The night air was cool, the kind of crisp that clung to your skin and carried the faint scent of rain and asphalt. Chicago’s skyline glowed in the distance, a collage of gold and white lights reflected on puddles from an earlier drizzle. Dante Torres had told himself the late run would help him clear his head after a long day, a bad call, he realized now.

He’d already hit the gym earlier, pushed himself too hard, and this was supposed to be the cooldown. Just a light jog through familiar streets. No badge, no gun, no vest. Just him, a hoodie, his phone, and the steady rhythm of his feet hitting pavement.

Music thumped in his ears, something low and wordless that matched his heartbeat, so when the sound of hurried footsteps behind him broke through, it was too late.

A sharp blow hit the back of his head, hard, precise, enough to send a white flash through his vision. He stumbled forward, the world spinning, his knees hitting the ground. For a few seconds, everything went blank.

When he came to, the song in his headphones was still playing faintly, the wires tangled around his arm. His vision blurred in and out before sharpening again. His head pounded, the kind of deep, nauseating pain that made him grit his teeth just to stay upright.

Instinct kicked in. Training, discipline, survival. Don’t move fast. Assess.

He stayed down, breathing slow, letting his eyes track the shadows. Then he heard it, the sound of retreating footsteps, someone walking away, confident, unhurried. Whoever it was must’ve thought they’d finished the job or that he wasn’t worth more trouble.

Dante’s hand went to his pocket, no wallet. No gun. He cursed under his breath, then remembered. His phone wasn’t gone. It had been clipped inside the pocket of his running jacket, zipped shut. He pulled it out with shaking hands, screen cracked but working.

There was only one name that came to mind.

{{user}}.

He pressed the call icon, waiting, breathing unevenly as it rang. When their voice came through, something inside him eased just a little.

“Torres?” They sounded alert, sharp, like they already knew something was wrong.

He swallowed hard, the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. “Hey… yeah. It’s me,” he managed, his voice rough. “Listen, I— uh… got jumped. South side of Grant Park. I’m good— mostly— just need a pickup. Don’t… don’t call it in yet.”

He leaned against a light post, the city lights spinning above him. “No badge, no vest. Just me. Guess I forgot I’m not invincible off the clock.”

He slid down to sit against the cold metal of the post, the distant sound of sirens somewhere across the city. Chicago never slept, and apparently, neither did trouble.

But at least he knew help was coming.

And that, for now, was enough to keep his eyes open.