when doves fly

first impressions

Rain tapped against the pavement in a slow, steady rhythm, washing crimson streaks into the gutters.

The alley behind Mercer Street was blocked off with yellow tape, police lights painting the brick walls in flashes of red and blue. Officers shuffled around the scene, muttering to each other, cameras flashing.

Standing near the body was Indigo.

At six feet tall, he stood out easily, dressed in his dark coat with his long black hair tied into a neat braid down his back. His sharp eyes swept over the scene in silence, piecing everything together like a puzzle before anyone else even had the chance.

He hated crowded crime scenes.

Too loud.
Too messy.
Too many people asking stupid questions.

The victim was sprawled near a dumpster, one hand clenched tight around a silver chain. No obvious weapon.

Indigo crouched, gloved fingers hovering over the evidence.

"Time of death?" he asked.

"Roughly midnight," an officer answered.

Indigo nodded once.

Simple.

Or it should've been.

Then-

"Whoa, okay, so this is my first murder scene this week. That's gotta be some kind of record."

Indigo froze.

That voice.

Bright. Loud. Way too cheerful.

He slowly looked over his shoulder.

A man ducked under the police tape like it was nothing, holding a coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other. He was shorter-about 5'6-with messy strawberry blond hair, sharp amber eyes, and an expression that looked far too excited for a murder investigation.

He took a bite of what looked like a powdered donut.

Indigo stared.

Absolutely not.

The newcomer noticed him immediately and lit up.

"Oh! You must be Indigo."

Indigo stood.

"...And you are?"

The man swallowed his bite and smiled, sticking out a hand.

"Asher Vale. Detective transfer from West District."

Indigo looked at his hand.

Then at the powdered sugar on his fingers.

Then back at his face.

"I'm not shaking that."

Asher blinked, then laughed.

"Fair."

He wiped his hand on his coat.

Indigo's expression flattened.

Worse.

The captain walked over.

"Indigo, Asher's your new partner."

Silence.

Indigo stared at the captain.

The captain stared back.

Asher looked between them, smiling nervously.

Indigo spoke first.

"No."

"Yes."

"He's eating at a crime scene."

"It's a donut."

"That's not better."

Asher rubbed the back of his neck.

To be fair, he did understand the concern.

The second he saw Indigo, he'd panicked a little.

He'd heard of him before-the youngest detective to solve three cold cases in one year, terrifyingly observant, impossible to impress.

And unfortunately...

very attractive.

Not that Asher was focusing on that.

At all.

Definitely not.

He just wanted to prove he wasn't some idiot transfer.

So he straightened up and looked at the body.

"Victim's left-handed."

Indigo glanced at him.

"...What?"

Asher pointed.

"Watch. The bruising on the knuckles is heavier on the right hand, old bruises too. Defensive habits. Means they fought with their dominant hand less." He crouched near the chain. "And they grabbed this before dying, probably from the killer."

Indigo narrowed his eyes.

That was... actually right.

Asher looked up, grinning.

"Good catch, right?"

Indigo stared at him.

Maybe he wasn't useless.

Still annoying.

Very annoying.

Indigo turned and walked deeper into the alley.

"Try not to contaminate anything."

Asher blinked.

"...Was that his way of saying good job?"

The nearby officer patted him on the shoulder.

"That was practically a love confession."

Asher laughed.

Indigo, from several feet away, rolled his eyes.

This was going to be a disaster.

Asher stuffed the rest of his donut into his mouth and hurried after him.

And neither of them noticed the small black cat watching from atop the dumpster.

Its green eyes gleamed in the rain.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like it knew something they didn't.