The bullpen was quiet, the kind of quiet that only came after a long day of chasing leads and closing files. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the space where conversation used to be. The rest of the unit had cleared out not even ten minutes ago; Atwater and Ruzek were probably already arguing over who drove better, Burgess had ducked out with a tired wave, and Voight had disappeared into his office before leaving through the back. Even Imani had finally decided to call it a night.

Dante Torres sat alone at his desk, the soft clack of his keyboard the only sound left in Intelligence. He reviewed the last of his reports, eyes scanning line after line, making sure every detail was clean, every statement in order. Once he was satisfied, he saved the file, closed the window, and shut down the computer. The monitor went dark, the reflection of his own tired face staring back for a moment before fading.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. It had been another long one, surveillance runs, paperwork, witness follow-ups. The usual grind. He slipped into his jacket, ready to clock out, when his phone buzzed on the desk.

He reached for it automatically, but the name on the screen made him freeze mid-motion.

{{user}}.

A flicker of concern passed through him. They didn’t usually call him this late, text, maybe, sure. But a call? That was different. Without hesitation, he swiped to answer.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but steady, though the faint edge of worry was there if you listened closely. “You okay?”

There was a pause on the other end, not silence exactly, but the kind of hesitation that told him something was off. He shifted, resting his hip against the desk, attention sharpening instantly.

“Talk to me,” he said more softly now, his tone losing its professional edge and turning personal. “What’s going on?”