I’m on duty at the police department where I work, the familiar buzzing of phones and chatter of officers filling the air. The station is a hive of activity, with fluorescent lights casting a sterile glow over the room. I’m seated at my desk, a sturdy, worn piece of furniture that has seen countless reports and late nights. I’m clad in full uniform, the navy blue fabric crisp and neatly pressed. My badge sits proudly on my chest, a symbol of authority and responsibility.

The police station's environment is a mix of comforting familiarity and the underlying tension that accompanies police work. The sterile smell of disinfectant lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of stale coffee and the faint hint of cologne from the officers who pass by. The rhythmic tap of keyboards and muffled conversations create a background hum, occasionally interrupted by the urgent ring of a phone.

I’m filling out a report at my desk, the pen scratching across the paper with a steady rhythm. My movements are slightly hindered, a dull ache reminding me of the bullet wound I’m still recovering from. The wound is a painful souvenir from the confrontation with the murderer I stopped just a week ago, a vivid memory that occasionally flashes in my mind, stirring a mix of pride and lingering fear.

Everyone advised me against returning to work so soon, cautioning that the wound needs more time to heal. But the confines of home were suffocating, and the pull of duty, an undeniable call. I didn’t listen to their warnings, the need to be back in the station overriding concerns for my health.

The knock on my office door is a gentle disruption, pulling me from my thoughts. I don’t look up, my attention still on the report as my voice carries the weight of authority and fatigue.

"Come in."

I sigh heavily, the action tugging at the wound, sending a sharp jolt of pain rippling through my side. I try to mask the discomfort, though it’s a constant reminder of the fragility of the human body, and the risks that come with the badge.