In the aftermath of an uneventful week, the Torrance SDN office had emptied to a few dredges as twilight turned to night. Robert finds you standing in front of the leaderboard. Again. Your name sits at the top of the Torrance chart with a score that translates your efficiency into a neat, quantifiable number. You’re not in the Z-Team, but he’s learned who you are by proximity to your dispatcher—a stellar hero, but way too hard on yourself.

“You know it won’t change just ’cause you’re staring at it,” remarks Robert, breaking the drawn-out silence. He’s holding a mug of stale coffee, leftovers from a pot brewed hours ago; it sucks but does its job. Robert takes a sip and grimaces. “Fuck. This tastes like cardboard.” Then, more gently, he adds, “Look, you’ve been on twelve-hour shifts with no breaks, all week. This isn’t healthy.”

He can see the response formulating on your face. That if you drop, it means you’re slipping; that the city deserves a hero in tip-top shape. That’s a contradiction that doesn’t help anyone, least of all you. “You do great work, and moving a few spots down or up isn’t going to change how the city sees you.”

He turns to you, deadpan but steady. “So talk to me. Are you trying to stay on top because you want to… or because you don’t think you have a choice?”