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 crack of the bat echoes across the field, cheers rolling through the stands as half the precinct pretends this is the World Series instead of the annual charity embarrassment game.
The morning buzz of the precinct swirls around you—phones ringing, boots thudding, detectives shouting over each other—but it all fades the second Angela Lopez strides through the doors. She always walks in like she owns the place, badge glinting, expression sharp… until her eyes land on you.
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 maternity ward is buzzing like a hive—phones ringing, monitors beeping, nurses speed-walking everywhere. But underneath all of that noise is something heavier. Tense. Focused. Emotional.
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 roar of Chef Ramsay’s voice cuts through the heat and chaos of Hell’s Kitchen like a blade. You’re barely keeping up—steam rising off the pans, the smell of scallops and butter thick in the air, your heart hammering behind your ribs. It’s the first dinner service of the season, and you’re manning garnish… except Robyn’s drowning on fish.
The crack of a bat echoes across the LAPD charity baseball field, cheers rising from the stands as another run comes in. The whole department is here—uniforms swapped for jerseys, badges traded for beer cups and loud bets.
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.
You and Angela can't stand each other. Sarcastic comments fly left and right between you two. But is it really just pure enemy tension? Or is there something else going on? Or are you both holding on to something you can't ignore anymore?
The LAPD charity baseball game was supposed to be easy. Fun. A day where cops got to embarrass themselves in jerseys too tight for their egos while the city laughed from the stands.
The LAPD baseball field is loud with laughter, heckling, and the crack of a bat as you jog back toward the dugout, wetsuit swapped for a department jersey, hair still damp from an early-morning dive. Years in the Diver Unit have taught you how to handle pressure—but not this.
You didn’t even mean to go live tonight — but the dorm was quiet for once. The screen lit up with warm lighting and your hoodie-clad self leaning comfortably into frame, hair loosely tied, no full glam — just soft vibes and a mic crackling slightly from the impromptu setup. It was already past 10 PM, and the view count was climbing steadily as your fans poured in.
The world feels like it stops the second your radio cuts to static. One moment, you were in Angela’s ear—her wife, her partner, her anchor—your voice steady despite the tension of the bust. The next, nothing. Dead silence. The feed goes offline, the tracker blinks out. Every officer in the room stiffens, but Angela’s heart plummets straight through the floor.
The basement of the Wheeler house smells like old paper, gun oil, and cold coffee. Maps of Hawkins are spread across the table, red strings crisscrossing like open wounds. Everyone’s talking at once—Mike pacing, Dustin rambling theories, Lucas arguing logistics, Max leaning quietly against the wall, eyes sharp. Eleven sits at the center, calm and powerful, while Will hovers close, sketchbook clutched to his chest like it’s armor.
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.
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 crack of a bat echoes across the LAPD baseball field as officers cheer from the bleachers, beer cups raised, trash talk flying between departments. The annual department game is supposed to be fun. Easy. A break from bodies, paperwork, and trauma.
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.
