Two days passed before Lena’s phone buzzed on the table beside her half-eaten breakfast. She wiped jam from her fingers, already guessing who it was.

Hayes: “Nick Cooper. Brought in this morning. You should come by the police station.”

Lena’s breath hitched as she stared at the screen. Her hands trembled slightly as she typed back.

Lena: “Did he confess to anything yet?”

The dots danced on her screen. Then stopped.

Hayes: “That’s better answered in person.”

The police station felt different this time.

Lena had been here not long ago—days, maybe a week—but today, the air felt thicker. Like she’d walked into something sacred and sorrowful all at once. Not cold, not sterile. Just… full of weight. The weight of truth that was just waiting to come to light.

Hayes met her in the hallway outside the viewing room. His sleeves were rolled, his badge clipped and swinging at his belt. His expression was grim, but there was something quietly triumphant about the way he carried himself.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” she murmured.

Before they entered the room, he added, “By the way, there's someone here I need to introduce to you.”

Inside, standing just to the right of the observation glass, was a young man who turned at the sound of their entrance.

He looked like a shadow of the past. The steel-blue eyes, the dark hair curling slightly toward his brow, the strong but not overbearing frame—he could’ve been Danny’s echo, reborn with a more cautious heart. The only difference was the glasses perched low on his nose, giving him an air of thoughtful restraint.

“Lena, this is Sam Langston,” Hayes said. “Danny’s son.”

Sam offered her a gentle nod. “I knew Nate didn’t do it,” he said quietly. “Back then, I didn’t have proof, but… Nate and I were friends when I was a kid. He was always kind.” He looked toward the glass. “But now… the truth is finally about to come out.”

Before Lena could respond, Hayes nodded to the mirror. “It’s starting.”

Lena stepped closer and looked through the glass—and there he was.

Nick Cooper.

The man who had haunted her visions, once youthful and darkly magnetic, now appeared like a crumbling statue of who he used to be. He sat slouched in the interrogation chair, belly pressing out from beneath a shirt that fit a size too small. His arms were littered with faded, cluttered tattoos. His eyes—once intense and cunning—were dull, like headlights left on too long, slowly dimming in a parking lot of ghosts.

The investigator on the other side opened a manila folder and began. “You claimed you were home on the night of July 4th, 1992, yes?” the detective said calmly. Nick nodded once. “Yeah. With a friend. We hung out.”

“What friend would that be, Mr. Cooper?” Nick paused, scratched at his temple. “Uh… it’s been years. Randy…something. I don’t remember his last name.”

“You said that back in '92 too. And yet, no one ever confirmed your alibi.”

“It was just a quiet night in. Nothin’ happened.”

“You worked at the auto shop under Danny Langston, correct?”

“Yeah,” Nick muttered. “He was my boss.”

“Were the two of you close?”

He gave a small, bitter snort. “Nah. Not really.”

“I know you said before that you were home that night, but I’ve been told that you also didn't attend Danny’s funeral? Never even made a public statement. Why is that, sir?”

Nick shifted. “Didn’t think I had to.”

The investigator reached into the folder and slid a paper across the table toward him. Nick looked down, squinting. He picked it up. It was a copy of the auto shop ledger. The one Danny kept in his personal safe.

Handwritten notes. Marked cash deposits. Withdrawal dates. Highlighted at the bottom—a line of funds that had gone missing in the weeks leading to his death.

Nick stared at the document for a long, long time.

When he finally put it down, his hands trembled.

“You don't look surprised to see this,” the detective said. “You even seem a little angry to see this document, am I right?”

Nick didn’t speak.

“Danny must have told you that he knew about the missing money. Am I correct in this assumption, Mr. Cooper?”

The silence in the viewing room was suffocating.

Then, softly, brokenly—Nick said, “I didn’t want to kill him.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“I—” Nick’s eyes glazed over. “He caught me. He warned me to stop. Basically called me a thief. I–I couldn't handle the truth. He always looked down on me, like I was trash. I just—” His voice cracked. “I just… snapped.”

“You didn’t hate it though, did you? Killing him?”

Nick closed his eyes.

“No,” he whispered. “I didn’t.”

A breath passed.

“I was scared at first. But I liked having power over him for a change.” His hands curled into fists. “I thought maybe… maybe it would make me feel like a total badass for once! But it didn't!!!”

When he began to sob, it wasn’t remorse that bled through—it was defeat.

Later, in the front lobby, sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden stripes across the floor.

Hayes leaned back against the front desk, rubbing the back of his neck. Sam stood with his hands in his pockets, still processing the confession he had just witnessed.

“Nick will be in prison for life,” Hayes said. “We got the paperwork signed. No appeal’s gonna reverse this.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Sam whispered. “After all these years…”

“You said you were friends with Nate,” Lena said gently. “I’m glad you held on to that trust.”

Hayes gave a short nod. “Speaking of, I gave him a call before I brought Nick in. He should be coming in right about now.”

Right on cue, the front doors creaked open. Nate Cooper stepped in.

He was older, weathered in a way that couldn’t be measured in just years—but he carried himself with quiet dignity. His eyes swept the lobby until they landed on Sam, Hayes, and then finally Lena. He offered a cautious smile.

“Mr. Cooper,” Hayes greeted, “your arrest record is being wiped as we speak. You will officially have a clean slate.”

“Nineteen years too late,” Nate murmured, but the words held no bitterness. “But thank you all the same.”

As he turned to leave, Lena called to him.

“Wait.”

He paused.

“Just…why?” she asked, voice catching in her throat. “Why take the fall, knowing that you easily could’ve proven your innocence?”

Nate looked back at her, his eyes glassy but steady.

“Because he's my brother,” he said. “He was falling apart back then—our parents were constantly fighting, he was drinking, smoking dope, and just angry at the world. But when he told me what he did… he cried like a baby. He said he didn’t mean to. And he asked me to help him.”

He inhaled sharply.

“I thought…maybe if I took the fall, he’d get some help. Maybe prison would be kinder to me than life would be to him. And I loved him. Even knowing what he’d done. Love doesn’t vanish just because someone breaks you.”

No one spoke.

Then Sam walked forward.

The two men locked eyes, unsure.

Then they embraced.

No words. Just years of silence and anguish breaking open before the two left the station together.

Lena pressed a hand to her heart. Her throat ached. Hayes turned to her and gently clapped her shoulder. “You did this, Cross.”

Before she could reply, a deliberate cough sounded from around the corner. They turned.

A tall woman stood there—African American, mid-fifties, her afro proud and full, lipstick a fierce cherry red. She wore a sleek black pantsuit, the only ornament a cherry-shaped pin gleaming on her breast.

Hayes straightened. “Ah—Director. Here to congratulate Ms. Cross?”

“Well, yes and no,” she replied. Then she reached out, gently taking Lena’s hand. “I also wanted to say…” She slipped something into Lena’s palm.

“Welcome to the team, Agent Cross.”

Lena turned her hand over. A golden FBI badge gleamed up at her.

She gasped. Her throat tightened as her fingers curled around it. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Thank you so much.” The director only smiled. Hayes grinned beside her. “Told you she was Bureau material.”

Lena could only smile through her tears, the weight of justice and hope settling into her bones.