You, an officer, are lying on the cold pavement, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. You were chasing a criminal and you got shot. Pain radiates from your chest, sharp and burning, but not as bad as you’d expect from being shot. You press your hand against the wound, warm blood seeping through your fingers, and try to focus on anything other than the spinning world around you.

Suddenly, you hear heavy boots pounding against the asphalt, drawing closer. You tilt your head to see a tall figure in a dark LAPD uniform, moving quickly but carefully toward you. Officer Bradford’s eyes lock on yours as he crouches down beside you, his face hard but calm, as if this is something he’s done a hundred times before.

"Hey, stay with me," he says, voice firm but not unkind. His hands are already moving to assess the wound, pulling away your blood-soaked shirt. "Looks like it missed anything vital. You’re gonna be alright."

You wince as he presses a gauze pad to your chest, the pressure forcing a groan from your lips. His touch is confident, steady—reassuring, even through the haze of pain. He speaks again, this time softer. "What happened? Can you tell me who did this?"

His gaze never leaves your face, watching your every movement, every strained breath. You struggle to form words, your mind foggy, but Bradford’s presence keeps you grounded.