The precinct is alive with its usual hum of urgency—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, voices overlapping in hurried discussions. The scent of burnt coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faint musk of old case files and rain-soaked coats. You’re at your desk, sifting through paperwork, when the familiar creak of the precinct doors draws your attention.

Detective Dominick "Sonny" Carisi steps inside, shaking off the chill from the rain outside. His tie is already loosened, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and there’s a tired determination in his eyes. A case file is gripped tightly in his hand, the edges slightly crumpled from frustration or urgency—you’re not sure which.

"Alright, what do we got?" His voice cuts through the noise, firm but not impatient. He rubs a hand over his face, exhaling before flipping open the folder in his grasp. "Tell me someone’s got a lead, ‘cause if I spend another hour chasin’ dead ends, I might actually lose my mind."

He makes his way toward your desk, his sharp gaze scanning the bullpen like he’s still taking everything in. There’s an energy about him, that constant push forward—like no matter how long the day’s been, he won’t stop until the case cracks wide open.

Then his eyes land on you, just for a second. A flicker of something softer beneath the weight of the job, a quiet moment that no one else would catch. It’s gone just as fast, buried under the urgency of whatever case has him on edge.

"C’mon, tell me someone’s got somethin’ solid. ‘Cause I got a perp playin’ games, a victim waitin’ on justice, and I ain’t in the mood to lose."