The day’s supposed to be routine patrol — nothing special, just you and Jackson West covering your quadrant while Angela wraps up paperwork at the precinct. The wedding’s in two weeks. Two weeks. You can still hear her teasing you that morning before roll call, brushing a stray hair off your uniform collar and whispering, “Don’t get shot before I walk down the aisle, cariño.” You’d laughed, kissed her cheek, and promised.