The cab dropped Trent off at the end of his street in Newtown just before eleven. The rain had settled into a steady, freezing drizzle that slickened the pavement and blurred the streetlights. Trent walked the last fifty metres to his terrace house, his head down, the collar of his ruined jacket turned up against the cold.

He keyed the front door open and stepped into the narrow hallway. The house was warm. It smelled of roasted espresso beans, old timber, and the faint, clean scent of Darrell's cedarwood soap. It was a world away from the blood and stale beer of the South Bay Hotel, and a universe away from the wet dirt of Sydney Park.

Darrell was sitting at the small kitchen table at the back of the house, reading a paperback under the warm glow of a pendant light. He looked up as Trent walked in. His eyes immediately caught the state of Trent's clothes, the dark bruising already forming along his jawline, and the split, swollen knuckles of his right hand.

Darrell didn't ask what happened. He just closed his book, stood up, and walked over to the sink. He ran the hot water, soaked a clean dishcloth, and grabbed a small first-aid kit from the overhead cupboard.

"Jacket off," Darrell said quietly.

Trent stripped the heavy leather jacket off and dropped it on a dining chair. He stood by the sink, exhausted to the marrow of his bones, and let Darrell take his right hand.

Darrell wiped the dried blood away with careful, deliberate strokes. The hot water stung, but Trent didn't pull back. He watched Darrell's face—the concentration, the slight frown line between his dark eyes, the steady rhythm of his breathing.

"Mac called me," Darrell said, his voice low, focused on his work. "Said she put you in a cab. Said she pulled you off the active roster."

"She benched me," Trent corrected, his voice raspy. "I lost my temper in a pub. Let a suspect walk."

"She said you nearly put a bloke through the bar top." Darrell reached for the antiseptic tube, squeezing a dab onto Trent's knuckles. "She's worried about you, Trent. And so am I."

"I'm fine."

"You look like a corpse," Darrell said. He taped a piece of gauze over the worst of the cuts. He didn't let go of Trent's hand. He looked up, meeting Trent's eyes. "You aren't sleeping. You're barely eating. You're running on rage."

Trent looked at the man holding his hand. He saw the genuine, unconditional care there. It was a stark, jarring contrast to the cruelty he had spent the last forty-eight hours immersed in. He suddenly felt a desperate, overwhelming need to feel alive. He needed to wash the stench of the case off his skin. He needed to feel something that wasn't violence or death.

He pulled his hand free, stepped forward, and backed Darrell against the edge of the kitchen counter.

Trent kissed him. It wasn't a soft, domestic greeting. It was hard, bruising, and desperate.

Darrell was surprised for a second, his hands coming up to rest on Trent's chest, but he didn't push him away. He felt the raw, jagged edge in Trent, the sheer physical need, and he leaned into it. Darrell's mouth opened under his, warm and familiar, tasting faintly of peppermint.

Trent grabbed the front of Darrell's t-shirt, pulling him closer, crushing their bodies together. He needed the friction. He needed the heat. He kissed Darrell's jaw, the rough stubble scratching his lips, breathing in the scent of cedarwood and skin.

"Bedroom," Trent muttered against Darrell's neck.

They didn't make it to the bed immediately. They stumbled down the dark hallway, hands frantically pulling at clothes. Trent shoved Darrell against the bedroom wall, peeling his shirt over his head, discarding his own ruined t-shirt on the floorboards.

In the dim light filtering through the window blinds, Trent looked at his partner. He craved him. All of him. He craved the slide of Darrell's mouth, the weight of his body, the firm, grounding reality of his cock and his ass. More than the physical, Trent craved his soul—the absolute, unwavering certainty that Darrell was his safe harbour.

Trent dropped to his knees, his hands gripping Darrell's hips, burying his face against Darrell's stomach, kissing the hard line of muscle leading down. Darrell let out a ragged breath, his fingers threading into Trent's shaved hair, pulling him closer, anchoring him.

The physical intensity shut Trent's brain down. The case files, the angry Superintendent, the blood on his knuckles—it all receded, drowned out by the heavy, rhythmic friction, the taste of Darrell's skin, and the shared heat of the dark bedroom.

Trent stood up, dragging Darrell the last few steps to the bed. They fell onto the mattress together, a tangle of limbs. Trent was aggressive, setting the pace, driving the encounter with a frantic energy. He pinned Darrell beneath him, kissing him deeply, his hips rolling, seeking that final, blinding release that would finally let him sleep.

Darrell matched his energy. He wrapped his arms around Trent's back, his hands sliding down to grip Trent's waist, holding him tight.

"Trent," Darrell breathed into his ear.

Darrell shifted his grip, moving his hands up to Trent's arms to pull him down closer. Darrell's strong fingers wrapped tightly around Trent's left wrist.

The pressure of the grip hit Trent's nervous system like a live wire.

The bedroom vanished.

The smell of cedarwood was instantly replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of wet dirt and voided bowels. The warmth of the bed was gone, replaced by the freezing scrub of Sydney Park.

Flash.

Trent saw Liam Connor lying in the dirt, his knees pulled up to his chest.

Flash.

He saw the heavy, industrial black zip ties biting into Liam's wrists. The plastic cutting so deep it nearly hit bone. The absolute lack of defensive wounds. The terrifying compliance.

Flash.

He saw the thick, purple ligature mark slicing across the victim's throat. Bloodshot eyes staring blankly into the canopy.

Trent stopped breathing. His heart hammered violently against his ribs. The darkness of the bedroom suddenly felt oppressive, suffocating, exactly like the pitch-black maze of the brick kilns.

"Trent?" Darrell asked, sensing the immediate, rigid change in Trent's body. His grip on Trent's wrist loosened slightly.

"Don't," Trent choked out.

He violently shoved Darrell backward, tearing his wrist out of Darrell's grip. He scrambled off the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. He backed up until his spine hit the plaster wall, his chest heaving, sucking in air like a drowning man.

Darrell sat up slowly, the sheets pooled around his waist. He looked bewildered. The sudden shift from intense intimacy to stark terror left him reeling.

"What happened?" Darrell asked softly, making no sudden movements. "Did I hurt your hand?"

"No," Trent gasped, rubbing his face with his good hand, trying to scrub the images from his retinas. "No, you didn't. Just... don't touch my wrists."

Darrell stared at him in the dim light. He processed the words, the panic in Trent's voice, the way Trent was pressing himself flat against the wall like a cornered animal.

"Jesus, Trent," Darrell said, the realisation dawning on him. He reached for a t-shirt at the end of the bed and pulled it on. "You're thinking about the park. Right now."

Trent didn't answer. He turned away, finding his jeans on the floor and pulling them on, his hands shaking so badly he struggled with the zipper.

"You brought it into the bedroom," Darrell said, his voice losing its warmth, replaced by a quiet, devastating hurt.

"I didn't mean to," Trent said, keeping his back turned. "It just... it flashed. The grip. I couldn't stop it."

Darrell swung his legs over the side of the bed. "This is exactly why Mac pulled you. You're completely unravelling. You can't even have sex without seeing dead bodies."

"Don't analyze me, Dar," Trent snapped, the residual panic converting instantly into defensiveness. He paced toward the bedroom door, then turned back. "You have no idea what I'm looking at every day. You have no idea what they're doing to those boys."

"I know it's destroying you," Darrell shot back, his voice rising. "I know you walked into a pub tonight and beat the shit out of someone because you're losing your mind. I know I'm sitting here trying to be patient while my partner burns himself to the ground."

"I don't have a choice!" Trent yelled, stepping back toward the bed. "It's personal, Dar! Do you get that? It's not a gang turf war. It's not a drug deal gone wrong. It's a bunch of neo-Nazi bashers hunting us. They're targeting the beats. They're targeting guys like the ones we see at The Bunker. They're zip-tying them in the dirt and strangling them like animals."

Trent was shaking now, the rage and the horror pouring out of him, unchecked.

"It's a war against our community," Trent continued, his voice cracking. "And nobody cares. The locals didn't care about the immigrant kid in Homebush. The uniform boss didn't want to investigate Liam Connor because he didn't want the paperwork of a gay hate crime. Stokes only cares because I blew his precious gun-running syndicate. I'm the only one trying to stop them."

Darrell stood up. He walked over to Trent. He didn't look intimidated by the yelling. He just looked incredibly sad.

"You aren't the only one," Darrell said quietly. "Mac is there. Harris is there. You aren't a martyr, Trent. Stop acting like one."

The word stung. It hit harder than the punch in the pub.

"You think I want to be doing this?" Trent asked, his tone turning bitter.

"I think you're using this case as an excuse to shut everyone out," Darrell replied, not flinching. "You think because it's our community, only you can shoulder the burden. So you pick fights in bars, you push your partner away, and you tell yourself it's necessary. But it's not. It's just you isolating yourself."

"You don't get it," Trent muttered, shaking his head.

"I get it perfectly," Darrell said. He stepped back, putting distance between them. The physical space felt like a canyon. "I love you, Trent. I really do. But I can't be your punching bag, and I can't be your ghost. If you want to sleep in the dark with the dead men, go ahead."

Darrell walked past him, grabbed a pillow and a blanket off the bed, and headed out the door.

"Darrell," Trent said.

Darrell stopped in the doorway, but he didn't turn around. "You're benched, Trent. Take the night off. Be a human being for five minutes before you forget how."

He walked down the hall, the door to the spare room clicking shut a moment later.

Trent stood alone in the master bedroom. The house was dead quiet, save for the relentless drumming of the rain on the tin roof. The warmth was gone.

He didn't go back to bed. He couldn't.

Trent walked out to the living room. He didn't turn the lights on. He sat down heavily at the small dining table, opened his leather notebook, and stared at the handwritten timeline of the three murders. The names, the dates, the locations.

He sat there in the dark for hours, staring at the paper, unable to sleep, unable to fix what he had just broken, and unable to stop thinking about the men in the scrub. The night shift had only just begun.