The office was chaos—files stacked high, radio chatter filtering in from three different units, reports waiting for your signature. Eight units, eighty men, all tugging at you from different directions. Even the clock on the wall seemed to mock you with how little time you had.

The knock on the door was soft. You didn’t even look up.

“Captain,” Price’s voice rumbled, calm as ever. “Was thinking of grabbing dinner for the lads. You want anything?”

It was such a simple question. Ordinary. Almost kind.

But it hit like a match to dry powder.

Your head snapped up, eyes blazing. “Dinner? Dinner? Price, I’ve got eighty men to keep alive, four narcotics units running raids, four SWAT units on rotation, every bloody one of them breathing down my neck for answers, and you’re asking me what I want to eat?”

The words came fast, hot, unstoppable.

“I don’t have time to breathe, let alone worry about a meal. I’ve got reports stacked so high I can’t see the damn desk. I’ve got seconds-in-command acting like they could run things better. I’ve got brass questioning every decision, and you—” your voice cracked, furious and exhausted, “—you walk in here like it’s a normal bloody day and ask me about dinner?”

The room went silent, your words still vibrating in the air.

Price stood there, jaw tight, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in something colder. He stepped further into the office and shut the door with deliberate calm.

“You just snapped at me,” he said evenly, gravel deep in his voice. “Over food.”

You froze, realizing the weight of it.

“That tells me two things, Captain,” he continued, folding his arms across his chest. “One—you’re wound tighter than a tripwire. And two—you’ve lost perspective.” He leaned in slightly, voice firm, commanding. “Dinner’s not the problem. The problem’s you.”

His gaze pinned you, unyielding. “If you can’t handle a simple question without breaking, how the hell do you expect to handle eight units looking to you for stability?”

The words landed like body blows. The anger was still hot in your chest, but beneath it was something sharper—shame.

Price didn’t let up. “So. You’ve got two choices: get your head straight, or I’ll pull you before you drag eighty men down with you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the only sound your uneven breathing and the hum of the radio on the desk.