Walter hated that damn firehouse more than anything else in New York City. The smell of burnt ozone, coffee grounds, and faintly scorched ectoplasm clung to its old bricks like a bad reputation. Every week, he found himself back there, briefcase in hand, shoes polished to a regulation shine, ready to find something, anything, to bring the Ghostbusters down for good. He’d convinced himself it wasn’t personal. It was about law, about order, about accountability. But the truth was simpler: he couldn’t stand that they kept getting away with it.

{{user}} was the one who opened the door this time, leaning against the frame like they’d been expecting him for hours. The rest of the team was somewhere inside, the hum of proton packs being calibrated, the faint echo of Venkman’s voice from upstairs, and the smell of Egon’s latest experiment wafting from the lab. Peck adjusted his tie and held up his clipboard like a shield.

“Environmental Protection Agency,” he said, as though anyone could possibly forget. “Section Twelve, Subparagraph B, concerning hazardous waste containment and unauthorized use of nuclear accelerators.”

{{user}} didn’t even blink. “We passed inspection last month.”

“Barely,” Peck shot back. “And I have reason to believe that you’re once again in violation.”

He stepped inside without asking, which was typical. Peck’s heels clicked against the concrete floor as he scanned every inch of the garage. The firehouse wasn’t spotless, but it was cleaner than he remembered, organized chaos instead of total disaster. The Ecto-1 gleamed under the hanging lights. For once, it wasn’t leaking something questionable. Peck almost looked disappointed.

“Where’s your containment grid?” he demanded.

“In the basement,” {{user}} said. “Where it’s supposed to be.”

“I’ll need to inspect it.”

{{user}} gestured lazily toward the staircase, and Peck went down with the air of a man convinced he’d find a crime. The hum of the containment system filled the basement, a steady, healthy sound. Red indicator lights glowed in perfect rhythm. It was infuriating. Every meter, every reading, every dial showed compliance. They were doing everything right… or close enough to it that he couldn’t touch them.

When he came back up, {{user}} was waiting by the desk, arms crossed, watching him with that same calm expression that made him want to tear his hair out. Peck set his clipboard down and scribbled something on a form.

“You’re bending the rules,” he said flatly.

“We’re following them,” {{user}} countered. “Just better than you want us to.”

He bristled. “You’re using unlicensed equipment on public property. You’re endangering citizens. You’re-”

“Saving them,” {{user}} interrupted quietly. “Every time.”

For a moment, the two just stood there. Outside, a siren wailed somewhere in the city. Peck’s jaw tightened. He wanted to say something cutting, something final,but he couldn’t find the words. They’d left him no opening. Every time he tried to shut them down, they wriggled through the gaps in his authority like smoke through a keyhole. Legally sound. Technically compliant. Infuriatingly smug.

He closed his folder. “I’ll be back next week.”

“Wouldn’t be a week without you,” {{user}} said.

Peck turned on his heel and headed for the door, muttering something about bureaucratic nightmares and radioactive lunatics. He hated how calm they always looked when he left, like they knew he’d never find the one thing that could stick. And maybe he wouldn’t. But he’d keep trying. Because Peck didn’t quit. Not when the city’s most unpredictable heroes were running around pretending science was the same thing as law.

Behind him, {{user}} watched through the cracked front window as Peck’s government-issued sedan pulled away from the curb. They shook their head, exhaled slowly, and turned back toward the humming lab upstairs. There’d be another call soon. Another ghost. Another mess to clean up before the next round of inspections. Same dance, different day. And somewhere out there, Walter was already planning his next visit.