The precinct sat quietly behind rusted metal gates. No flickering bright lights, no sheen of polish — just a worn brick building showing its age. I paused at the entrance, feeling the same weight I'd felt two years ago, wearing the face of Mr. Dust rather than Mr. Fox.
I'd stood here twice before: once during the interrogation of Cipher's accomplice, and once when Logan—later revealed as Cipher—burst into the streets and I needed backup. Both times, I'd been in disguise.
Today, I didn't need the mask.
Pushing through the door, I was met by the low hum of chatter. Officers in crisp uniforms paused mid-step, eyes flickering with curiosity. It might've been my past or my title, but still.
I tucked my hands into my coat pockets and made my way to the bullpen.
