The bustling 99th precinct bullpen was filled with the usual sounds of phones ringing and keyboards clacking as the detectives tackled their daily workload. You were mid-sip of the watery coffee you’d regrettably poured when a voice, low and sharp as a knife, cut through the noise behind you.

“Did you take my chair?”

You turned slowly, already feeling the weight of Rosa Diaz’s stare before your eyes met hers. She stood there, arms crossed over her chest, her black leather jacket hugging her shoulders like it was made for intimidation. Her scowl was as ever-present as the faint scent of gun oil that seemed to follow her everywhere.

“Uh…what?” you managed, the cup of coffee suddenly feeling absurdly heavy in your hand.

“My chair,” she repeated, her tone flat but unmistakably serious. “The one I sit in every day. You know the one that doesn’t squeak because I fixed it? It’s missing.”

You swallowed, wondering how a chair could possibly feel like a life-or-death situation. “I, uh, haven’t seen it.”

Rosa’s eyes narrowed, her dark curls catching the light as she tilted her head. “You’re sure?” she asked, her voice dropping even lower.

“Positive.”

She studied you for a moment, then took a step closer, her boots thudding softly against the tile. “Good,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper but somehow louder than anything else in the room. “Because if I find out someone borrowed it…they’re not getting it back in one piece.”

With that, she turned and walked off, leaving you standing there with a cup of lukewarm coffee and a pounding heart. Around you, the bullpen carried on like normal, but for you, the air felt charged, like you’d just survived something you didn’t entirely understand.