Mack walked toward Harper, ignoring the murmurs and warnings from bystanders. Every step was deliberate, almost reverential, like approaching a frightened animal that needed reassurance more than authority. Harper’s gaze remained fixed on the pavement, unblinking, unseeing. The tension tightened so sharply around them that even the distant sirens seemed muted, as if the world itself held its breath.
Mack stopped a few feet away. Then he did something nobody expected.
He lowered himself to the wet asphalt, sitting cross-legged directly across from Harper at eye level. The street was silent now except for the dripping of water from awnings and the faint clicks of a camera or two.
Mack reached into his vest and pulled out something that made the crowd gasp. Not a weapon. Not a threat. A photograph, its edges soft from years of handling.
He held it out quietly.
