Rain followed him into the alley behind the morgue. A single bulb buzzed overhead, flickering like it was too tired to stay alive. Argus Cutter wearing the face of Detective Ethan Lawson stood under it, staring at the burner phone in his palm. The call had ended two minutes ago.
His heart still hadn't slowed.
We need to talk about Argus Cutter's death.
The voice knew. Not just about the bombing. About him. Somehow, someone knew he was still alive just not in the same skin.
Argus turned the phone over. Cheap plastic. No SIM ID, no GPS ping. It wasn't a normal line. Whoever called him was careful.
He pulled up the call log. One number. One minute twenty-three seconds. No way to trace it from here.
His thumb hovered over the precinct app on the phone's main screen. Lawson's badge had access to the department net. Encrypted logs, call history backups, even internal CI lists if he could get past the credentials.
But if he screwed up, one wrong access would flag him.
He weighed it fast.
Too risky out here.
He needed real access. Inside.
Argus zipped the coat tighter and stepped into the rain. It came down hard now, streaking off his shoulders as he crossed the lot. A yellow cab pulled into the curb as he passed. The driver didn't look twice. Just another tired cop in a soaked coat.
Ten minutes later, he pushed through the doors of the 1st Precinct.
The smell hit first coffee, floor wax, wet wool. Nothing changed. The same bullpen he remembered from his old world: desks stacked with folders no one touched, detectives pretending they weren't drowning. Phones ringing like they didn't care if anyone picked up.
A few heads turned.
One detective tall, black, sharp fade froze with his coffee halfway up. His face cracked like he'd seen a ghost. "Lawson?"
Argus didn't stop walking.
The silence behind him wasn't shock. It was weight. Something heavy and unsaid.
He reached the front desk. The sergeant behind the glass blinked twice, then stood up like her knees didn't work.
"Thought you were out on leave."
"Back now," Argus said.
That voice again. Lawson's voice. Not his. Still felt like wearing someone else's jaw.
"Captain Barnes wants you upstairs," the sergeant muttered, grabbing the desk phone.
Argus nodded once. "I'll find him."
Upstairs hadn't changed. Same chipped banister, same squeaky third step.
He walked into Barnes's office without knocking.
Barnes looked up from behind his desk, pen frozen over a form.
The man hadn't aged much. Still stocky. Still grey at the edges. His eyes narrowed like a man trying to line up a shot without raising the rifle.
"You're early," he said.
Argus kept standing. "Didn't feel like sitting home."
Barnes leaned back. "Funny. Last I heard, you were unconscious. Comatose."
"I got better."
Barnes studied him for a beat longer, then pointed to the chair. "Sit."
He did.
"You remember anything about the shooting?"
Argus let the pause sit just long enough. "Flashes. Heat. Pain."
"Helpful."
"You wanted me here or not?"
Barnes tapped the pen on the desk, staring at him.
"Chen's coming in later. I'll pair you back up. But take it easy. No deep dives until psych clears it."
Argus nodded like he'd follow that.
Barnes wasn't convinced. "Lawson Ethan you don't look right."
"Feels worse."
Barnes dropped it.
"Your stuff's still in your desk," he said. "Didn't let anyone touch it."
Argus stood. "Appreciated."
Downstairs, the bullpen had mostly stopped pretending. They watched him like a man half-resurrected.
He slid into the desk labeled LAWSON and opened the top drawer.
Files. Notes. A crumpled stress ball. A black notebook wedged under a worn case folder.
He pulled it out.
The name on the case file stopped his breath.
Cutter, Argus OPEN
Inside were photographs. Satellite shots. Grainy surveillance from six months ago. One photo was charred at the edge. It showed Argus his face standing next to Marco at the Grandview Club.
His pulse jumped.
Another photo showed the explosion site. A forensic body bag zipped shut. The toe tag read "Cutter, Argus – presumed fatality."
At the back of the file, a note handwritten in tight block print:
Unconfirmed source claims Cutter faked death. Follow up. No departmental interest.
He closed the folder.
So. Lawson had been on his trail before the body swap.
That explained why the voice had called this phone.
Lawson had dug too deep. Now Argus had inherited the shovel.
The department-issued tablet beeped from the drawer. He unlocked it using the thumbprint scanner it worked on the first try. The screen opened on the NYPD internal comms app. Argus opened the encrypted call logs.
The number from the burner was there.
He pinged its source.
A coded CI contact flashed: DAGGER – Tier 3 Informant. Status: INACTIVE.
Last logged drop: Hillcrest Diner, Queens.
He stared at it.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat.
He turned.
Detective Amy Chen stood at the edge of the bullpen; arms folded. Her face unreadable.
"You coming?" she asked.
Argus stood, slipping the tablet into his coat.
"Yeah," he said. "Let's go."
Chen didn't speak until they hit the elevator.
Argus stood to her right, hands in his coat pockets, eyes on the glowing numbers above the door. The hum of the lift filled the silence between them.
"You remember where the diner is?" she asked.
"Queens. Hillcrest Avenue."
She side-eyed him. "Didn't think you'd remember that."
"I read the old report before you got here."
"You were unconscious this morning."
He shrugged. "Guess I read fast."
The elevator dinged. She walked ahead without another word.
Outside, rain misted across the windshield. Chen's unmarked Ford sedan idled under a busted streetlamp. She unlocked it without looking at him. He slid into the passenger seat, wiping fog from the window with his sleeve.
The city moved slow around them. Late morning traffic. Buses coughing black smoke. People bundled in thick coats, heads down.
Chen drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other flicking the heater dial.
"You seem different," she said eventually.
Argus didn't answer.
"Before all this... you were sharp. Focused. Not cold, but" She shook her head. "Now it's like you're watching everything sideways."
He glanced at her.
"Maybe I see more now."
"Maybe." She turned onto the bridge. "You didn't used to be good at lying, either."
The windshield wipers clicked once, twice. No one said anything after that.
They reached Hillcrest twenty minutes later. The diner sat between a shuttered liquor store and a pawn shop with rusted bars. Neon signs half-dead. "Sunny's Dine-" was all that lit.
Inside, three customers sat spread out two old men nursing coffee, and a woman in scrubs reading on her phone. Booths near the back were empty. A man sat alone by the window, hoodie up, shoulders hunched, a burner phone on the table beside a cup of untouched coffee.
Argus spotted him immediately.
Dagger.
Same posture. Same habit of tapping the table with two fingers in rhythm. Argus had used him years ago to leak fake intel to the feds. Good ears, bad nerves.
"Wait here," Argus said, already opening the door.
Chen grabbed his wrist. "You sure?"
He nodded once. "If I need backup, I'll wave."
"Wave with your left hand. That's how I know it's real."
Argus stepped into the diner; the bell jingled over his head. The man didn't look up. Argus walked past the counter, slid into the booth across from him. Dagger's eyes finally lifted.
They widened.
"You're?"
"Detective Lawson," Argus cut in. "You called."
Dagger looked around quickly. "I didn't know it was you, not really. Not until you picked up."
"You said you were there when Argus Cutter died."
"I was close." He leaned in. "Closer than I should've been."
Argus didn't blink. "Talk."
Dagger shifted in his seat. "That hit wasn't from the street. The blast, the timing... it was clean. Military clean. Not some street-level fireworks. I think your precinct's got a leak."
"Names."
"I don't have names. Just pieces. And paranoia."
Argus narrowed his eyes. "That's not enough."
Dagger opened his mouth to speak and froze.
Argus followed his gaze down.
A black-gloved hand was slipping under the table behind Dagger. Just a sliver visible from Argus's angle. Muzzle. Suppressed. Tucked under Dagger's ribs.
Shit.
Argus's foot kicked the underside of the table hard. Dagger yelped and jerked sideways just as the silenced pistol fired.
The bullet sank into the backrest where Dagger's kidney had been a second ago.
"Gun!" Argus shouted, flipping the table into the shooter.
The man stumbled back. Hoodie up. Eyes hidden. He recovered quick, raising the pistol toward Argus.
Argus didn't hesitate.
He rushed him. Grabbed the wrist. Slammed it against the wall. The gun clattered to the floor.
Dagger ducked under the booth, scrambling.
The shooter threw a punch. Argus took it across the jaw. Spit blood. Drove his shoulder into the guy's ribs and tackled him through the kitchen doors.
Cooks screamed.
Chen burst in a second later, gun drawn.
"Drop it!" she shouted.
But the shooter didn't listen. He bolted through the back exit, vanishing into the alley before either of them could fire.
Argus knelt, catching his breath.
Dagger was gone.
So was the phone.
The booth was empty, table flipped, one bullet buried in the wall.
Chen holstered her weapon. "You wanna explain?"
"No," Argus said, standing.
Outside, sirens were already approaching.
But Argus wasn't looking at the street.
He was staring at the bullet hole in the wall, tracing the angle. It hadn't been aimed to scare.
It was meant to kill. Fast. Silent. No witnesses.
And that trigger hadn't been pulled by some street punk.
That was muscle.
Real muscle.
"We just got made," Argus muttered.