Water ran cold over Austin's face, sharp enough to bite.
He leaned forward into the sink, palms pressed against the porcelain, shoulders rising and falling in uneven rhythm. Droplets clung to his skin, sliding down the curve of his jaw, gathering at his chin before falling in slow, steady taps. The mirror in front of him was fogged at the edges, warped slightly from age, but it still reflected enough.
Enough to see it.
The redness in his eyes. The faint slackness in his expression. The way his focus lagged just half a second behind where it should've been.
You're drunk.
Not gone.
Not out of control.
But enough.
Enough to feel it sitting behind his thoughts, dulling some edges while sharpening others in all the wrong ways.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand back through his hair, pushing it away from his face as he straightened. The bathroom light buzzed faintly overhead, too bright for the hour, too sterile for the state he was in.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Looking at himself.
You let it slip today.
The memory pressed in again, unwelcome but persistent.
Farren's office.
The tension.
The words he shouldn't have said.
The look.
That look.
Austin clenched his jaw, breaking eye contact with his reflection before it could settle too deep.
"Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Good job."
The sarcasm didn't help.
Nothing did.
He turned, stepping out of the bathroom into the dim quiet of his apartment. The shift was immediate. No noise. No music. No voices to drown things out.
Just silence.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
His footsteps echoed faintly against the floor as he moved toward the kitchen, the faint hum of the refrigerator growing louder with each step. He opened it without thinking, the cool light spilling out into the darkness as he reached inside and grabbed a handful of ice.
The cubes clinked softly against each other as he dropped them into a glass, the sound almost too loud in the stillness.
He leaned back against the counter, tossing one into his mouth.
The cold hit immediately.
Sharp.
Grounding.
He chewed slowly, letting the sensation cut through the fog in his head, even if only slightly.
His phone sat on the counter beside him.
Screen dark.
Waiting.
Austin stared at it for a second.
Then reached for it.
The screen lit up instantly, casting a pale glow across his face.
11:47 PM.
Late.
Too late for calls.
Too early for sleep.
His thumb hovered for a moment before he unlocked it, muscle memory carrying him into his contacts list without needing to think about it.
Names scrolled past.
Familiar.
Unimportant.
Then—
He stopped.
A new name sat there.
Fresh.
Unfamiliar in placement, but not in meaning.
Joe Hawkings.
Austin's jaw tightened slightly.
Right.
The bar.
The man.
The conversation.
The memory didn't come all at once. It unfolded slowly, like something dragged up from beneath the surface.
The bar hadn't gotten quieter.
If anything, it had gotten louder.
But the space around them had felt… different.
Smaller.
More focused.
Joseph Hawkings hadn't rushed a single word.
After the introduction, he let the silence breathe, his hand still extended just long enough to make it a choice.
Austin had taken it.
Firm grip.
Measured.
Not trusting.
Not refusing.
"Detective," Austin had said, the word carrying equal parts skepticism and curiosity.
Hawkings had nodded once, withdrawing his hand as he took another slow sip of his drink. "Didn't catch your name."
Austin hadn't answered immediately.
Instead, he studied him.
Too calm.
Too intentional.
People didn't just walk into a bar, pick a stranger, and start conversations like that without a reason.
"You always do this?" Austin had asked instead. "Walk up to random people and offer help?"
Hawkings' lips had curved faintly again, that same almost-smile that never quite committed.
"Not usually."
"Then why me?"
That had been the real question.
Hawkings hadn't answered it directly.
Instead, he'd leaned back slightly, eyes drifting briefly over the bar before settling back on Austin.
"You walked in carrying something," he'd said. "Didn't take long to figure that out."
Austin had scoffed lightly. "That's half the people in here."
"Yeah," Hawkings had agreed. "But most of them are loud about it."
His gaze had sharpened slightly.
"You're not."
That had made Austin pause.
Just for a second.
Hawkings had noticed.
Of course he had.
"You talk," Hawkings continued, voice steady, analytical, "but you leave gaps. Big ones. You circle things instead of naming them. That's not accidental."
The bartender had gone quiet.
The man beside Austin had leaned back, listening now instead of joking.
Austin's expression had hardened slightly. "You profiling me, detective?"
Hawkings hadn't flinched.
"Observing."
A beat.
"You're under pressure," he'd added. "Not just work pressure. The kind that sticks. The kind that doesn't go away when you clock out."
Austin hadn't responded.
Didn't need to.
The silence had done it for him.
Hawkings had nodded faintly, as if confirming something to himself.
"I don't know what you said today," he'd continued. "Or who you said it to. But whatever it was… it hit something."
Austin's eyes had narrowed slightly.
"And you got all that from listening to me complain for five minutes?"
"Ten," Hawkings corrected.
Another sip of whiskey.
Calm.
Measured.
Then—
"There are connections in this city," he'd said. "People tied together in ways most don't see. Money. Influence. Old relationships that never really go away."
Austin hadn't liked where that was going.
"You talking in riddles or you got a point?" he'd asked.
Hawkings had held his gaze.
"I think you've brushed up against something bigger than you realize."
The words had landed heavier than they should have.
Because part of him already believed that.
Hawkings had leaned in slightly then, lowering his voice just enough to cut through the noise without drawing attention.
"I've been looking into a few names," he'd said. "Patterns that don't line up cleanly."
A pause.
"Farren."
Austin's chest had tightened, just slightly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But Hawkings had seen it.
Of course he had.
"And the Riveras," Hawkings had added quietly.
That one had hit differently.
Deeper.
Older.
Something in Austin had shifted then, something he hadn't fully understood in the moment.
"Why are you telling me this?" he'd asked.
Hawkings had sat back again, studying him.
"Because I think you already suspect something," he'd said. "You just don't have the full picture."
A beat.
"And I need to know if I can rely on you."
The words had hung there, suspended between them.
Not an offer.
Not a threat.
Something else.
Something more dangerous.
A choice.
Austin blinked, the memory dissolving as he found himself back in his kitchen.
The ice in his mouth had melted.
The glass in his hand had gone warm.
He still clutched his phone, eyes fixed on the name glowing on the screen. Joe Hawkings. Detective. A complication, sure, but maybe also a chance.
You need this.
The thought came quietly.
But it didn't waver.
For ten years, he'd chased shadows. Half-answers. Dead ends that led nowhere but deeper frustration.
Farren definitely knew something of that, he was certain now. But just having the knowledge wasn't enough; it never had been. Austin let out a slow breath, locking his phone before placing it gently on the counter. His hand remained there, resting against the cool surface for a moment longer than necessary.
Use him.
The idea settled in, heavy but clear.
If Hawkings wanted in, he could have it.
But not for free.
Not without purpose.
"This isn't about trust," Austin muttered under his breath.
It was never about anything else. It was always about the results, about uncovering the truth, and about Clara.
Her name alone was enough to harden something in his chest, something that had never really softened in the first place.
"I'm getting answers," he said quietly.
No hesitation now.
No doubt.
"Whatever it takes."
Meanwhile…
The silence in Joe Hawkings' house felt louder than any bar.
It stretched into every corner, settling into the walls, the furniture, the empty spaces where life used to exist. No television. No music. No footsteps echoing down the hall.
Just stillness.
Joe sat on the edge of his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched slightly forward, his back resting loosely against the headboard. The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp on the bedside table.
A glass of whiskey sat beside him, half-empty or maybe just half-forgotten while the bottle lingered nearby, untouched since the last pour. On the table, a gun rested within easy reach, not hidden away, not drawing attention to itself, simply existing in the quiet space between them.
Joe's gaze was fixed on his phone.
The screen glowed faintly in the low light, illuminating his face just enough to highlight the tension sitting beneath the surface.
A new contact.
Austin Greene.
Joe's thumb hovered over the name, not pressing, not calling.
Just… waiting.
He took the bait.
The thought wasn't smug; it was deliberate, carefully weighed. Every detail of tonight had been planned with precision, the choice of bar, the way the approach unfolded, the flow of the conversation. None of it happened by chance, and every moment had its place in the design.
Joe leaned his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling for a moment as his mind moved through the pieces again.
Farren, the Riveras, and Austin each a distinct thread in their own right. At first glance, they seem separate, running along their own paths, untouched by one another. But threads have a way of crossing, weaving into patterns unseen until you take a step back. What once stood apart is now intertwined, connected in ways that can't be undone. Not anymore.
This is the only way.
The plan had been forming for days.
Maybe longer.
A last move.
A risk.
The kind that didn't leave room for correction if it went wrong.
Joe's jaw tightened slightly as he brought the glass up, taking a slow drink.
The burn settled in his chest, grounding him just enough to keep everything else steady.
You don't get another shot at this.
He knew that.
Felt it in the quiet of the room.
In the absence of everything he'd already lost.
His gaze dropped back to the phone.
The name was Austin Greene. It could be anything, an unpredictable variable, a valuable asset, or maybe even a looming liability. That part was still up in the air, uncertain and unresolved. But in the grand scheme of things, it didn't seem to matter all that much. Not completely, anyway.
Because for what Joe needed to do…
He didn't have the luxury of waiting for certainty.
His thumb finally moved, tapping lightly against the screen before stopping again.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
The timing had to be right.
Everything did.
Joe set the phone down slowly, his eyes lingering on it for just a second longer before looking away.
The room fell back into silence.
Heavy.
Unbroken.
But beneath it, something had shifted.
Something had already been set in motion.
And whatever came next…
There was no turning back.