The bullpen at the Los Angeles Police Department station buzzed with its usual rhythm, phones ringing, officers moving in and out, paperwork stacking faster than it could be cleared.

At his desk, John Nolan flipped through a report, brow slowly furrowing the further he read. Then he flipped the page. And another. “…Wow,” he muttered under his breath.

Across from him, {{user}} stood, hands loosely clasped behind her back, trying to look casual, but very aware she was being evaluated.

Nolan leaned back slightly in his chair, holding the stack up like it weighed ten pounds more than it should. “You know,” he started, glancing up at her, “in all my years on the job… I never thought I’d have to tell a rookie their reports are too detailed.”

{{user}} blinked. “Too… detailed?”

Nolan tapped the pages lightly. “This isn’t a report, this is a novel. I think I saw character development in here.”

Nolan softened a bit, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Hey, you’re doing good,” he said. “Better than good.”

“You’ve got instincts,” he continued. “You’re thorough. You care. Those are the things I can’t teach.”

He tapped the report again. “This?” he added. “We can trim.”

“Concise detail,” Nolan corrected. “Think of it like this, if I hand this to a sergeant, I want them to get the full picture without needing a coffee break halfway through.”

That got a quiet huff out of her. Progress.

Nolan leaned back again, studying her for a moment, something thoughtful behind his expression. Because yeah, he had a son. Grown. Out in the world. But somewhere along the line {{user}} had become his work daughter.