"Nick."

Detective Nicholas Gage stared at the patch of wall, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Around him, forensics specialists began to slowly shuffle in and out of the apartment that the police had cordoned off, but there was an eerie stillness to the air, a kind of apprehensive silence that no one seemed willing to break. Every creak of the stairs, every drip of condensation from rusted pipes, every shuffle and groan of the beaten and run-down tenement was amplified, a chilling atmosphere that was almost as menacing at the crime scene that lay within. Almost.

"Nick."

An insistent tap of the shoulder finally grasped the Detective's attention. He turned, eyes settling on the concerned frown of Detective Carlos Alvarez.

"You okay, bro?"

The silence lingered a moment longer, the faintest shake shifting Gage's head. "No, Carlos." All their years on the force, all the crime scenes, the bodies, the Gotham psychos; Alvarez had never seen his partner this rattled. This afraid. "I'm not even close."

Concern radiated from Alvarez as Gage led the way down the scuffed and scruffy hallway, paint peeling off the walls, moisture seeping from the plaster. It was weird; this was a pretty okay neighbourhood, the kind of place where you could charge a decent amount and attract a decent class of tenant. That was the way of Gotham though: even in the nicest parts of town, there was something dank rotting away at it's heart.

The door to Apartment 52 creaked open. More of the same. It clearly used to be a fancy space, modern layout, nice furniture, all left to rot and ruin, all neglected to the point of disrepair. Sad story, really, but exactly the kind of dive where you expected to find -

"¡Dios mío!" Carlos muttered, as his eyes finally climbed upwards towards the ceiling: the reason that they were here. Out of reflex, his hands gestured a quick crucifix across his forehead and shoulders, not wanting to stare at the unholy spectacle before him, but somehow entirely unable to tear his eyes away.

"Did you call Infernal Affairs?" Alvarez asked in a hushed whisper.

"Yeah," Gage replied, equally sombre. "They're on their way."

* * *

Hector hesitated as he stepped out of the car, carefully waiting until his partner's door began to swing closed before he nudged his into pursuit. As the two clunked in almost perfect unison, Hector's hand clenched into a fist of victory at his mediocre achievement. It was the little things though, right? The tiny victories, the tiny moments of joy that kept you sane, especially in a line of work like this.

His hands fell to his hips, hitching back his jacket enough for a dim flicker of rare Gotham sun to glint off the badge clipped to his belt. He probably looked pretty damned heroic; and held the pose for a moment or two longer, just in case there were any hot young uniforms hanging around outside the crime scene. It was weird. You'd think that after having served as a cop for a few years before he made Detective, he'd have moved past the whole women in uniform weakness, but nope. Still hot. Especially with their hair up. It was his weakness. His kryptonite. Except, y'know, completely different to actual kryptonite, aside from maybe making him a little bit weak at the knees. Maybe the eventually killing him with enough exposure part too: depends how many dates he managed to screw up on, and whether or not they broke up with him before he had the chance to become murder-worthy annoying.

He glanced across to his partner, and in an instant his demeanour shifted. In a wonderful display of practised athletics, he slid gracefully across the hood of the car and landed perfectly on his feet, reaching out to snatch the cigarette out of his partner's mouth before he'd even managed to light the thing.

"Damn it John," he muttered, with all the frustrated tone of a babysitter in way over his head. "No smoking at crime scenes. We've been over this."