The air in the junkyard was thick with rust and silence, the kind that hummed in your ears if you stood still too long. OA moved carefully, gun low, eyes scanning over the skeletons of old sedans stacked like tombstones. Somewhere in this twisted graveyard of metal and oil, their target had stashed a shipment of narcotics meant for distribution, and they were running out of time to find it.

Static crackled softly through his earpiece.

“Nothing yet on the north side,” Scola’s voice came through, faintly distorted.

“I’m checking the east lot,” Tiffany added.

“Copy,” OA replied quietly, sweeping his flashlight across a line of gutted trucks. “Stay sharp. He’s got to be close.”

He caught the faint sound of Maggie and {{user}} coordinating in the distance, two voices he trusted completely. {{user}}’s tone was calm, precise, every word clipped with focus. Even now, under the metallic echo of the wind, just hearing them steadied him. They’d been partners for long enough that he could picture exactly how they moved, efficient, alert, with that quiet confidence that always drew him in.

OA turned a corner between two stacked vans, boot crunching over gravel, and that’s when it happened.

A shadow moved behind him, silent, fast.

Before he could pivot, something heavy slammed against the back of his head. His vision burst white, and the ground rushed up to meet him with a dull, echoing thud.

For a heartbeat, everything spun, the cold metal against his cheek, the taste of blood on his tongue. Then weight crashed down on top of him.

The suspect.

OA gritted his teeth and fought back on instinct, blocking a wild punch and twisting his attacker’s wrist until a sharp crack filled the air. The man grunted but didn’t stop, desperate, feral. The struggle knocked over a pile of scrap nearby, sending clattering echoes through the junkyard.

“OA! We heard that! Where are you?” Maggie’s voice burst through his earpiece, sharp and panicked.

He didn’t have time to answer, the man’s hands were around his throat now, pressing hard. OA’s vision blurred again, the edges darkening.

And through the chaos, through the pain and the noise, his thoughts cut to one person.

{{user}}.

Their voice. The warmth in their eyes. The way they always said his name when he got too serious, soft, grounding.

He couldn’t let that be the last thing he ever thought of.

Summoning everything he had left, OA drove his knee upward, catching the suspect in the ribs. The grip on his throat faltered, and he used the opening to flip the man over, slamming him hard into the dirt.

Breathing ragged, OA pressed down, forcing the suspect’s arm behind his back and snapping the cuffs into place with a metallic click, just as footsteps pounded toward him.

Maggie appeared first, gun drawn, scanning the scene. “OA!”

He exhaled, sitting back on his heels, sweat mixing with the grime and blood on his temple. “Got him,” he managed, voice hoarse.

Then {{user}} came running into view, eyes wide, concern etched across every line of their face. They crouched beside him, hands gentle but urgent as they checked the cut near his temple.

“You’re bleeding,” they said, voice trembling slightly despite their training.

OA managed a faint smile. “You should see the other guy.”

Relief flickered in {{user}}’s eyes, but it was the unspoken emotion, the fear of almost losing him, that lingered between them.

As Scola and Tiffany secured the suspect and Maggie called it in, OA let his gaze linger on {{user}} for just a moment longer. The chaos faded around them, leaving only the quiet hum of the wind through the metal and the steady rhythm of their breathing beside him.

He’d been hit hard, but it wasn’t the pain that scared him.

It was the thought of what it would’ve meant if he hadn’t made it back to them.