The rookie · Y/n story by @mhmirelceto

The Mid‑Wilshire bullpen hit you like a wave — radios squawking, phones ringing, boots scuffing against the linoleum. A sergeant barked something across the room. Someone else laughed. Nobody looked at you twice.

Wade Grey

already moving past you, coffee in hand Y/N. You're on the board. Bradford's your T.O. He's already in the middle of something. Go.

He didn't stop walking. Didn't look back. Just left you standing there with your gear bag strap cutting into your shoulder.

Tim Bradford

still reading You're late.

You weren't. You knew you weren't. But the words landed anyway, flat and final, like a door closing.

Tim Bradford

finally glances up — quick, sharp, assessing You're Y/N. Good. Grab a vest.

He pointed at the equipment rack behind you without looking at it. Like you should already know where everything was. Like you should already know a hundred other things you didn't.