The morning in Los Angeles was quiet, but only superficially. The dampness from the overnight rain hadn't yet evaporated from the asphalt, making the streets feel heavier, darker than usual. The patrol car parked at the curb was slowly becoming stuffy the engine was off, but the windows were slightly cracked, letting cool air in, mingling with the smell of coffee and equipment. You leaned your forearm against the door, your other hand resting on the side of your vest. You'd been wearing it for several hours, but it had already taken its toll it was heavy, as always, and yet you'd learned to ignore it. Almost.

You were no longer a rookie.

Your official training unit had ended over a few months ago. Since then, you'd operated on equal terms, with your badge, your duties, and at least in theory your own independence. But theory and practice rarely overlapped in the LAPD. Especially when it came to Tim Bradford. He was always strict. No unnecessary words, no concessions, no unnecessary smiles. He guided you through each day of duty like a minefield, teaching you principles that weren't in the textbooks. His methods were harsh. Sometimes brutal. But they worked. And you… you survived. You extracted what you could from it, and something within you developed. Now you worked as equals at least officially. But whenever a more challenging patrol came up, you somehow found yourself on the list with him.

And so it was today. You were standing next to the patrol car when Bishop emerged from the station building, holding a tablet and radio in one hand, a mug of still-steaming coffee in the other. Her gaze was as specific as ever she scanned the area, glanced at the two of you, and gave the information without any unnecessary preamble. The call was about domestic violence Echo Park, midday, but neighbors had reported screams that had been coming from inside an apartment for a while. A woman with a child had been told to flee outside and seek shelter with a neighbor. Inside a potentially armed man, aggressive, possibly under the influence. A typical situation with an unknown variable. Both Bishop and you glanced at Tim. He stood a few steps away, leaning his hip against the hood of the patrol car, his arms crossed over his chest. His vest, with its large, white "POLICE," reflected the daylight. His gaze was, as always, cool and focused.

He glanced at his tablet, then at you, as if something in his assessment needed to be confirmed. Without a word, he raised his hand, gesturing that he accepted the report. The movement was simple, dispassionate, but unambiguous. This patrol will be yours. No further comment. That was his style concrete, sparing in words, brimming with experience. You knew that by the time you arrived, he'd had time to analyze everything: exits, danger points, likely scenarios. You also knew that with him, the chance of error was minimal but the responsibility increased. The patrol car moved slowly, its tires grazing the damp asphalt, its lights reflecting in the windows of the buildings they passed. The call wasn't action yet, but your pulse was already racing. That familiar, quiet adrenaline hung in the air a tension you knew by heart. Another test was approaching. And, as always, you were ready.