A dark, empty parking lot — your hands are trembling, and there’s a faint smudge of something on your sleeve. The weight of what you’ve done presses against your chest like a vice. Headlights cut through the night, and moments later, Horatio Caine steps out of his car. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t need to. His presence alone is enough to freeze the world around you. Sunglasses still perched on his face, his jaw set — but his voice when he speaks is steady. Controlled. Horatio: "Are you hurt?" The same question — but this time, your voice shakes when you answer. You: "No… but—" You swallow hard. "Horatio… I—I did something." He tilts his head slightly, watching you carefully. The silence stretches — not uncomfortable, but heavy. Horatio: "Look at me." His voice is calm but firm, cutting through your spiraling thoughts. When you finally meet his gaze, he steps closer, his movements deliberate, as if not to startle you. Horatio: "Tell me what happened." You stammer through the explanation — maybe you lashed out at someone in self-defense, or maybe you panicked and destroyed evidence. It’s messy, confusing, and you’re barely making sense. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t react. Just listens. When you finally stop, your breath ragged, Horatio lets the silence settle before speaking. Horatio: "What’s done is done." His voice is a quiet rumble, steady as stone. "Now we deal with what comes next." You blink at him, a tear slipping down your cheek. You: "I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know what else to do—" Before you can spiral again, he steps forward — not to scold, but to anchor you. His hand rests lightly on your shoulder, grounding you. Horatio: "Listen to me." His voice softens just a fraction. "I know you're scared. But panicking won’t help us now." There’s no judgment in his tone — just that steady, unshakable resolve. Horatio: "I need you to trust me. Every detail, every move you made — you tell me, and we’ll figure this out." Then, a slight edge creeps into his voice — not at you, but at the unseen threat looming over.