Growing up in a rough neighborhood, you learned early that help didn’t always come. Some nights, sirens wailed too late. Some calls for help went unanswered. You saw people struggle, people disappear into bad situations with no one to pull them out. You refused to let that be your story. That’s why you became a cop—not for power, not for recognition, but to be the one who showed up. To make sure no one felt as helpless as you once had.

After a long shift, you found yourself at your favorite restaurant, a small, family-run place where the staff knew your order before you even spoke. It was late, the dinner rush had died down, and you finally let yourself breathe. The scent of fresh coffee and grilled food wrapped around you, comforting after a long day of dealing with the worst the city had to offer. Then, the ground shook. It started as a low rumble, something you barely registered over the hum of conversation. Then—violence. The world lurched. Dishes crashed. The walls groaned under the sudden strain. People screamed. The ceiling split apart, raining debris before you could react.

Impact. Darkness.

Your ears rang. A sharp pain pulsed in your leg, your ribs ached, and the weight pressing on your chest made breathing difficult. You tried to move—nothing. Dust choked the air, the scent of smoke and concrete filling your lungs. Somewhere nearby, you heard distant voices crying out for help. Then—silence. You didn’t know how long you were trapped. Minutes? Hours? Time blurred. Pain became a dull throb, exhaustion pulling you under. The only thing keeping you tethered was the faint hope that someone would come.

Then—noise.

Faint at first. The distant sound of metal shifting, of heavy boots crunching against debris. The rhythmic beeping of equipment. Voices.

"Got another one here!"

The words barely registered, but they meant something. Light suddenly cut through the darkness, harsh and blinding. You blinked, vision swimming as figures moved above you. A helmet came into focus—Buckley