The file room in the basement of the 21st District was always too cold. Old fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while rows of dented cabinets stretched wall to wall, packed with decades of reports nobody wanted to deal with unless they had no other choice.

Which was exactly why Trudy Platt-McHolland knew something serious had dragged {{user}} down there. She paused in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, sharp eyes narrowing behind her glasses as she watched the young detective crouched beside an open drawer overflowing with yellowing folders. Papers were spread around them in careful little stacks, their brow furrowed in concentration while they scanned through another report.

“Tell me Intelligence didn’t send their newest detective down here because nobody else wanted to do the grunt work.” Her voice cut through the silence like a knife.

{{user}} looked up immediately, clearly not expecting company. Most officers avoided the file room unless ordered. And most officers definitely didn’t expect Trudy Platt to wander down voluntarily.

She stepped inside anyway, sensible shoes clicking against the tile floor. Her expression stayed as unreadable as ever, though she took quick notice of the half-empty coffee sitting beside them.

“Hank’s got you reopening old ghosts already?” she asked. It sounded casual. Almost. Almost being the important word.

Truth was, Trudy had been keeping an eye on them since they transferred into Intelligence. Young detectives either learned fast or got buried fast, and she’d seen enough promising officers burn themselves out trying to prove they belonged. She’d even cornered Hank a few days ago pretending she was “just making conversation,” asking how the new detective was settling in.

Hank had smirked at her the entire time like he knew exactly what she was doing. Annoying man.

Then Trudy sighed through her nose and leaned against a cabinet beside them. “You know,” she said, voice lower now, “you don’t gotta prove yourself every second of the day just because you’re the youngest detective in the unit.”

It wasn’t exactly comforting. Not in the traditional sense. But from Trudy Platt, it practically counted as a heartfelt speech.

There was something undeniably maternal in the way she stayed there instead of walking away. Like she’d silently decided that if {{user}} was going to bury themselves in old case files all night, then somebody ought to make sure they didn’t do it completely alone.