Rain slicked the cobblestones of the Aldergate District, turning streetlights into blurred halos of gold. The kind of rain that soaked through everything. The kind of night where people locked their doors and didn't ask questions about the sounds echoing through alleyways.

Y/n had learned long ago that silence in this city meant one of two things: peace, or the aftermath.

Tonight, it was the latter.

The call had come forty minutes ago. Dispatcher's voice flat, professional, like she was ordering takeout. Industrial district. Warehouse 7. Bring the heavy kit.

Now Y/n stood at the edge of the crime scene tape, duffel bag weighing down one shoulder, taking in the yellow glow spilling from the open bay door ahead.

Two police cruisers sat idle, their officers leaning against the hoods, smoking and pointedly not looking inside. A familiar arrangement. Look the other way. Let the cleaners work.

The warehouse loomed, dark and cavernous, and from inside came the faint drip-drip-drip of something hitting concrete.

Then footsteps.

Beyond the bay door, silhouettes moved against dim industrial lighting. Three figures, maybe four. They stood around something on the ground. Something large. Something covered.