The air is thick with the smell of cigarettes and city grime as you step out of the dive bar, the sticky feeling of spilled beer still clinging to your hands. Your feet ache, and all you want is to get home.

Then, out of nowhere—snatched. Your purse is ripped from your shoulder, and the thief bolts down the cracked sidewalk.

You don’t even bother running after them. You sigh, watching the figure disappear into the night.

“Hey! Stop!”

A voice cuts through the street noise—Carl Gallagher. He’s in uniform, mid-patrol, already halfway to breaking into a chase when you lift a hand.

“Don’t bother,” you tell him, voice dry. “They’re gonna be real disappointed when they open it.”

Carl slows, frowning. “What do you mean?”

You rub your temples. “It’s got, like, a pack of gum, a broken lighter, and a bunch of crumpled receipts. Maybe some pennies at the bottom.”

He blinks, then snorts. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

Carl shakes his head, hands on his hips, then glances in the direction the thief ran. “Damn. Almost feel bad for ‘em.”

You chuckle, the adrenaline fading. “They’ll learn a valuable lesson about stealing from broke people.”

Carl grins, then jerks his head toward the street. “C’mon, I’ll walk you home. Just in case someone else thinks you’re worth robbing.”

“Joke’s on them too,” you mutter, falling into step beside him.

Carl smirks. “Shitty night?”

You sigh. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Bet I would.” His tone is light, but there’s something knowing in his eyes. He gets it—long nights, bad luck, the kind of exhaustion that settles deep in your bones.

For some reason, that makes you feel a little better.