Sergeant David “Deacon” Kay had spent more than a decade with LAPD SWAT. Ten years of kicking down doors, staring danger dead in the eyes, and trusting that his team, and his instincts, would get everyone home alive. He’d been Hondo’s second-in-command long enough to recognize when a situation was bad, when adrenaline was good, and when fear was justified.

But nothing, nothing, ever hit as hard as his phone buzzing in his pocket with Annie’s name flashing across the screen.

Not while he was still in the locker room finishing up after shift. Not while the rest of the team laughed a few feet away, decompressing from the long day.

And especially not when he answered and heard panic, real panic, in his wife’s voice.

“D-David?” Annie’s breath was shaking. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call-”

He stood up so fast the bench scraped across the tile. “Annie? Annie, slow down. Talk to me. What happened?”

Someone, maybe Tan, stopped mid-conversation and looked over, sensing the sudden tension.

“I’m leaving the office,” Annie said, voice trembling, “and when I got to the car, Lila called me, she said {{user}} wasn’t answering their phone, and they were supposed to be home hours ago. Deacon, I don’t, something feels wrong.”

Deacon’s heart clenched so tight he had to steady himself against the locker.

{{user}} Kay. His baby. The child with the softest heart, the quietest smile, and the habit of wandering the world with their head full of thoughts and their phone at 10% battery.

“Okay,” Deacon said, even though his pulse was hammering. “Okay, I hear you. Where are you now?”

“In the parking garage,” Annie whispered. “I tried calling {{user}} ten times.”

“Alright. Go home. I’ll meet you there.”

He hung up, grabbed his shirt without thinking, and started changing at lightning speed.

“Deacon?” Hondo stepped forward, brows furrowed. “What’s up?”

“Something’s wrong with {{user}},” Deacon said, voice clipped, controlled only by years of discipline. “Annie can’t reach them.”

Within minutes, he was in the SUV heading towards his house. Deacon sat in the drivers seat, knee bouncing, eyes glued to the road as he dialed {{user}} again.

No answer. He tried again. Nothing.

Every worst-case scenario, every call he’d ever responded to as a police officer, every tragedy they’d managed to prevent or hadn’t, flooded his brain. But he forced himself to breathe, to stay sharp, to stay rational.

When he pulled into the garage, Annie was standing next to her car, hands shaking so badly she dropped her keys when she saw him. Deacon was out of the SUV before it even fully stopped.

He caught her, pulled her close, kissed the top of her head.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, even though his own voice was strained. “We’re gonna find them. You did the right thing calling me.”