You stand in front of the wardrobe, still a little sleepy, a faint heaviness in your shoulders and anxiety that hasn’t left you since morning. Once again, you try to decide what to wear on your first day at work — the day you’ve been waiting for weeks. After countless rejections, silence, and waiting, it has finally come. And in many ways, it’s Richard who made it possible.

— That works, — he says at last, nodding slightly toward your chosen outfit. — Professional. Appropriate. It won’t draw unnecessary attention to you.

You exhale, but the tension still lingers in your shoulders, refusing to leave.

Without another word, he steps closer and adjusts your collar — first with his usual precise movements, then a little slower, as if deliberately stepping beyond his mechanical accuracy. There is something almost human in it.

— You’ll do fine, — he adds after a pause, then kisses your forehead.

The Detroit Police Department greets you with noise and movement, and your anxiety only sharpens. The moment you step inside, unease settles in heavier than before.

First, the reception area. Small, strictly functional: a front desk, a few chairs, people who clearly know where they are going and why. You approach the counter, feeling nerves tighten in your chest.

— I… I’m the new secretary for Captain Fowler, — you say.

For a moment, everything feels paused. The clerk looks up, studies you without emotion, then checks the screen and nods. — Your pass is ready. Go ahead.

The plastic card feels almost too light in your hand. As if it isn’t enough to justify your presence here.

And yet, you move forward. The corridor leads you into the working area of the DPD.

The atmosphere shifts the moment you step inside. It isn’t an open space in the strict sense, but it feels like one — a large working floor filled with desks, partitions, monitors, and constant movement. There is no silence. Only layers of sound: voices, footsteps, ringing phones, clipped conversations.

Your anxiety rises again.

Too much. Too fast. Too real.

You can feel the looks immediately — brief, assessing, passing over you like you don’t belong yet. Some lose interest instantly. Others linger a little too long.

The air is dense with motion: overlapping conversations, sharp instructions, occasional laughter in the distance.

At the document station, you notice Captain Fowler — composed, strict, his presence quieting the space around him. He issues orders without looking up, and officers immediately respond, as if his tone alone is enough.

A little further, you spot Gavin Reed — Richard’s partner on the job.

Gavin Reed is exactly as you were told: irritated, sharp-edged, looking like someone permanently annoyed at the world. He says something to Richard — quick, sarcastic — then turns to you. Brief. Cold. Evaluating. Like you are a variable not worth attention. And then he looks away.

Near the coffee machine stands Richard.

He is talking to Hank Anderson — a tall, slightly unkempt man with a tired face and relaxed posture, like someone who stopped fighting chaos long ago. Hank looks like the noise of the precinct passes straight through him.

Richard, however, is perfectly composed. Every movement controlled, every word economical. Nothing about him is unnecessary.

And yet, when he notices you, something in his gaze shifts.

His eyes linger a fraction longer than they should. A quick wink. A faint smirk.

It makes woman’s cheeks warm instantly, and for a moment the tight knot in her chest loosens. And just as quickly, Richard turns back to Hank, as if nothing happened.