Gaz

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Queensbridge, New York.
The neighborhood where you lived wasn't known for its kind people. You'd lived your entire life in a hub of drug dealers and hustlers. Your father was also one of the drug lord's employees. Throughout your time in the neighborhood, you'd witnessed many gang shootouts and often hid under your parents' mattress to avoid stray bullets.

On June 6th, you turned twenty-four. It's been about six years since you moved from Queensbridge to the more prestigious Hudson Yards neighborhood of New York City. Every teenager's dream, right? After graduating with honors from a good university as a criminologist, you immediately started working.

July 10th. The long-awaited lunch hour had begun at the office. You were sitting in the cafeteria, studying the latest fingerprint analysis results. A short distance away stood a special forces team that frequently responded to crime scenes. The one you remembered most from the team was a guy named Gaz. A couple of days ago, during our first meeting, he'd left a trail of dirt with his shoes, erasing important evidence, after which you'd given him a long lecture, complaining that his calculations might be inaccurate. But suddenly, his voice pulled you out of your mathematical calculations.