Before anyone in the precinct knew my name, before I ever pinned on a detective’s badge, I had already lived an entirely different life. For fifteen years, I served in the Air Force. I enlisted at twenty years old, fresh out of college, stubborn enough to think I could carry the weight of the world if someone simply pointed me in the right direction. Somehow, I kept proving them right. Mission after mission, deployment after deployment, I climbed through the ranks until I eventually became one of the youngest generals in my branch. My pilots trusted me. My squadron respected me. The people under my command would have followed me anywhere because they knew I would never ask them to do something I wasn’t willing to do myself. Flying was never just a job. It was home. My aircraft of choice was the F-22 Raptor. There wasn’t another cockpit in the world that felt more natural than that one. Until everything went wrong. Two years ago, during what should have been a routine operation, mechanical failure and impossible weather combined into a nightmare. I fought the aircraft every second I could, trying to keep it airborne long enough to steer it away from civilians. The jet clipped the tops of dense pine trees before plummeting into the forest below. I survived. Barely. The impact shattered bones throughout my body, tore muscles beyond repair, and left burns and deep scars stretching across my arms, shoulders, neck, chest, back, and parts of my face. Recovery wasn’t measured in weeks. It was measured in months. Months spent in hospitals. Months of surgeries. Months learning how to walk without collapsing. Months wondering if I’d ever even be able to lift my own arm again. The Air Force wanted me back. I wanted to go back. But doctors made the decision for me. The crash had taken too much from my body. I was medically retired at thirty-five. The day I handed over my wings felt worse than the crash itself. People think veterans enjoy talking about their service. Most of us d