If There Were An Afterlife Would You Love Me

Timothy stepped back into the familiar surroundings of the police station, a place that had seen him through countless nights of relentless duty. The fluorescent lights, usually a source of mundane annoyance, felt almost like a warm embrace tonight. A sense of camaraderie, thick as the stale coffee brewing in the break room, wrapped around him like a well-worn blanket. Dominic Hart, his captain and a man whose presence was often a blend of gruffness and warmth, gave him a reassuring clap on the shoulder. Yet, in that moment, the gesture felt heavy, weighed down by unspoken concerns.

“Timothy, why don’t you take the night off? Go home. Spend some quality time with Mia. After all, you two are a couple…” The words, intended as a friendly nudge, landed on Timothy like a sudden gust of wind, knocking the breath from his lungs. His usually stoic expression crumbled, revealing the weariness that had settled into the lines around his eyes, a testament to a struggle that went beyond the grind of late shifts.

“Mr. Hart, please,” Timothy replied, his voice low and gravelly, each word a labor. “Let’s not discuss her. I’ve moved on. I’ve already sent her the divorce papers.” He turned away, the harsh overhead lights catching the silver strands at his temples, reminders of the years he'd poured into the force—years now tangled in a web of personal chaos.

Dominic’s broad shoulders sagged under the weight of concern that transcended their professional bond. He had watched Timothy navigate the city’s darkest corners with unwavering resolve, a beacon of justice amidst the shadows. But this… this was different. This was a battle fought in the depths of the heart.

“Come on, man. Don’t be so stubborn,” Dominic urged, his voice softening in an attempt to break through the walls Timothy had built. “Have you really considered talking things over with her? I mean, really talking? What’s driving you to this decision, Tim? Is it that case with Maya from last year?”

Timothy’s jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek twitching with suppressed emotion. He turned to face Dominic, his gaze sharp as a knife. “That’s not her concern, and you know it. This… this is about respect, Dominic. Mia has crossed a line. I’ve given her chances—more than she deserved—but I just can’t overlook it any longer.” His voice faltered as he turned away again, eyes drawn to the rain-streaked window, where the city lights blurred into an indistinct haze, mirroring his tumultuous thoughts.

Dominic sighed, running a hand through his already tousled hair. He understood Timothy better than most; he wasn’t someone who made hasty decisions, especially regarding something as monumental as marriage. “I really don’t believe Mia would betray you, Tim. Not intentionally. Could there be a misunderstanding? A lapse in judgment, perhaps?”

As the weight of those unspoken words hung in the air, the precinct door swung open. A young officer, fresh from the academy and wide-eyed with the thrill of duty, entered, clutching a plain, unmarked package. He approached Dominic’s desk, his expression a mix of nerves and determination.

“Package for Detective Carter, sir,” he announced, his voice slightly trembling. “Express delivery.”

Timothy turned, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the box. It was disturbingly nondescript, the sender and recipient scrawled in an almost childlike hand. His heart, already heavy with the burden of his crumbling personal life, sank further when he registered his own name listed as the sender. A chill, colder than the autumn rain outside, slithered up his spine.

He was ready to dismiss the box as a cruel prank, a jest in the midst of his turmoil. But Dominic, ever the seasoned investigator, intrigued by the younger officer's unease, reached out a hand. “Hold on, Tim. Let’s take a look.”

With a hesitation that spoke volumes, Timothy relinquished the box. Dominic carefully opened it, the silence in the room amplifying the rustle of the cardboard flaps. A beat of silence passed, then a collective gasp filled the air. A wave of shock washed over them, visceral and sickening, as the unmistakable scent of blood, thick and metallic, invaded their nostrils. It was a smell that lingered, a reminder of violence and violation.

Inside the box, nestled among packing straw stained a disturbing crimson, lay a severed finger. It was grotesquely preserved, the skin pale and slick, the cut end ragged and raw. Beside it, as if presented with a morbid ceremony, lay a photograph.

Timothy, his face a mask of grim professionalism, retrieved the finger with an evidence bag. His trained eye quickly assessed the object. “These fingers are fake,” he announced, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Some kind of… prosthetic. And this blood? Just red paint. But the presentation… it’s deliberate, calculated.”

His gaze shifted to the photograph. It was an old-fashioned print, the kind produced by a film camera, colors slightly muted and surreal. The image depicted a dimly lit room, illuminated by chaotic bursts of dazzling fluorescent lights. They weren’t arranged in any discernible pattern; instead, they seemed to explode from the ceiling, scattering light in a wild, almost violent manner, creating an effect that was disorienting, unsettling.

“It almost resembles a… starry sky,” Dominic mused aloud, his brow furrowing in confusion as he leaned closer, studying the photograph as if it were an ancient riddle. “But… why? What could this possibly mean? And why send this to you, of all people, Tim?”

In that moment, the unspoken tension in the room shifted, deepening. It was no longer just about a failing marriage or a detective’s personal woes. It was about something darker, something more sinister. The air crackled with unanswered questions, the weight of choices yet to be made, and the chilling realization that Timothy’s world, both personal and professional, was on the brink of irrevocable change. The severed finger, fake as it was, became a message, a harbinger of a storm brewing on the horizon.

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