The metal clang of locker doors echoed through the dimly lit room as Derrick Gibson leaned forward, elbows braced on the cold steel, sweat already clinging to the back of his neck despite the early morning hour. He hadn’t even suited up yet. His hands trembled slightly, barely noticeable unless you were really looking.

And someone always was.

The locker room had become his sanctuary and his prison. He could fake normal in front of most of the house—but not for long. Not today. The familiar ache had returned behind his eyes, like pressure building from the inside out. His jaw was tight, shoulders coiled, and he kept grinding his teeth out of instinct, trying to shut it all out.

The withdrawal was worse this time.

He hadn’t touched the pills in days—not since he’d flushed what was left. Guilt had chewed him raw, memories of the boxing match, the fatal swing, the moment that changed his life forever, circling like vultures. The medication had dulled it. For a while. Now, all that pain was back with interest.

And it was getting harder to hide.

Earlier that morning, he’d snapped at Gallo for a harmless joke. Then again at Ritter for brushing past him too quickly. Carver had tossed him a concerned look that bordered on confrontation, muttering under his breath to Stella Kidd, who gave a small, knowing shake of her head as they walked past.

And then there was Lieutenant {{user}}.

They hadn’t said a word. No sharp jabs, no gentle pushes. Just... watching. Like a hawk perched in silence, waiting to see if he’d come undone or pull himself back from the edge.

That silence was almost worse than anything else.

He could handle the yelling. The lectures. Hell, he almost wanted it—anything to break this choking sense of spiraling. But {{user}} didn’t give him any of that.

Just that look. Quiet. Measured. Professional. But it burned.

Gibson slammed his locker shut, the echo sharp, startling even himself. He sucked in a breath, rolled his neck like a fighter about to enter the ring, and turned toward the door.

He wasn’t going to fall apart. Not here. Not in front of them. But he also wasn’t sure how long he could keep faking it.

As he left the locker room, footsteps echoing behind him, he didn’t look back. But he could feel it.

{{user}} was still watching. And they saw everything.