The bullpen felt wrong that morning. Too quiet. Too tense. Like the air itself was holding its breath. Al sat at his desk, hands folded, posture straight, calm in the way only a soldier could be when the storm finally hit. He’d spent a lifetime learning how to stand still when everything was about to fall apart. Vicenza had taught him that. So had Chicago.

Across him, {{user}} murmured softly while she typed, the sound familiar, grounding. Al’s gaze flicked to her without thinking. She was young, too young for this job sometimes, but sharp, brave, stubborn in a way that reminded him painfully of his girls. Somewhere along the line, she’d stopped being just a teammate. She was his kid.

The doors to Intelligence opened. Internal Affairs. The shift in the room was immediate. Agent Steve Burns walked in with two uniforms behind him, face tight, all business. And right behind him, like a shadow that never quite went away, Denny Woods.

Al’s jaw clenched. Hank stood from his office, eyes narrowing, every instinct screaming. “What’s this about, Burns?”

Burns didn’t look at Hank. His eyes locked on Al. “Detective Al,” he said clearly, deliberately. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Kevin Bingham.”

The words hit the room like a gunshot. {{user}} froze. Hank took a step forward, voice low and dangerous. “You’re outta your damn mind.”

Woods smiled faintly. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough for Al to see it. A hair. That was all it took.

Al stood slowly, calmly, like he’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times. He didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Just turned to Hank for a brief second, two men bound by decades, loyalty, blood, and mistakes that couldn’t be undone.

“I got this,” Al said quietly.

Hank’s eyes burned. “Al-”

Al shook his head once. Not here.

As Burns stepped closer, cuffs in hand, Al’s gaze drifted back to {{user}}. She looked stunned, eyes glassy, fists clenched at her sides like she wanted to fight the entire room.

Al reached into his jacket pocket. Slowly. Deliberately. He pulled out his badge.

Burns frowned. “What are you doing?”

Al ignored him. He crossed the short distance between them and pressed the badge into {{user}}’s hand. His fingers wrapped around hers for just a second longer than necessary. His voice was low. Steady. Just for her. “Hold onto that for me,” he said. “I’m not done yet.”

Her throat worked. “Al-”

He shook his head gently, the same way he had every time she doubted herself. I’ve got you.

Burns snapped the cuffs on, guiding him toward the door. The unit stood frozen, angry, helpless, watching one of their own be taken.