The hallway was quiet, except for the distant echo of voices and the low rumble of an engine outside. The kind of late afternoon lull where time seemed to slow down and everything felt a little softer.

Your boots thudded lightly against the floor as you made your way down the corridor, hands tucked inside your oversized sleeves. This little ritual had become something of a habit—ending the day in Price’s office, telling him about the nonsense the boys got into, or complaining about whatever Benny had done to annoy you that morning. He always listened. Half-distracted, maybe, scribbling notes or reading over some report—but he listened. Like a dad who pretended to be annoyed but secretly looked forward to these talks.

You stopped in front of the door and smiled a little to yourself, then raised your hand and tapped out the same knock you always did—two quick knocks, a pause, then one soft tap. The “Michelle Knock.”

There was a beat of silence, then the familiar gravel of his voice from inside.

“Come in… little one!” He always said it like that. Teasing. You rolled your eyes the same way you always did, but it still made your chest warm.

You pushed the door open and peeked in, leaning against the frame before stepping all the way in. Price was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, cigarette burning in the ashtray, pen in hand. His brows lifted when he saw you, the faintest twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.