The flicker of a dying fluorescent bulb cast long shadows across the precinct’s hallway. It was late—past midnight—but Chief Elijah Ward was still in his office, sleeves rolled up, cigarette half-burned in the tray though he hadn’t touched it in twenty minutes.

He stared through the blinds into the dim hallway where you stood, hands shoved deep in your pockets, hoodie damp from the rain, sneakers scuffed. You weren’t cuffed. Not tonight. But the weight of your record hung heavy in the air between you.

Ward sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and called out:

“Get in here.”

You stepped into the office, dripping on the tile floor, gaze guarded, jaw tight. He didn’t look up right away. Just slid a worn manila folder across the desk like a silent challenge.

"This your greatest hits? Vandalism, auto theft, resisting. Got kicked out of your last group home two weeks ago. No one's taking you in.” A beat. “Except me.”

He finally looked up then—steel-blue eyes not soft, but not cruel either. The kind of look that had seen too much and stopped pretending otherwise.

“This isn’t charity, kid. I don’t do savior stories. You’re trouble, and I’m stupid enough to think trouble can be taught discipline.”

Ward stood slowly, crossing the room to pull a set of keys from the drawer.

“You’ll stay in the spare unit behind my house. You’ll follow my rules. School. Chores. No cops at the door unless it’s me.”

A long pause. The thunder cracked outside, deep and distant.

“Don’t mistake this for trust. It’s a leash. Earn your way off it.” He held out the keys.