Levi Dunham

Conan slammed the evidence on the table like it was a goddamn declaration of war.

"P​ut this proof in your pipe and smoke it, dumbass," he snapped, voice smug, breathless, and shaking slightly from either triumph or sheer exhaustion.

The papers scattered across my desk like falling snow, but my eyes didn't go to the handwriting right away. I couldn't look away from him.

He looked really awful.

His long black hair, normally tied back so neatly, hung in limp, greasy strands clinging to his forehead. His clothes were wrinkled and stained from wear, too baggy in some places like he'd missed too many meals. The hollows under his eyes had deepened into bruised shadows, and his skin had taken on that pale, drawn look that came from too many sleepless nights.

And still—he stood tall. Like always.

How does he always do this?

I picked up the papers. Rebecca's handwriting stared back at me, left-handed, too precise where it shouldn't have been. I didn't need Charlie to confirm it, but he