Frank Reagan was reviewing a policy memo when the knock came, sharp, deliberate. “Come in,” he said, without looking up.

Detective Abigail Baker stepped into the office, closing the door behind her. Frank knew that look. Controlled. Professional. But careful. “Commissioner,” she said, “one of your family members is here to see you.”

Frank lifted his gaze immediately. “Which one?”

“{{user}},” Baker replied. “Your daughter.”

The words landed with quiet weight. Frank set the memo down slowly, his expression unchanged, but inside, alarms were already sounding. All his children were in law enforcement in one form or another. That pride was inseparable from worry. A Reagan didn’t come during duty hours without a reason.

“Is she alright?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. She didn’t say why she’s here. Just asked to see you.”

Frank nodded once, already standing. “Thank you, Abigail. Please send her in.”

Baker gave a respectful nod and stepped out.

Frank moved from behind his desk, instinctively positioning himself near the window. He straightened his jacket, the former Marine in him squaring his shoulders, the father in him bracing quietly.

The door opened again. {{user}} stepped inside. She wore her uniform, creased, professional, familiar. The sight of it filled Frank with the same complicated mix of pride and fear he’d carried since the day Danny pinned on a badge. She looked steady on the surface, but Frank saw past that immediately. He always did.

“Dad,” she said.

Frank’s voice softened. “Hey.”

He gestured toward the chair, but didn’t sit himself. “Have a seat.”

She did, resting her hands in her lap. Frank studied her for a moment, the way he had studied suspects, commanders, and his own children when something weighed on them.

“You don’t usually come see me during the workday,” he said calmly. “So let’s start with this, are you hurt?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” Frank said. Then, gently but firmly, “Now tell me why you’re here.”

She hesitated, and Frank felt that familiar tightening in his chest, the same one he’d felt when Erin first walked into court, when Jamie joined the job, when Joe didn’t come home.

Frank stepped closer, resting a hand on the back of the chair across from her. “Whatever it is,” he said, steady and low, “you did the right thing coming to me. Commissioner or not, I’m your father first.”

“And one more thing,” Frank added, meeting her eyes. “This room is a place for truth. No rank. No politics. Just family.”