The rain hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, drowning out the city's usual hum. New York never slept, but on nights like this—cold, wet, and unforgiving—it felt like the city had turned its back on those who didn't belong.
Matthew Hale pulled his coat tighter around him, ignoring the way his soaked shirt clung to his back. The flickering neon of a rundown liquor store cast a dull glow on the sidewalk, reflecting in the puddles beneath his feet. He exhaled, watching his breath vanish in the night air, the taste of cigarette smoke lingering on his tongue.
Life had never been easy, but lately, it had been unbearable.
A year ago, he had a badge, a partner, and a future. Now, he had none of those things. The NYPD had cut him loose, pinned a case gone wrong on him, and left him to drown in his own guilt. He hadn't even fought it. Maybe they were right. Maybe he had made the wrong call. Maybe that kid would still be alive if he had just—
He shook the thought from his head.
It didn't matter anymore. What mattered was staying alive. Because someone out there wanted him dead.
The first warning had come a month ago: a bullet lodged in his apartment door, no note, no explanation. The second, a message scrawled in red on his windshield: **"You should have stayed down."** The third? Well, he had a feeling he wouldn't live to see it.
A shadow moved in the alley ahead.
Matthew tensed, his fingers brushing the grip of his gun. His heartbeat slowed, steady and controlled, like muscle memory from the job. He had spent years walking these streets, knowing which corners to avoid, which alleys held danger. This one? It reeked of it.
The streetlight above flickered, throwing jagged shadows across the brick walls. A figure stepped forward, half-hidden beneath a hood.
"Matthew Hale," the voice rasped. "You're a hard man to find."
Matthew didn't move. "That's the point."
The figure chuckled, low and humorless. "Got a message for you."
Matthew had been here before. A setup. A warning. The kind that came with bruises, broken ribs, or worse. His grip tightened on the gun beneath his coat, but he kept his stance relaxed. Show no fear. That was the first rule.
"Yeah?" he asked. "Why don't you save me the trouble and skip to the part where I put you in the hospital?"
The man didn't flinch. Instead, he pulled something from his pocket and tossed it to the ground. It landed with a wet slap against the pavement.
A photograph.
Matthew didn't have to pick it up to know what it was. He could see the edges curling from the rain, the ink smudged but clear enough. A face. Familiar. Too familiar.
His partner.
Dead for over a year.
His stomach tightened, but he forced himself to keep his expression blank. "Nice trick," he said coolly. "Digging up old ghosts. What's the point?"
The man took a step closer. Matthew caught the glint of something beneath his sleeve—a knife, maybe. "The point," the man said, "is that your past isn't done with you."
Another step. Another flicker of the streetlight.
Matthew had two options: wait for the guy to make a move or strike first.
He chose the latter.
His fist connected with the man's jaw before he had time to react. The impact sent a shockwave up Matthew's arm, but he didn't stop. He grabbed the guy's wrist before the knife could flash, twisting hard until he heard a crack. A grunt of pain. The weapon clattered to the ground.
Matthew didn't hesitate. He drove his knee into the man's ribs, sending him sprawling against the alley wall. He pressed his forearm to the guy's throat. "Who sent you?"
The man coughed, blood spattering his lips. "You already know."
Matthew's jaw clenched. He didn't like being played. Didn't like the feeling creeping into his gut. But he knew one thing for sure.
This wasn't over.
It was just beginning.