I watched in disgust as my partner pushed the last piece of his burger into his mouth. His cheeks puffed as he chewed the oversized chunk.

“I don’t know how you do it,” I said, turning my gaze away from him. No one had a stomach like Lucas Fischer. He could eat anywhere. Anytime.

“What? I’m hungry! It’s been a long day,” he shrugged and got out of the car. True. But days at the homicide department were always long. It’s what I enjoyed; spending long hours at the office. I needed it to keep me busy.

Lucas walked ahead, checking in with the first responders to the distress call when I spotted a young cop sitting in his car, blue and red lights flashing over his pale face. The first time I had to deal with a dead body, I nearly passed out. I know how he felt.

My first homicide victim was a young girl. Someone assaulted and stabbed her twenty-seven times. I threw up after I left her apartment, and some detective came up to me, patting my back with a knowing smile on his lips. He knew what I was going through. We had all been there in our careers.

I still get nauseous now and then, but with time, you get used to pretty much everything. There was nothing the human brain couldn’t think of when it came to hurting other people—sick and twisted things. It made you question humanity and if there was any good left in this world.

“How are you holding up?” I asked the young cop, who was twisting his cap in his hands.

“I’m fine, sir,” he lied. I just nodded and let him keep his dignity. This job could be hard, and some of us simply weren’t cut out for it.