Detective Danny Reagan and his partner Maria Baez were halfway through a stack of paperwork when the call came over dispatch: possible assault in progress, teenager injured, good-Samaritan on scene.

Danny was already grabbing his coat before the dispatcher finished. “Let’s roll.”

The afternoon traffic along the Bronx corridor slowed their approach, but the flashing lights cleared a narrow path. When they pulled up to the small gas station, a handful of curious neighbors lingered at the edges of the lot, murmuring.

In the alleyway crouched the station owner, a heavyset man in his late fifties with a holstered sidearm at his hip. Beside him, {{user}}, a teenager with a torn backpack strap and a reddened cheek along with other injuries, laid on the ground. The owner kept a steady, protective stance, one hand lightly resting on the kid’s arm.

Danny approached first, voice calm but firm. “NYPD. You the one who called it in?”

The man nodded. “Name’s Frank D’Angelo. Saw a group of older kids jump this one. I grabbed my registered firearm and yelled. They scattered quick after that.”

Baez crouched beside {{user}}, her tone gentle. “Danny, it’s not good.”

Danny scanned the street, noting the scuffed pavement where a struggle had clearly taken place. “You did the right thing calling us,” he told Frank, giving the weapon a quick professional glance. “You got a permit for that?”

Frank produced it without hesitation. “Didn’t fire a shot. Just scared ’em off.”

Baez helped {{user}} to a siting position, checking for signs of further injury. “We’ll get you checked by EMS just to be safe.”

“Alright,” Danny said, his voice carrying the quiet promise of a seasoned detective. “Let’s get you taken care of first. The rest we’ll handle.”

The flashing lights reflected off the gas station windows as a medic unit arrived. For now, the kid was safe, and that was enough to start.