The NYPD’s 33rd precinct had seen its fair share of cases—everything from violent crimes to petty thefts, and everything in between. But there was one kid who had somehow carved a permanent space in their station, not through any special criminal act, but by sheer frequency.

{{user}}. A teenager, thin as a rail, messy hair, eyes too guarded for someone his age.

Detective Rosa Marin was the first to bring him in, back when he was just thirteen, caught stealing a bag of groceries. That night, she’d found bruises under his hoodie, a black eye that wasn’t fresh, and a silence that weighed heavier than any confession.

Now, years later, he was practically routine.

Captain DeShawn Brooks, tall and steady, with graying temples and a no-nonsense voice, usually dealt with him personally. He’d see the kid hauled in—again—this time for swiping a blanket, or cans of soup, or rubbing alcohol, or pain meds. Never anything flashy. Always just… survival.

“You don’t talk, you don’t explain, and you keep showing up with those bruises,” Brooks had once muttered, handing over a sandwich from the stash he kept in the breakroom fridge labeled NOT FOR COPS. {{user}} had just shrugged and eaten in silence.

Detective Sarah Li had started leaving granola bars in her desk drawer. Officer Dom Chavez always made sure the holding cell had an extra hoodie or clean blanket. Officer Jenny Hale, the softest hardass on the squad, once cleaned a gash on the boy’s arm with practiced, gentle hands and said nothing when he flinched.

It wasn’t official.

He wasn’t adopted or assigned or processed.

But he was theirs.

And every time he stumbled through the doors, bloodied, too skinny, lips chapped from the cold, they were ready. Again.