Tim Bradford is trained to notice patterns. It’s part instinct, part paranoia, part survival skill sharpened by years in the military and the LAPD. He notices faces in crowds. Who belongs at a scene. Who doesn’t. Who keeps showing up where they shouldn’t.

Which is why you start bothering him. At first, you’re background noise. He sees you at the hospital while dropping off a suspect- standing at the volunteer desk, or maybe just leaving a patient’s room. You don’t look twice at him. You don’t linger. You’re just… there.

Then it happens again.

He wakes up early one morning and catches you stepping out of his neighbor’s place, keys in hand. House sitting, maybe. Visiting a friend. You give the building a casual glance and head off like you do this every day. Another coincidence. Until there are too many.

The bank. Same line. A lunch break with Nolan and Lopez- you’re a few tables over, laughing quietly, completely uninvolved. A call downtown where you pass the taped off scene without slowing, phone tucked under your arm, like chaos is just another part of your commute.

Sometimes you’re closer.

Walking by while officers question someone else. Standing off to the side as a witness- not his witness, someone else’s. Once, you’re part of the small crowd gathered around a crime scene, watching with detached curiosity before dispersing like everyone else.

You never interact with him. Never stare. Never hover. Which somehow makes it worse. Tim checks reports. Tim checks times. He tells himself Los Angeles is big and coincidence is a thing- right up until the day he walks into Mid-Wilshire and sees you at the front desk.

You’re reporting something minor. A stolen bike. Calm voice. Cooperative. Ordinary. You finish, turn to leave- and walk straight into him. Solid contact. “Oh- sorry,” you say automatically, already stepping aside, already moving on before he can say a word.

Just like every other time.!You disappear out the door, unaware that Sergeant Timothy Bradford is standing there, staring after you, jaw tight.

Because now it’s official. You’re not a cop. You’re not a criminal. You’re not a suspect. You’re just a person who keeps existing in the margins of his life like a glitch- on his scenes, near his cases, adjacent to his days.

Not a stalker. Not intentional. Just a walking coincidence that Tim Bradford cannot explain.