The red and blue lights of a patrol car flashed across the evening as the cold air began to bite. The sun sank behind the brick buildings, painting the wet rooftops and stretching shadows of Sunset Park in shades of copper.
In front of an old industrial warehouse, yellow tape marked off the perimeter. Between puddles of oily water and piles of trash, several FBI agents moved with precision, their dark jackets gleaming under the pulsing sirens.
Inside, the air smelled of rust and dampness. The steady hum of fluorescent lights filled the silence.
Special Agent Robert Phillips adjusted the collar of his black trench coat, frowning as he surveyed the scene.
Next to him, Seeley Booth straightened his trademark tie while watching the woman kneeling beside the body — Dr. Temperance Brennan, focused, the nitrile gloves stretched tight over her hands.
—What've you got for me, Bones? —Booth asked, his tone low and weary.
Phillips switched on his flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom of the warehouse until it landed on the victim.
Under the hanging light lay a young woman. Her blonde hair, tangled and streaked with mud, shimmered faintly under the beam. Her face was partially disfigured, skin torn in places, eyes missing. She wore a torn blouse, and her hands — nails painted a pale blue — bore signs of struggle.
Brennan leaned closer without saying a word. The floor beneath her knees was damp, and the metallic scent of iron filled the air.
—Morphological indicators suggest she's a woman between twenty-three and twenty-seven —she said firmly, not taking her eyes off the body.
Booth studied her carefully.
—Any cause of death?
—Not yet —Brennan replied—. There are no obvious signs of perimortem trauma, but the injuries indicate postmortem manipulation.
Phillips folded his arms.
—So we're talking murder?
—It's possible —Brennan answered, adjusting her flashlight to examine a mark on the forearm—. The cuts are shallow and symmetrical, likely made with a thin blade. But the lack of bleeding means they were inflicted after death.
Booth frowned.
—So what the hell did they do to her?
—The skin was selectively removed —Brennan explained—. And look here, on the neck: the incision pattern is methodical, almost surgical. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were looking for.
Phillips leaned closer.
—Sadist? Some kind of ritual?
—Or someone who enjoys control —Brennan replied without looking up—. The wounds aren't impulsive. This was planned.
Booth exhaled slowly, scanning the surroundings.
—Does it match the other cases?
Phillips nodded.
—That makes three now. Young blonde women, all missing, all found the same way: partially flayed, bodies cleaned, no clear signs of struggle.
Brennan picked something up from the floor — a broken necklace with a heart-shaped pendant caked in dirt.
—Could be hers —she murmured—. Or maybe the killer wanted us to find it.
Booth stepped closer, hands resting on his hips.
—A message?
—More like a signature —Phillips said gravely—. This guy doesn't just kill. He wants us to know he was here.
Brennan placed the pendant into an evidence bag and gave the body one last look.
—He wants to dominate his victims —she said coldly—. He takes pleasure in disfiguring them.
—Agent Phillips, send the remains and samples to the Jeffersonian —Brennan ordered without looking up—. My team will clean the bones and examine the clothing. We'll send over any relevant findings as soon as we have them.
—Thank you, Dr. Brennan. I know you were in town for a conference.
—It's nothing —Brennan replied calmly, pulling off her gloves—. It makes sense they called me. No one else in the city matches my level of osteological precision.
Phillips looked at her with a mix of surprise and amusement.
Williamsburg, Brooklyn – Han's Diner
The clock read nine-thirty.
Han's diner was nearly empty, just a couple of customers in the corners and the constant hum of the old refrigerator.
Behind the laminated counter, Max (Black) was refilling the coffee machine with the weary resignation of someone long past hope, while Caroline (Channing) tried to keep a professional smile for a customer clearly not planning to leave a tip.
—You know what's the best part of working this late, Caroline? —Max asked, setting the empty pot back on the burner.
—That we actually get paid at the end of the day? —the blonde replied with that indestructible optimism Max found deeply irritating.
—No. That you don't have time to think about how your life's going down the drain —Max shot back, flipping on the coffee machine.
Caroline opened the tip jar like she was attending a funeral. She counted the bills — less money than her current self-esteem could survive on.
—We're exactly sixteen dollars short of affording new flour for tomorrow's cupcakes —she muttered.
—Perfect. Exactly what my dignity's worth in this city —Max replied, glancing toward the door.
The bell above it jingled weakly.
A tall man stepped in — broad shoulders, steady gaze. Leather jacket, worn jeans, black boots. He walked with easy confidence to a booth near the counter.
Max, still facing away, didn't see him come in. But Caroline let out a small gasp worthy of a Hollywood starlet caught off guard.
—Oh. Wow.
—What? Did Han finally get that Iberian ham I ordered? —Max asked without turning around.
—No. Your problem's back —Caroline whispered dramatically, lowering her voice.
Max froze. Slowly turned her head.
The tall frame. The leather jacket.
The sharp clack of the coffee pot hitting the counter marked the recognition.
There he was. Max couldn't help smiling like a schoolgirl.
—I knew it. Problematic men are like cats —you can't get rid of them, but if you feed them, they always come back.
She wiped her hands on her apron.
—I got this.
She crossed the diner with that casual, tired-waitress stride — but there was a dangerous spark in her eyes.
—Look who came back to the scene of the crime —she said as she reached his table—. Tell me, Ethan, are you here for my charm, or just because you ran out of other places to ruin the mood?
—I don't know… I like the view. And the awful smell of Han's cologne —he replied with a crooked smile.
Max raised an eyebrow, pulling out her notepad and a chewed-up pen.
—Let me guess: double cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.
Ethan let out a low, brief laugh.
—You already know my order. I guess we might as well get married.
—Sorry, you're late. Earl proposed years ago. Never got over the rejection.
Max placed the order on the counter for Oleg to take. Caroline leaned toward her, whispering with her eyes locked on Ethan:
—Max, that guy looks like he walked straight out of an action movie. Or an FBI most-wanted list.
—Relax, Caroline. If he kills me, at least he's handsome —Max said with a half-smile before turning back to him—. So, stranger, you coming from the apocalypse or just the A-line subway?
—The subway —Ethan replied with calm amusement—. Though I'm not sure which one's worse.
—Fair point. You've got a sense of humor. You're officially my favorite customer tonight.
From the coffee machine, Caroline chimed in without missing a beat:
—And by "favorite," she means "the only one who can actually pay without expired coupons."
Max gave him a playful look.
—So, Ethan… you've come two nights in a row and you've been flirting with me. When are you gonna ask me out?
—You don't seem like the kind of girl who waits to be asked —he shot back—. So I figured I'd just show up with this smile a few times until you couldn't resist and asked me instead.
Max arched a brow, amused by his boldness. She was about to answer when Oleg shouted from the kitchen in his unmistakable accent:
—Burger and fries for the pretty boy are ready!
Max grabbed the plate and walked to his table with her usual confident stride. Her blouse, a bit snug from the diner's heat, moved with her, drawing glances she ignored with the ease of someone who knew exactly the effect she had. The plate landed in front of Ethan with a firm thud.
—Here you go, pretty boy —she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes—. Meat, grease, and cholesterol. The true American love combo.
Ethan looked up, amused.
—I thought you didn't believe in love.
—I don't. But I do believe in generous portions —she replied with a smirk.
When she turned to leave, Ethan stopped her with his voice.
—Max.
She turned slightly, resting a hand on her hip —a casual move, but full of intent.
—What is it, heartbreaker? Forget to ask for ketchup?
—No. I forgot to ask something more important. —Ethan leaned forward slightly—. What are you doing tomorrow after your shift?
Caroline, pretending to clean the coffee machine, shamelessly looked up.
Max stared at him for a few seconds, as if weighing whether it was a joke. They'd been trading harmless flirting back and forth, which was fun, but she didn't expect it to move this fast.
—Depends. If your plan involves a shovel and a shallow grave, I'll pass.
—Nothing like that. Just you and me, a nice dinner… and if you behave, maybe I'll let you get to first base —Ethan said with a half-smile.
Max narrowed her eyes, trying not to smile.
—Dinner? With a mysterious guy who's been showing up at my diner three nights in a row?
—Let's just say I'm a loyal customer.
—Or a guy with a concerning obsession.
Ethan rested his elbows on the table, not taking his eyes off her.
—I'll think about it.
She said it while turning toward the kitchen, with Caroline quickly following.
—Come on, Max, what's wrong with you? —Caroline asked, leaning on the counter—. You look like a cat that just saw a cucumber.
—Nothing —Max said, though her voice betrayed a hint of nerves—. I'm just… thinking.
—Thinking? —Caroline raised an eyebrow—. About what? You've been flirting with that guy for two days. If I hear you moan his name one more night, I swear I'll shoot myself.
Max sighed and rubbed her neck, avoiding her gaze.
—Oh, please… it was just once. Or three times, max.
Caroline laughed.
At that moment, Oleg came out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on his apron with his usual swagger.
—Dinner date, huh? —he said with a smug grin—. So you're choosing pretty boy over me? Come on, don't tell me my charm and muscles don't do it for you.
Max rolled her eyes.
—Oleg… —she muttered dryly—. Stay out of this.
—Wow, you're really off your game —he teased, shrugging—. No passive-aggressive jab for Oleg tonight?
—Just saying, with your luck, you'll probably end up cooking together and he'll spill tomato sauce on… dangerous places.
—Oleg —Caroline cut in, her voice half-laugh, half-threat—. Shut up before I do it for you with that filthy apron.
—No promises —he replied, winking as he backed toward the door.
Caroline leaned closer to Max, lowering her voice:
—Take the date. It's not every day someone that good-looking shows up and looks at you like you're the only girl on Earth.
—Yeah, but… what if I make a fool of myself? —Max muttered, crossing her arms.
—Max —Caroline said firmly, placing a hand on her shoulder—. Let me tell you something: if you make a fool of yourself, at least it'll be memorable. And if not? You'll have a date. That's it.
Max sighed, finally giving in, a mix of nerves and excitement in her voice.
—Fine, I'll do it. But if this goes wrong… I'm blaming you.
—Perfect —Caroline said with a grin as she walked off—. Now go be brave, Max. And remember to ask if he's got any cute friends for your poor, sex-deprived friend who hasn't gotten any in three months.
Max stayed in the kitchen for a moment, adjusting her blouse and taking a deep breath. For the first time in a long while, something exciting was about to happen.
She walked out and headed toward Ethan, more nervous than she cared to admit.
Ethan was calmly enjoying his burger and fries. Since arriving in the city, he'd wanted to visit a few places to see if people like Max or Caroline really existed —and he hadn't been disappointed. He had to admit, he'd had a crush on Max ever since he first saw her on the show.
—All right, I'll go out with you. But if you turn out to be a serial killer, promise me I'll at least die in style. None of that dirty alley stuff —make it a five-star hotel.
—Deal —he said, amused—. I'll pick you up tomorrow at eight.
—Eight works for me… assuming Han doesn't decide to make me his overtime slave.
—Then eight it is —Ethan said, handing her his phone so she could save his number.
Max rushed off to the kitchen with Caroline, leaving him alone. Ethan exhaled and turned to Earl, who stood by the register with his usual laid-back look.
—So —Ethan said, pocketing his phone—, I guess it's your turn to give me advice.
Earl raised a brow, crossing his arms.
—Uh-huh. You want me to tell you how to impress my girl? You've got some balls, kid.
—Come on, I just want to do it right —Ethan said, serious but amused.
—All right, listen —Earl leaned in conspiratorially—. Max has a weakness for classic rock. Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones, AC/DC… that stuff makes her happy.
Ethan nodded with a faint grin.
—I can handle that.
Earl smirked, recognizing the spark in his tone.
—Yeah, yeah… but if you make her cry, I'll kick your ass so hard your mouth'll taste like leather for a month.
The bell above the door chimed as Ethan walked out. Max watched him go until he disappeared into the street, realizing that for the first time in a long while, something inside her stirred beyond just surviving.
Caroline leaned against the counter, elbows propped.
—So? What do you think this is? A new beginning or the start of your romantic obituary?
—I don't know —Max said, pouring herself another coffee—. But if I don't come back tomorrow, make sure you keep my cupcake molds.
Caroline smiled.
—Deal. And if you end up falling in love… then I'm definitely gonna need another bag of flour.
Max leaned against the counter, catching the reflection of the closed door.
—And look at this… he left a huge tip —she exclaimed, lifting the money from the table with a mix of surprise and satisfaction.
For the first time in a long while, her smile wasn't sarcastic.
The next day, at Max and Caroline's apartment, she was finishing her lipstick —a bold, deep red. It had cost her ten bucks and a fight with a prostitute to get it, but it had been worth it.
She jumped when her phone rang right at eight o'clock. Not a minute earlier. At least he was punctual.
—Who the hell shows up exactly on time for a date? —she muttered, though she already knew the answer.
Max stopped in front of the hallway mirror, leaning in slightly to inspect her reflection. She adjusted her dress carefully, tugging at the neckline just enough to flatter her figure.
She studied herself for a moment, crossed her arms, then smiled, satisfied.
—All right, girls, don't fail me now… —she murmured to her reflection with a mischievous glint in her eyes—. Let's blow the pretty boy's mind.
Turning around with a mix of confidence and nerves, she grabbed her purse, slipped a light jacket over her shoulders, and headed out —still radiating that effortless magnetism that only Max could pull off when she was excited.
When she stepped outside, Ethan was already there, leaning casually against his car, wearing that easy, confident smile.
—You look stunning —he said, extending a hand toward her.
—So tell me, am I dressed for a date or a kidnapping? —she asked, raising a brow.
—A little bit of both —Ethan replied, letting her take his hand. His grip was firm, steady.
They got into the car. Max settled into the seat, the seatbelt sliding naturally across her dress. She glanced at him, half-curious, half-amused.
Ethan turned on the music —soft jazz, with lazy trumpets and smooth saxophones filling the air.
—Jazz? Really? If you play Taylor Swift next, I'll swear you're stalking me —Max said, leaning back slightly as the breeze from the open window played with her hair.
—I'll be honest —Ethan replied with a grin—. Earl told me you liked it. He also said that if I made you cry, he'd kick my ass and dump me in the Hudson.
They talked, teased each other, and shared small confessions as the city lights blurred behind them.
—So, what do you do, pretty boy? —she asked, tilting her head, her tone laced with playful sarcasm.
Ethan smiled faintly, one hand resting on the wheel.
—I'm a cop… or at least I was. Let's say I'm on a break for now.
—Seriously? —Max frowned slightly, leaning toward him—. You seem more like the FBI or special forces type.
—Nothing like that. Just a small-town cop from Pennsylvania —he said, turning to glance at her—. I just wanted to see the world… didn't think I'd end up meeting you.
Max stared at him, amused, a spark of challenge in her eyes.
—Oh, I see… so you're "on a break," wandering the city, but you look exactly like the kind of guy who finds trouble everywhere he goes. Like me, for example.
Ethan chuckled softly, brushing his hand lightly along the edge of the seat beside her —close, but not crossing a line.
—Oh, Max… of that, I have no doubt.
Max shook her head, smiling despite herself, a little nervous, a little intrigued.
They finally reached the pier.
The dock was lit by a line of yellow lamps reflecting off the dark water. The air smelled of salt and engine oil, and the soft creak of wood mixed with the distant hum of passing boats.
Max walked beside Ethan, her short elegant dress swaying with the evening breeze.
—Never thought you'd bring me somewhere like this —she said, looking around at the harbor lights and the anchored boats—. Feels like a movie.
—Just wanted you to like it —Ethan said with a crooked smile—. And to make sure you don't get seasick.
At the end of the pier, a sleek white yacht awaited —the Leopard 27, elegant and modern, its golden cabin lights spilling softly over the deck.
Two crew members, dressed in crisp white shirts and dark pants, greeted them politely. One, a tall man with his hair tied back, gestured toward the gangway.
—Welcome aboard The Marie's Dream. Everything's ready for your dinner and cruise, sir and miss.
Max raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed.
—Wow… now this is a surprise —she said, amused—. What are you, some secret millionaire who eats greasy burgers just to stay humble?
—Not even close —Ethan replied with a smirk—. It's rented. I won it in a poker game, actually… just needed the girl to go with it.
Max shot him a side glance, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
—Great. Unemployed, gambler… go ahead, tell me you're an alcoholic too, and we'll get married in Jersey before the night's over.
Ethan laughed softly, taking her hand to guide her up the gangway.
—Don't worry —he said with that half-smile of his.
Max let out a small laugh, part nerves, part amusement, as they boarded the yacht —clearly impressed by every detail and by the fact that Ethan had actually pulled all this off.
The deck glowed with warm lights hanging overhead, their reflections dancing on the rippling water, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere.
When they reached the dining area, Max's eyes widened —a white tablecloth, flickering candles, crystal glasses sparkling in the golden glow.
—Wow… —she whispered, looking around—. This is… incredible.
—Glad you like it —Ethan replied with his trademark smirk.
Just then, a slim man with his hair tied neatly back approached and bowed slightly.
—Good evening —he said with a soft, formal accent—. I'm Takashi, your chef tonight. I specialize in sushi and grilled seafood. I hope you'll enjoy the experience.
Max lifted an eyebrow, both amused and impressed.
—Sushi and seafood… on a yacht? Ethan, you've already blown past my wildest expectations.
Takashi smiled, holding a small box with elegant wine labels.
—I've selected a few wines to complement the meal. This white goes perfectly with the sushi, and this red with the grilled dishes. —He poured a glass for Max and then Ethan, bowing slightly—. If you'd like, I can explain each pairing.
—No long speeches, Takashi —Ethan said lightly, glancing at Max.
Max lifted her glass, watching the golden liquid shimmer in the candlelight.
—Cheers, Captain —she said playfully, clinking her glass against his.
—Cheers —he echoed, his gaze steady on hers, amusement and warmth flickering in his eyes.
The yacht's engine hummed softly as it drifted across the bay.
—So, you really planned all this? —Max asked, half teasing, half genuinely surprised.
—Yeah. And maybe a little improvisation —Ethan admitted with a grin—. I just wanted to impress you… how am I doing so far?
—Hm… let's just say you're doing pretty well so far —Max crossed her arms, pretending to be suspicious—. Sounds like someone with too much free time and a flair for the ridiculous decided to win me over.
—You're really hard to impress —Ethan said, laughing—.
Soon the chef arrived at their table, serving delicate plates of sushi and fresh seafood. Each dish was meticulously presented: glossy nigiri, perfectly sliced sashimi, and shrimp glistening under a light soy glaze.
Ethan picked up a piece of sushi with his chopsticks and brought it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, a small smile forming.
—I've gotta say, this is… better than I expected —he said, looking at her with amusement—. Nothing like your diner coffee.
Max gave him a look that was half mockery, half curiosity.
—Right, because nothing says "fancy dinner" like raw fish wrapped in sad rice.
Ethan chuckled softly.
—Don't be so dramatic. Just try it.
—Try what? —she shot back with irony—. Proving that I can fake understanding what "umami" means?
He picked up another piece and held it out to her.
—Come on, Max. Just one. I promise it doesn't bite.
—Easy for you to say. That fish died suspiciously peacefully —she said, leaning in slightly, hesitating—. Fine. If I like it, I promise not to make fun of you again… well, maybe just a little.
Ethan smiled, patient as ever.
Max sighed theatrically and finally took the piece between her fingers.
—If this tastes weird, I'm gonna need a rescue burger —she warned before taking a bite.
She stayed quiet for a few seconds, chewing with a skeptical expression. Ethan watched her expectantly.
—Well? —he asked.
She looked at him with mock seriousness.
—I don't hate it. But don't tell anyone, or I'll lose my reputation as the girl who lives off sugar and questionable pizza.
Ethan grinned, leaning a bit closer.
—Deal. Though if you like it as much as I think you do, you'll have to admit I was right.
Max glanced at him sideways and murmured with a half-smile:
—Only if you take me out for a proper dessert afterward. Something with butter, sugar, and zero happy fish.
—That's progress, coming from you —he said, laughing—. I know a bakery in Manhattan, the one where hipsters pretend to work.
—No way, I'd rather eat my own cupcakes —Max laughed—.
—Cupcakes, huh? —Ethan raised an eyebrow as he took a sip of white wine—. The red velvet ones from Han's diner are my favorites… do you make those?
He lied, of course he knew she did.
Max giggled as she popped a piece of tuna roll into her mouth.
—Of course. We're saving up to open our own place.
Ethan leaned a bit closer, amused.
—Well, "Max's Cupcakes." Has a nice ring to it.
Max rolled her eyes dramatically but couldn't stop smiling.
—I know, I know —she said with that trademark crooked grin and the mischievous spark in her eyes—. But with Caroline's plans, it's gonna take, like, a thousand years.
Ethan laughed quietly as he tried the grilled seafood. They kept joking about the cupcakes, Caroline's endless ambitions, and their dream of opening a shop.
—A thousand years, huh? —he teased.
—Well, maybe nine hundred if I can get Martha Stewart to invest in us —Max said, pouring more wine—. Did I ever tell you about the time we cornered her in a bathroom?
Ethan looked intrigued, and Max adjusted in her seat, slipping into her natural storyteller tone.
—First time I wore a dress that cost more than my rent… and yes, we returned it the next day —she began—. Caroline and I crashed this rich-people gala, the kind where they serve fizzy water and everyone thinks "double shift" is a wine label.
Ethan laughed, picturing it.
—Our plan was simple: get Martha to taste our cupcakes. No one had invited us, obviously, so there we were, tray in hand, dignity long gone. And then—bam!—Martha shows up in the bathroom. Caroline pulls her "fallen rich girl" charm, and I… well, I basically hyperventilated.
—And what happened? —Ethan asked, amused.
—After listening to our pathetic begging in a bathroom, she tried one of my cupcakes —Max said proudly—. And she said they were delicious. We didn't walk out rich that night, but we walked out with something better: Martha freakin' Stewart approved our cupcakes. Where I come from, that's basically a papal blessing.
Ethan smiled, raising his glass in a small toast.
—Then, to papal blessings —he said.
—And to men who pay for dinner —Max replied, clinking her glass with his.
Their conversation faded as the sea softly brushed against the hull of the yacht. Max and Ethan leaned back against the cushions on the deck, the warm candlelight flickering around them. The ocean breeze played with her hair, carrying the salty scent of the water.
For a while, everything felt peaceful as she shared her chaotic stories.
—Never thought a dinner on a yacht could feel this… perfect —Max said, watching the city lights shimmer on the water.
—Perfect only because you're here —Ethan replied, sitting beside her. His shoulder brushed hers—a light touch, but neither moved away.
Max glanced at him with a half-smile.
—Wow… "Perfect only because you're here"? Did that come with the romantic package, or did you improvise? Because if you improvised, I almost believe you.
Ethan smiled, leaning slightly closer.
—Well, if I don't say it, who will? Besides, I can't pass up a chance to see you smile like that.
Max felt warmth spread through her chest—the mix of nerves and excitement that always came with Ethan's closeness. She turned toward him, her face softly lit by the candles, and the space between them vanished without a word.
—Ethan… —she whispered—. Tonight… all of this… it's just—
Their hands brushed as they leaned in, and Max could feel her heartbeat quicken.
Then, slowly and carefully, their lips met in a gentle kiss. She closed her eyes, letting his warmth and nearness envelop her completely.
When they pulled apart for a breath, their foreheads touched, and they laughed quietly. The city sparkled in the distance, the waves lapped at the hull, and for a moment, the world felt reduced to just the two of them.
—Well… pretty boy —Max whispered between soft laughter and quickened breaths—. Didn't know you also taught masterclasses in leaving girls speechless. I'll admit… this beats any date I've had in years.
—And the night's just getting started —Ethan replied, sliding his hand over hers and gently interlacing their fingers—. Just imagine what comes next.
Max raised an eyebrow, amused.
—Was that a promise or a warning? Because either way… I'm in.