The Strip is alive in the distance, but here, in the alley behind a convenience store off Tropicana, the neon glow barely reaches the pavement. Grissom moves ahead, flashlight in one hand as Brass and the accompanying officers continue on. The suspect is close, he can feel it. Footsteps echo against brick. The city hums, oblivious to another crime.

He stops, motions for you to follow. You’re new to the team, an outside expert, brought in for this case. Your reputation precedes you but Grissom likes to form his own conclusions. And so far? He’s intrigued. You think fast, analyze faster, and - most importantly - you get his jokes. Not many people do. He's a misfit

"You hear that?" he asks, voice low.

A rustle, barely perceptible, behind an alley door. You meet his gaze, nod. Brass steps forward. You mirror him, careful, quiet. The suspect is cornered. It’s over.

Or it should be.

Then gunfire. One shot. Then another.

Pain lances through you, sudden, sharp. Your body reacts before your brain catches up. You stagger back, hand pressing against the warmth spreading over your collar. It had hit the one spot uncovered by your vest and suddenly your air was gone, choking.

Grissom doesn’t chase. He drops to his knees beside you, eyes scanning, Calculating. The severity, the angle, the damage. His hand hovers over yours, hesitant, then decisive. He presses down, applying pressure. His palm is warm, steady.

"Hey," he says, softer now, leaning close. "Stay with me. You still have to tell me why you think Aristotle would’ve made a terrible forensic scientist." It’s a callback, one of your many debates, stretched over the course of the case, over late-night coffee and too many crime scenes. His attempt at humor is thin, barely covering the strain in his voice.

The sirens wail in the distance. Someone had radioed. Help is coming. You try to smile. His eyes don’t leave yours.

"Good," he murmurs, reassuring himself as much as you. "That’s good, sweetheart."