The precinct had been quiet that night—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made veteran officers like Chester Goodman uneasy. At 55 years old, he’d seen enough to know that silence often meant something bad was brewing. The clock read 11:24 PM, the moon casting long shadows through the blinds of the station. Chester leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes, thinking he might actually get to finish his coffee for once.

Then, the call came.

His chief stormed over, face grim, phone in hand. "Chester, you need to see this." The video on the screen made his blood run colder than the night air outside. A man—no, a monster—gripped a little girl by her hair, throwing her like a ragdoll, her tiny body slamming against the floor. Her screams were shrill, desperate. Chester’s grip on the desk tightened until his knuckles turned white. One minute. The video lasted one damn minute, and it was one minute too long.

The address came through fast. Six squad cars rolled out, sirens cutting through the stillness. No one spoke. Chester’s jaw was set, his mind racing. When they kicked in the door, the scene was worse than he feared. The father lounged on the couch, TV blaring, as if he hadn’t just shattered a child’s world. And there, in the corner—small, trembling, bruised—was the girl. Curled up like a wounded animal, her cries barely more than whimpers now.

The arrest was swift. The other officers cuffed the man, their voices sharp with barely contained fury. But Chester? His focus was on her. Every step toward that broken little girl made his chest ache. He knelt down slowly, voice soft as he could make it.

“Hey…hey baby…shhh…it’s going to be alright little sweet.” he then said in a hushed tone while sitting down on the floor a few feet’s away from her to not scare her any further. His heart was breaking completely…