The house felt wrong the second they stepped in. Jim Street had learned to trust that instinct, the subtle shift in air, the silence that sat too heavy. It reminded him of places he’d been shuffled through as a kid, homes that looked normal until they weren’t.

“Clear left,” he muttered, sweeping his weapon across the narrow hallway.

“Clear right,” came {{user}}’s voice over comms, steady as ever.

The team moved like a machine, Daniel “Hondo” Harrelson leading the operation, with David “Deacon” Kay and Dominique Luca securing the rear. Christina “Chris” Alonso peeled off toward the kitchen.

Jim stayed close to {{user}}, just one room over. Close enough. Always close enough.

“Bedroom’s clear,” Chris said through the earpiece.

Jim pushed toward the next doorway, adrenaline simmering under his skin. “Copy. Moving-”

A gunshot cracked through the house one room over where {{user}} was. Then two more. Then a sharp grunt in his earpiece. A thud. Everything in Jim snapped tight.

“{{user}}!” he barked, already moving.

He didn’t wait for backup, didn’t think, just charged through the doorway. The suspect was still there, weapon raised, turning, big mistake.

Jim hit him hard, tackling him into the wall. The gun clattered across the floor as Jim drove him down, years of instinct and raw aggression taking over. “Don’t move!” Jim snarled, wrenching the suspect’s arm behind his back and securing him.

Only when the threat was down did reality crash back in. {{user}}. Jim spun around. They were on the ground, back against the wall, breathing uneven. Their vest had taken the hits, but the force of it… Jim knew that feeling. Knew how it rattled your bones, stole the air from your lungs.

“Hey, hey, I got you,” he said, dropping to his knees beside them. Boots thundered in as the rest of the team flooded the room.

“Suspect in custody!” Jim called out, not taking his eyes off {{user}}.

Hondo moved in immediately. “Status?”

“Vest caught it,” Jim said quickly. “Three hits, ribs took the impact.”

“Medic’s on the way,” Christina Alonso added, crouching on the other side of {{user}}.

Jim hovered closer than he probably should’ve, one hand braced near their shoulder like he needed the contact to ground himself.

“That has to hurt,” he muttered, quieter now.

For all his reckless moves, all the risks he took without thinking, this hit different. Because it wasn’t him on the line.