Marcus Voss :: The officer you're fucking

Marcus continued to doze under the visor of his own calloused palms folded over his eyebrows. From the outside, to anyone who happened to glance into the office, it looked as if the lieutenant had been meticulously studying the same thick forensics report with maximum concentration for about an hour. In reality, Voss was just trying to snatch a few pathetic crumbs of silence. Getting enough sleep had become disastrously hard lately. Captain Green, as if setting a goal to completely finish off his best but most problematic employee, had buried him in archival dust. Digging up an old case, rereading the testimonies of witnesses who were no longer even alive, transferring papers to a new folder, officially closing the cold case, and shoving it back onto the far shelf of the rack was quite the headache for his graying head.

The office door swung open sharply, crashing against the wall. Voss didn't even flinch at Julia's loud yell. Over twenty years on the streets of Chicago had reliably burned any reflexes to such noise out of his nervous system. The man merely dropped his palms onto the desk with reluctance, ruining his perfect disguise for a nap. Propping his heavy head on his fist, the lieutenant stared borely at the out-of-breath girl as she began rattling off the summary of the last hour right from the threshold.

The lieutenant yawned widely, not bothering to observe subordination or etiquette, and covered his mouth with the same fist. Was it bad? Absolutely. According to Ramirez, a corpse had been found in one of the dark alleys. A young guy, looking about twenty or twenty-five years old. And it would have all fit into the framework of a standard Friday night stabbing, if not for one nasty detail. The victim's dick had been bitten off.

Marcus winced involuntarily. Guided by an ancient male instinct of self-preservation, his hand automatically slipped under the desk. His fingers mechanically felt for and adjusted the stiff leather belt on his black uniform pants. You never know. In this crazy city, anyone could end up in that poor bastard's place. That already dead poor bastard, unfortunately. The picture forming was frankly shitty. The killer had inflicted ten stab wounds and left several long bloody trails on the wet asphalt, apparently having dragged the body, leaving the kid to bleed out. And neatly tossed the bitten-off manhood into the nearest trash can. A genuinely sick installation.

"Captain Green strongly requested that you head to the scene," the female officer said after catching her breath. Her uniform was slightly rumpled, and her dark eyes were gleaming with adrenaline. "You're the only one who's more or less on your feet right now. Plus, journalists and all sorts of riffraff have already started gathering there. Seems like someone is leaking info from the precinct or something..."

Julia muttered the last sentence mostly to herself, clearly wondering if a rat had nested in their tight ranks.

Voss closed his inflamed eyes and slowly rubbed his eyebrow with his fingers. A familiar throbbing pain immediately spread through the back of his head, a bodily reaction to just the thought of having to go out into the rain. Leaking info. Well, of course. That source could easily be him, only the cop had already started to forget the last time he had seen that young upstart from the tabloid rag.

Just the other day, the brazen journalist had the nerve to refuse a meeting with him. She claimed that she had a terrible headache and absolutely no time for him. As if they were having a romance and discussing high art by candlelight. Their dirty barter had always worked perfectly clearly: thin envelopes with pathetic, filtered information from the department in exchange for spread legs. If those crumbs of old data were enough to bring the bitch a jackpot, Marcus was fine with that. He needed the physical release just to keep from literally losing his mind. But, to be completely honest, it was getting frankly a bit boring without the girl constantly trying to stick her nose where it didn't belong by his side.

Rising heavily from the desk, the lieutenant silently threw his jacket over his black uniform t-shirt.

A nasty, bone-chilling rain was drizzling on the porch of the precinct. Hanging around the overflowing trash cans was Koshi, the local hyena-colored mutt with a ridiculous green spot on her scruff left by some idiot with a spray can. The German Shepherd named Warden was nowhere to be seen; the smart dog didn't let anyone touch him and had surely already found dry shelter. Flicking an old metal lighter, the cop lit a cigarette and got into the cabin of his squad car.

The kid was twenty-five at most. Almost the same age as his own son. That thought pricked him like a dull needle somewhere under his ribs, but Marcus habitually crushed it in the bud, hiding it behind a solid wall of isolation. The silence during the short drive to the crime scene became the only pleasant moment of this entire damn day.

The alley met Voss with a cacophony of sounds: the loud crackle of radios, the hum of onlookers, and camera flashes cutting through the gray gloom. The rain was getting heavier. The water mixed with blood on the asphalt, forming blurry brown streams. Forensics in raincoats were swarming around the body covered with a thick tarp, and a couple of patrolmen were sluggishly shooing the crowd beyond the stretched yellow tape.

Marcus slammed the car door shut. Perfect. Wonderful. Fucking fantastic. A dead kid with no dick, slush, and a whole horde of vultures with microphones. Just what a man like the lieutenant needed.

He leisurely walked towards the cordon, stepping through the puddles. His gaze habitually slid over the crowd behind the barrier, scanning faces until it stumbled upon a painfully familiar figure. The journalist was standing in the front row. Of course. Right on cue. She had such a "terrible headache" that she rushed to a mutilation scene faster than some of the forensics guys.

Voss stopped right in front of the girl. The yellow plastic tape separated them by a mere half meter. A crooked, absolutely unconcealed cynical smirk spread across the lieutenant's tired, unshaven face. He gave the reporter a long, carnivorous look from head to toe, then took a deep drag on his cigarette.

"What a meeting," Marcus drawled in a low, raspy voice, deliberately blowing the acrid bluish smoke in her direction. "And here I thought you were at home hugging a bottle of aspirin. Blind to the world because of your migraine."

The man shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket, leaning slightly forward, looming over the tape.

"A miraculous healing? Or does the smell of someone else's blood kill the pain? You could have just said you prefer guts to my company, I would have understood." The cop nodded carelessly toward the tarp where the medical examiners were bustling about. "The kid over there had his dick gnawed off and tossed in the trash. I dread to imagine what shitty headline you're already cooking up in that bright head of yours. An exclusive straight from the garbage can. Right on your level. Enjoy."

Marcus continued to doze under the visor of his own calloused palms folded over his eyebrows. From the outside, to anyone who happened to glance into the office, it looked as if the lieutenant had been meticulously studying the same thick forensics report with maximum concentration for about an hour. In reality, Voss was just trying to snatch a few pathetic crumbs of silence. Getting enough sleep had become disastrously hard lately. Captain Green, as if setting a goal to completely finish off his best but most problematic employee, had buried him in archival dust. Digging up an old case, rereading the testimonies of witnesses who were no longer even alive, transferring papers to a new folder, officially closing the cold case, and shoving it back onto the far shelf of the rack was quite the headache for his graying head.

The office door swung open sharply, crashing against the wall. Voss didn't even flinch at Julia's loud yell. Over twenty years on the streets of Chicago had reliably burned any reflexes to such noise out of his nervous system. The man merely dropped his palms onto the desk with reluctance, ruining his perfect disguise for a nap. Propping his heavy head on his fist, the lieutenant stared boredly at the out-of-breath girl as she began rattling off the summary of the last hour right from the threshold.

The lieutenant yawned widely, not bothering to observe subordination or etiquette, and covered his mouth with the same fist. Was it bad? Absolutely. According to Ramirez, a corpse had been found in one of the dark alleys. A young guy, looking about twenty or twenty-five years old. And it would have all fit into the framework of a standard Friday night stabbing, if not for one nasty detail. The victim's dick had been bitten off.

Marcus winced involuntarily. Guided by an ancient male instinct of self-preservation, his hand automatically slipped under the desk. His fingers mechanically felt for and adjusted the stiff leather belt on his black uniform pants. You never know. In this crazy city, anyone could end up in that poor bastard's place. That already dead poor bastard, unfortunately. The picture forming was frankly shitty. The killer had inflicted ten stab wounds and left several long bloody trails on the wet asphalt, apparently having dragged the body, leaving the kid to bleed out. And neatly tossed the bitten-off manhood into the nearest trash can. A genuinely sick installation.

"Captain Green strongly requested that you head to the scene," the female officer said after catching her breath. Her uniform was slightly rumpled, and her dark eyes were gleaming with adrenaline. "You're the only one who's more or less on your feet right now. Plus, journalists and all sorts of riffraff have already started gathering there. Seems like someone is leaking info from the precinct or something..."

Julia muttered the last sentence mostly to herself, clearly wondering if a rat had nested in their tight ranks.

Voss closed his inflamed eyes and slowly rubbed his eyebrow with his fingers. A familiar throbbing pain immediately spread through the back of his head, a bodily reaction to just the thought of having to go out into the rain. Leaking info. Well, of course. That source could easily be him, only the cop had already started to forget the last time he had seen that young upstart from the tabloid rag.

Just the other day, the brazen journalist had the nerve to refuse a meeting with him. He claimed that he had a terrible headache and absolutely no time for him. As if they were having a romance and discussing high art by candlelight. Their dirty barter had always worked perfectly clearly: thin envelopes with pathetic, filtered information from the department in exchange for spreading his legs. If those crumbs of old data were enough to bring the little shit a jackpot, Marcus was fine with that. He needed the physical release just to keep from literally losing his mind. But, to be completely honest, it was getting frankly a bit boring without the kid constantly trying to stick his nose where it didn't belong by his side.

Rising heavily from the desk, the lieutenant silently threw his jacket over his black uniform t-shirt.

A nasty, bone-chilling rain was drizzling on the porch of the precinct. Hanging around the overflowing trash cans was Koshi, the local hyena-colored mutt with a ridiculous green spot on her scruff left by some idiot with a spray can. The German Shepherd named Warden was nowhere to be seen; the smart dog didn't let anyone touch him and had surely already found dry shelter. Flicking an old metal lighter, the cop lit a cigarette and got into the cabin of his squad car.

The kid was twenty-five at most. Almost the same age as his own son. That thought pricked him like a dull needle somewhere under his ribs, but Marcus habitually crushed it in the bud, hiding it behind a solid wall of isolation. The silence during the short drive to the crime scene became the only pleasant moment of this entire damn day.

The alley met Voss with a cacophony of sounds: the loud crackle of radios, the hum of onlookers, and camera flashes cutting through the gray gloom. The rain was getting heavier. The water mixed with blood on the asphalt, forming blurry brown streams. Forensics in raincoats were swarming around the body covered with a thick tarp, and a couple of patrolmen were sluggishly shooing the crowd beyond the stretched yellow tape.

Marcus slammed the car door shut. Perfect. Wonderful. Fucking fantastic. A dead kid with no dick, slush, and a whole horde of vultures with microphones. Just what a man like the lieutenant needed.

He leisurely walked towards the cordon, stepping through the puddles. His gaze habitually slid over the crowd behind the barrier, scanning faces until it stumbled upon a painfully familiar figure. The journalist was standing in the front row. Of course. Right on cue. He had such a "terrible headache" that he rushed to a mutilation scene faster than some of the forensics guys.

Voss stopped right in front of the guy. The yellow plastic tape separated them by a mere half meter. A crooked, absolutely unconcealed cynical smirk spread across the lieutenant's tired, unshaven face. He gave the reporter a long, carnivorous look from head to toe, then took a deep drag on his cigarette.

"What a meeting," Marcus drawled in a low, raspy voice, deliberately blowing the acrid bluish smoke in his direction. "And here I thought you were at home hugging a bottle of aspirin. Blind to the world because of your migraine."

The man shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket, leaning slightly forward, looming over the tape.

"A miraculous healing? Or does the smell of someone else's blood kill the pain? You could have just said you prefer guts to my company, I would have understood." The cop nodded carelessly toward the tarp where the medical examiners were bustling about. "The kid over there had his dick gnawed off and tossed in the trash. I dread to imagine what shitty headline you're already cooking up in that bright head of yours. An exclusive straight from the garbage can. Right on your level. Enjoy."

Marcus continued to doze under the visor of his own calloused palms folded over his eyebrows. From the outside, to anyone who happened to glance into the office, it looked as if the lieutenant had been meticulously studying the same thick forensics report with maximum concentration for about an hour. In reality, Voss was just trying to snatch a few pathetic crumbs of silence. Getting enough sleep had become disastrously hard lately. Captain Green, as if setting a goal to completely finish off his best but most problematic employee, had buried him in archival dust. Digging up an old case, rereading the testimonies of witnesses who were no longer even alive, transferring papers to a new folder, officially closing the cold case and shoving it back onto the far shelf of the rack was quite the headache for his graying head.

The office door swung open sharply, crashing against the wall. Voss didn't even flinch at Julia's loud yell. Over twenty years on the streets of Chicago had reliably burned any reflexes to such noise out of his nervous system. The man merely dropped his palms onto the desk with reluctance, ruining his perfect disguise for a nap. Propping his heavy head on his fist, the lieutenant stared with boredom at the out-of-breath girl as she began rattling off the summary of the last hour right from the threshold.

The lieutenant yawned widely, not bothering to observe subordination or etiquette, and covered his mouth with the same fist. Was it bad? Absolutely. According to Ramirez, a corpse had been found in one of the dark alleys. A young guy, looking about twenty or twenty-five years old. And it would have all fit into the framework of a standard Friday night stabbing, if not for one nasty detail. The victim's dick had been bitten off.

Marcus winced involuntarily. Guided by an ancient male instinct of self-preservation, his hand automatically slipped under the desk. His fingers mechanically felt for and adjusted the stiff leather belt on his black uniform pants. You never know. In this crazy city, anyone could end up in that poor bastard's place. That already dead poor bastard, unfortunately. The picture forming was frankly shitty. The killer had inflicted ten stab wounds and left several long bloody trails on the wet asphalt, apparently having dragged the body, leaving the kid to bleed out. And neatly tossed the bitten-off manhood into the nearest trash can. A genuinely sick installation.

"Captain Green strongly requested that you head to the scene," the female officer said after catching her breath. Her uniform was slightly rumpled, and her dark eyes were gleaming with adrenaline. "You're the only one who's more or less on your feet right now. Plus, journalists and all sorts of riffraff have already started gathering there. Seems like someone is leaking info from the precinct or something..."

Julia muttered the last sentence mostly to herself, clearly wondering if a rat had nested in their tight ranks.

Voss closed his inflamed eyes and slowly rubbed his eyebrow with his fingers. A familiar throbbing pain immediately spread through the back of his head, a bodily reaction to just the thought of having to go out into the rain. Leaking info. Well, of course. That source could easily be him, only the cop had already started to forget the last time he had seen that hardened vulture from the tabloid rag.

Just the other day, the brazen hack had the nerve to refuse a meeting with him. He claimed that his head was splitting terribly and he had absolutely no time. As if they were having a romance and discussing high art by candlelight. Their dirty barter had always worked perfectly clearly: thin envelopes with pathetic, filtered information from the department in exchange for a couple of hours of hard, rough fucking that allowed him to blow off steam. If those crumbs of old data were enough to bring that bastard a jackpot, Marcus was fine with that. He needed the physical release just to keep from literally losing his mind. But, to be completely honest, it was getting frankly a bit boring without the guy constantly trying to stick his nose where it didn't belong by his side.

Rising heavily from the desk, the lieutenant silently threw his jacket over his black uniform t-shirt.

A nasty, bone-chilling rain was drizzling on the porch of the precinct. Hanging around the overflowing trash cans was Koshi, the local hyena-colored mutt with a ridiculous green spot on her scruff left by some idiot with a spray can. The German Shepherd named Warden was nowhere to be seen; the smart dog didn't let anyone touch him and had surely already found dry shelter. Flicking an old metal lighter, the cop lit a cigarette and got into the cabin of his squad car.

The kid was twenty-five at most. Almost the same age as his own son. That thought pricked him like a dull needle somewhere under his ribs, but Marcus habitually crushed it in the bud, hiding it behind a solid wall of isolation. The silence during the short drive to the crime scene became the only pleasant moment of this entire damn day.

The alley met Voss with a cacophony of sounds: the loud crackle of radios, the hum of onlookers, and camera flashes cutting through the gray gloom. The rain was getting heavier. The water mixed with blood on the asphalt, forming blurry brown streams. Forensics in raincoats were swarming around the body covered with a thick tarp, and a couple of patrolmen were sluggishly shooing the crowd beyond the stretched yellow tape.

Marcus slammed the car door shut. Perfect. Wonderful. Fucking fantastic. A dead kid with no dick, slush, and a whole horde of vultures with microphones. Just what a man like the lieutenant needed.

He leisurely walked towards the cordon, stepping through the puddles. His gaze habitually slid over the crowd behind the barrier, scanning faces until it stumbled upon a painfully familiar figure. The journalist was standing in the front row. Of course. Right on cue. He had such a "terrible headache" that he rushed to a mutilation scene faster than some of the forensics guys.

Voss stopped right in front of the man. The yellow plastic tape separated them by a mere half meter. A crooked, absolutely unconcealed cynical smirk spread across the lieutenant's tired, unshaven face. He gave the reporter a long, appraising look from head to toe, then took a deep drag on his cigarette.

"What a meeting," Marcus drawled in a low, raspy voice, deliberately blowing the acrid bluish smoke in his direction. "And here I thought you were at home hugging a bottle of aspirin. Blind to the world because of your migraine."

The cop shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket, leaning slightly forward, looming over the tape.

"A miraculous healing? Or does the smell of someone else's blood kill the pain? You could have just said you prefer guts to my company, I would have understood." Voss nodded carelessly toward the tarp where the medical examiners were bustling about. "The kid over there had his dick gnawed off and tossed in the trash. I dread to imagine what shitty headline you're already cooking up in that bright head of yours. An exclusive straight from the garbage can. Right on your level. Enjoy."

Hot streams beat forcefully against his broad back, washing away the sweat, the sickly-sweet scent of someone else's perfume, and the sticky tension of the past day, yet bringing absolutely none of the long-awaited relief. Marcus leaned heavily on his forearms against the wet tile, cracked in places, bowed his head, and pressed his forehead to the cool wall. The water drummed noisily on his shoulders, ran down his disheveled dark hair, blinded his eyes, and vanished with a quiet gurgle down the metal drain along with the remnants of a cheap bar of soap.

Fucking hell.

The man exhaled hollowly through tightly clenched teeth. Thick steam filled the tiny bathroom, settling as dense condensation on the single cloudy mirror above the sink. Usually, dirty, quick sex worked flawlessly, knocking all the accumulated garbage out of his head, forcing his pulse to steady, and his thoughts to finally go quiet. This upstart, with her endless provocations, audacity, and sharp tongue, had always served as an excellent little doll. The most convenient tool for releasing critical pressure. But today, the well-oiled system clearly malfunctioned. Physical release had come, his muscles obediently went limp after climaxing, but that fucking mental itch hadn't gone anywhere.

Was he supposed to ask for some kind of miracle from the journalist here? Voss would sooner eat his service pistol along with the holster than humiliate himself. It wasn't in his rules to show weakness or ask for seconds if he couldn't get off mentally. The lieutenant had lived alone for too long and was used to dealing with shit strictly on his own, without shifting the responsibility onto someone else's fragile shoulders.

He closed his reddened eyes, letting the scalding water massage the tense muscles of his neck. The last few weeks had merged into one endless, nauseating gray cycle. Paperwork, constant nagging from the pragmatic Captain Green demanding to close cold cases, the stupid mistakes of green rookies... And this endless, exhausting game of cat and mouse with the girl who was right now on the other side of the thin wooden door.

Marcus knew perfectly well what she had dragged herself over for tonight. What she was tolerating his heavy body for. Another leak. Fresh, hot facts for her shitty tabloid rag. He had intentionally kept the reporter on a starvation diet for days now, feeding her only absolutely useless, sanitized scraps of information. The detective masterfully dodged direct questions, laughed them off with dry sarcasm, or simply shut her mouth with kisses, seizing the initiative. Even today, the moment they finished, the cop preferred to get up silently and escape to the shower. No usual cigarettes smoked together in the gloom. No relaxed lounging on crumpled, damp sheets staring mindlessly at the peeling ceiling while she reluctantly pulled on her underwear and gathered her things. He just wanted to barricade himself behind a wall of water. To wash off this endless day and the presence of a fundamentally foreign person in his empty apartment.

Through the monotonous noise of falling water, the officer suddenly realized one simple thing with clarity. He had been in the shower stall for about fifteen minutes. More than enough time to get dressed, call a cab, and leave. However, the characteristic metallic click of the front door lock never reached his ears. Moreover, there was no sound of rustling clothes, no shuffling, no clicking of heels on the creaky parquet in the hallway.

She hadn't even moved from the bed. Hadn't even thought about leaving.

She intended to get what she wanted at any cost, to shake the information out of him since she had already paid in kind. What a bitch. The girl had no shortage of stubbornness and audacity; any rookie in the department would be right to envy her.

Irritation flared up in his chest with renewed vigor, instantly overriding the pathetic remnants of physical exhaustion. Voss sharply twisted the valve, forcefully shutting off the water. With a broad calloused palm, the man wiped the moisture from his face, brushing the drops from his eyelashes. He pulled a frayed terrycloth towel off the hook and carelessly, in one fluid motion, wrapped it low around his hips, tucking in the edge. Water was still running down his broad chest, getting lost in the thicket of dark hair and dripping from his chin, but the lieutenant had no intention of wasting time drying off thoroughly.

He forcefully pushed the flimsy door open, letting thick clouds of white steam into the cool bedroom.

The sight that met his eyes made his jaw clench reflexively to the point of grinding his teeth. The reporter was sitting right in the middle of his unmade bed. And on her lap, softly illuminating her face with the cold blue light of the screen, rested his personal laptop. The keys clicked quietly, almost treacherously, beneath her nimble fingers.

In two wide, heavy strides, Voss closed the distance from the doorway to the bed. His wet bare feet left dark footprints on the cheap bedside rug. He didn't bother speaking, warning, or acting outraged; he simply snatched the device roughly right out of her hands, completely disregarding his manners. The laptop lid immediately snapped shut with a sharp, loud plastic clatter, narrowly missing her fingers.

"Decided to become a hacker?" Marcus snorted hollowly.

The man looked down at the journalist. Just as he said it, the cop mentally cursed himself, realizing his own stupid blunder. The security on his home devices was purely nominal. What the hell kind of hack was it when the password was his old patrol badge number, which this pesky snoop had probably memorized long ago while digging through his papers? It was his own fault. Left the device out in plain sight, lost his vigilance in his own home.

The officer casually tossed the closed laptop onto the edge of the nightstand, not even trying to check exactly what she had managed to read, copy, or send. Nearby lay a half-empty pack of cheap cigarettes. Marcus reached for it, knocked one out with a practiced motion, and clamped it between his lips, striking the wheel of his gasoline lighter. The bright little flame illuminated his gloomy, slightly stubbled face and the deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes for a second.

Taking a deep drag, Voss blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, allowing the nicotine to slightly smooth the sharp edges of his mounting anger. His dark eyes, framed by the wet strands of hair falling over his forehead, stared at the girl with oppressive displeasure. His gaze slid over her figure, not lingering on her curves. No tenderness. No pleasant aftertaste of intimacy. Only the cold pragmatism of a dead-tired man whose personal space had just been blatantly and shamelessly violated.

"Pack your shit," the lieutenant cut in harshly, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and giving a short nod toward her clothes scattered on the floor. "The show is over. I'm on shift tomorrow, and I'm not going to spend the rest of the night keeping an eye on my stuff in my own house. Get dressed. And get out."

Hot streams beat forcefully against his broad back, washing away the sweat, the sickly-sweet scent of someone else's cologne, and the sticky tension of the past day, yet bringing absolutely none of the long-awaited relief. Marcus leaned heavily on his forearms against the wet tile, cracked in places, bowed his head, and pressed his forehead to the cool wall. The water drummed noisily on his shoulders, ran down his disheveled dark hair, blinded his eyes, and vanished with a quiet gurgle down the metal drain along with the remnants of a cheap bar of soap.

Fucking hell.

The man exhaled hollowly through tightly clenched teeth. Thick steam filled the tiny bathroom, settling as dense condensation on the single cloudy mirror above the sink. Usually, dirty, quick sex worked flawlessly, knocking all the accumulated garbage out of his head, forcing his pulse to steady, and his thoughts to finally go quiet. This upstart, with his endless provocations, audacity, and sharp tongue, had always served as an excellent outlet. The most convenient tool for releasing critical pressure. But today, the well-oiled system clearly malfunctioned. Physical release had come, his muscles obediently went limp after climaxing, but that fucking mental itch hadn't gone anywhere.

Was he supposed to ask for some kind of miracle from the journalist here? Voss would sooner eat his service pistol along with the holster than humiliate himself. It wasn't in his rules to show weakness or ask for seconds if he couldn't get off mentally. The lieutenant had lived alone for too long and was used to dealing with shit strictly on his own, without shifting the responsibility onto some kid's shoulders.

He closed his reddened eyes, letting the scalding water massage the tense muscles of his neck. The last few weeks had merged into one endless, nauseating gray cycle. Paperwork, constant nagging from the pragmatic Captain Green demanding to close cold cases, the stupid mistakes of green rookies... And this endless, exhausting game of cat and mouse with the kid who was right now on the other side of the thin wooden door.

Marcus knew perfectly well what he had dragged himself over for tonight. What he was tolerating his heavy body for. Another leak. Fresh, hot facts for his shitty tabloid rag. He had intentionally kept the reporter on a starvation diet for days now, feeding him only absolutely useless, sanitized scraps of information. The detective masterfully dodged direct questions, laughed them off with dry sarcasm, or simply shut his mouth with kisses, seizing the initiative. Even today, the moment they finished, the cop preferred to get up silently and escape to the shower. No usual cigarettes smoked together in the gloom. No relaxed lounging on crumpled, damp sheets staring mindlessly at the peeling ceiling while the guy reluctantly pulled on his clothes and gathered his things. He just wanted to barricade himself behind a wall of water. To wash off this endless day and the presence of a fundamentally foreign person in his empty apartment.

Through the monotonous noise of falling water, the officer suddenly realized one simple thing with clarity. He had been in the shower stall for about fifteen minutes. More than enough time to get dressed, call a cab, and leave. However, the characteristic metallic click of the front door lock never reached his ears. Moreover, there was no sound of rustling clothes, no shuffling, no clicking of shoes on the creaky parquet in the hallway.

He hadn't even moved from the bed. Hadn't even thought about leaving.

He intended to get what he wanted at any cost, to shake the information out of him since he had already paid in kind. What a little shit. The kid had no shortage of stubbornness and audacity; any rookie in the department would be right to envy him.

Irritation flared up in his chest with renewed vigor, instantly overriding the pathetic remnants of physical exhaustion. Voss sharply twisted the valve, forcefully shutting off the water. With a broad calloused palm, the man wiped the moisture from his face, brushing the drops from his eyelashes. He pulled a frayed terrycloth towel off the hook and carelessly, in one fluid motion, wrapped it low around his hips, tucking in the edge. Water was still running down his broad chest, getting lost in the thicket of dark hair and dripping from his chin, but the lieutenant had no intention of wasting time drying off thoroughly.

He forcefully pushed the flimsy door open, letting thick clouds of white steam into the cool bedroom.

The sight that met his eyes made his jaw clench reflexively to the point of grinding his teeth. The reporter was sitting right in the middle of his unmade bed. And on his lap, softly illuminating his face with the cold blue light of the screen, rested his personal laptop. The keys clicked quietly, almost treacherously, beneath his nimble fingers.

In two wide, heavy strides, Voss closed the distance from the doorway to the bed. His wet bare feet left dark footprints on the cheap bedside rug. He didn't bother speaking, warning, or acting outraged; he simply snatched the device roughly right out of his hands, completely disregarding his manners. The laptop lid immediately snapped shut with a sharp, loud plastic clatter, narrowly missing his fingers.

"Decided to become a hacker?" Marcus snorted hollowly.

The man looked down at the journalist. Just as he said it, the cop mentally cursed himself, realizing his own stupid blunder. The security on his home devices was purely nominal. What the hell kind of hack was it when the password was his old patrol badge number, which this pesky snoop had probably memorized long ago while digging through his papers? It was his own fault. Left the device out in plain sight, lost his vigilance in his own home.

The officer casually tossed the closed laptop onto the edge of the nightstand, not even trying to check exactly what he had managed to read, copy, or send. Nearby lay a half-empty pack of cheap cigarettes. Marcus reached for it, knocked one out with a practiced motion, and clamped it between his lips, striking the wheel of his gasoline lighter. The bright little flame illuminated his gloomy, slightly stubbled face and the deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes for a second.

Taking a deep drag, Voss blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, allowing the nicotine to slightly smooth the sharp edges of his mounting anger. His dark eyes, framed by the wet strands of hair falling over his forehead, stared at the kid with oppressive displeasure. His gaze slid over his figure, not lingering on his lean frame. No tenderness. No pleasant aftertaste of intimacy. Only the cold pragmatism of a dead-tired man whose personal space had just been blatantly and shamelessly violated.

"Pack your shit," the lieutenant cut in harshly, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and giving a short nod toward his clothes scattered on the floor. "The show is over. I'm on shift tomorrow, and I'm not going to spend the rest of the night keeping an eye on my stuff in my own house. Get dressed. And get out."

Hot streams beat forcefully against his broad back, washing away the sweat, the distinct scent of someone else's old-fashioned cologne, and the sticky tension of the past day, yet bringing absolutely none of the long-awaited relief. Marcus leaned heavily on his forearms against the wet tile, cracked in places, bowed his head, and pressed his forehead to the cool wall. The water drummed noisily on his shoulders, ran down his disheveled dark hair, blinded his eyes, and vanished with a quiet gurgle down the metal drain along with the remnants of a cheap bar of soap.

Fucking hell.

The man exhaled hollowly through tightly clenched teeth. Thick steam filled the tiny bathroom, settling as dense condensation on the single cloudy mirror above the sink. Usually, dirty, quick sex worked flawlessly, knocking all the accumulated garbage out of his head, forcing his pulse to steady, and his thoughts to finally go quiet. This old geezer with his endless provocations, senile grumbling, and sharp tongue had always served as an excellent lightning rod. The most convenient tool for releasing critical pressure. But today, the well-oiled system clearly malfunctioned. Physical release had come, his muscles obediently went limp after climaxing, but that fucking mental itch hadn't gone anywhere.

Was he supposed to ask for some kind of miracle from this old man here? Voss would sooner eat his service pistol along with the holster than humiliate himself. It wasn't in his rules to show weakness or ask for seconds if he couldn't get off mentally. The lieutenant had lived alone for too long and was used to dealing with shit strictly on his own, without shifting the responsibility onto someone else's bony shoulders.

He closed his reddened eyes, letting the scalding water massage the tense muscles of his neck. The last few weeks had merged into one endless, nauseating gray cycle. Paperwork, constant nagging from the pragmatic Captain Green demanding to close cold cases, the stupid mistakes of green rookies... And this endless, exhausting game of cat and mouse with the old hacker who was right now on the other side of the thin wooden door.

Marcus knew perfectly well what he had dragged himself over for tonight. What he was tolerating his heavy body for. Another leak. Fresh data from the police database for his paranoid investigations and shady deals. He had intentionally kept the old man on a starvation diet for days now, feeding him only absolutely useless, sanitized scraps of information. The detective masterfully dodged direct questions, laughed them off with dry sarcasm, or simply shut his mouth with rough kisses, seizing the initiative. Even today, the moment they finished, the cop preferred to get up silently and escape to the shower. No usual cigarettes smoked together in the gloom. No relaxed lounging on crumpled, damp sheets staring mindlessly at the peeling ceiling while the old man reluctantly pulled on his worn trousers and gathered his things. He just wanted to barricade himself behind a wall of water. To wash off this endless day and the presence of a fundamentally foreign person in his empty apartment.

Through the monotonous noise of falling water, the officer suddenly realized one simple thing with clarity. He had been in the shower stall for about fifteen minutes. More than enough time to get dressed, call a cab, and leave. However, the characteristic metallic click of the front door lock never reached his ears. Moreover, there was no sound of rustling clothes, no grunting, no heavy footsteps on the creaky parquet in the hallway.

He hadn't even moved from the bed. Hadn't even thought about leaving.

He intended to get what he wanted at any cost, to shake the information out of him since he had already paid in kind. Old bastard. The old man had no shortage of stubbornness and audacity; any thug on the streets would be right to envy him.

Irritation flared up in his chest with renewed vigor, instantly overriding the pathetic remnants of physical exhaustion. Voss sharply twisted the valve, forcefully shutting off the water. With a broad calloused palm, the man wiped the moisture from his face, brushing the drops from his eyelashes. He pulled a frayed terrycloth towel off the hook and carelessly, in one fluid motion, wrapped it low around his hips, tucking in the edge. Water was still running down his broad chest, getting lost in the thicket of dark hair and dripping from his chin, but the lieutenant had no intention of wasting time drying off thoroughly.

He forcefully pushed the flimsy door open, letting thick clouds of white steam into the cool bedroom.

The sight that met his eyes made his jaw clench reflexively to the point of grinding his teeth. The old man was sitting right in the middle of his unmade bed. And on his bony lap, softly illuminating his wrinkled face with the cold blue light of the screen, rested his personal laptop. The keys clicked quietly, almost treacherously, beneath his knotty but still remarkably nimble fingers.

In two wide, heavy strides, Voss closed the distance from the doorway to the bed. His wet bare feet left dark footprints on the cheap bedside rug. He didn't bother speaking, warning, or acting outraged, he simply snatched the device roughly right out of his hands, completely disregarding his manners. The laptop lid immediately snapped shut with a sharp, loud plastic clatter, narrowly missing the other man's fingers.

"Reliving the glory days, hacker?" Marcus snorted hollowly.

The man looked down at the old man. Just as he said it, the cop mentally cursed himself, realizing his own stupid blunder. The security on his home devices was purely nominal. What the hell kind of hack was it when the password was his old patrol badge number, which this pesky snoop had probably memorized long ago while digging through his papers? It was his own fault. Left the device out in plain sight, lost his vigilance in his own home.

The officer casually tossed the closed laptop onto the edge of the nightstand, not even trying to check exactly what he had managed to read, copy, or send. Nearby lay a half-empty pack of cheap cigarettes. Marcus reached for it, knocked one out with a practiced motion, and clamped it between his lips, striking the wheel of his gasoline lighter. The bright little flame illuminated his gloomy, slightly stubbled face and the deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes for a second.

Taking a deep drag, Voss blew a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, allowing the nicotine to slightly smooth the sharp edges of his mounting anger. His dark eyes, framed by the wet strands of hair falling over his forehead, stared at the old man with oppressive displeasure. His gaze slid over his stooped figure, not lingering on the sagging skin and protruding collarbones. No tenderness. No pleasant aftertaste of intimacy. Only the cold pragmatism of a dead-tired man whose personal space had just been blatantly and shamelessly violated.

"Pack your shit," the lieutenant cut in harshly, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and giving a short nod toward the clothes scattered on the floor. "The show is over. I'm on shift tomorrow, and I'm not going to spend the rest of the night keeping an eye on my stuff in my own house. Get dressed. And get out."

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