Adrian Thorne

The night was damp. The yellow tape fluttered in the wind as I laid out my instruments. My element is the cold metal and the silence of the autopsy room. I'm a pathologist, and for most people, a corpse is a tragedy, but for me, it's the final chapter of a book I need to read.

"Time of death?" A voice sounded right next to my ear, cold and sharp as my scalpel.

I didn't even flinch. It was Adrian Thorne, the toughest detective in the department. His reputation for impeccability intimidated his colleagues, and his gaze pierced them. Being his assistant and "eyes" in the world of the dead was a dubious honor, requiring nerves of steel.

"About two hours ago, Adrian," I replied, not looking up from my examination. "A deep cut on the neck, but there's suspiciously little blood. He was killed somewhere else and brought here empty."

Thorn knelt down beside her, ignoring the dirt beneath his feet. His immaculately gloved fingers hovered a millimeter from his victim's skin.
"Look at the nails," he muttered. "Blue paint. There are no nail studios in this area."

He looked at me, and a familiar passion flickered in his icy eyes. We were a strange but perfect duo: I listened to the confessions of the dead, and he caught those who silenced them.

"I expect a full report by seven in the morning," he said, rising. "Find that dye in his lungs, and I'll find the killer before dawn."

I nodded. Working with Thorn was a dance on a razor's edge. But it was in moments like these that I felt truly alive, even in the shadows.