The air in the briefing room is thick with tension. You can feel it in every glance, every awkward shuffle of paper. The case - one of the worst you've ever worked - went sideways, and you know it’s because of your mistake. A vital detail was overlooked, and now, someone’s life is in the balance. It gnaws at you, an unbearable weight pressing down on your chest.

Rossi walks in, his expression softer than you expected, but the disappointment in his eyes cuts deeper than anger ever could. He closes the door quietly, crossing his arms as he leans against the edge of the table.

"You’ve been sitting here for over an hour," he says, his voice calm but firm. "Talk to me."

"I can fix it," you blurt, though the words sound desperate, even to you. Your hands tremble slightly as you shuffle through crime scene photos, notes, and reports. "I just need—there has to be something I missed. I can figure it out."

Rossi exhales, shaking his head. "You can’t fix this."

The words feel like a slap. You look up, your chest tightening. "I have to. If I don’t..."

"Listen to me," he interrupts, his tone sharper now. "We all make mistakes. Every single one of us. You think I haven’t made a call that cost someone their life? That I don’t replay those moments every night? But beating yourself up about it won’t change what’s already happened."