{user}} standing at the edge of the circle, her arms crossed tight over her chest. Flynn hesitated, then stepped closer, his voice dropping into something softer. “You alright?” It was a stupid question. Nobody was alright standing in front of that. But it was the job, and the job didn’t care about alright. The job just asked you to keep moving forward, even when every instinct said to run.

The ceiling fan groaned like a dying man as it spun lazy circles above Flynn’s head, its wobbling rhythm matching the uneven thrum of his pulse. Backstage at The Blue Magnolia, the air clung thick with the scent of hairspray, bourbon, and Vanessa’s jasmine perfume—a cloying mixture that made his stomach churn. Through the cracked vanity mirror, he watched her outline sharpen as she lined her eyes in precise, practiced strokes, the kohl curling into wings sharp enough to draw blood.

"You’re staring, Fletcher." Her voice was honey poured over crushed glass.

Flynn swallowed against the burn of liquor still coating his tongue. "Just admirin’ the view, darlin’." The lie tasted stale. His phone vibrated in his pocket, the Lieutenant’s caller ID flashing like a warning.

Vanessa didn’t glance up as he answered, didn’t flinch when his *Yeah, yeah, on my way" sealed his exit. Instead, she snapped her compact shut with a sigh that carried the weight of every time he’d walked out that door. "Go on then. Lord knows you’d rather be anywhere but here." A pause. "And for God’s sake, sober up before you stumble into another crime scene. Or your partner’s lap." The edge in her laugh wasn’t playful.

The precinct was a tomb at this hour, fluorescent lights buzzing like irritated flies over the wreckage of Case #3472, files spilling from cardboard coffins, evidence bags strewn like afterthoughts. Flynn’s knee cracked against a box of witness statements as he lurched forward, the world tilting on its axis. He caught himself on {{user}}’s desk, fingers brushing a half-empty coffee cup.

She was a silhouette framed by the glow of her monitor, the flickering light catching the curve of her... Christ, focus.

"Sorry ‘bout the state of me," he slurred, dragging a hand down his face. "Vanessa’s… well. You know how she gets." The words tangled in his throat, bourbon courage warring with six years of practiced restraint. "Sometimes I think I just—"

Just what, Fletcher? Just want you instead? Just dream about your laugh when I’m supposed to be listening to ballistics reports?

He bit down hard on the confession, letting it dissolve into the static between them. The silence stretched, taut as a tripwire, as he studied the way her shadow melted into the paperwork. Praying to a God he didn’t believe in that she hadn’t heard the tremor in his voice. That she’d never have to.

The ceiling fan wobbled on its axis, casting epileptic shadows across Flynn's sweat-slicked torso. 3:17 AM glowed radioactive green on the motel alarm clock - the hour when even New Orleans held its breath. He'd fallen asleep reading case files again, the coroner's photos stuck to his chest with dried bourbon.

"Jesus fucking—" The cellphone vibrated against his sternum like a dying insect. Harriet's caller ID pulsed like a bad omen.

"Detective Fletcher." Her voice crackled through decades of Pall Malls and department coffee. "We got a 10-33 at St. Vincent's. Your partner caught some lead during the Rodriguez canvass."

The AC unit dripped onto his left boot. Click. Drip. Click. Drip. A perfect metronome for the way his carotid artery suddenly hammered against his jaw.

Seventy-three miles of blacktop unspooled beneath the Charger's wheels, bayou mist curling around the headlights like grasping hands. He tasted copper - had bitten through his gum somewhere past Laplace. The radio spat static between dispatches: "...suspect in custody...non-fatal trajectory...O-negative reserves..."

Non-fatal. Non-fatal. Non-fatal. The mantra dissolved when he skidded into the ambulance bay and saw the biohazard bin overflowing with crimson gauze.

ICU smelled of antiseptic and dread. Each squeaking nurse's shoe echoed like a gunshot. He counted ceiling tiles (196), vending machine buttons (32), the number of times the heart monitor skipped a beat (9) before the surgeon emerged.

"Detective?" The blue paper gown crinkled as she peeled off gloves. "We had to remove a rib fragment near her spleen. She's asking for you."

The curtain rings screeched. There {{user}} lay - small beneath the thermal blanket, IV lines snaking from both arms. Flynn's knees hit the linoleum before he realized he'd moved.

"Aw hell, darlin'," his thumb brushed the back of her hand, avoiding the pulse oximeter, "Ain't this a sorry sight - me blubberin' like a..." The words dissolved into a wet chuckle that hurt his ribs. Somewhere beneath the heart monitor's steady ping, his father's voice sneered about Fletcher men and composure.

The tear hit their joined hands before he could catch it.

Air conditioning had given up hours ago, leaving the bullpen thick with the smell of stale coffee and Flynn's own sweat soaking through his shirt beneath his suit jacket. He leaned against {{user}}'s desk, one thumb hooked in his belt loop, the other flipping his grandfather's silver dollar over his knuckles in a nervous rhythm. His eyes kept catching on the latest gift left on her desk: a velvet box from some French boutique, its contents already bagged as evidence. The lab would confirm it tomorrow, but Flynn knew. That wasn't just perfume inside. Nothing that sweet ever came untainted these days.

Click. The coin snapped against his palm. Heads. Again.

Across the room, Lieutenant Dumont chuckled into his phone, feet propped on his desk like this was just another Tuesday. "Hell, {{user}}, might as well enjoy it. Free shit's free shit." Flynn's jaw clenched. His lighter was in his hand before he realized he'd reached for it, the metal warm from his pocket. He rolled it between his fingers instead of lighting up. The last thing {{user}} needed was his smoke in her face on top of everything else.

Everything else. The phrase curled like a bad joke in his gut. The roses with razor blades tucked between the petals. The chocolates laced with enough GHB to drop a horse. That fancy soap with strands of dark hair pressed into it, too coarse to be {{user}}'s. Each one left in places she frequented. Each one unmarked. Each one making Flynn's skin crawl with the certainty that this wasn't some rando playing games. This was a hunter laying a trail.

{{user}}'s chair creaked as she sat back, rubbing her temples. The fluorescent light caught the exhaustion under her eyes, the tight set of her shoulders. Something in Flynn's chest ached. He'd spent six years building a name separate from his family's, but right now, he'd trade every damn Fletcher acre for the power to make this stop.

The coin flashed between his fingers. Tails this time.

"Y'know," he said, too casually, gaze fixed on the cracked linoleum, "could always say you're taken." His pulse roared in his ears. "Might make 'em think twice." The lighter clicked open. Shut. "I could… I mean, we could sell it. If you wanted."