You’ve been staring at the door for ten minutes straight, shoulders stiff, hands trembling no matter how tightly you try to grip your glass. The bar around you is warm, buzzing with laughter and music—Lucy is half-singing along with Jackson, John and Nyla are arguing over darts, Tim is pretending not to enjoy himself—but all of it feels like static in your ears. Every time the door creaks open, your heart spikes, your breath catches, and you’re back in that alley, back facing the man who raised you and then pulled the trigger without hesitation.
You’ve been staring at the door for ten minutes straight, shoulders stiff, hands trembling no matter how tightly you try to grip your glass. The bar around you is warm, buzzing with laughter and music—Lucy is half-singing along with Jackson, John and Nyla are arguing over darts, Tim is pretending not to enjoy himself—but all of it feels like static in your ears. Every time the door creaks open, your heart spikes, your breath catches, and you’re back in that alley, back facing the man who raised you and then pulled the trigger without hesitation.
The bullpen is louder than usual when the call comes in—too loud, too careless for the kind of silence that follows. A K-9 unit handler. Female. Taken off-grid during a routine sweep.
The second you push open the door to the bar, the noise hits you first—music pulsing, squad laughter rolling across the room, the neon sign buzzing faintly above it all. You’re only here because everyone insisted. Because they miss the old you. Because you’ve been half-alive since Grace detonated your world in front of the entire precinct.
The bullpen is alive with laughter and clinking mugs, the kind of noise that always follows a celebration. It’s Grace Martin’s birthday—your girlfriend’s birthday—and half the squad’s gathered to watch her blow out the candles someone stuck on top of a box of donuts. You’re smiling, trying to keep it together under the teasing and the good-natured ribbing, until Grace turns to you with that playful grin that never bodes well.
The maternity ward is buzzing like a hive—phones ringing, monitors beeping, nurses speed-walking everywhere. But underneath all of that is a different kind of energy. Tense. Focused. Emotional.
The precinct feels quieter than usual this morning — that heavy kind of quiet that settles after a long night of chaos. You’re sitting at your desk, still pale from yesterday’s mission, the one that had every nerve in your body frayed to breaking point. You can still hear the static from your radio, the sound of sirens fading, the pulse in your ears that wouldn’t slow down even after the all-clear.
You can still hear the laughter echoing through the bullpen long after Grace leaves. Her lipstick smudge still burns on your cheek—faint, mocking, permanent in a way you wish it wasn’t. The rest of the squad pretends to get back to their reports, but the sideways glances are knives. You keep your chin up anyway, fingers curling tighter around the small velvet box still hidden in your jacket pocket.
The precinct is still buzzing from the successful close of the mission, the kind of case that leaves everyone riding that high of adrenaline mixed with exhaustion. You’re filing away your notes, trying to keep your head down like always—pretending the tightness in your chest whenever Angela’s near doesn’t exist. She’s your training officer. She’s sharp, commanding, the type who notices everything—and lately, it feels like she’s been noticing you too much. Or maybe that’s just your stupid heart projecting.
You can still hear the sound of the exam results notification pinging in your head. It’s been hours since you opened that email, and yet the words blur together in one cruel repetition — “We regret to inform you…” Six times. Six damn times.
You’re sitting at your desk in the bullpen, staring at that same damn piece of paper that’s been haunting you for months now — the word “Failed” burned into your brain like a cruel inside joke from the universe. Sixth time. Six times you’ve put your heart, your hours, and your sanity into that exam, only to fall short again. You’ve been through shootouts, hostage negotiations, and undercover ops that would break most people — but nothing compares to the sting of this.
The bar is already loud when you walk in, but it’s nothing compared to the way the squad lights up the second they see you—like they’re starved for something they haven’t tasted in months. And maybe they are. You haven’t laughed, smiled, joked, or even looked like yourself since the night Grace detonated your world.
The sound of running water fills the kitchen as the late afternoon sun filters through the window. You hum softly to yourself, swaying a little as you rinse off another dish, the faint sound of “Wheels on the Bus” playing from the living room. Jackson’s giggles carry through the air, a sound that never fails to melt you.
The bullpen is too quiet for a Monday morning. Phones ringing, printers humming, footsteps echoing—yet somehow everything feels muted, like the whole station is holding its breath. Or maybe it’s just you, sitting at your desk, staring at the grainy coffee in your cup like it personally offended you.
The bar is loud, crowded, alive with off-duty cops and neon light, the kind of night that’s supposed to feel safe—family, laughter, celebration. Grace’s birthday. Your girlfriend. The squad’s excuse to drink too much and forget the job for a few hours.
The house is quiet when the knock rattles the doorframe—too firm, too urgent to be anything casual. You’re halfway through folding laundry when you open it and find Tim Bradford standing there, jaw tight, eyes hard. You don’t need him to say a word, but he does anyway.
You’re sitting in the back of the shop, hands still trembling, blood drying against the gauze Nyla wrapped a little too tightly around your shoulder. The adrenaline’s gone, replaced by that awful hollow feeling — the kind that hits when the danger’s over, but your body hasn’t gotten the memo yet. Lucy’s trying to get you to eat fries. Jackson keeps making bad jokes. John’s laughing a little too loud. Tim’s pretending not to care but keeps watching the door like he’s expecting something to happen.
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.
The battlefield is chaos—sparks flying, dust rising, alien steel clashing against the battered defenses of the remaining Rangers. Gia wipes a smear of grime from her cheek with the back of her glove, chest heaving as she steadies her stance. They’re outnumbered. Again. And to make matters worse, Orion’s still fumbling with his morpher like it’s a puzzle box instead of the most powerful weapon he owns.
You’ve barely stepped off the ice, blades still echoing against the tunnel floor, breath clouding in the cold arena air. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by that hollow ache you always get after a game where you gave every last piece of yourself. Toronto vs. Washington had been brutal. Fast. Loud. Everything your sport is meant to be.
The precinct’s bullpen is quieter than usual — a strange calm for a Friday morning. Half the department has already slipped away to prep for the event everyone’s been buzzing about for weeks. But Angela Lopez? She’s still in her office, sleeves rolled up, wedding folder open, half a cup of cold coffee forgotten next to her badge. You step inside quietly, still in uniform, hair pinned up, trying not to smile at how she’s pacing like she’s waiting for a tactical op instead of her own wedding.
You’re barely through the front doors of the precinct when you hear it—her voice. That familiar mix of grit, warmth, and barely-contained exasperation that always makes your chest tighten before you can stop it.