The call came in just before sunrise.
Alice Pierce was halfway through her first cup of black coffee when the dispatcher's voice crackled through the radio:
"Detective Pierce, we've got a DB behind the Lake Street diner. Units already on scene. Possible gang-related, but it's messy."
She sighed, dumped the rest of the coffee, and grabbed her coat. Chicago was still half-asleep, fog hanging low over the streets, the smell of diesel and yesterday's rain heavy in the air. The city always looked its most honest right before dawn — too tired to lie, too grey to pretend.
By the time she reached the diner, yellow tape had already cordoned off the alley. Uniforms were posted at both ends, keeping rubberneckers out. The neon sign above the diner buzzed in a sickly red pulse, casting the puddles in blood-coloured light.
"Detective Pierce." Officer Vega nodded toward her as she ducked under the tape. "Guy's behind the dumpster. Real mess. You'll wanna see it."
She found the victim wedged between two bins, slumped against the brick wall. Male, mid-twenties, torn hoodie, cheap sneakers. Blood darkened the concrete beneath him — one shot to the chest, one to the head. Execution-style.
Alice crouched beside the body, her gloved hand hovering just above the wound. No powder burns. Clean shot. Someone knew what they were doing.
"Any witnesses?" she asked.
"Cook heard the shots. Didn't see anyone. Cameras?" Vega shrugged. "All busted, like always."
Alice looked around. The alley was too quiet, too deliberate. Empty beer bottles lined up along the wall, fresh graffiti scrawled across the brick. But something was wrong — the tags didn't match the local gang symbols. These were newer, rougher, almost ritualistic.
She stood, scanning the walls. "Who found him?"
"Delivery guy. Called it in. Said he saw a black sedan drive off, no plates."
"Of course."
She stepped over the body and peered at the graffiti. The paint was still wet. Letters jagged, uneven, forming a phrase that made her jaw tighten:
"THE STREET REMEMBERS."
She took a photo and pocketed her phone.
"Get this area canvassed," she said. "Any witnesses, any cameras still alive, I want them. And tell CSU to move their asses — I want a ballistic report by noon."
Vega nodded, already pulling out his radio.
Alice turned back to the body. There was something in the man's left hand — a scrap of paper, soaked in blood. She pried it loose carefully, unfolded it.
A phone number. Nothing else.
She studied it for a long moment, memorising the digits before tucking it into an evidence bag.
"Welcome back to the streets," she muttered.
Later, back at the precinct, she pinned the crime scene photo to the board. The city map beside it was already dotted with red markers — her cases, open and unsolved, each one whispering its own version of truth.
She'd told herself this one was just another body. Another message in blood that didn't concern her past.
But the phrase on the wall lingered.
The street remembers.
And as much as she hated it, so did she.
Later that Morning,
The interrogation room was small, grey, and cold.
It smelled of bleach, metal, and nerves. Alice sat on one side of the table, fingers drumming lightly beside a folder. Across from her, a man in a torn denim jacket shifted in his seat, eyes darting toward the two-way mirror.
"Name's Travis Leaks," she said, glancing at the file. "Thirty-one. Petty theft, possession, assault. You know, the usual hobbies."
Travis snorted. "You callin' me a career man?"
"I'm calling you unlucky." She slid a photo across the table — the victim from the alley, his eyes open and lifeless. "You knew him?"
Travis didn't look. "Never seen him."
"Funny. His phone says otherwise. You texted him at 2:14 a.m. last night. 'Meet behind the diner. Quick job, easy cash.'" She leaned forward. "You expecting someone else?"
He swallowed. "Look, I didn't shoot him. I just—just set up the meet. Guy was desperate. Wanted in on a job."
"What kind of job?"
He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the mirror again. "You wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
He sighed, rubbing his wrists. "Somebody's been offering cash for cleanup work. Real hush-hush. No names, no addresses. You get a text, you do the thing, drop the phone, and it's like you never existed."
Alice's jaw tightened. "And what's 'the thing'?"
"Depends. Sometimes it's driving a car somewhere. Sometimes it's watching a place. Sometimes…" His voice trailed off. "Sometimes people don't come back."
She studied him. "You got the number that sent the offer?"
He shook his head. "Burner. Always changes. But—" He hesitated. "They always start with the same phrase."
Alice's pulse slowed. "What phrase?"
He looked up, eyes haunted. "The street remembers."
Silence filled the room. The hum of the fluorescent light seemed louder now.
Alice sat back in her chair. "You think this is some kind of game, Travis?"
"I'm telling you the truth! I swear—look, I didn't pull the trigger. I just made the call!"
Her voice dropped an octave, calm, surgical. "And now he's dead. Which makes you my best friend or my next arrest?"
He slammed his hand on the table. "You don't get it! This ain't gangs anymore! It's bigger than that!"
Alice watched him unravel. His leg bounced. Sweat darkened his collar. "Who are they?" she asked softly.
Travis stared at her like she already knew. "You don't wanna find out."
She let the silence stretch until it broke him. "Give me a name."
He leaned forward, whispering, "They call him the Broker. Runs things from the south docks. Nobody sees him, nobody talks to him directly. You get a text, you follow the job, and you pray you don't end up like that guy in the alley."
Alice stood, gathering her file. "You're going to stay here for a while, Travis. Think of it as protection."
His voice cracked. "From who?"
She paused at the door. "From the street."
Outside the room, the hallway smelled of burnt coffee and tension. Sergeant Rhodes met her halfway. "You buy his story?"
"Not yet," Alice said. "But I'm starting to rent space in it."
She lit a cigarette and stared through the glass at Travis hunched over the table, head in his hands. Something about the way he'd said the street remembers dug under her skin.
The phrase wasn't just graffiti anymore. It was a warning.
And somewhere out there, someone was writing the next line.
By nightfall, the city had put on its usual disguise — neon lights bleeding into puddles, sirens echoing like lullabies, the kind of weather that washed blood off asphalt and memory alike.
Alice stood by the pier, hands in her coat pockets, her badge cold against her chest. The south docks looked like a graveyard for industry: cranes rusted, warehouses shuttered, gulls screaming over the dark water.
The address Travis had given her was barely legible, scribbled in panic — Pier 47. It was the kind of place people used for one thing: disappearances.
A police van idled a block away, lights off. Two uniforms sat inside, waiting for her signal. She didn't tell them much — just that they were watching for a drop.
Truth was, she didn't know what she was watching for.
Her earpiece crackled. "Pierce, you got eyes on movement?"
"Negative," she murmured. "Just ghosts and fog."
A figure appeared at the end of the dock — tall, hooded, carrying a duffel bag. He moved like someone who'd done this too many times. Another figure stepped out of the shadows to meet him. Exchange, brief, efficient.
Alice lifted her phone, snapped a photo. The camera's focus caught just enough — a tattoo on the taller man's wrist. Three slashes inside a circle.
Her heart stopped for half a beat.
"Dispatch, this is Detective Pierce," she said, voice low. "We've got a confirmed meet at Pier 47. Two suspects, one marked. Move in."
The radio hissed. "Copy that—units moving."
But before the words finished, everything exploded into motion.
The hooded man dropped the bag and bolted toward the docks. The other pulled a gun, firing blind into the dark. Bullets tore through the fog. Alice hit the ground, rolled behind a stack of crates, gun drawn.
"Police! Drop it!"
The shooter didn't. She returned fire — two shots, centre mass. He fell backwards, hitting the wet boards hard.
By the time she reached him, his pulse was gone. The other man was gone too — vanished into the maze of shipping containers and rain.
The bag lay open beside the corpse. Inside, wrapped in plastic: cash, burner phones, and a small black envelope. She pulled it open carefully.
Inside was a single photo.
Her father. Marcus Pierce.
Standing in a crowd. Laughing. Alive.
Except he wasn't.
He couldn't be.
The photo looked recent — less than a year old.
Alice felt the world tilt for a moment, the sound of the rain fading into static. Then she steadied herself, tucking the envelope into her coat.
"Dispatch," she said after a long pause. "Suspect down. One escaped. I'm bringing evidence in."
"Copy, Detective."
She ended the call and looked out over the dark water. Lightning split the horizon, lighting the docks in brief, blinding silver. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, getting closer.
Alice holstered her gun, rain dripping from her hair, and whispered into the wind:
"Looks like the street remembers more than I thought."
She walked back toward the flashing lights, the envelope heavy in her pocket — and the first real crack in her world opening wide.