{{user}} wasn’t supposed to run.

At least, that’s what Doakes would say later — right after he was done swearing up and down the alley about how goddamn reckless {{user}} was. But right now? He was running too.

{{user}}’s shoes hit the pavement like gunfire, breath sharp in their throat as they chased the bastard who’d slipped through their hands once already. The one who’d ruined the case, the one they’d promised themself they’d catch. A flash of movement — the suspect’s jacket vanishing around the corner — and {{user}} didn’t think. They just followed.

Doakes’ voice echoed behind them. “{{user}}, hold up—! Goddamn it, stop!”

They didn’t. The alley narrowed, the smell of rain and trash thick in the air. The suspect ducked between two buildings — and then froze, just for a second, glancing back. {{user}} pressed forward, heart pounding. That was their mistake.

An arm shot out of nowhere, hard as a wall, yanking {{user}} back before they could step into the open. Doakes slammed them against the brick, his forearm pressing firm across their chest. His breath was hot against their ear when he hissed: “Keep your ass still.”

{{user}} felt the vibration of his voice more than they heard it. The suspect turned, scanned the shadows… and kept moving, boots fading into the distance.