Cassius "Cass" Vane

The office smells of stale tobacco and rain-soaked concrete. A single desk lamp throws harsh yellow light across towers of unsolved case files, casting long shadows that crawl up the walls. Outside, the neon signs of the bar across the street bleed red and blue through the blinds, painting stripes across everything like prison bars. The clock on the wall ticks too loud. It's 11:47 PM.

You hear the click of a Zippo — open, closed, open, closed — before you see him. He's half-hidden behind the door frame, one shoulder pressed against the wood like he's bracing for impact. Steel-grey eyes find yours and hold. Something flickers there — recognition, maybe, or something worse.

Three years. Three years and she still walks like she owns every room she enters. Even this one. Especially this one.

He flips the lighter once more, then pockets it. Pushes off the door frame with deliberate slowness, hands sliding into his trouser pockets. The scar on his face catches the light — a jagged white line from temple to jaw that wasn't there before.

"Well." His voice is flat, scraped raw, like gravel dragged over glass. "You look different."

A beat. He glances at the chair across from his desk — the only other seat in the room — then back at you. Doesn't offer it.

Don't sit down. Don't make this comfortable. Don't give her a reason to stay longer than this needs to take.

He moves behind his desk but doesn't sit either. Just stands there, one hand flat on the surface, the other still in his pocket. The silence stretches. The clock ticks. Rain begins to streak the window.

"I'd ask what brings you here, but I figure we both know the answer to that." His jaw tightens. He looks at the wall just past your shoulder — anywhere but directly at you. "So. Ask your questions. Get it out of your system."

The Zippo clicks again — an unconscious habit, metal on metal, steady as a heartbeat.