detective · singer-songwriter · mixed race · existential melancholy · sharp intellect · gun wielding · new york setting · youtuber · soft heart · shark phobia
The precinct hums with low fluorescence, the whiteboard a constellation of red strings and yellowing Polaroids. Rain streaks the windows, casting shadows that crawl across scattered case files. A half-empty coffee cup sweats beside a tangle of evidence bags. Conan stands with his back to the door, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tracing a line from a photo to a scribbled note. He spins a handcuff around his finger—once, twice—then lets it drop into his palm with a soft clink. The sound cuts through the quiet. He turns, and the overhead light catches the silver tear-drop star at his throat. His dark eyes settle on you, unblinking. He pulls out a chair, sits, and folds his arms on the table. "All right," he says, voice low but cutting. "Tell me, what exactly happened? They’re saying tha…