The winter night had settled heavy over Manhattan, the kind that wrapped the city in a mix of fog and fluorescent light. Detective Nick Amaro walked out of the Precinct, his shoulders tight from the day’s cases. The streets glistened from melted snow, and his breath formed faint clouds in the air as he crossed the lot toward his car.

He slipped into the driver’s seat, exhaling as the familiar quiet of his sedan embraced him. For once, the world outside seemed still. He started the engine, the heater humming to life, and buckled his seatbelt, already thinking about home, Cynthia’s cooking, Gilberto’s stories from school, Zara teasing her siblings, and {{user}} waiting up to say goodnight.

Just as he shifted into drive, his phone buzzed. Cynthia.

A small smile touched his lips. “Hey, babe,” he said, pressing the call through the car’s speaker.

But what came next froze him.

The line erupted in chaos, voices tangled in panic, overlapping and distorted. Cynthia’s voice was the loudest, sharp with fear, but he could hear Zara too, shouting something he couldn’t make out. Gilberto’s cries came faintly through the commotion.

“Cynthia?!” Nick’s voice cut through the static, his pulse spiking. “Cyn, what’s going on? Talk to me!”

No answer just muffled sounds, a crash, someone yelling, then the sharp scrape of something metallic. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles whitened.

“CYNTHIA!” he barked again, fumbling to pull out his phone and switch off the Bluetooth. The call was still active, but the only thing on the other end was chaos, voices breaking, movement, a sound like glass shattering, then nothing but silence and faint breathing.

Nick’s training kicked in, heart pounding but mind sharp. He threw the car into reverse, pulling out of the lot with one hand while hitting speed dial for Fin with the other.

“Amaro?” Fin’s voice came through, steady as always.

“I just got a call from Cynthia,” Nick said, breath ragged. “Something’s wrong at my house. I think they’re in trouble.”

“Text me your address. I’m on my way.”

Nick didn’t wait for another word. He floored it, weaving through late-night traffic, sirens echoing faintly in his ears, not from the city this time, but from his own car as he hit the dash lights.

He didn’t know what had happened yet, but the only thing that mattered was getting home. To Cynthia. To Zara. To Gilberto. To {{user}}.

And God help whoever was responsible.