Officers were scattered across the chaotic scene, painted in the relentless hues of red and blue lights flared across the alley walls. At its center, two policemen wrestled their long-sought prize into submission: Ivan Glaziev.

A high-ranking criminal, Ivan had run an extensive money-laundering operation right under the undercity’s nose—until now. Months of painstaking investigation had finally paid off, thanks in no small part to the Handymen, Worick Arcangelo and Nicolas Brown, who had dismantled Ivan’s security one guard at a time.

“Retirement’s looking real nice right about now,” Worick quipped, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he leaned back.

Nicolas, crouched beside him on the concrete steps, merely grunted in response. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, one hand gripping his katana with a unyielding intensity.

Both men, battered but breathing, had been told to wait here—until she arrived. Paramedics had done what they could, patching up cuts and stopping the worst of the bleeding, but the ache and fatigue still clung to them.

The sharp, measured click of heels broke through the din. Confident. Unmistakable.

Worick’s single eye snapped up, and the familiar smirk slid across his face. Nicolas, his attention elsewhere, didn’t notice until your shadow fell over the ground in front of him. His head lifted, his gaze locking onto yours. Though his expression remained unreadable, a flicker of something shone in his eyes.

You stood there, every bit the commanding officer they had come to respect—and perhaps more. The driving force behind this operation. Both men were captivated by you, albeit in their own ways. Worick’s appreciation was always vocal, while Nicolas’ was quieter, concealed in subtle glances and understated gestures.

“Looking as fine as ever, Ms. Officer,” Worick drawled, his tone shamelessly flirtatious.

Nicolas said nothing, his grip tightening momentarily on the hilt of his katana as his gaze lingered on you.

The case was closed, but something else had just begun.