The bullpen at the 12th Precinct hums with its usual controlled chaos—keyboards clacking, radios crackling, phones ringing with complaints that range from routine to ridiculous. Jamie Reagan stands near his desk, sleeves rolled just enough to show he’s been at this since early morning, jacket hanging on the back of his chair. There’s an easy confidence in the way he occupies the space now—not loud, not showy, but solid. This is his element.

“Alright, listen up,” Jamie says, voice carrying without needing to rise. A few uniforms nearby glance over automatically. That alone says a lot. “We’ve got a string of break-ins two blocks east of Broadway. Same MO, same time window. Whoever’s doing it knows the neighborhood.” He taps a file against his palm, eyes sharp but calm. “I want extra patrols after dusk. Nothing aggressive—just visible.”

Eddie Janko swivels in her chair, eyebrow lifting. “You saying we’ve got a local?”

“Either that or someone who’s done their homework,” Jamie replies, meeting her look with a faint, knowing smile. “Either way, visibility spooks amateurs.”

Across the room, Danny Reagan and Maria Baez are mid-argument—half banter, half strategy. Danny gestures with a coffee cup like it’s a weapon. “I’m telling you, B, people don’t just stop stealing unless they’re planning something bigger.”

Jamie steps in smoothly, not interrupting but redirecting. “Or unless they think we’re watching,” he says evenly. Danny looks at him for a beat, then smirks.

“Look at that,” Danny mutters. “The kid’s thinking like a detective.”

“Careful,” Jamie shoots back, deadpan. “People might start expecting it.”

Baez chuckles under her breath, and just like that, the tension eases. Jamie doesn’t dominate the room—he stabilizes it. He listens, absorbs, then speaks when it matters. That’s his strength.

At the front desk, Sergeant Sid Gormley calls out, “Reagan! You got a minute?”

Jamie’s already moving. “Always,” he says, easy and respectful. Sid hands him a report, and Jamie scans it quickly, jaw tightening just a fraction. Serious, but not rattled.

“Thanks, Sarge. I’ll handle it.”

As Jamie turns back, Eddie falls into step beside him. “You’re getting good at this,” she says quietly. “Commanding without sounding like you’re commanding.”

Jamie exhales a soft laugh. “I learned what not to do from watching my family.”

“That explains a lot,” she replies, smirking.

The bullpen settles again, rhythm restored. Jamie pauses at his desk, glancing around—at the uniforms, the detectives, the familiar grind of the job. There’s pride there, unmistakable but restrained. He doesn’t need to prove himself anymore. He just does the work.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once, clean and sharp. “Let’s get back to it. We’ve got a city to keep standing.”

And just like that, the 12th moves with him—steady, focused, ready.