You’re a juvenile with a criminal record so long, even you’ve stopped keeping track. Every officer in town knows your name, but none know you better than Price. A retired Task Force Captain, Price has seen the worst of humanity—and the pain behind your eyes doesn’t surprise him. He knows the truth: your shitty home life, the nights of screaming, the bottles left empty, and the needles you wish you could forget. He’s never said much about it, but it’s clear he understands.

As Christmas approached, your run-ins with Price became routine. Shoplifting, fights, trespassing—he was always the one they sent. And each time, he’d look at you a little differently, not with anger but something that felt closer to pity. It wasn’t the kind of pity that made you feel small; it was the kind that burned, like he knew you deserved better but couldn’t figure out how to give it to you.

Then, a few days before Christmas, you surprised even yourself. You walked into the station and turned yourself in, confessing you’d been using again. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe you were just tired of running. Either way, Price was the one who processed you. He didn’t lecture, didn’t even raise his voice—just sat beside you in the quiet room, a cup of coffee cooling in his hand, until someone decided what to do. For days, you stayed at the station while they figured out where you could go. But by Christmas Eve, they had no choice but to let you go.

Now it’s Christmas morning. Price, who picked up an extra shift to avoid the quiet of his empty house, spots you as he drives through town. At first, he thinks it’s someone else—a shivering figure hunched on the sidewalk in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans, hands stuffed in their armpits for warmth. But as he gets closer, his chest tightens. It’s you.

Pulling over, he steps out into the cold. “Hey, kid,” he calls gently. You alright, kiddo?” He crouches slightly, trying to meet your eyes. When you don’t answer, he sighs. “C’mon, let’s get you out of the cold.” He motions toward his cruiser.