Jayson Coleman, late thirties, hadn't slept in two nights. Not properly.
He lay on the lumpy motel bed, one arm flung over his eyes, the other clutching a file folder like a life raft. The hum of the box fan in the window did little to drown out the noise in his head. Outside, sun rays streamed through the window, casting vibrant patterns on the wall as the warm glow of the sunlight filled the room, occasionally interrupted by the reflection of passing cars.
It was supposed to be a simple missing person case. Routine. Standard protocol, they called it.
But six months in and no trace of Detective Cedric.
And now—finally—a crack.
He sat up, pulled the folder open again, scanning the copied document for the hundredth time. A list of phone records. A hotel security log. A blurry timestamped photo showing Cedric—twenty-four hours before his disappearance—entering a suite registered to one man:
Senator Donovan Lewis.
Front-runner for the governorship. National darling. Family-man campaign. Untouchable.
Jayson's jaw flexed as he traced a finger over Cedric's blurred figure in the grainy security footage printout. Something in his partner's posture seemed wrong—tense, guarded. Not the confident stride he knew so well from years of working cases together.
"What were you doing there, Cedric?" he whispered to the photo. "What did you find?"
Jayson had shown it to his department Chief --Reginald Walter three months ago.
Big mistake.
The memory played out like a film reel he couldn't shut off. The chief's office. The blinds half-drawn. The scent of stale coffee and furniture polish.
"You think you've found something, Jayson?" the chief had said, not even glancing at the printout. "That man was sloppy. Maybe he ran or went undercover. Maybe he's dead. But this—" he tapped the senator's name like it was sacred, "—is not a direction we're pursuing. You hear me?"
Jayson had stood there, hands clenched at his sides. "With all due respect, sir, we can't just ignore this. Cedric was investigating something connected to Lewis. We owe it to him to—"
"You owe it to the department to let this go," Walter had cut in, finally looking up. His eyes were cold, calculating. "Cedric was a good cop. But he was also ambitious. Maybe he was chasing something he shouldn't have."
"Or maybe he found something somebody wanted buried."
The chief had stood then, his chair scraping against the floor. "Are you implying something, Detective?"
"I'm saying we have a lead. Our first solid lead in months."
"And I'm saying drop it." Walter's voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper. "That's a direct order. Are we clear?"
Jayson had heard.
But he didn't accept it.
He had waited until his leave period to pursue it. He had lied to the office, told his colleagues he was going up north to see his family.
Instead, he checked into a grimy roadside motel with peeling wallpaper and spotty Wi-Fi—just outside the city. Off-grid enough to be invisible.
Now he paced the floor, mind racing. Three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. The carpet was threadbare beneath his feet, worn down by countless travelers who'd passed through, each with their own secrets.
The bedside alarm clock read 10:35 AM. Too early to be thinking straight. Too late to give up.
If the department wouldn't touch the story, maybe someone else would.
Someone outside.
Someone who still had fire.
His thoughts circled back to one person. Nadia.
They hadn't spoken in years. 
Too many things unsaid. Too much wreckage between them.
But if anyone could run with this... if anyone could make it loud enough that it couldn't be buried...
It was her.
He picked up his phone. Trying to call her again.
Hesitated.
He couldn't dial the number as his last conversation with her minutes ago still reeled in his mind.
When she had answered the phone, her voice had hit him like an old wound.
He couldn't speak right away. Just listened. It sounded like her world was loud—voices, movement—like she was in the middle of something. He wasn't sure why that mattered, but it did. Perhaps it was the realization that her life had continued, full and busy, while his had narrowed to this obsession.
But there was something in her tone. Recognition, maybe. Or just the wariness of a journalist who had made enough enemies to be cautious.
He had paused, swallowing everything he wanted to say. The apology for how they'd left things. The admission that he'd followed her career from a distance. That he'd kept the one photo of them, tucked behind his badge.
Then he hung up.
Too much, too fast, he blamed himself. It wasn't right to reappear in her life abruptly with a request of such magnitude. What if she wasn't the woman he once knew?
He tossed the phone onto the bed and dragged both hands down his face.
Idiot.
She was probably confused. Pissed. Maybe scared.
But she'd remember his voice.
She always did.
The phone buzzed. A text message. 
Orion: Did you really travel? Or are somewhere still stalking her? Really wanna drag her into this?
He stared at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keys. What could he possibly say that would make any of this make sense?
He set the phone aside without answering. He needed to be sure first. Sure about what he had. Sure about what he was dragging her into.
He sat back down and opened the folder again. Stared at the photo. Cedric, head down, coat drawn tight, walking into a lion's den.
No one had seen him after that.
His pulse spiked.
He flipped through the rest of the documents. Bank statements showing a series of large withdrawals in the weeks before Cedric disappeared. An envelope with a single flash drive that he hadn't dared to access on any networked computer. And a handwritten note in Cedric's distinctive scrawl: "Follow the money. Not campaign. Personal."
He moved over to the edge of his bed where his duffel bag laid. Unzipped it. Grabbed his laptop. He powered it on, allowing the desktop screen to appear. Then he slot in the flashdrive. Only one particular folder appeared containing pictures of Donovan Lewis taken over a period of three weeks. Each with a write up below, ranging from his visit to his favorite club to him resting in his villa in Kilanga estate. He closed the laptop.
The memory of how Cedric used to laugh off his paranoia came to his mind. "You chase ghosts," he'd say, tapping his badge against Jayson's. "I chase facts."
But now he was the ghost.
And Jayson had the facts.
"What did you find, Cedric?" he muttered. "What was worth disappearing for?"
A knock at the door jolted him upright.
He froze, hand going to his gun. Silent. Listening.
Another knock.
Softer.
Then a voice, low: "Housekeeping."
He exhaled. Didn't answer.
"Sir? Do you need service?" The voice was feminine, accented.
"No," he called out, trying to sound casual. "I'm good. Thanks."
"Okay, sir. Have a good day."
Footsteps faded.
He moved fast—shoved everything back into the folder, rolled it tight, and tucked it into the vent behind the bedframe. It wasn't much of a hiding place, but he needed to be ready in case anyone came snooping.
Back to the mirror, he stared at himself.
He looked like hell. Beard thick, circles under his eyes, tension wired through every muscle. The man looking back at him was someone he barely recognized anymore. Three months of running himself into the ground, chasing leads that went nowhere, fighting the bureaucracy of a department that seemed determined to forget one of their own.
But underneath that—was certainty.
He wasn't letting this case die.
Not with Cedric still missing. Not with Donovan's face smiling out of every billboard like he hadn't already won.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed, composing a text. 
MEET ME. ONE SHOT TO GET THIS RIGHT. I WOULDN'T ASK IF IT WASN'T LIFE OR DEATH. SOMETIMES, NADI, THE ONLY WAY OUT IS TO GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING.
But just didn't hit the send button.