Good Morning.veronica -

She pulled the worn evidence bag from her pocket. Inside was a polaroid of a woman's wrist—delicate, with a small butterfly tattoo—bruised in the shape of a man's thumbprint. No note. No return address. Just the image, slipped under her apartment door at midnight.

Veronica Torres hung up the phone and stared at the crack in her kitchen wall. It was 6:47 AM. The morning light, pale and unforgiving, sliced through her thin curtains. She hadn't slept. Again. good morning.veronica

Veronica typed back: Soon.

Antunes rubbed his eyes. "Veronica. You're on leave. Mandatory psych hold, remember? After the Campos case..." She pulled the worn evidence bag from her pocket

The war had just begun. And Veronica Torres, for the first time in a long time, was wide awake. No return address

Veronica stood up, her joints protesting. Her daughter, Angela, was still asleep in the next room, her soft breathing a fragile metronome marking the distance between order and chaos. Veronica kissed her forehead without making a sound, then grabbed her coat.