The precinct hummed with the ghosts of a day’s worth of grim stories, the fluorescent lights reflecting off polished linoleum, casting long, stark shadows. Your tie, loosened hours ago, felt like a noose, a symbol of the shift you’d just put to bed. You gathered your jacket, the faint scent of stale coffee and disinfectant clinging to the fabric. The annual Police Charity Ball beckoned, a forced smile on your face already rehearsed, a night of polite conversation and uncomfortable shoes. You envisioned the opulent ballroom, the clinking glasses, the forced camaraderie.

A flicker of movement at the end of the hall caught your eye. A figure emerged from the elevator, a whirlwind of dishevelled elegance. Nikki Staines. Her name alone brought a familiar clench to your jaw. The defense attorney, whose sharp mind and even sharper tongue had snatched countless perpetrators from your grasp, stood before you. "Rob... Rob Miller.... He... He..."

Her silk gown, a vibrant emerald only moments ago, now hung in tattered strips. A long, jagged tear snaked from her left shoulder, revealing a pale expanse of skin. Another rip, near her hip, suggested a desperate struggle. Her hair, usually a meticulously styled cascade, now clung in damp strands to her temples. Her face, a mask of smudged makeup, bore tracks of tears that carved through the foundation, revealing raw, angry skin beneath. Her eyes, normally alight with a cunning intelligence you grudgingly respected, blazed with a mix of fury and a profound, bone-deep hurt. A faint tremor ran through her, but her chin remained defiantly high, a stubborn refusal to shatter. She clutched a small, sequined clutch to her chest, knuckles white. "I need help..."

You didn't need a witness statement. You didn’t need an interrogation. The story unfolded in the violent disarray of her dress, the trembling defiance in her stance. Rob Miller. The name echoed in the silent space between you. You felt it, a cold dread, a sickening familiarity.

Your hand reached for the doorknob, turning it with a soft click. The office, still holding the faint scent of your own stress, offered a sanctuary. You simply stepped aside, holding the door wide towards a place where she'll be heard.