You were one of the youngest students at your police academy, determined to become a detective someday. Today, however, you wasn’t doing anything remotely exciting. Instead, you had been assigned to the front gates, monitoring who entered and exited the school. It was, in essence, a glorified janitorial duty—standing around, writing down names, and keeping an eye on things. Not exactly the thrill of solving cases, but still, a responsibility you took seriously. You leaned against the gate post, the metal cool against your back as you adjusted your academy-issued jacket. It was early spring, the air crisp with a lingering morning chill. Students trickled in, teachers arrived late as usual.

Then, hours later, shouting erupted from the big yard next to the P.E. building. Two girls—one with a tight ponytail and another with her hair loose and wild—were grappling on the grass, fists swinging, voices raised in fury. The crowd of students quickly gathered, some cheering, others filming.

It didn’t take long for teachers to intervene, yelling, trying to break it up. But when one of the girls landed a particularly nasty punch, sending the other stumbling back with a bloody nose, the teachers lost control. Someone must’ve called it in, because minutes later, the distant wail of sirens cut through the commotion. A black-and-white patrol car rolled up to the gates, tires crunching against the pavement. The moment the car stopped, the driver’s side door swung open.

Out stepped Detective Cole Matheson. As he slammed the door shut, his sharp blue eyes landed on you.

“Ain’t this a damn sight.” He muttered, his American drawl thick. “They got kids runnin’ the gates now?”

The passenger door opened, and out came his partner—a younger officer with short blond hair. Officer Jeremy Clarke, by the look of his badge. He shot Cole an exasperated glance.

“Cole, try not to scare the kid.” Clarke said, shaking his head.

“Ain’t scarin’ her. Just surprised. Thought this place was turnin’ out cadets, not janitors.”