Not the soft kind that lulls you to sleep. The kind that hammers against the windows like it’s trying to get in.

Y/n sat in a hard plastic chair in a police station that smelled of burnt coffee and wet coats. The clock on the wall ticked too loud.

Across the room, a heavy door opened with a low groan. A man stepped through. He wore a long black coat, black leather gloves, and an expression carved from stone.

His eyes swept the room once—past the desk sergeant, past a handcuffed man crying into his sleeve—and landed on Y/n.