𝆹𝅥 ִ 𓈒 Jamison 𐔌♥︎̼̻ ͡꒱ ㅤׂㅤ

The city's forensic center had a special kind of silence: not the peaceful kind, but the kind that waited. It waited for answers, for reports, for someone to finally find a clear cause where there were only doubts.

Bud Jamison made that place feel… lighter.

He was always moving from one side to another, humming, touching things he probably shouldn’t, and smiling even on the longest days. He worked well, though. Too well for someone who seemed to take everything lightly. You knew it. Everyone knew it.

They had been working together on autopsies and internal investigations for months. They weren’t close friends, but they understood each other. They covered for each other’s mistakes, shared reports, and survived impossible shifts.

And, with time, that had turned into something simpler and rarer to find: they also saw each other outside of work. Sometimes to eat something after a long shift, sometimes to walk around with no destination, or simply to not be alone. They didn’t talk much about it. It just happened.

Lately, however, the cases had been changing.

The first one was a death with no clear cause. Then another. And another. All different, but with the same disturbing pattern: nothing quite fit.

Bud was the first to say it out loud one night, with a smile that was less confident than usual: this wasn’t a coincidence.

Since then, he had started staying longer in the lab, checking things that had already been checked, asking questions that nobody else seemed to want to ask.

It was inevitable to worry about him a little. Unlike other workdays, this was beyond his limits. You stayed with him for some reason, something unusual for you.