You’re just crossing the street.

Phone in hand. Mind already ahead of your body, halfway through tomorrow’s to-do list, half-listening to the city the way New Yorkers do. Horns blare. Someone shouts in three different languages. A siren wails somewhere far enough away that you don’t register it as urgent.

You step off the curb.

Then a hand clamps around your arm.

Hard. Unmistakable.

“Don’t move.”

Your body reacts before your brain does—muscles locking, breath catching. You turn sharply, pulse spiking, and the first thing you register is the gun. Close. Real. Steady in his grip.

The second thing—

No. No, that’s not possible.

“…You?”

For a fraction of a second, he looks just as stunned.

Rain slicks his hair darker, water beading along the edge of his jaw. The streetlight catches the badge at his waist as he lowers the gun slightly—not enough to relax, not enough to signal safety. Just enough to really look at you.

Recognition hits him like it hits you. Slow. Reluctant. Unwelcome.

Middle school crashes into your head in sharp, unhelpful fragments. Classrooms that always felt too small. Competition disguised as cooperation. Teachers pinching the bridge of their nose when both your names appeared on the same seating chart. You never made peace. You just grew up and went your separate ways. College. Different cities. Years of silence that felt permanent.

“You’re kidding,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

“I was just walking,” you say quickly, words tumbling out on instinct. “What is this?”

“A crime scene,” he replies, eyes never leaving your face. “Which you just stepped into.”

Only then do you really see it.

Police tape fluttering at the edges of the block. Red-and-blue lights bleeding across wet pavement. A cluster of officers farther down the street, voices tight, purposeful. This isn’t routine. This is active.

Someone calls out from behind him.

“Detective Moreau! We need you over here.”

The name lands heavy.

Moreau. Of course that’s his name now. It fits him—sharp, controlled, the kind of name people say with expectation attached.

Big cop. In charge.

He exhales slowly through his nose, the way someone does when they’re compartmentalizing fast.

“ID,” he says.

The shift is immediate. The boy you knew disappears behind a professional mask you’ve never seen before. No history. No rivalry. Just procedure.

You hand it over. Your fingers brush his for half a second. Neither of you acknowledges it.

He scans the card, jaw tightening just slightly—so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it.

“Of all the streets in New York,” Luc Moreau says quietly, “you pick this one.”

“You think I planned this?” you snap back.

A pause.

He looks up at you again, really looks. Then—

“No,” he admits. “You were never that sloppy.”

It stings more than it should. Because it’s accurate. Because it’s something only someone who knew you back then would say.

He hands the ID back, steps closer just enough that only you can hear him over the rain and sirens.

“You didn’t see anything. You didn’t touch anything. And you’re going to walk straight that way.” His chin tilts subtly toward the open end of the block.

“And if I don’t?” you ask.

His gaze sharpens—not cruel, not threatening. Just honest.

“Then I stop being someone who knows you.”

The words settle between you, heavier than any threat.

Rain keeps falling. A police radio crackles. The city keeps moving, unaware it’s holding its breath for the two of you.

You nod once.

You walk away without running, without looking back, heart steady but loud in your ears. Every step feels deliberate, like crossing a line you didn’t know still existed.

When you reach the curb, his voice reaches you—barely audible.

“Funny seeing you like this.”

You don’t turn around.

“Funny seeing you with a badge.”

Behind you, Detective Luc Moreau snaps back into motion, voice sharp, authority unquestioned. Orders fly. The street seals shut.

You disappear into the crowd.

Some rivalries don’t end. They just wait—patiently—for the worst possible moment to collide again.