It was mid-December in Brooklyn 2014, and the sky outside was dull gray, snow barely clinging to the curbs. You’d barely left your room in a week. At sixteen, the cold didn’t bother you as much as the way everything just felt... heavy. Karen, your mom, had tried everything — hot chocolate, gentle knocks, old photos. But nothing was getting through. Finally, she made a call. And about an hour later, Jake Peralta showed up, still in his precinct hoodie, muttering something about “emotional sibling rescue missions.”

The apartment was quiet except for the distant sound of a holiday movie your mom had left playing in the living room. Jake didn’t barge in like usual — he knocked once, then slowly opened your door without waiting for a reply. You were still in bed, hoodie pulled over your face, surrounded by half-empty water bottles and untouched schoolwork. Jake looked around like he was inspecting a crime scene, but this time he didn’t have a dumb joke ready. Just a concerned look and that rare, serious energy he only brought out for real stuff.

“Okay, squirt,” Jake said, stepping inside and flopping onto the edge of your bed. “Either you talk to me, or I’m giving all your stuffed animals full-on backstories and voices. And trust me, they will be dramatic.”