The yellow tape pulsed under the strobing blue-red wash of the cruisers, a flimsy boundary against the city’s hungry exhale. Finn gripped the strap of his worn messenger bag, its canvas already damp from the drizzle, and pushed himself deeper into the knot of onlookers. Each breath tasted like wet concrete and the faint, metallic tang of something else—something he didn’t want to identify. His camera, a cheap point-and-shoot, felt heavy, cold against his palm through his thin glove. He wasn't supposed to be this close. His editor, Ms. Dubois, had been clear: 'Observe, don't interfere, and don't get arrested, Finn.'
He craned his neck, trying to see past the broad shoulders of a burly uniform officer. The alley stretched back, a narrow canyon between brick buildings, each window a dark, unblinking eye. Floodlights, harsh and clinical, carved out a rectangle of stark illumination near the far end, highlighting the grit on the ground and the swirling mist that hung thick in the air. Figures moved within that light, methodical and grim. He caught snippets of hushed radio chatter, the crunch of boots on gravel, the insistent drip of water from an overflowing gutter.
His stomach churned, a cold, nervous coil. This was it. Real news. Not another fluff piece on the new coffee shop’s grand opening. He felt a desperate urge to pull out his notebook, to jot down every detail, every sound, every fleeting image, but his fingers were stiff, and the pen felt like a foreign object. He needed to get a quote, something, anything that wasn’t just hearsay. This was a chance to prove he wasn't just another wide-eyed intern.
A hand settled on his shoulder, firm but not aggressive. Finn flinched, almost dropping his camera. He turned, heart hammering against his ribs, to find himself looking up, way up, at a man whose presence seemed to soak up all the ambient noise. Detective Asher. The name was familiar from the local crime beat. Asher, the one who always seemed to get the conviction, the one with the quiet eyes and the reputation for never missing a thing.
Asher was taller than Finn had expected, built lean but with a solidity that suggested effortless strength. His dark hair was just short enough to show the curve of his skull, damp at the temples, and his face was a study in controlled neutrality. No smirk, no irritation, just a calm, unwavering gaze that seemed to peel back layers. Finn felt himself shrivel under it, like a plant left too long in direct sun. His mouth felt suddenly dry.
“Reporter,” Asher stated, the word not a question. His voice was low, a steady murmur that cut through the background hum. It held no judgment, no accusation, just fact. Finn managed a jerky nod. “Just… a student. Intern. For the *City Herald*.” He nearly fumbled the newspaper’s name. The air thickened between them, heavy with unspoken things. Finn felt like he was being X-rayed, every nervous twitch, every over-eager impulse laid bare.
Asher's eyes, dark and sharp, didn't leave his face. He didn't smile. Didn't frown. He simply observed. Finn shifted his weight, felt the cold seeping through the soles of his sneakers. "I'm just… trying to understand what happened. For my story." He hated how weak his voice sounded, how transparently desperate he felt. He wished he could project an air of cool, professional detachment, but he was buzzing, a live wire of fear and morbid fascination.
“You’re too close,” Asher said, finally, his gaze flicking to the yellow tape, then back to Finn's face. “Official statements will be released later. Go home.” The words were flat, definitive. A dismissal. Finn felt a prickle of annoyance, which quickly morphed into a fresh wave of anxiety. He couldn’t go home. Not yet. Not without anything. Ms. Dubois would eat him alive.
“But… I saw something,” Finn blurted, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. Asher’s expression remained unchanged, but a subtle shift in his posture, a slight tilt of his head, indicated he was listening. Finn swallowed, trying to steady his nerves. “When I got here… a few minutes before the first unit. There was… a light. Not a police light. From up there.” He pointed a shaky finger towards the upper floors of one of the derelict buildings flanking the alley, where a single, broken window yawned like a jagged mouth.
Asher’s eyes tracked his finger, then returned to Finn. “What kind of light?” he asked. Now, there was a faint, almost imperceptible tension in his voice, a sharpening. Finn felt a surge of unexpected pride, that he'd managed to pierce through Asher’s placid exterior. He had something. He was useful.
“Like… a flash. Quick. Blueish-white. Not a phone, more like… a camera flash. And then it was gone,” Finn explained, trying to recall the exact flicker, the way it had seemed to hang in the humid air for a split second before vanishing. “And it was high up. Too high for someone just walking by.” He hugged his bag closer, feeling the cold weight of his own camera inside, a strange parallel.
Asher paused, his gaze sweeping over the facade of the old building Finn had indicated. A brick edifice, stained with years of city grime, most windows dark and boarded. The one Finn pointed to, however, was broken, a jagged starburst pattern in the grimy glass. It was easy to miss amidst the chaos below. Most people would look at the ground, at the victim, at the police activity. Finn had looked up.
“You saw this *before* the first unit?” Asher asked, a slight emphasis on 'before'. Finn nodded, eagerly. “Yeah. I was cutting through the park, heard the sirens in the distance, figured something was happening. Got here maybe… five, ten minutes before the first cruiser.” He felt a thrill, a jolt of adrenaline that cut through the cold and the fear. He was reporting. He was contributing. He was *seeing*.
Asher’s mouth tightened, almost imperceptibly. He took a small step closer, not invading Finn’s personal space, but simply reducing the distance between them, making Finn feel even more intensely under scrutiny. “And you’re sure it was a camera flash?”
“Positive,” Finn insisted. “I’m a photography student, too. I know what a flash looks like. This was… a proper strobe. Like someone was taking pictures.” He shivered, suddenly. The thought of someone calmly documenting a scene of violence from above, detached and clinical, was chilling. It added another layer of wrongness to an already deeply unsettling night. Who would do that? And why?
Asher was silent again, his eyes narrowed, still fixed on the broken window. His shoulders seemed to slump, just an inch, a subtle indication of the weary weight he carried. Finn realized Asher wasn't just a detective; he was a gatekeeper, holding back the chaos, trying to piece together fragmented realities. It made him seem less like an imposing figure, and more like… a man burdened.
“Alright,” Asher said, his voice softer this time, a grudging acceptance. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small, waterproof notebook and a pen. “Your name, kid. And your number.” Finn rattled them off, a rapid-fire stream of information, feeling a nervous energy thrumming through his veins. This was it. He’d done it. He had a lead. He had the attention of *the* Detective Asher.
As Asher scribbled, Finn risked a glance at the detective’s hands. They were large, calloused, movements precise. Hands that had probably seen a lot, touched a lot. Hands that belonged to someone who dealt with the jagged edges of the world every day. Finn’s own hands felt soft, inadequate, barely capable of holding his camera steady. A wave of profound inadequacy washed over him, a stark contrast to the earlier thrill.
“Don’t talk to anyone else about this flash,” Asher ordered, his eyes meeting Finn’s again. This time, there was a warning in them, clear and sharp. “Not the other reporters. Not your editor. Anyone asks, you saw nothing but the emergency lights. You understand?” Finn nodded, solemn, feeling the gravity of the instruction. He understood. This wasn't a scoop to be bragged about. This was something real, something dangerous.
“I understand,” Finn repeated, his voice barely a whisper. He watched Asher close his notebook, tuck it back into his pocket. The detective didn't offer a thanks, didn't offer a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. He simply turned, his broad back facing Finn, and began to move purposefully towards the tape, ducking under it and disappearing into the brightly lit, sterile rectangle of the crime scene. He didn't look back.
Finn stood there for a long moment, the cold seeping deeper into his bones, the city sounds rushing back in to fill the void left by Asher's departure. The smell of the alley was still there, but now, mixed with it, was the faintest trace of something else—a clean, almost metallic scent, like rain on hot asphalt, or maybe just Asher’s aftershave. He didn’t know which. He just knew he was still standing there, a witness, clutching his camera, and that he suddenly felt very, very alone, but also… strangely connected.
His phone buzzed, a text from Ms. Dubois. 'Anything yet, Finn? Don't tell me you're stuck on a stakeout for a lost cat again.' He stared at the message, then back at the broken window, then at the receding figure of Asher, a dark silhouette against the harsh floodlights. He hadn't just seen a light. He'd seen a doorway. And Asher, somehow, had just given him the key, or at least, a peek inside.
His breath hitched, a small, involuntary gasp. The air was cold, but something warm was building inside him, a strange mix of fear and an undeniable, electric thrill. This was more than just a story. This was a puzzle. And Asher, for all his quiet, almost dismissive manner, had just included him in it. He looked at his camera, then back at the alley, the yellow tape now feeling less like a barrier and more like an invitation.
He wanted to follow Asher, to ask more questions, to understand the meticulous dance of forensics he could just barely see. But the detective's instruction had been clear. Finn bit his lip, tasting the cold night air. He pulled out his notebook, a fresh page, and stared at it. He couldn't write about the flash yet, not for the *Herald*. But he could write down everything else. And he could remember the way Asher’s eyes had briefly, almost imperceptibly, softened when Finn had insisted he was sure about the flash. That, he decided, was just for him.