Steve straightened out the collar of his beige overcoat to protect the back of his neck from the cold and damp wind relentlessly roaring through the alleys of a dreary San Francisco. Despite the late hour, a few pedestrians fought their way up Union Street, ignoring the squalls of rain hitting them in the face at a steady pace.

Unable to stop a shiver running down his back, Steve locked the driver's side door of the Porsche, before circling the silver sportscar to the passenger side to grab a few files that would make up his nightly reading. Even though Mike had cautioned him to clear his mind a bit, focus on something beside the case, he had a hard time doing so after a day that left him with more questions and less answers than the previous one.

With the numerous calls he'd made yielding no results, and nothing in Ramon Peterson's R&I file linking him directly to either of the previous victims or their family, they'd called it a day by 7pm, an unusual occurrence for two detectives who were used to working 12-hour days six days a week. And maybe part of it had to do with Mike himself wanting to sort out his mind and deal with the many stressors thrown his way in light of the investigation.

His passenger door opened with a slight creak, the front seat damp from a leaky seal over his window that was in dire need of some attention. Sighing as he reached for the file, Steve suddenly felt the hairs on his arms and back of his neck stand on end, as the sensation of being watched flooded his senses.

Glancing down, he used his peripheral vision to scan the immediate perimeter around his apartment, hesitating for a moment, pretending to dig for more stuff from his front seat.

When nothing but darkness greeted him, Steve straightened back out, running a hand through his damp hair and using the opportunity to scan the nearby sidewalks, then the windows on some of the building across the street.

Most of the alleys along his block laid in the dark by now, illuminated only by the partial glow of the nearby streetlamps. After a long day, Steve wasn't planning on checking them out on his own, with nothing but a gut feeling and no backup in tow.

When he was reasonably certain that nobody in the immediate perimeter was preying on him, the young Inspector grabbed his files, locked the passenger door and slowly made his way up the stairs to his apartment, discreetly opening the holster to his .38 for good measure.

As he entered the confines of his chilly living room, he locked the door behind him and turned on all the lights out of a well-engrained habit, checking every possible hiding spot for a perpetrator, just to be on the safe side.

Part of him wondered if the sensation was nothing but his tired mind messing with his senses, allowing for his job-related paranoia to flourish. The other part was well aware of the price on his head, as well as Mike's, after spending years on the streets and sending a fair share of ruthless murderers to prison.

A life sentence could be more than enough motive for each one of their convicts to send a hitman after them at any given time.

It had happened to other cops before, and it certainly could happen to them.

When he was reasonably sure that everything was safe, Steve stripped out of his beige sportscoat, black dress coat and undid his tie. From the corner of his clothes rack, he could see the end of Union Street through his alcove window, part of the area obscured by the reflection from his living room light. And yet, the feeling of being watched never disappeared, no matter how long he stood there staring at the empty turnaround overlooking the bay.

With a deep sigh, Steve decided to keep the .38 close to his bed for the night, and definitely make sure he wouldn't mention the worrisome incident to an already edgy Mike.