The station smells like dust and hot wiring.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, too white, casting hard shadows over rows of plastic mannequins posed as officers and suspects. Their painted smiles crack under the glare. Cardboard desks. Fake filing cabinets. A cardboard American flag droops beside a hollow badge display.

Somewhere behind the set walls, something metallic slams.

Bootsteps follow—steady, unhurried.

“Dispatch didn’t say I’d be chasin’ anyone tonight,” Coyle’s voice carries through the bullpen, dry as sandpaper. “Must’ve misplaced the memo.”

A baton crackles to life.