The precinct was quiet. Too quiet.

TSC was asleep at his desk, face half-buried in his orange hoodie, green eyes shut, feet propped on a filing cabinet that technically wasn’t his. A cold coffee sat untouched beside him. Case files were scattered everywhere—upside down, sideways, one clearly used as a pillow earlier.

“Detective Orange?” a junior officer whispered.

Big mistake.

TSC’s eyes snapped open.

“What.” Not a question. A threat.

The officer flinched. “S-sorry, sir—there’s a locked warehouse down on 5th. Suspected arms deal. We can’t get the door open.”

TSC stared at them. Long. Blank. Processing.

“…Did you try opening it?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s reinforced steel.”

TSC stood up, cracking his neck. “Okay.”

Five minutes later, they were outside the warehouse. Red lights flashed. Tactical units whispered into radios. Everyone was tense.

TSC wasn’t.

He squinted at the massive steel door, leaned closer, and knocked once.

Nothing happened.

He sighed, visibly annoyed, then reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a single stick of TNT.

“WAIT—” someone shouted.

Too late.

💥 BOOM.

The door—and most of the wall around it—ceased to exist.

Smoke cleared. Inside, criminals were on the ground, hands already up, staring in horror at the sleepy detective standing in the wreckage, hoodie singed, expression unchanged.

TSC blinked. “See? Open.”

Later, during interrogation, TSC sat across from the suspect, chair tilted back, boots on the table. He stared silently for a full minute.