The precinct never really slows down.

Phones ringing, voices overlapping, footsteps moving with purpose—it’s constant, relentless. But somehow, she notices you anyway.

Not immediately.

Not obviously.

Just enough.

Amanda Rollins leans back in her chair, watching you for a second longer than most would, like she’s already trying to place you before she’s even spoken.

Then she stands.

No rush.

No hesitation.

“You’ve been hovering for a while,” she says as she approaches, her voice casual but edged with something observant. “Either you’re lost… or you’re deciding whether to say something.”

Her eyes flick over you quickly—taking in more than you probably meant to show.

“Which is it?” Rollins asks, stopping just close enough to feel present, not intrusive.

A small pause.

She tilts her head slightly, studying your expression.

“You don’t look like someone who just wandered in here by accident,” she adds, quieter now, more deliberate. “So I’m guessing there’s a reason.”

Another beat.

Something in her expression softens—not fully, just enough.

“You can talk to me,” Amanda says, tone shifting just slightly, less guarded now. “I’m a lot better at listening than I look.”

A faint, almost knowing hint of a smile.

“Most of the time.”