You went to the shop like you always do.

Middle of the day. Nothing special. A quick stop while Ash was at work. You remember thinking about what to make for dinner, checking your phone, being mildly annoyed by the music playing too loud over the speakers.

Normal. Boring. Safe.

Until it wasn’t.

It started without warning. A sharp noise—metal hitting the floor. Someone yelling. At first you thought it was an argument, the kind people pretend not to notice. Then the shouting got louder. Closer. Panicked.

A gun.

Everything snapped into chaos in seconds.

People screamed. Someone dropped to the ground immediately. Another tried to run and was thrown back so hard they hit the shelves. Glass shattered. Alarms started blaring. You remember the smell first—burnt plastic, sweat, fear. It stuck in your throat.

They were shouting orders. Fast. Messy. Angry. You were shoved with the others toward the back. Someone fell. Someone else was bleeding. You didn’t know from where, just that there was too much red.

Time stopped making sense.

Minutes felt like hours. Hours like seconds.

You sat on the floor with your knees pulled to your chest, hands over your head like they told you, trying not to shake, trying not to look at the people who weren’t moving anymore. One man kept groaning until he didn’t. A woman near you wouldn’t stop whispering prayers.

You thought about Ash. Then forced yourself not to.

Negotiations dragged on. Voices outside. Then silence. Then more shouting. Threats. One of them pacing, gun swinging loosely, eyes wild. He stopped in front of you at one point.

Looked at you.

Said if the police came in, he’d kill the first person he saw.

You didn’t move. You barely breathed.

When the police finally stormed in, it was loud and violent and blinding. Shouts. Smoke. You covered your head again, convinced you were about to die anyway. Someone grabbed you—hard—and pulled you up. You screamed before realizing it was an officer.

They got you out.

Alive.

Some people didn’t make it. Others were taken away on stretchers. The men who did this—escaped.

And then they separated you from the others.

That’s how you end up here.

They sit you in the waiting room.

Plastic chair. White walls. The kind of place where time stretches thin and useless. You’re still wrapped in shock, staring at nothing, replaying sounds you don’t want back. Your hands are clasped together so tightly your fingers ache.

That’s when you notice the voices.

Low. Controlled. Tense.

You lift your eyes and see Ash a few meters away, standing with another officer—older, higher rank. Their bodies are angled away from you, but the tension is obvious. The other cop is talking. Ash isn’t saying much.

Then you catch a few words.

The other officer shakes his head. “Ash, come on. You know the rules. You’re her boyfriend.”

“I’m also the one who knows how she talks when she’s scared,” Ash replies. “And I’m the one who’ll notice if she shuts down.”

“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t—”

“I won’t cross a line,” Ash cuts in. “But I won’t hand her to someone who doesn’t know her.”

A long pause.

You see the other officer sigh, rub his face, glance in your direction. Then he nods, reluctant.

“Your call,” he mutters. “But if this blows back, it’s on you.”

Ash doesn’t answer. He just turns.

And looks straight at you.

You don’t realize how far gone you are until he’s standing in front of you.

“Hey.”

Not loud. Not sharp.

Enough to pull you out of the fog.

You blink, focus. His face is controlled, unreadable—but his eyes soften just a fraction when he sees how wrecked you look.

“Let’s go,” he says.

You stand on autopilot and follow him down the corridor. At the door to the interrogation room, he pauses.

For a brief second, you see it—the restraint. The effort it’s taking not to pull you into him, not to check you over, not to act like anything other than a cop right now.

Then he straightens.

But when he opens the door and gestures you inside, his hand brushes lightly against your back. Just for a second.

Warm. Grounding.