Chapter One: The Cracks in the Mirror
The sound wasn't supposed to be there.
Garcia had come home early—no calls, no warning, just the quiet hum of instinct guiding him. The door was unlocked. Her scent, sweet and familiar, drifted out to meet him like a ghost at the threshold.
Then he heard it.
Soft gasps. A whispered name that wasn't his. The rhythmic creak of the bed he'd built with his own hands.
He moved like a man underwater, steps heavy, ears ringing. The hallway stretched like a tunnel toward the bedroom door, where light flickered in slivers through the cracked frame.
And there she was.
Janette—his wife, the woman he had cried with, built dreams with—lay tangled beneath another man. Her head thrown back, lips parted, fingers clawing into unfamiliar shoulders. Her voice, so soft when she said I love you, now moaned words that tore at the walls of his soul.
Garcia didn't move. He didn't burst in. He didn't scream.
He watched.
Long enough to feel something inside him break. Long enough to know this wasn't a mistake or a moment—it was truth. Sharp and silent.
He left without a sound.
Back in the kitchen, the silence was unbearable. Rain dripped against the window. His badge sat next to a half-eaten dinner, untouched. His fingers trembled as he reached for a cigarette.
The flame danced at the tip, then settled.
He exhaled slowly, smoke curling like questions in the air. How long had it been? How many signs had he ignored?
Detectives weren't supposed to miss the obvious.
Garcia picked up a photograph of them at the beach, the corners worn from years of pretending. He studied his own smile like it belonged to a stranger.
This case—the one he'd been chasing for months—it wasn't the only thing unraveling.
So was he.
Garcia sat in silence, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. His jaw clenched tight, a pulse ticking in his temple. The photo frame lay facedown on the table now—he couldn't bear to see that version of himself. That man was gone.
The drawer beneath the kitchen counter creaked open.
He didn't hesitate. His hand slid across cold steel, fingers wrapping around the handle of his Glock. It wasn't aimed. Not yet. He just… held it. The weight was familiar. Solid. Honest. Unlike everything else in his life.
He stood, slow and stiff, and walked out into the corridor, the gun loose in his grip. Not raised. Not threatening. Just… there. Like a ghost walking beside him.
Unbeknownst to Garcia, eyes watched from the second floor above.
Bella.
Janette's younger sister had come over unannounced, as she often did. She was supposed to borrow a dress, but what she walked into had stunned her into silence. She hadn't meant to hear it. The sounds. The names. The betrayal.
And now—this.
From the shadowed staircase, Bella watched as Garcia moved like a man cracking apart, piece by piece. She saw the gun. Saw the tremor in his hand.
Her breath caught in her throat. Not from fear—but something else. Sympathy. A painful echo of her own past—the father who never came back, the uncle who raised his voice and his fists in the end, she always had to protect her sister.
Without a word, she slipped her hand into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a small silver flask. Her "pocket gin," as she called it. A constant companion for nights like this.
She followed, barefoot, the wood cool under her steps. Quiet as a ghost.
Garcia didn't see her.
He stepped out into the rain, water soaking into his shirt, plastering it to his chest. The gun dangled by his side like an afterthought, but his eyes… they burned with something unspeakable. A storm that no one could understand.
Except Bella.
She paused at the doorway, flask in one hand, the other clutched around her elbow for warmth—or courage. The rain painted her hair in dark strands across her face, but she didn't wipe them away.
She just watched him.
Two broken people. One on the edge. The other, maybe, already over it.
Garcia turned from the rain, his soaked shirt clinging to his chest, hair dripping into his eyes. The gun felt heavier now, as if it knew what it was about to be part of. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, steam curling from his lips like smoke from a dying fire.
He moved with purpose. No longer drowning in heartbreak—now riding the storm it unleashed.
The bedroom door flew open with a violent crack against the wall.
Janette screamed, scrambling to pull the duvet over herself. Her lover—a man Garcia had never seen before, younger, cocky, gym-built—froze mid-movement. His expression shifted quickly from confusion to fear as his eyes locked onto the gun in Garcia's hand.
Garcia stood in the doorway, soaked to the bone, chest rising and falling like a man being electrocuted from the inside. His arm rose slowly, trembling as he pointed the gun at the stranger's face.
"Who the hell are you?" Garcia's voice cracked—rage and betrayal clashing in his throat. "Who are you?"
"G-Garcia—put the gun down!" Janette cried, her hands clutching the sheet to her chest, her face pale and blotched with guilt.
But he didn't move. The gun stayed raised, aimed right at the intruder's brow. The man stammered something—meaningless, cowardly—but Garcia wasn't hearing words. All he saw was his bed, his wife, and a stranger's sweat on his pillow.
Then his arm jerked—like a twitch from a muscle that couldn't take it anymore—and the barrel swung toward Janette.
She gasped, eyes wide. "Garcia! What are you doing?! You're scaring me!"
His hand shook violently. "You... you looked me in the eye every night and lied. Every single f***ing night."
Janette's lips quivered, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I never meant to hurt you. I—I was lonely. You were always at work—"
"I was working for us!" he shouted, eyes bloodshot. "Every goddamn case, every sleepless night—for us. For this house. For you."
He swung the gun back toward the man, who had now slid halfway off the bed, hands up, nearly naked, eyes filled with primal terror.
"Say something. Say one thing," Garcia muttered to him. "Give me a reason."
Silence.
Then behind him, a faint shuffle.
Bella.
She had followed him all the way up, flask forgotten in her pocket. Now, standing at the threshold, she looked like someone seeing the end before it began.
"Garcia," she said gently. "Don't."
He didn't turn. Didn't blink.
Janette sobbed. "Please… don't do this. This isn't you…"
Garcia's chest heaved. The weight of betrayal, of broken vows, of years wasted—it all rushed through his arm, down into the trembling trigger finger.
For a second, the world stopped.
No rain. No noise. Just the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears.
Bella stood frozen in the doorway, her breath shallow, soaked hair clinging to her face. Her mind screamed to move, to speak louder, but everything inside her felt like glass—fragile and shaking.
Garcia hadn't noticed her yet. His focus shifted again, the gun flicking between Janette and the man like a pendulum of death. His jaw clenched. His eyes, bloodshot and glinting with pain, locked back on Janette.
"You could've told me," he whispered. "You could've told me before you ripped my damn soul out."
Janette sobbed, curling deeper into the sheets. The man said nothing—he was now fully off the bed, crouched like a hunted animal, eyes darting toward the open window behind him.
Garcia took a step forward. His hand steadied, almost as if it had made a decision his heart hadn't caught up with.
And that's when Bella moved.
"Garcia!" she cried out, stepping fully into the room.
His body jerked, spinning toward the voice—gun still in hand.
In that split second, her training kicked in. Years of weekend drills with her late father. The posture. The grip. The reaction.
Her hand moved on instinct.
She reached into her coat and drew the small pistol she kept tucked under her waistband.
A warning. That's all it was meant to be.
A threat to de-escalate.
But her fingers were slick with rain. Her chest was tight with fear. And Garcia—eyes wide, gun raised—turned just as she aimed.
Bang.
The room shattered.
Janette screamed, pure and piercing.
The man scrambled backward into the nightstand, knocking over a lamp with a crash.
Garcia staggered.
He looked down at his side—just below the ribs. A small bloom of red spread across his shirt, mixing with rain and sweat.
He looked up at Bella. Confusion. Betrayal. Then, strangely… relief.
He dropped the gun.
It clattered on the hardwood like a final breath.
He fell to his knees. Not from pain, not yet—but from everything breaking at once.
Bella's eyes widened in horror. "Garcia—oh my God—no—I didn't mean—"
She dropped her gun and rushed forward, catching him as he collapsed to the floor, his head cradled in her lap.
"I didn't mean to—I was just trying to stop you—"
...
Bella didn't remember pulling the trigger.
One moment, her heart was hammering in her throat, her voice calling his name—"Garcia!"—the next, the room exploded in light and sound.
Bang.
It wasn't loud. Not like in movies. It was sharp, like the crack of splintering wood in a silent forest.
Time didn't freeze. It just moved differently.
Garcia jerked as if someone had yanked his spine from behind. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes widened—not in fear, not even pain, but in pure disbelief.
He looked down.
Blood.
It bloomed through the soaked fabric of his shirt like a rose—dark, violent, growing.
The gun slipped from his hand. It clattered to the floor, bouncing once before settling still. He reached out with one hand—toward Janette, maybe, or Bella, or no one. It trembled, then dropped.
His knees hit the ground first, a dull thud that shook Bella out of her trance.
She rushed forward as he collapsed, catching him as best she could, his body folding into her lap like wet paper.
"No, no, no—Garcia, stay with me. I didn't mean to—God, I didn't mean to—" Her voice cracked as she cradled his head, stroking rain-soaked strands of hair off his forehead.
His lips moved.
She leaned close, desperate.
"…Bella…" he whispered. His voice was raw, broken.
"I'm here, I'm here," she whispered, pressing her forehead against his.
His hand lifted weakly, fingers brushing her arm. He gritted his teeth as blood pooled beneath him, warm and thick. The pain had come now—late, but brutal.
He looked at her with eyes that were already fading.
"…It wasn't supposed to end like this…"
Bella choked on a sob. "It's not ending. You're gonna be okay, do you hear me? Just keep your eyes on me, okay? Keep your eyes open—"
But his lids were heavy.
Too heavy.
His chest heaved once, twice, then slowed.
Then stopped.
Bella screamed. She held him tighter, sobbing into his shoulder, rocking slightly as if motion could bring him back.
Janette sat frozen on the bed, still wrapped in the sheets, her face stained with tears. The man beside her had disappeared—fled, maybe. Coward.
Bella stayed there for what felt like hours.
Paramedics came.
Police followed.They pulled her away from him. Gently. But it didn't matter. Her fingers were stiff with blood by then, her eyes empty. She couldn't hear what they were saying. It was all noise.
Just noise.
Two Days Later – County Morgue
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above Garcia's body, still and pale on the steel table. A white tag hung from his toe: Garcia Miguel. Male. 39. GSW to abdomen.
The morgue was silent. Still.
Until it wasn't.
The air shifted—ever so slightly. Like gravity itself leaned in to listen.
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
The tag fluttered though there was no wind.
A hum, low and unearthly, began to rise from nowhere and everywhere at once. Garcia's body—motionless, cold—began to glow with a faint, blue shimmer under the skin, pulsing like a distant heartbeat.
Then—
Light.
A blinding flash of silver-blue.
And when it faded—
The table was empty.
No body. No blood. No explanation.
Only the white tag remained, fluttering down onto the metal tray below.