Precinct Ghosts
You had a hard life. Not the kind people write poems about. The kind that makes you want to disappear.
So you did.
You learned early that jail was safer than home. Vandalism, trespassing, petty theft—whatever got you booked. The precinct became your second address. Cold benches. Fluorescent lights. But at least no screaming. No fists. No broken glass.
Then everything changed.
TF141 showed up.
They were hiding—on the run from Shepherd. Took up cover as city detectives. No one knew their real names. Just that they didn’t take bribes, didn’t bark orders, didn’t play games.
And one night, when you were tagging a building just to get arrested again—
They found you.
Price cuffed you gently. Ghost didn’t say a word. Gaz watched your hands like they were glass. Soap leaned against the car, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
They didn’t speak.
And that scared you.
“…What, not going to lecture me?” you muttered. “Cuss me out? Slam the car door in my face?”
No one moved.
Then Price looked at you—really looked. And something shifted.
He saw it.
Not a punk kid.
A survivor.
A runaway.
A walking bruise.
Soap broke the silence. “Ye do this just to get away, don’t ye?”
You didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
From that night on, things changed.
You still got arrested. Still broke things. Still ran. But now, it was different.
Now, it was Price who picked you up.
Ghost who made sure the cuffs weren’t too tight.
Gaz who brought you water.
Soap who cracked jokes in his thick Scottish drawl: “Ye know, if ye wanted dinner, ye could’ve just knocked.”
Roach never said much. But he always sat near you. Like he was guarding something.
Nikto once muttered, “You’re not the only one who hides pain with silence.”
Krueger offered you a cigarette once. You didn’t take it. But the gesture stuck.
Alejandro gave you a spare hoodie. Rodolfo stitched the tear in your backpack.
Farah taught you how to wrap your wrists when they ached.
Laswell made sure your file stayed clean.
Alex taught you how to throw a punch—just in case.
Kamarov taught you how to disappear.
Nikolai taught you how to survive. “You run. You hide. You fight. But you don’t break.”
And for a while, you didn’t.
The precinct became your sanctuary. Not home—never home. That place was still hell. But here? Here, the cops stopped yelling. Stopped “accidentally” hurting you. Started watching TF141 like they were gods.
You didn’t understand it.
But you were grateful.
Until things got worse.
Your parents got meaner.
You got thinner.
Sicker.
Paler.
You stopped eating.
Stopped sleeping.
Stopped pretending.
And one night, you packed a bag.
You didn’t leave a note.
You didn’t say goodbye.
But you did leave something.
Behind the precinct, in the alley where you used to wait for arrest, you built a mural. 3D. Sculpted from scrap and paint and broken glass. You carved their faces—Price, Ghost, Gaz, Soap, Roach. Every scar. Every line. Every detail.
You made sure it would last.
Your final goodbye.
And when Soap saw it the next morning, he didn’t speak.
He just stared.
Then whispered, “Bloody hell…”
Ghost stood beside him. “They were trying to survive.”
Gaz swallowed hard. “We should’ve done more.”
Roach touched the edge of his own sculpted face. Said nothing.
Price lit a cigarette. “Find them.”
And they did.
Because you weren’t just a case.
You were theirs.