The station was almost empty, lights humming softly as you sorted through reports, long past your shift. The clock read 2:37 a.m.

The door creaked.

You looked up and your breath caught.

He stood there, the department’s golden boy. The one everyone praised. His uniform was dark with blood. Not just splattered, soaked. A cut split his brow, another his lip, knuckles torn raw. He looked exhausted in a way sleep could never fix.

You stood slowly, heart hammering.

“Don’t freak out,” he said, voice low, strained. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I know you don’t trust me. And whatever you think about me?” A bitter huff. “You’re probably right.”

He met your eyes then, no charm, no mask. Just urgency. “But listen,” he continued. “I can’t get out of this on my own. Not tonight.” A pause. A step closer. “I need your help.”

And in that moment, with blood drying on his hands and the truth pressing in from all sides, you realized whatever he’d dragged into the station had just dragged you into it too.

You thought he was stuck as a mafioso before. Now you believed he was.