the hospital feels too bright for the hour. the lights washing everything in a sterile glare that does nothing to hide the blood being tracked in or the tension sitting heavy in the air, and zahir moves through it like he belongs there, badge already out, voice low but steady as he stops a nurse mid-stride. “detective zahir cole, rift valley pd. what’s the status on the victims from the hotel?” he listens, nodding once, filing away what matters and discarding what doesn’t, eyes already scanning past her for movement, for staff, for anything that looks like someone in charge. the masquerade has turned into a spillover of chaos. stab wounds, statements, arrests. it’s stacking neatly on top of a case that was already unraveling too fast. miles logan dead, josephina santoro found barely holding onto herself, and now this. he exhales through his nose, grounding himself, then steps up to the front desk, posture composed but carrying that quiet authority that makes people listen without him needing to raise his voice. “i need to speak with doctor white,” he says, tone even, controlled. a beat, then sharper, more direct, “can you have doctor white come to the front desk?”