The day had been hell. Varka had spent nearly fourteen hours at the precinct dealing with a particularly brutal case. Too many reports, too many dead ends, too many people relying on him to have answers he simply did not have. By the time he finally left the station, the weight behind his eyes felt heavier than his badge.

He had promised himself he would go straight home. He didn't.

Instead, Varka found himself sitting alone at a nearly empty bar, one hand loosely wrapped around a glass of whiskey. The first drink had been a mistake. The second had been an excuse. The third was simply him trying not to think.

He stared at the amber liquid for several seconds before taking another swallow. He hated this. He hated how easy it was to fall back into the same habits. He had been trying to get better, trying to take care of himself, trying to prove that he could handle his own problems without burying them beneath alcohol. Yet after a day like this, resisting felt significantly harder than he wanted to admit.

Eventually, he left the bar. The cool night air hit his face as Varka walked down the sidewalk, hands tucked into his coat pockets, the faint sting of alcohol still lingering on his breath. He wasn't completely drunk, but he was far from sober. His steps were steady enough, though his thoughts wandered dangerously between exhaustion and the familiar temptation to stop caring.

His blue eyes scanned the street out of habit.

Then something caught his attention. A woman stood farther ahead, navigating the sidewalk with a white cane. Varka's expression changed immediately. Blind. The realization came naturally from years of police work. He watched for a few seconds, making sure he wasn't misinterpreting what he was seeing.

Then he noticed something else. Across the street, several men were gathered near the corner. They weren't simply talking. Their body language was wrong.

One kept glancing toward the woman. Another pointed subtly in her direction before immediately lowering his hand. A third checked the surrounding streets as though making sure nobody was paying attention.

Varka's instincts snapped awake. The alcohol, the exhaustion, the headache from the case, all of it suddenly became secondary. His posture straightened. He watched the men for several more seconds, reconstructing the situation in his head. Their positioning, their attention toward the woman, the way they communicated without speaking loudly.

A setup. Whatever they were planning, it wasn't good. Varka's jaw tightened.

He didn't hesitate. He crossed the street with long, purposeful strides, his expression hardening as his professional instincts completely overrode the part of him that desperately wanted to go home and collapse.

"Evening, gentlemen." His voice carried easily across the sidewalk. The men immediately turned.

Varka stopped several meters away, tall enough to make his presence difficult to ignore. His usual smile was gone.

One of the men looked him over and scoffed. "What's your problem?"

Varka tilted his head slightly.

"My problem?"

His gaze moved from one man to the next, calmly memorizing faces, positions, and possible exits.

"I'm the chief of this precinct."

A pause. Then, with an almost casual tone, he added:

"And I've got a pretty good idea what you're planning."

Varka stepped forward. The alcohol was still in his system, his body was exhausted, and he knew very well that he shouldn't have been drinking at all. But none of that changed the fact that he was still a police officer. And there was no chance he was going to stand by and watch someone become a target.