The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Gordon stood on the rooftop, framed by the doorway that led back to the hospital. Surrounding the building were the crowded silhouettes of structures—some apartments, others offices. Their distant windows glowed faintly, piercing the gloom and reminding him just how dense this city truly was.

A cigarette rested in his hand, its dim embers burning faintly. He exhaled a plume of smoke, extinguished rapidly by the relentless downpour. The rain drummed steadily against the concrete rooftop as his thoughts circled the same question from earlier. It clawed at his mind, refusing to let go.

He didn't notice the twin slits of light creeping out of the shadows. They were narrow, jagged, and unblinking, like shards of cold stars hanging in the void. When he finally saw them, he flinched. His cigarette slipped from his fingers, hissing against the wet concrete.

"I hate when you do that," Gordon said, his voice flat but edged with wry irritation.

The figure in the dark didn't answer. His suit blended seamlessly with the blackness, leaving only the white eyes of his mask visible.

"The Emerson case is closed. Marcus White cut a deal with the A.D.A.—life without parole," said Gordon.

The glowing eyes didn't waver. They gave nothing away, offering neither acknowledgment nor approval. Gordon was used to it, though he still paused, as if expecting an answer or reaction.

"When Isaiah Carter flipped, he handed over a list of his crew. Marcus White was on it," Gordon continued. "I found him at a North Burnley motel—or, rather, four stories below it. Shattered both femurs. Doctors say he'll be in a wheelchair for life. Marcus says he fell out of the window by accident."

Gordon touched his mustache, feeling the dampness against his hand. This was the question that had been gnawing at him all night. With a heavy tone he asked, "Was it an accident?"

The silence that followed wasn't empty. Rain hammered the concrete in loud splashes. In the distance, the hum of air conditioners droned on, muffled by the downpour. The sounds swelled, receding only when the figure spoke

"If that's what he said."

The words crawled into the space between them, hollow and unyielding. Gordon had heard that voice before—dozens of times—but it still unsettled him. Devoid of inflection or emotion, yet always carrying the faint, unmistakable promise of violence.

His gaze fell to the dead cigarette on the ground, and his jaw tightened. Normally, he'd back off and let their worlds remain separate. But not tonight.

Gordon stepped forward, rain striking his face.

"I don't like what he did either. But it's not your place—or mine—to decide his punishment. You said this wasn't about vengeance. You said it was about justice. I need to know that hasn't changed."

The silence returned, louder than the rain. Gordon held his ground, refusing to waver.

"It was an accident," the voice said finally—low and toneless.

"How?" Gordon pressed.

"You thought there might be three occupants in the car," the figure said. "I paid him a visit to find out. He panicked and crashed through the window."

Gordon brushed a hand over his mustache, his expression revealing nothing. Years of practice had taught him to conceal doubt, to project control—even when he wasn't certain he had any.

"That's what happened," the figure repeated.

Those white eyes didn't shift. They bore into him, steady with quiet impatience. Gordon wanted to believe him, but his partner was a shadow in the city—but whose shadow?

"I believe you," Gordon said after a long pause. He dug into his coat as he stepped back toward the door.

"I've got a new one. It's different," he said, flipping to his notes. "Not a gang shooting. Could be an overdose, but my gut says otherwise. Found in a dumpster on South Burnley, near Elm Street at the Turn. Petite, Asian, early twenties—maybe late teens. Black hair, pale skin, about five-one. No shoes. Small non-defensive cuts on her palms. Blisters on her feet indicate trench foot. And this." He held up a sketch of a black trident symbol. "It was stamped on her wrist. Know anything about it?"

A pause, then: "2221 Wilmer, Little Saigon."

Gordon jotted it down. "A club?"

"Called Inferno. It's a pop-up rave that moves around Little Saigon. It's for the goth, punk crowd. Two locals run it. Last weekend it was at that address."

"Do they do them Fridays?" Gordon asked.

"Only Saturdays."

"Well, she was found tonight. Maybe they changed the schedule. Can you find out?" Gordon muttered.

There was silence as the figure weighed the details.

"Who called it in?" the figure asked.

"Anonymous. Probably one of the homeless nearby."

"You're sure it's trench foot?"

"I've seen it enough to know. Tran confirmed it," Gordon replied.

"Homeless?"

"She looks too healthy, but we can't rule anything out without a name. It's just a hunch so far."

"Cause of death?"

"Nothing obvious. Drugs, most likely," Gordon glanced at his notes, "We won't know for sure until the tox screen's back—months from now. That's where you come in. I need it sooner."

When Gordon glanced up, the glowing eyes were gone, swallowed by the shadows as if they'd never been there.

The rooftop seemed darker without them, and the rain felt heavier.

Gordon sighed, pulling another cigarette from his pocket. He cupped his hands around the lighter, shielding the flame against the wet wind.

"I hate when you do that too," he muttered, the words vanishing into the rain.