Good Cop, Bad Cop

The coin always sounds louder in interrogation rooms.

Not because of the acoustics—though the tile and glass and bad decisions do make everything echo—but because of what it means. A tiny disk of metal deciding who gets to be the monster tonight.

I flicked it with my thumb. Old habit. Older than the badge, older than the city, older than most of the buildings that scraped at the smog-heavy sky outside.

“Heads,” I said.

Across the table, Marcus leaned back in his chair, boots up, arms folded behind his head like he was settling in for a movie. Which, in a way, he was.

The coin spun. Silver flashing under fluorescent light. For a second, it looked like a sliver of moon.

It landed on the table with a flat, final clack.

Tails.

Marcus grinned, slow and wolfish, his canines just a little too long to be human even when he tried to hide them. “Looks like it’s you tonight, Val.”

I stared at the coin.

Tails.

Of course it was.

“Lucky me,” I muttered.

Marcus swung his boots down and stood, rolling his shoulders like a boxer about to enter the ring. “Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on him.”

“That’s not the point.”

He shrugged. “It is for me.”

I pocketed the coin. It was warm already, though it had only been in my hand for a moment. It always did that. Heat or memory—I’ve stopped trying to tell the difference.

“Give me five minutes,” I said.

Marcus nodded toward the one-way mirror. “I’ll be watching. Try not to actually kill him. Paperwork’s a nightmare.”

“No promises.”

He laughed at that, low and rumbling, then stepped out into the observation room, leaving me alone with the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint scent of old fear soaked into the walls.

I took a breath.

It wasn’t necessary. Not for me. But it helped with the illusion.

Then I opened the door.

The suspect looked up when I entered.

Humans always do. They feel it before they understand it—the shift in the air, the subtle wrongness. Like stepping into a room that’s just a degree too cold.

He was young. Early twenties, maybe. Hoodie, jeans, hands cuffed to the table. His eyes flicked over me, searching for something he could use—weakness, kindness, anything that might tilt the scales in his favor.

He didn’t find it.

“Evening,” I said, closing the door behind me with a soft click.

He swallowed. “I—uh—am I getting a lawyer?”

“Eventually.”

I pulled out the chair across from him and sat. Slow. Deliberate. Let him watch every movement.

“I’m Detective Valentine,” I said. “My partner’s Detective Hale. You’ve met him already.”

His gaze darted toward the mirror, then back to me. “The big guy?”

“The very same.”

“Yeah,” he said, trying for a chuckle and failing. “Hard to miss.”

“Mm.”

I folded my hands on the table. The cuffs rattled faintly as he shifted.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Dylan.”

“Dylan what?”

He hesitated. “Reyes.”

“Dylan Reyes,” I repeated, like I was tasting it. Committing it to memory. “That’s a good name.”

“Thanks,” he said, uncertain.

Silence stretched between us.

Humans hate silence.

They rush to fill it, to push words into the void before it can swallow them whole. I let it linger, let it press down on him like the weight of deep water.

He cracked first.

“Look,” Dylan said, leaning forward as far as the cuffs allowed, “I don’t know why I’m here. I told the other guy—”

“Marcus,” I said.

“—yeah, him. I told him I didn’t do anything.”

I tilted my head. “Didn’t you?”

“No! I mean—yeah, okay, I was there, but—”

“There,” I echoed softly.

His mouth snapped shut.

Too late.

I smiled.

It wasn’t a nice smile.

“Let’s start with that,” I said. “Where is ‘there,’ Dylan?”

Marcus watched from behind the glass, arms crossed, expression somewhere between amused and impressed.

“He’s leaning into it,” he murmured.

The tech beside him—Jenna, human, jittery, perpetually caffeinated—nodded without looking away from the monitors. “Your partner’s… intense.”

Marcus snorted. “You have no idea.”

On the screen, Valentine sat perfectly still, eyes locked on the suspect. Unblinking.

Humans blink. Even when they try not to.

Valentine didn’t bother trying.

“Kid’s already sweating,” Jenna said.

“Give it another minute,” Marcus replied. “Val’s just getting started.”

“Where is ‘there,’ Dylan?” I repeated.

He licked his lips. “The warehouse.”

“Which warehouse?”

“On Ninth. By the river.”

I nodded, as if that confirmed something. It didn’t, not really, but he didn’t know that.

“And what were you doing there?”

“Just… hanging out.”

“At three in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

“In an abandoned warehouse.”

“Yeah.”

“With three other individuals who are currently in custody.”

His eyes widened. “They—what?”

“Funny thing about stories,” I said, leaning forward slightly. “They tend to fall apart when you tell them alone.”

“I—no, I—”

“Your friends,” I continued, voice soft as velvet, “have been very helpful.”

That was a lie.

But lies are tools, and I’ve been alive long enough to know how to use them.

“They said you were the one who found it,” I went on. “The thing in the crate.”

Dylan’s face went pale.

Ah.

There it was.

“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped.

I leaned closer.

He could see it now. The subtle wrongness. The way the light didn’t quite reflect in my eyes. The way my shadow bent at angles it shouldn’t.

“What did you find, Dylan?” I asked.

His breathing quickened. “I—I didn’t open it. I swear.”

“But you knew what was inside.”

“No!”

“Yes,” I said gently. “You did.”

He shook his head, but it was weak. Unconvincing.

I let my gaze drop to his wrist.

Pulse fluttering.

Fast.

Fear does that.

“So you found a crate,” I said. “In an abandoned warehouse. In the middle of the night. And you didn’t look inside.”

“That’s right.”

“Because you’re very disciplined.”

He didn’t answer.

“Or,” I said, “because you already knew what you’d find.”

“I didn’t—”

“What was it?” I snapped.

He flinched.

Good.

“Money?” I pressed. “Drugs? Weapons?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know!”

I stood.

The chair scraped loudly against the floor. He jumped.

I began to circle the table, slow, measured steps.

“You’re lying,” I said.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“I’m not!”

I stopped behind him.

He froze.

Humans are very aware of what’s behind them. Predators taught them that, long before cities and laws and electric lights.

I leaned down, close enough that he could feel the cold of me.

“You opened the crate,” I whispered.

“I didn’t—”

“You saw it.”

His breath hitched.

“You know what it is.”

“I don’t—”

My hand came down on the table, hard enough to rattle the cuffs.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence.

Then, very softly, “I didn’t mean to.”

I smiled.

There it was.

Marcus exhaled slowly. “And there it is.”

Jenna glanced at him. “He didn’t even raise his voice that much.”

“Val doesn’t need to,” Marcus said. “That’s the scary part.”

On the screen, Valentine had moved back around to the front of the table, reclaiming his seat with the same eerie calm.

The suspect looked like he might pass out.

“Bad cop,” Marcus added, “doesn’t always mean loud.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Dylan repeated, staring at the table.

I sat down.

“Tell me,” I said.

He swallowed. “We—we heard about it. This guy, he said there was something valuable in there. Like, really valuable.”

“And you believed him.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because—” He hesitated. “Because he showed us.”

“Showed you what?”

Dylan’s gaze flicked up to mine, then away. “A tooth.”

I went very still.

“What kind of tooth?” I asked.

He laughed nervously. “What, like I’m a dentist? I don’t know. It was… long. Sharp. Not human.”

Not human.

My fingers tightened slightly on the table.

“And this man,” I said carefully, “where is he now?”

“I don’t know! He just—he told us where the crate was, and then he was gone.”

“Convenient.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Maybe,” I said. “Keep going.”

Dylan nodded quickly. “So we go to the warehouse, right? And the crate’s there, just like he said. Big wooden thing, nailed shut. No markings.”

“And?”

“And we—we start prying it open.”

“With what?”

“Crowbar. One of the guys brought it.”

“Of course he did.”

Dylan swallowed again. “It took a while. Nails were old but… there were a lot of them.”

I could imagine it. The creak of wood. The slow, inevitable giving way.

“And when you opened it?” I prompted.

He shuddered.

“There was… dirt,” he said.

“Dirt.”

“Yeah. Like… packed in. And then—”

He stopped.

“And then?” I said.

His eyes met mine.

“There was a hand.”

The word hung in the air like a bell that had just been struck.

Even through the glass, Marcus felt it.

He straightened, all trace of amusement gone.

“Hand?” Jenna echoed.

Marcus didn’t answer.

On the screen, Valentine hadn’t moved.

But something in the room had changed.

“A hand,” I repeated.

Dylan nodded, trembling now. “Yeah. Pale. Like… like it had never seen the sun.”

I said nothing.

“W-we thought it was a body,” he went on. “Like, someone buried alive or something. So we start digging, right? Trying to get them out.”

“Trying to help,” I said.

“Yeah!”

“And?”

“And then it—” He choked. “It moved.”

Of course it did.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“We freaked out! I mean, obviously! One of the guys ran. The other one dropped the crowbar. I—I just stood there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know! I couldn’t—I couldn’t move.”

Fear does that.

“And the hand?” I said.

“It grabbed me.”

My lips curved, just slightly.

“Did it?”

“Yeah! Tight. Like—like a vise. And then the dirt started… shifting.”

He was shaking now, eyes wide, reliving it.

“And then it sat up.”

I leaned back in my chair.

“And what,” I asked, “did it look like?”

Dylan stared at me.

For a moment, I thought he might refuse to answer.

Then he whispered, “Like you.”

Silence.

Even Marcus felt that one.

“...Well,” he muttered. “That’s new.”

I held his gaze.

“Like me,” I repeated.

“Yeah.”

“How so?”

“Pale. Eyes… wrong. Teeth…” He swallowed. “Sharp.”

I smiled.

Showed just a hint.

He recoiled.

“Yes,” I said softly. “Like me.”

“You—you know what it is,” he said.

“I have a theory.”

“It—it killed them,” Dylan blurted. “The other guys. It just—it moved so fast, and there was blood and—”

“Calm down.”

“I’m telling you, it’s still out there!”

“I know.”

He blinked. “You… know?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

I stood again.

This time, I didn’t bother with subtlety.

My shadow stretched across the table, long and wrong, swallowing his.

“Because,” I said, “Dylan, that wasn’t just a body in a box.”

He stared up at me, frozen.

“It was a coffin,” I continued. “A very old one.”

“I—”

“And you,” I said, leaning in, “opened it.”

“I didn’t know!”

“No,” I agreed. “You didn’t.”

I straightened.

“Which means,” I went on, “you’ve just helped me immensely.”

“Helped you?”

I smiled again.

This time, I let him see it.

All of it.

“Bad cop,” I said, almost conversationally, “isn’t always about you.”

His face went white.

The door opened.

Marcus stepped in, rolling his sleeves up like he’d just finished a workout.

“Hey, Val,” he said casually. “How’s it going?”

I glanced at him.

“Productive.”

Marcus looked at Dylan, who looked like he might bolt despite the cuffs.

“Yeah,” Marcus said. “Looks like it.”

He turned back to me. “My turn?”

I considered.

Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the coin.

I set it on the table.

“Double or nothing,” I said.

Marcus grinned.

“Now you’re talking.”

He flicked it.

We both watched it spin.

For a moment, it caught the light just right—bright as a sliver of moon.

Then it fell.

Clack.

Heads.

Marcus groaned. “Aw, come on.”

I smiled.

“Looks like I’m still the bad cop.”

Dylan whimpered.

Somewhere out in the city, something old and hungry was walking free.

And for the first time that night, I felt almost… alive.