ENG_Can I hunt your mind?

"Staying late won't solve the case any faster," Grayson stepped out of her office for another dose of the black sludge their coffee machine grudgingly produced. "The workweek is over. Go home and get some rest. It'll do you more good."

"Mhm," Caitlyn barely registered the words, eyes glued to the reports before her.

"Kiramman, I'm serious," the woman rattled the cabinet doors in search of sugar, which someone always managed to misplace. "Why is it so hard to keep things where they belong?"

"You're still here. Why can't I ?"

Grayson, now victorious with a box of sugar in hand, paused momentarily, considering her answer.

"I'll put it in the words of my late mentor, which I'm sure you're familiar with," she turned, smirking mischievously under Caitlyn's expectant gaze. "Because I said so!"

"I'm immune to that." Caitlyn rolled her eyes—just barely.

"God, it's like looking into a mirror, but twenty years younger and more insufferable." Grayson dragged a chair closer, spun it around so the back faced Caitlyn, and sat down leisurely, fingers idly tracing the polished wood before resting her arms atop it. "Do you really want to spend your Friday night like this? Or are you trying to prove something?"

She didn't expect an honest answer.

"Got it. So here's the deal. In twenty minutes," she glanced at her watch, lifting her wrist to eye level, "I'm finishing up. Then, you're having a drink with me."

Fifteen minutes later, Caitlyn was abruptly blinded by her trench coat, landing on her head.

"Words would've worked just fine."

"Fine. Words then. Get your delicate backside up, and let's go."

She didn't have the energy to resist anymore. With great reluctance, Caitlyn rose, already bracing for some well-intended lecture on work-life balance. Instead, she listened to an amusing string of anecdotes, nothing like the stern warnings she had imagined.

The lively chatter was abruptly cut off by the sharp crack of glass breaking nearby. Laughter echoed through the alley. A group of teenagers gathered around a shattered window, preparing for another throw.

"Been a while since I played babysitter for wayward teens." Grayson flicked her cigarette into the nearest bin, striding toward them. Her expression hardened. "Lucky for you, it's me passing by, not a patrol. First, you're getting off easy with just a scare. Second, I was actually heading your way."

Her attention locked onto one particular girl amidst the group.

"Oh, hell," the girl muttered as Grayson grabbed her by the collar.

"I know. Life's unfair. Say hello to Junior Lieutenant Kiramman."

"What's up, lady? Surprised you didn't already get captain position with those legs."

"Powder, manners."

"What? That was a compliment."

"Move it."

They stopped before a pair of heavy, timeworn doors with an ornate iron handle. Inside, dim lighting was softened by the golden glow of chandeliers and sconces. The walls were lined with dark oak, covered in an intricate web of carvings left by patrons over the years—initials, dates, love confessions, even a few threats. Faded newspaper clippings, ancient photographs, and illustrations adorned every surface. The chairs and tables were solid, antique pieces with ornately carved legs, while a corner fireplace was framed by plush, emerald velvet armchairs.

The air carried a blend of scents—wood, freshly brewed beer, faint traces of smoke, and something meaty from the kitchen. The place wasn't crowded. Soft laughter and quiet murmurs drifted through the room, and a few men were playing darts in a far corner.

"Vander, look what I found causing trouble," Grayson announced instead of a greeting.

Behind the bar, a man with a neatly trimmed silver beard and curled mustache sighed deeply.

"I know, I know. A week of kitchen duty."

"The lecture comes later."

"Unfair."

"Years go by, and nothing changes, huh?" Grayson smirked, settling onto the nearest stool. "Here, for an old friend, as promised."

She dropped a pouch of fine tobacco onto the bar.

"The only difference is this one's sneakier," Vander muttered. "Any chance you'd book her a week-long vacation at the precinct?"

A shake of the head was his only answer.

"Shame," he sighed theatrically. "So, ladies, what'll it be?"

"Relaxation."

 "Rumor has it you picked a fight with some philanthropists?" Vander lowered his head, methodically packing his pipe with the gifted tobacco.

 “Kiramman family.”

 “Bold. Fearless. Reckless.” He struck a match, lighting the pipe before exhaling a few soft smoke rings. “And the reason? Or are you just in need of an adrenaline rush?"

 "Dared to offer their daughter a job at our 'wonderful’ bureau," Grayson chuckled, leaning back against the bar on both elbows. She gave a subtle nod toward Caitlyn, who was curiously studying the photographs on the wall. "And not once have I regretted it. Only problem—she's even more of a workaholic than I am."

"Until some charmer sweeps her off her feet."

"She’d have to step outside the office first."

"Another Friday night in the company of some maniac and his 'thrilling’ stories," Loris grumbled, shoving his weapon back into its holster. "What am I doing with my life?"

 "Something quite useful," a voice murmured near his ear. "Besides, we wrapped up quickly today."

Loris shot his partner a sideways glance, sighed, and muttered hopefully, "You seriously think digging around in their heads is a good idea?"

"Absolutely," Gross replied, adjusting his glasses with his slowness. "Loris, their motives, actions, and decisions often seem incomprehensible to us—law-abiding citizens. But scum like today's suspect gives us a chance to peer into their deranged minds." He paused, letting the more prominent man move ahead to open the car door. "And it helps us predict their next moves. We can save more lives if we figure out what they plan in time.”

"You’ve been doing this for years, and the work hasn't gotten any lighter," Loris remarked skeptically, almost like an accusation.

 "Everything in due time."

Silence settled between them for a moment until the driver voiced another lingering question.

 "How long do you think the new girl will last?"

Gross tilted his head thoughtfully. "Caitlyn?" he asked, as if for clarification. Then, musing aloud with an amused squint, he added, "Considering she wasn't ‘recommended' from the top, she just might stick around for a while."

"I didn't need you to walk me all the way to my door," Caitlyn mumbled, struggling to fit the key into the lock. She swayed slightly, trying to sound sober. "I'm fine."

"So, you'll make it the rest of the way alone?"

She snorted in response, only to drop her keys onto the floor instead of their usual place.

"A present from Vander," Grayson added, handing over the package she'd been carrying the entire way.

"You shouldn't have."

"Not now, but in the morning, you'll realize just how magical that package is. Good night."

For the first time in her life, she had drunk so much. Her head felt caught in a vice, and every movement was challenging. The alarm had gone unheard for the first time. For the first time, she wanted to bury herself under the blanket to escape the damned sunlight tickling her nose. She groaned, rolling onto her side, spotting the package she had failed to put in the fridge. The smell of food seeping through the wrapping made her stomach tighten in protest.

A couple of painkillers, a cup of coffee, and then—

"You were told we're not interested," a stern female voice snapped from the corridor. "You were told she's not interested," a stern female voice snapped from the corridor. "Get lost before I'll break you something."

Thin walls. Too thin for comfort.

Caitlyn rubbed her temples, trying to ease the throbbing pain. Even the tiniest sound echoed in her skull like a drum. A monotonous voice from her criminal law lectures surfaced in her mind: "According to Article 125, Section 1 of the Criminal Code, causing minor bodily harm is punishable by a fine of up to fifty non-taxable minimum incomes or up to two hundred hours of community service or correctional labor for up to one year…"

Time to intervene. Flashing a badge in the face of some punks? Good idea. Like they'd know what an actual patrol ID looked like.

When she finally found the piece of plastic and confidently swung open the door, she was met with a crowded hallway. Among the figures, she recognized Maddie, hiding behind some girl's back.

"Well, come on! Who's first? You, mop-head?" The stranger stepped forward, taking a defensive stance. Caitlyn recognized the move from self-defense training—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, one hand extended, the other protecting a cheek, elbows tucked tight to the torso. A deep inhale, an exhale. Relaxed body.

"Cowards," the girl huffed, visibly disappointed when the guys finally bolted.

"Cait!" Maddie's voice carried both worry and relief.

"What's going on here?"

"Etiquette lessons," the stranger replied playfully, winking with a roguish grin. A few scars on her face gave her a rugged charm, while short, messy dark hair framed her sharp features and piercing gaze. A black jacket with metal studs clung to her, adding a wild elegance. "Your friend wasn't exactly nicely invited to that date." She nodded toward Maddie, then looked Caitlyn over with quiet scrutiny. "Vi." she introduced herself, extending a bandaged hand. "Looks like we're neighbors now. I'd stay and chat, but I have to go."

Her fingers barely, almost accidentally, grazed Caitlyn's velvet skin as she finished the handshake.

"Pleasure meeting you," Caitlyn said.

"Likewise," Meddie muttered slightly more brusquely.

"Think it's connected?"

"I'm making an educated guess."

These snippets of conversation were the first thing Caitlyn heard as she stepped into the office. Her gaze landed on Grayson, who was scrutinizing a spread of photographs, then on Gross, who was furiously jotting down notes in his notepad, tapping the edge of the page with his pencil occasionally.

Without even looking up, Grayson said, "Kiramman! Want to chat with the boys or an old lady with probable dementia?"

"Old lady?"

"Told you," Grayson smirked, snatching a few bills from her colleague's hand. "Attempted assault today. Lots of stab wounds, but the suspect ran when a bunch of drunk football fans interrupted his little show."

"Someone attacked an elderly woman? To assault her?"

"No, the guys decided to take a leak on her flower bed. Neither the attacker nor the old lady was thrilled about it. At least she called the cops. They got the ambulance there in time."

"So the victim's alive?" Caitlyn asked, glancing at the photos in her boss's hand.

"In critical condition," Gross added. "But the doctors say there's hope."

The fresh green lawn was smeared with bloody footprints and dark red droplets. The deep green lilac bushes were shredded and crushed, bearing the scars of a brutal fight. Caitlyn barely passed the police tape, pushing through the crowd eager to interfere with the investigation with their irrelevant, often idiotic, questions. One of the officers keeping the crowd at bay rescued her from the chaos.

"Step back three feet, please. As soon as we have any updates, we'll inform you," he droned, ignoring the blinding flashes of journalists' cameras.

"Anything new?"

"No idea. Been chasing these lookie-loos away all morning," the officer muttered, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "The old bat's crazy. Someone nearly got gutted outside her house, and all she's worried about is her damn bushes."

Hours of questioning yielded nothing. With each unanswered question, Caitlyn felt hope slipping through her fingers. Another witness painted a suspect who didn't match any previous descriptions.

"He was tall—at least six-foot-three," one neighbor insisted, nervously twisting a handkerchief.

Another whispered, "Five-seven. Heavyset."

"I've seen him on TV!" a man blurted out. "The mustached guy selling junk on those infomercials."

Caitlyn exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. Frustration bubbled beneath her skin. She let her eyes wander to the window, looking for a moment's distraction when something caught her attention—a small security camera mounted on the building across the street.

"Have we questioned the owner of that building?" she asked, nodding toward the window.

"No," her assistant replied, flipping through his notes. "He's on vacation. Hasn't returned yet."

Caitlyn huffed, eyes locking onto the camera again.

"In that case," her exhaustion turned to resolve. "I need a warrant to seize that footage."

"Got it," the officer replied shortly.

The clock on the wall read nine, which meant that apart from them, the building had been empty for at least four hours.

Grayson caught up in a heated phone argument, fired off short, sharp phrases, verbally crushing whoever was on the other end. Meanwhile, Gross loomed over poor Steb, driving him to madness with biting remarks, critiques, and unsolicited advice on how he should do his job. The young man, desperately trying to maintain composure, responded with passive-aggressive comments that only fueled his colleague's irritation.

Caitlyn sat slightly apart, slumped over the desk. Her arms shielded her face, and what sounded like a frustrated whimper or muffled swearing came from underneath them.

"Anyone needs a ride?" Loris called out, leaning against the doorframe.

No one even attempted to answer.

" Sweetheart, you good?"

"No." Caitlyn finally lifted her head. "I need a break. That's it for today."

The laptop snapped shut.

 Caitlyn had always enjoyed those rare moments when she could sit on the fire escape with a glass of red wine, watching the neon glow of the city's endless advertisements. But for the first time in a long while, she couldn't shake the sharp, almost tangible weight of loneliness. Even Kraag ignored her tonight, lazily sprawling across the windowsill.

"Tough night?" a voice called from the landing above. Caitlyn sighed, her response dripping with irony.

“Work? Relationship troubles?" the voice continued.

"For relationship troubles, you'd need a relationship in the first place," Caitlyn muttered, sounding more like an excuse than a joke.

"I thought you and the redhead were a thing. Had a fight?”

"You imagined it. We're just friends."

"Ah, I see."

Her new neighbor rose and began descending the stairs toward her. “Mind some company?”

Caitlyn wordlessly scooted over, making space for Vi to sit beside her.

"Wine?" she offered, tilting her glass slightly.

"Thanks, but I've got something better," Vi replied, lightly tapping her glass against Caitlyn's before setting down an entire bottle of something much more substantial. "Figured I should get to know the law enforcement officer living in your apartment. The neighbors have opinions, you know."

“Oh? Can't resist a woman in uniform?" Caitlyn teased, recalling the dumb pickup lines she'd heard from colleagues.

"You don't look like you're wearing one now," Vi smirked.

Caitlyn had felt hungry stares before—crude, animalistic, and devoid of genuine intrigue. Just raw, sleazy lust. But Vi's gaze lingered differently. It focused on her neck, making her skin prickle as if someone had tugged at her collar, exhaled warmth against her pulse, and then brushed their lips over the spot.

Caitlyn had her own rules: no distractions until she had a respectable position, no sleeping with the first woman who caught her eye, no dating someone her parents would disapprove of.

She’d made the rules. And maybe, just maybe, it was time she broke them.