The door clicked shut behind Joe with a soft, airtight finality.
For a brief second, the glass walls around the office shimmered, then turned opaque, sealing the room off from the rest of the floor. The city vanished, replaced by a muted, controlled space that felt quieter than it should have been. Too quiet for a place sitting at the top of Moonstone.
Farren didn't offer him a seat immediately.
He stood behind his desk, one hand braced against its surface, the other holding a glass that caught the light just enough to reveal a faint amber residue clinging to the bottom. Not fresh. Not poured for this meeting.
Leftover.
"Detective Hawkings," Farren said, voice smooth but edged, like something recently sharpened. "I was told to expect you."
Joe stepped forward, posture straightening out of habit more than intention. "Mayor."
A slight nod passed between them. Professional. Distant.
Farren gestured lazily toward the chair across from him. "Sit."
Joe did.
The leather was soft, expensive, sinking just slightly under his weight. He adjusted subtly, placing the folder Nolan had given him on the desk.
"Sheriff Nolan mentioned a potential deal," Farren continued, moving around the desk now. "Said he'd send one of his best to close it."
Joe's fingers rested lightly against the edge of the file. "That's the idea."
Farren hummed under his breath, lowering himself into his chair. "Let's hope he wasn't exaggerating."
Joe didn't rise to it.
Instead, he opened the folder, sliding a set of documents across the desk. "The department is looking to upgrade its tactical response capabilities. Non-lethal suppression tools, enhanced tracking systems, adaptive restraints. Equipment that can handle… irregular threats."
Farren's eyes flicked over the pages, scanning quickly. Efficient.
"We're expanding our patrol scope," Joe continued. "Which means we need gear that can keep officers alive in situations standard issue can't handle."
Farren leaned back slightly, tapping the edge of the document with one finger. "And you believe my company is the best option for that."
"It's the most advanced option available locally," Joe said. "That matters for logistics. Maintenance. Deployment speed."
Farren's lips curved faintly, a ghost of a smirk. "You've done your homework."
Joe met his gaze evenly. "I try to."
Farren reached for a pen, spinning it once between his fingers before setting it down again. The motion was smooth. Practiced.
But his other hand, the one resting near the glass, lingered there a second too long.
Joe noticed.
Residual alcohol. Not fresh, but recent.
His eyes flicked, subtle, almost imperceptible.
The glass hadn't been moved since he walked in. No condensation. No fresh pour. Just a faint ring on the desk beneath it, slightly darker than the polished surface around it.
Not a social drink... More the maintenance type.
Joe leaned back slightly in his chair, continuing the conversation as if nothing had shifted.
"We're looking at an initial procurement batch," he said. "Fifty units across multiple categories. With the option to scale depending on performance."
Farren nodded, but his attention wasn't fully on the numbers.
His gaze drifted, just briefly, toward the opaque glass wall to his right.
Then back.
Fast.
Too fast.
Checking.
Joe's mind ticked quietly, fitting pieces together.
Farren picked up the document again. "Pricing won't be cheap," he said. "My tech isn't built for budget constraints."
"We're aware," Joe replied. "Which is why we're proposing a phased contract. Initial investment, followed by performance-based expansion."
Farren tapped the page again.
"You're asking me to trust your department's evaluation metrics."
Joe tilted his head slightly. "I'm asking you to make a deal that benefits both sides."
Farren's eyes lifted, locking onto his.
For a moment, the room stilled.
Then Farren smiled.
Sharp. Controlled.
"Alright," he said. "Let's talk numbers."
The negotiation moved forward.
Figures were exchanged. Terms outlined. Delivery timelines discussed with precise, almost surgical clarity. Farren was sharp, every bit the businessman his reputation suggested. He cut through inefficiencies quickly, redirected weak proposals, tightened conditions where it benefited him.
On the surface, it was clean.
Professional.
But Joe wasn't watching the surface.
He watched the pauses.
The micro-delays before certain answers. The way Farren's fingers drummed lightly against the desk when specific clauses came up, particularly those involving oversight and independent review.
He watched the eyes.
How they flicked, not randomly, but consistently toward the same section of the room. The same wall. The same invisible point beyond it.
External pressure.
Joe shifted slightly in his seat, letting the silence stretch just a fraction longer after one of Farren's responses.
People filled silence.
Farren did.
"…Of course, any extended contract would require alignment with broader operational interests," Farren added, almost as an afterthought.
Joe caught it.
"Operational interests?" he echoed.
Farren waved it off lightly. "Standard corporate considerations."
Deflection.
Joe nodded slowly, as if accepting it.
But his mind didn't.
He's not lying outright... He's redirecting.
There was a difference.
He'd seen it before. In suspects. In witnesses. In people trying to stay within the bounds of truth while avoiding the parts that mattered.
Joe leaned forward slightly, folding his hands together.
"You run a tight operation," he said casually.
Farren's brow lifted faintly. "I have to."
"Lot of moving parts."
"That's business."
Joe studied him for a second longer than necessary.
"Must be a lot of pressure."
Farren's smile returned, thinner this time. "Comes with the territory."
Too quick.
Too rehearsed.
Joe let his gaze drift, just briefly, toward the glass wall Farren kept checking.
Then back.
He's not just managing pressure.
He's monitoring something.
Or someone.
The thought settled in quietly, but it didn't sit comfortably.
Because it didn't match the image.
Farren was supposed to be the one in control. The one pulling strings. The one people answered to.
But the signs didn't fully align.
The tension in his shoulders wasn't just frustration. It was restraint. Controlled, deliberate restraint. The kind that came from knowing there were limits you couldn't cross.
Joe had seen it in victims who didn't realize they were victims.
Or didn't want to.
Captive behavior isn't always visible. Sometimes it hides behind confidence.
He shifted again, testing the thought, pushing against it.
Or maybe you're projecting.
He was tired. Hungover. Running on emotional fumes.
It would be easy to misread things.
To see patterns that weren't there.
Farren leaned forward, signing the final page of the agreement with a decisive stroke.
"There," he said, sliding it across. "Initial terms. Subject to revision, but it'll get your department what it needs."
Joe looked down at the document.
Then back up.
"Appreciate it."
Farren nodded once. "Tell Nolan I expect results."
"I will."
Joe stood, gathering the papers.
As he turned to leave, his eyes flicked once more toward the glass wall.
Then to Farren.
The man was already reaching for the glass.
Not drinking.
Just… holding it.
Joe didn't say anything.
He walked out.
The city felt different behind the wheel.
Quieter.
Or maybe he was just too deep in his own head to hear it properly.
Traffic moved around him in slow currents. Lights changed. People crossed streets. Life went on, indifferent.
Joe drove without urgency.
Without direction.
At some point, he turned.
Not toward the station.
The church stood where it always had, tucked between older buildings, its stone exterior worn but steady. The kind of place that didn't change, even when everything else did.
He parked.
Sat there for a moment.
Then got out.
Inside, the air was cooler. Still. The faint scent of incense lingered, mixed with old wood and something quieter, something heavier.
He moved down the aisle slowly, footsteps echoing softly against the floor.
The confession booth waited near the side.
He stepped in.
The door closed behind him with a muted click.
For a moment, he didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just sat there, hands clasped loosely, staring at the partition in front of him.
Then he exhaled.
"I don't even know where to start," he said, voice low, rough.
The words came slowly at first.
Then faster.
He talked about the past few days. The attack. The lies. The things he couldn't explain to anyone. The things he wasn't supposed to say out loud.
He talked about the job. The weight of it. The way it had crept into every part of his life until there wasn't anything left untouched.
He talked about Sydney.
About Melanie.
About the look on his daughter's face.
His voice cracked once.
Just once.
He swallowed it down and kept going.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," he said quietly. "I thought… if I could just fix this, if I could make things safer… it would be worth it."
Silence answered him.
He let out a shaky breath.
"But they're gone," he continued. "And I don't even know if I can blame them."
His hands tightened slightly.
"Was I wrong?" he asked. "For wanting that? For trying?"
The question hung there.
Heavy.
The response came, low and steady from the other side of the partition.
Joe listened.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't argue.
His shoulders shifted slightly as the words settled into him, whatever they were.
When the voice stopped, the silence that followed felt different.
Not lighter.
But… clearer.
Joe sat there for a long moment.
Then nodded to himself, almost imperceptibly.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Okay."
He stood, slower this time, but steadier.
When he stepped out of the booth, his expression hadn't changed much.
Still tired.
Still worn.
But there was something else now.
Something quieter.
Resolved.
He walked out of the church without looking back, the weight still there, but carried differently now.
And somewhere beneath it all, a decision had already been made.