It had been a week since Eric's case.
Marcus sat in his office, one leg crossed over the other, cigarette balanced loosely between his fingers. Thin trails of smoke curled toward the ceiling, fading into the gray light spilling in through the half-drawn blinds. Rain tapped softly against the windows, a steady rhythm that filled the silence between thoughts. His phone rested in his free hand, thumb scrolling slowly through the headlines.
"Looks like it's all fine," he muttered.
News outlets were still running the story, but none had caught even a whiff of the truth. No mention of anything supernatural. Just a tragic, calculated murder. Cold, clean. Human. He let out a breath, thick with relief, and set the phone down on his desk. If a week had passed and no holes in the story had surfaced, that usually meant Alexa's spell had taken without any hitches.
"Good," he murmured, leaning back in his chair and taking a slow drag. "I can stop worrying now."
Smoke drifted from his lips as he stared at the ceiling, but his mind wandered elsewhere—back to Club Platinum, to Club Platinum, the air thick with sweat and music, and the meeting between Felix, Victor, and whoever had shown up after he left. Something about that night still gnawed at the edge of his thoughts.
"Just what the hell are they doing?" he said aloud, narrowing his eyes as if the ceiling might offer an answer.
He stood with a quiet grunt, stubbing out the cigarette in a ceramic ashtray already littered with butts. No jacket. No badge. No gun. Just the half-worn button-up and his badge clipped to his belt. He stepped out of his office, walking the familiar path through the station.
Officers nodded as he passed. He nodded back, offering faint smiles and the occasional "Morning," but none of it really landed. Just motions. Muscle memory.
Near the water cooler, a young patrol officer was hunched over a report, sipping from a paper cup. Marcus recognized him—Ben, fairly new, always quiet, always reading something. Marcus stopped beside him, taking another drag from his cigarette.
"Anything interesting?" he asked, pausing to take another drag from his fresh cigarette.[1]
Ben looked up from the report and gave a half-shrug. "Just a routine drug bust. Caught the dealer red-handed. Looked like she was a little high on her own supply, to be honest."
Marcus nodded slowly. "What was she selling? The classics, or something more exotic?"
Ben scratched his cheek. "Bit of both? She had straight cocaine, yeah, but there was also this... liquid drug. Like a modified heroin or something. Looked homemade."
That made Marcus pause. "Modified heroin?" he repeated. "You get it tested yet?"
"Yeah, should be getting the report back after lunch," Ben said, checking his watch. "Speaking of—which... it is lunchtime. You headed to the breakroom?"
Marcus gave a subtle motion with two fingers. "Lead the way."
Ben turned and started down the hall, and Marcus followed in step, trailing cigarette smoke behind him.
"By the way," Ben added over his shoulder, "that last case you worked? Vile. Just thinking about it gives me goosebumps."
Marcus raised a brow, hiding the flicker of caution behind another slow pull from his cigarette. "Yeah," he said, low and even. "I agree."
Even with the spell's success, even with a week of normalcy, every mention of the case made his nerves tighten—like tugging on a thread that might still unravel everything.
It didn't take long to reach the breakroom.
It wasn't fancy, but it had comfort where it counted—soft lighting, well-worn couches pushed into the corners, a round table near the window cluttered with mismatched chairs, and a humming old refrigerator beside a microwave that had probably outlived three department heads. The walls were lined with corkboards layered in fading flyers and duty rosters, and the faint scent of reheated takeout lingered beneath the stronger, ever-present aroma of burnt coffee.
A box of donuts sat open on the counter, already half-emptied. Of course. The stereotype existed for a reason. Beside it, the coffee machine grumbled softly, brewing its third pot of the day. Marcus had never cared much for caffeine—he preferred his vices to come wrapped in paper and fire.
The Marrows were already there. Vicky sat with one leg crossed over the other, a steaming cup in hand, her expression relaxed but alert. Vince leaned back in his chair at the far end of the table, dunking a glazed donut into his coffee with the kind of finesse that suggested this was far from his first time.
"Hello Marcus, hello Officer Ben," Vicky greeted with a light wave, her voice warm as she took another sip.
"Came here to eat and drink nothing but cigarettes, per usual?" Vince asked, smirking as he bit into the soggy end of his donut.
Marcus took a slow drag before answering, smoke slipping from the corner of his mouth. "Sweets and caffeine aren't good for your health."
Vince scoffed, brushing sugar from his jacket. "Pot calling the kettle black. How many of those things do you burn through a day?"
Marcus exhaled and thought for a second, lips twitching into a smirk. "Just a single pack. Not that much."
Ben wandered toward the counter, digging through a lunchbox someone had left in the fridge earlier. Vicky let out a quiet sigh and shook her head.
"How are you still alive," she muttered, gesturing at Marcus with her cup, "or look the way you do, smoking that much?"
Marcus gave a half-shrug, casual. "I don't know. Good metabolism, I guess."
A lie. His body could flush out the damage before it even had a chance to stick. No tar-black lungs. No cough. No yellowed teeth. It was hard to get sick when your body healed itself faster than nicotine could kill anything.
He leaned against the counter, watching her with a raised brow. "And what exactly do I look like, Vicky?"
Without missing a beat, she jerked a thumb toward her uncle. "Uncle put it best—you look like you walked out of most women's wet dreams."
Ben choked on a bite of sandwich, coughing into his hand. "Wow. How do you say that so casually?"
Vicky only shrugged, sipping her coffee again like it was just another Tuesday.
"She ain't lyin'," Vince muttered, clearly annoyed, though it was hard to tell if it was at the comment or how confidently she'd made it.
Marcus chuckled again, the smoke curling from his lips like a sigh. Sometimes, moments like these were enough to forget the weight of what he really was. To pretend, just for a while, that he was one of them. Instead of a wolf in sheep's clothing.
[1] This man smokes more than a chimney.