Always had.
He stepped off the curb and crossed the street.
Even with Boston and Micah at his side, something was missing.
Buckshot.
Law.
Sage’s attention snapped forward, sharper now, locking back onto the street in front of him as he reached the other side.
The street narrowed, shadows pulling tighter along the walls.
Even the noise felt thinner here—like it didn’t want to linger.
He kept walking.
Didn’t slow.
Didn’t look back.
But the space around him stayed empty in a way that didn’t belong.
He stopped on the sidewalk.
The duplex hadn’t changed.
Same faded mauve paint peeling along the frame. Same warped wood where it had swollen and dried too many times to sit right in the casing.
The porch light above it flickered once, then steadied like it always did.
A strip of crime scene tape hung loose off the railing, one end cut, fluttering in the faint breeze.
Two uniforms stood off to the side of the landing, both looking like they’d been there too long.
One glanced up as Sage stepped in, eyes flicking over him, Boston, Micah—assessing, then done.
“You’re the team?” he asked.
Sage slowed just long enough to flash the badge they all carried. “Yeah.”
The cop nodded once, stepping back and clearing the doorway without another word.
Sage stepped over the threshold.
Air hit first.
Stale. Closed in.
Underneath it—metal and something sour that didn’t belong.
It settled at the back of his throat, sharp enough to taste.
He didn’t slow.
Cleared left, right—quick passes, nothing wasted.
Small space. Living room tight, kitchen just beyond it, hallway cutting off to the side.
