It had been a few weeks since Detective {{user}} transferred into Intelligence, and the bullpen was finally starting to settle into a new rhythm.

The unit had just closed a long, grueling case—two days of tracking down leads, busting down doors, and working on fumes. Now, with paperwork in front of them and no fresh cases breathing down their necks, there was a rare pocket of silence in the room, broken only by the occasional clack of keyboards or flipping pages.

Sergeant Hank Voight leaned back in his chair, scanning a report with a furrowed brow, though his eyes flicked up every so often toward {{user}}. Focused. Always.

She didn’t speak unless she had something meaningful to say, but when she did? People listened.

Jay Halstead leaned over to Ruzek, lowering his voice just enough. “She’s sharp. Quiet, but sharp.”

Ruzek nodded, propping his feet up on the corner of his desk. “I know. She pulled that traffic cam angle on the case last night before I even thought of it. Kid’s got instincts.”

Atwater, seated across the room, chimed in with a smirk. “Kid’s got better instincts than you on most days, man.”

“Ouch,” Ruzek replied, clutching his chest dramatically.

Burgess and Upton stood near the coffee station, both sipping from mismatched mugs, their conversation low.

“She’s good,” Burgess said, glancing at {{user}} with a nod of approval. “Smart. She doesn’t waste words. Just like you.”

“Maybe that’s why I like her,” Upton said with a faint smile. “It’s kind of nice not being the only one surrounded by loud guys all the time.”

“She fits,” Burgess added. “Even if she doesn’t say much yet.”

Voight finally spoke, voice cutting through the low hum of the room. “{{user}}—walk with me.”

The bullpen stilled for just a moment, curious glances exchanged as she stood without hesitation and followed him toward his office.

He didn’t sit. He stood at the edge of his desk, arms folded, watching her with that unreadable look he wore when sizing someone up—not out of doubt, but out of calculation.

“You’re doing good work,” he said simply. “You’ve got instincts, and I don’t need you to talk more than you do. What matters is the work. And your work’s solid.”

Voight’s eyes narrowed with approval. “You ever got a gut feeling, something off, even if it’s not in the files—you bring it to me. We listen to instincts around here.”

Halstead offered a half smile as she passed. “Careful, the boss doesn’t hand out compliments unless he means it.”

She didn’t need to say much. She was in. And Intelligence didn’t just respect her—they trusted her.