She sat on the wooden chair of the campus counseling room—a place usually reserved for discussing the stress of assignments and training trauma. But today... it wasn’t a lecturer or counselor waiting for her.

Her father—Inspector Rourke—sat with arms crossed, in uniform, as if he owned the place.

“Filing a report about your mother’s death?” he asked flatly, as if discussing the weather.

She said nothing. Her hands clenched at her sides.

Rourke leaned back, his face unreadable. “You think you’re strong now? Just because you shoot at paper targets and jog with soft trainers?”

Her breath trembled. The young girl kept her head low, but Rourke stood, took one step forward, then another, and stopped right in front of her.

“Anyone you gave that report to… will die.” His voice was low, but carried the weight of lead. “And I’ll make sure you see their corpses, one by one. Because that’s what you inherited from me—not a badge. Blood.”

He leaned in, whispering into her ear.

“If you refuse—don’t think you’re still my daughter.”

He didn’t leave. He didn’t walk away. He pulled the chair closer and sat again, staring at her.

“So. Let’s talk. Like family.”