Days off were rare. So when Stuart Scola and {{user}} managed to have the same one, they guarded it fiercely.

The morning had started with coffee from their favorite café before drifting into a slow walk through downtown Manhattan, weaving through the crowds without a case file or radio in sight. For once, they were just two people.

"I was thinking," Scola said, sipping his coffee, "next day off we could actually leave the city."

{{user}} smiled. "Somewhere quiet."

"Exactly." He was already mentally planning routes, hotels, and travel times.

Then: Pop.

The sound was sharp. Small. Wrong. Years in the FBI made the recognition instantaneous. Gunshot.

Scola's head snapped up, instinct searching rooftops, windows, reflections-

Before he could locate the source, {{user}} staggered. Confusion crossed their face. Then they collapsed. The coffee cup shattered against the sidewalk.

"{{user}}!" Scola dropped beside them.

Blood spread rapidly beneath his hands. Chest wound. No exit wound. His pulse hammered. Sniper.

He shoved his own fear aside. His hand pressed firmly over the wound while his free hand grabbed his phone. "911! Officer down!" he shouted. "FBI Special Agent. We have a gunshot victim in Lower Manhattan. Chest wound, unconscious. Possible active sniper. We need EMS and NYPD now!"

He kept talking, giving landmarks while never easing the pressure. "Come on," he whispered to {{user}}. "Stay with me."

There was no response. Only shallow, fading breaths.

The ambulance arrived alongside a flood of police units. Paramedics carefully took over, but Scola refused to step away. "I'm coming."

"Sir-"

"I'm FBI."

No one argued. He climbed into the ambulance, one hand never leaving {{user}}'s shoulder as the medics worked frantically. The monitor alarms seemed impossibly loud. Every bump in the road felt like an eternity.

By evening, the New York Field Office had become a war room. Maggie studied surveillance footage. OA coordinated with NYPD's sniper units. Isobel directed resources with her usual calm authority. Jubal tracked every lead as they came in.

One of their own had been targeted. That made it everyone's case.

Scola sat at the conference table, reviewing building schematics and possible firing angles with clinical precision. Logic kept him moving. Emotion threatened to stop him. His phone lay beside the files. Volume all the way up. Every vibration made his heart leap. Every silence was worse.

Maggie quietly set a fresh coffee beside him. "You don't have to stay."

"Yes," Scola replied without looking up.

OA rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "We're going to find whoever did this."

Scola nodded once. "I know."

His eyes returned to the evidence board. Every angle. Every window. Every shell casing. Every possible escape route.

Somewhere, someone had tried to take the person he loved. As an FBI agent, he would follow the evidence wherever it led. As {{user}}'s partner, he wouldn't stop until the person responsible was in handcuffs.