"Watch the powder!" Damon shouted, holding the brush high.
A row of phones pointed at him, tiny red lights blinking. The training room smelled faintly of coffee and florescent bulbs. Students leaned forward. The livestream chat scrolled fast: LOL, teach, is that makeup? Someone posted a lipstick emoji.
The brush was wrong. Everyone saw it the second it hovered over the demo board and caught glare. It was soft, tapered, obviously a makeup brush.
Silence broke into laughter.
"That's a blush brush," a woman in the front row said. She laughed like she had the right to laugh.
Damon's mouth tightened. He did not drop his hand. He set his left palm flat on the evidence table and tapped the podium with the brush heel, dusting the tiny ridge where a crime scene lift would start.
"Step one," Damon said, voice steady. "Make contact."
"You're using a cosmetic brush," the student said, louder. "What are we watching? Forensic glam?"
"Are we doing a get-ready tube instead of a crime lab today?" someone else taunted.
"Drop the drama," Damon said. "This room is full of analysts. Watch."
He worked the brush as if it were a proper fiberglass tool. He left no lecture-long explanation. He dusted two quick swipes over his palm on the podium grain, dusted a little more over a fingerprint on the podium edge, then moved one measured finger across a clear case—his own phone case he had set there to demonstrate
