I swallowed my objections. "No, sir."
"Good. You're dismissed." Murphy sat back down, already turning to another file. "And gentlemen. Don't make me regret giving you this chance."
Hawley stood abruptly and strode toward the door without looking at me. I watched him go. Noted the rigid line of his spine, the controlled violence in every step.
I was supposed to live with that. Sleep two doors down from that. Pretend I didn't notice the way his presence seemed to fill every room he entered.
I followed him into the hallway. Quickened my pace to catch up. "Hey, wait..."
He stopped so suddenly I nearly collided with his back. When he pivoted, his stare was dark. Up close, I could see flecks of amber in the brown.
"Let me make something clear." Low enough that only I could hear. "I don't want a partner. I don't need a roommate. AndI especially don't need some pretty boy from 52 who thinks a smile fixes everything."
The words stung more than they should have.Pretty boy. The way he said it. Like it was something to be ashamed of. Heat rose in my cheeks before I could stop it.
"I didn't ask for this either. You think I want to leave everything behind to share Service housing with someone who can't even shake hands like a civilized person?"
Something shifted in his face. Not quite surprise, but next to it. Like he hadn't expected me to have teeth.
"Civilized." Somehow he made it sound like an insult. "Right. That's what you are."
He turned and walked away. I was left standing in the hallway with the key in my palm and the unwelcome certainty that the small, careful world I had built for myself had just been pulled apart in a single afternoon, and that some treacherous part of me was already curious to see what would rise from the wreckage.
Chapter 3: He Already Knew My Name
Ryan
I followed Hawley up the narrow stairwell. He didn't slow down. Didn't look back to check if I was keeping pace. Just assumed I would match his stride or get left behind.
The neighborhood wasn't what I'd expected. In Toronto, the neighborhood of Cabbagetown wasn't the same as Yorkville, but it wasn't a wasteland either. Working-class east of the downtown core, named for the Irish settlers who'd grown vegetables in their front yards a century and a half ago, the kind of pocket where Victorian rowhouses leaned against each other on side streets that hadn't been paved twice. Quiet side streets. Corner shops with their metal grilles pulled halfway down. Elderly residents shuffling along with shopping bags. The kind of place where nothing exciting ever happened. Which was probably the point of stashing us here.
The building itself was a dull beige Victorian, brick weathered to the color of dried mud. Cracks ran along the exterior.A defunct convenience store occupied the ground floor, its windows papered over with faded ads.
I felt the stairwell narrow around me as we climbed. The fluorescent light flickered overhead and threw Hawley's shadow long against the wall. His shoulders nearly filled the space.
"Is this really happening?" I muttered, more to myself than to him.
No answer. Of course.
We reached the second-floor landing. A delivery flyer lay crumpled in the corner. I almost bent to pick it up. Some ingrained habit from my mother about keeping shared spaces tidy. I stopped when Hawley glanced back. His expression unreadable in the harsh light. Our eyes met for half a second before his slid away. Dismissive.
He turned the key with one smooth motion. No hesitation. No fumbling. Like he'd been doing this for years instead of seconds. I noticed the efficiency in his hands. Same precision I'd seen in the best officers back at 52. Annoying. Also, oddly reassuring.
The door swung open with a soft creak.
"Home sweet home," I said, forcing a smile that no one would see.
Hawley stepped inside without acknowledging me. I followed. The door closed behind me with a finality that crawled down my spine.
The apartment was small. Impersonal. Depressingly practical. Standard Service housing, the kind of unit that had probably housed a dozen reassigned officers before us. A narrow entryway opened to a combined living and dining area. A low table. A worn couch that looked like it had been requisitioned from surplus storage. The kitchen was just a strip along one wall. Two burners. A sink with water stains. A refrigerator that hummed too loudly.
Two doors stood side by side at the end of a short hallway.
"I'll take the one on the right."
His voice startled me after the silence. Deeper than I'd expected. A quiet authority in it that didn't match our shared disgrace.
"Fine by me." I shrugged, aiming for casual indifference. The knot in my stomach said otherwise. This place was smaller than my walk-in closet back in Yorkville.
