The diner looked like a time capsule that had been forgotten on purpose.
Grease-stained tiles, a cracked leather booth, and a jukebox that hadn't played since before Y2K. The sun crept through yellowed blinds in thin, hazy bands, painting lines across the dusty Formica tables.
Alex sat in the corner booth, his sleeves rolled up, his jacket draped over the seat beside him.
He looked like someone used to listening more than talking, a detective dressed in the polite stillness of someone trying to coax answers without spooking the source.
Across from him, Gene Valco looked like a ghost.
His skin was wind-worn and sallow, his hair thinned to a silver whisper. The man clutched a chipped mug of stale coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.
They hadn't spoken for nearly two minutes.
Just sat there. Watching.
Listening.
Judging the other's breath.
Then Alex spoke in a quiet voice. No badge. No authority. Just an invitation.
