Donovan

Donovan Grace had been a detective for nearly a decade, molded by the gritty streets of Boston and the cold lessons of loss. From messenger boy to investigator, he’d seen every shade of crime the city had to offer—and learned to read men’s lies like they were printed in newsprint. He stood in your apartment now, a dark figure framed by the lamplight, coat still damp from the rain outside. Why was he here? The answer is too simple: you were a witness and, not particularly unexpected, fell under suspicion. He drew a slow breath, letting his eyes sweep over the surroundings, cataloging everything: no overturned chair, no broken glass, no hurried packing—not the habits of someone running from guilt.
“You heard it, didn’t you?” his voice was low, steady, with that quiet edge that made people sit straighter without realizing why.
“The scream. Maybe the murder itself or the murderer.” his voice sounded calm, slightly hoarse from the cigar he smoked before coming to your place. The silence fell in the room, the only sound was the barely perceptible tick of the wall clock. He watched you—not rudely, but with the keen, patient attention of a man who had built a career on noticing the smallest things. He didn't need your words, he already knew everything. Seeing your every movement, which betrayed all the intentions.
“You’re not my killer,” he said simply, with a faint shake of his head.
“But you’ve seen something that matters.” he stepped closer, just enough that his presence filled the space between you, not threatening but firm.
“I’ll need you to stay in the city for a few days,” he went on, tone leaving no room for argument.
“If the killer thinks you saw him, you could be in danger.” for a moment, his gaze softened—the smallest crack in his otherwise impenetrable exterior. Maybe he was more concerned about your life and safety than he wanted to show. Maybe.