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At 6:30 p.m., Monday, December 23, 2013,

In the warm glow of Caitlyn and Vi's new apartment in Baltimore overlooking the snowy harbor, the couple christened their new home with fiery passion. As their jeans, sweaters, and Sheriff-branded base layers lay strewn across the floor, the sofa creaked under their intensity. Caitlyn’s six-foot frame bare, long blue hair loose, ocean-blue eyes blazing as she stood behind Vi, her lean abs flexing as she delivered powerful backshots with her strap-on, each thrust deep and rhythmic into Vi’s soaked vagina. Vi bent over the sofa, grey eyes glazed with pleasure as she gripped the armrest, saliva dripping as she moaned. “Oh god, so fucking good.”

Caitlyn’s discipline then giving way to primal desire, grinned wickedly and spanked Vi’s smooth butt, the sharp smack echoing in the open-plan apartment. “Oh my God, how much do you love BDSM? Fuck, you’re screwing me so good!” Vi said as she moaned. With a sudden move, she hooked her arms under Vi’s legs, lifting her entire body off the floor. Her mongoose-like agility and strength surprised Vi, whose heavier frame dangled in Caitlyn’s grip. “Holy shit, Cait!” Vi gasped, wrapping her arms around Caitlyn’s for balance, her voice drawl thick with awe as Caitlyn’s thrusts deepened, standing up, each motion sending wet, splashing sounds through the room, turning it into a sauna of heat and desire.
Caitlyn’s hand slid to Vi’s butt, steadying her for quicker, stronger thrusts, the rhythm relentless, her voice a low growl. “You like that, Deputy?” Vi’s moans intensified, her body quaking, lost in pleasure.

Vi’s hands gripped Caitlyn’s waist, her voice drawl a desperate plea, “Yes, Commander, I love it so much—please fuck me harder!”
Caitlyn’s biceps ached from lifting Vi’s body, her strength tested but unyielding. Feeling the strain, she maintained her thrusts as she guided Vi to the sofa and sat down to catch her breath, her voice a husky whisper. “Deputy, use your tongue to pleasure your Commander, then ride your Commander.” She sprawled across the sofa, arms spread, blue stallion-mane-like hair framing her face majestically.
“My pleasure, Commander,” Vi purred, kneeling before Caitlyn. She slid off the strap-on, revealing Caitlyn’s throbbing clit, pulsing with excitement. Vi’s fingers closed around it, her tongue working skillfully, licking and sucking as Caitlyn’s clit swelled fully erect in her mouth. Caitlyn’s head tilted back, a moan escaping as she guided Vi’s head, pleasure soaring, Vi sending her to heaven.
After a moment, Vi stood, reattaching the strap-on to Caitlyn, guiding its tip as she straddled her, sitting and moving up and down, her rhythm fervent. Caitlyn, eyes barely open, whispered, “Say the safe word if you want me to stop choking you, Vi.” Her hand gently wrapped around Vi’s neck, a light choke as she thrust upward, deep and steady, into Vi’s vagina. Vi’s moans grew louder, her thighs trembling as Caitlyn held them firm, stabilizing her. The apartment’s heat rivaled a sauna, wet sounds and gasps echoing through the living room.

A moment later, Caitlyn hovered above Vi in missionary position, her hand gently choking Vi’s neck, a light pressure rooted in their BDSM dynamic. As Vi sprawled beneath, grey eyes wild with pleasure, she moaned loudly as she rubbed her nipple. “I love it when you fuck me so hard, Commander, oh yes”

Caitlyn’s lean abs flexing as she spread Vi’s legs wider, her strap-on thrusting quickening, deeper than ever, her need to climax surging. At the edge of release, she swiftly removed the strap-on, replacing it with her long and hardened clit, spit onto her own erect form for lubrication then thrusting inside Vi’s soaking wet vagina, the friction electric. “Oh, Commander, please continue—I can feel your long, thick form inside me.” Vi moans as she rubs her own hardened clit for more pleasure. Suddenly Cait’s waist shook uncontrollably, and she came hard, her release spilling into Vi, her voice a husky whisper. “Oh god, oh fuck, I’m gonna come now. Your vagina is so good and so tight.”Cait said as she sprawled on top of her, as Vi pushed to her own climax, shuddered beneath, her moans echoing in the apartment’s sauna-like heat.
Panting, Vi teased, her drawl playful but pointed. “Really, Cait? You came inside me again?” Caitlyn, sprawling atop her, eyes sleepy, hugged Vi tightly, a grin breaking through. “But you like it anyway, Vi.” She leaned in, their lips crashing in a passionate kiss, tongues entwining, sealing their connection.

Vi smirked, brushing Caitlyn’s hair back. “Your pull-out game’s the worst, Commander.” Their laughter mingled as Cait knelt between Vi’s legs, her tongue expertly cleaning the mingled climax from Vi’s soaked vagina, savoring every drop. Vi’s eyes glazed with pleasure, and she moaned softly, as she was lost in the haze of desire. Caitlyn stood, her still-erect clit throbbing before Vi’s face, her voice a commanding purr. “Vi, suck it clean—don’t waste a drop.”
Vi nodded, her hands gripping Caitlyn’s hardened form, her tongue licking from the base to the tip, sucking gently with impeccable skill, sending shivers through Caitlyn. Biting her lip, Caitlyn moaned quietly, her abs flexing as Vi’s mouth worked, swallowing every trace of their climax. Vi pulled back, sticking out her tongue to show Caitlyn the glistening evidence, a playful glint in her grey eyes as she swallowed, sealing their intimacy.

They reached for their scattered clothes—jeans, sweaters, Sheriff-branded base layers—strewn across the apartment floor. As Caitlyn tugged on her underwear, Vi burst out laughing, pointing at the noticeable tent in Caitlyn’s pants, her drawl teasing. “Cait, you’re too happy to see me, haha!”
Caitlyn glanced down, her cheeks flushing as she saw the small tent, her clit still swollen. “Now you see why I can’t just walk out when I've gotten hard, Vi,” she groaned, her face fraying with embarrassment. “Not only will everyone notice this damn tent but the erected tip will keep rubbing the fabric to make it even harder. Worst part? Even after I come, it takes like 30 minutes to soften.” She reached into her underwear, trying to adjust it to ease the awkwardness, but the swelling persisted, her arousal stubborn.
Vi smirked, pulling on her base layer, her tattoos peeking out. “Tough life being a stallion, huh, Commander?” Their laughter filled the apartment as they walked into the bathroom to take a bath together.

At 3:00 p.m., Tuesday, December 24

The Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office in Towson thrummed with a lively energy, undeterred by the festive spirit of Christmas Eve. The main lobby glimmered with holiday decorations—twinkling fairy lights cascading over a majestic Christmas tree, vibrant garlands elegantly draping the front desk, and a wreath alight with rich red and gold ornaments, exuding warmth and cheer. Yet, the relentless rhythm of the sheriff’s duties pressed onward, as criminals remained indifferent to the season's goodwill.

Vi strode purposefully from the main office toward the traffic incident department, her muscular frame clad in a crisp green deputy uniform. The sheriff’s star badge gleamed under the soft lighting, while her striking red mullet was slicked back, and her sharp grey eyes sparkled with the festive glow. The axon bodycam was firmly mounted on her duty vest, and her duty belt, weighted with the oversized keychain, pistol, and baton, jingled gently with each measured step.

At the front desk, an auxiliary deputy donned a whimsical Santa hat, his warm smile beaming as he sorted through a mountain of donated toys, ensuring that this cherished holiday tradition would bring joy to the local orphanage. "Merry Christmas, Deputy Bretschneider!" he called out, his voice imbued with a jovial spirit.

"Same to you, Deputy Winter!" Vi replied, her grin drawn bright and cheerful, a radiant smile illuminating her face as she passed the towering Christmas tree, its colorful lights reflecting off her polished badge.

Upon reaching the traffic incident department, Vi was met with a sea of reports, each paperwork a stark reminder of the icy roads and the unfortunate accidents that accompanied the season. There, she spotted Maddie, a fellow deputy with vibrant short red hair, hunched over her computer, engrossed in the task of filling out forms. Leaning in closer, Vi remarked, “Yikes, Nolen. There are so many car accidents this season due to the ice.”

Maddie, her eyes glued to the screen, muttered without looking up, “At this point, we’re drowning in work. I started with low-risk assignments like giving tickets, and now, every time I head out on patrol, I’m calling tow trucks left and right.” Vi shook her head, glancing around the bustling traffic incident office, a chaotic blend of ringing phones and frantic typing. “By the way, where's Loris ?” she asked, hoping for news of her friend.

“Oh, he’s out there cosplaying as Santa Claus in the lobby," Maddie replied, still focused on her screen. “Haven’t you noticed the giant with the big beard surrounded by kids posing for photos?” Curiosity piqued, Vi peeked through the door, her grey eyes widening in delight as she spotted Loris, a towering figure clad in a bright red Santa suit. His bushy beard danced with laughter as a gaggle of eager children tugged at the fake white strands, their giggles filling the air as they clamored for pictures, transforming the lobby into a scene of pure holiday joy.

At 3:15 p.m.
Suddenly a shout from the lobby snapped their attention as the auxiliary deputy Winter, yelling at an armed suspect. Vi, Maddie, and Steb reacted instantly as they rushed to the armory, where they met Caitlyn who was already grabbing a Remington shotgun. Caitlyn in a matching uniform, long blue hair in a tight bun, ocean-blue eyes sharp, handed Steb a ballistic shield, forming a tactical line: Steb in front with the shield, Vi and Maddie in the middle with Remingtons loaded with beanbag rounds, and Caitlyn at the rear to issue commands, body cameras active per the mandate.

As Auxiliary Deputy Winter shouted, “Drop the rifle now!” Caitlyn spotted children from Loris Carter’s earlier Santa cosplay session still lingering near the Christmas tree.
“Carter, evacuate the kids now!” Caitlyn barked, her T.O authority sharp. Loris, his towering frame and bushy beard still festive, sprang into action, shielding the children with his body as he ushered them toward the traffic incident office. Inside, he squatted, drawing his expandable baton from his duty belt —not to intimidate but to tap gently, comforting the crying children with a soft, “It’s okay, Santa’s got you.” As he hugged them gently.

Cait then pressed the PTT to report to the central “Central, Unit 37, on scene with Bretschneider, Anders, Nolen. Tactical formation, body cameras active. Suspect, male, approximately 35, holding rifle, non-compliant. Over” with he pistol drawn, shouted, “Drop the rifle now! Or you will be shot!” Then the Dispatch’s voice crackled through her acoustic tube earpiece.“10-4, proceed with caution, update status, over.”

“Drop the rifle now! Drop the fucking rifle now! Or we will shoot you” Cait repeated the command three times. But the suspect stepped forward, defying orders. She then pressed her PTT, her voice crisp “Central, suspect advancing, ignoring commands. Initiating non-lethal force, over.” After she reported to central she pressed her PTT while she barked at Vi “1219 ,Initiate, initiate!” Vi then aimed her shotgun and fired beanbag rounds at the suspect’s leg, reporting, “Central, shot fired, two beanbag rounds, suspect down, leg injury, over.” The man collapsed, writhing in pain, as the team rushed in under Cait's commands to secure the suspect, “Stay down, you’re under arrest” Steb shouted as he deftly fastened the second handcuff lock with a click that echoed in the tense atmosphere. He reported to Central with precision, “Central, suspect secured, handcuffs applied, rifle recovered, body camera active, over.”

Cait then took a moment to assess the scene before addressing Central. “Central, suspect detained, medical evaluation requested, no deputy injuries, scene secure, over.” Her voice, calm yet authoritative, cut through the lingering tension.

After the suspect was secured, Caitlyn ordered Steb to conduct a thorough body search. “10-4,” Steb replied, his voice steady as he methodically patted down the suspect's pockets. His hand brushed against something firm, and he soon extracted a wallet. With her Cait’s gloved hands, she accepted the wallet from Steb, a look of determination in her eyes. She opened it carefully, scanning for any concealed narcotics. Finding no signs of illicit substances, she focused on the contents, her fingers deftly pulling out an ID card. “Nathan Ericsson,” she said, her voice firm. “You’re going to spend your Christmas behind bars in our sheriff’s office.” She barked as she order Vi to read him his Miranda rights.

As Vi and Cait anxiously await the arrival of the ambulance to transport the injured suspect to the hospital, Cait confidently places her sheriff's cap atop her head, a symbol of her authority in the tense situation. The two deputies grasp Ericsson’s cuffed arms firmly, ready to react should he attempt to escape. Cait overhears him mumbling, his voice barely rising above a whisper, “I just want to sleep, deputies... I just want to sleep…” His repetition drifts into the evening air like a haunting refrain. Shooting him a sideways glance, Cait’s irritation flares as she responds sharply, “Then take the damn sleeping pills if you want to sleep, instead of wielding a goddamn rifle in the sheriff’s office! You Idiot” she snapped, her tone sharp as she and Vi escorted him to the arriving ambulance, its red lights cutting through the snowy dusk.

By 3:45 p.m,

At the A&E of MedStar Good Samaritan Hospital, Caitlyn and Vi, body cameras still active, guided Ericsson who is now double-cuffed with handcuffs and leg cuffs chained to Caitlyn’s duty vest, to the nurse’s desk. The hospital buzzed with holiday urgency, but the nurse, a young woman with dark skin flashed a warm smile to greeted them. “Hi, sheriffs, what can I help you with today?”
Caitlyn, clutching Ericsson’s arm, kept her tone calm but pointed. “Need you folks to check his leg. This idiot got hit with beanbag rounds by us after wielding a rifle in the sheriff’s office.” She nodded to Vi, who lifted the suspect’s pant leg, revealing a badly bruised shin, purple and swollen.

The nurse’s smile flickered with amusement. “Okay, Sheriff. He really wants to get arrested by sheriff in the Christmas Eve”
“Apparently, yes,” Caitlyn replied, her voice steady, a hint of exasperation breaking through.
“May I have his ID for registration?” the nurse asked. Vi with her sheriff cap on top of her head stepped forward, pulling Ericsson’s ID from her duty belt, her grey eyes focused. “His name’s Nathan Ericsson.”
The nurse took the ID and enter his identification into the computer, nodding. “Alright, I’ll get the doctor to see him right away.” She handed it back, then gasped, her eyes widening as she looked at Vi. “Oh my—Deputy, are you Vi? It’s me, Mel!”
Vi blinked as she caught with surprise “Mel? No way!”

At 4:00 p.m.

In the snowy entrance of Good Samaritan hospital, Caitlyn and Vi stood with the heavily restrained suspect as the doctor had cleared Ericsson—his leg bruised but stable from Vi’s beanbag rounds—allowing transport back to the Sheriff’s Office for processing.
Caitlyn pressed her PTT on her duty vest, her voice crisp and authoritative. “Central, this is Unit 37. Suspect Nathan Ericsson, secured at MedStar Good Samaritan Hospital, medically cleared. Requesting patrol vehicle for transport back to Sheriff’s Office, over.”

The dispatcher’s voice crackled through. “10-4, Unit 37, Kiramman. Dispatching Unit 42, Deputy Anders, PIU, ETA five minutes to your location, over.”
“10-4, Central, standing by, over,” Caitlyn replied, releasing the PTT, her discipline unwavering as she kept a firm grip on Ericsson, who mumbled incoherently about sleep and other nonsense.

At 4:05 p.m.
Steb pulled up in his Ford Explorer Interceptor (PIU), its green-and-white sheriff logo stark against the snowy lot. His stubbled face broke into a smile as he leaned out the window, his veteran calm evident. “Hello, Cait, need some help?”
Caitlyn nodded, her tone brisk but warm. “Yes, open the prisoner cage, Steb. We need a ride back to the Sheriff’s Office.” She and Vi guided Ericsson to the SUV’s rear, sliding into the prisoner cage beside him, ensuring he remained secure. Caitlyn signaled Steb, “Drive on, let’s get him processed.”

Steb nodded, pulling out, the SUV humming through Baltimore’s snowy streets toward Towson. Vi glanced at Caitlyn, her voice drawl soft. “Nice teamwork, Deputy Kiramman.” Caitlyn’s lips quirked, their engagement rings glinting, their bond steady amidst the chaos of Ericsson’s arrest.

Upon arriving at the Sheriff’s Office at 4:20 p.m., the trio escorted Ericsson through the festively decorated lobby—Christmas tree lights twinkling, garlands draping the front desk—into the processing area, their Axon body cameras active, capturing every move per procedure. The buzz of deputies and holiday cheer from auxiliary staff like Deputy Winter faded as they focused. Caitlyn, her voice crisp, ordered, “Take him for mugshots first, then a final detailed body search before we lock him up.”
Vi and Steb nodded as they put latex gloves on their hands and guiding Ericsson to the mugshot station, a stark corner with a height chart and camera. VI’s voice firm and directed, “Face forward, Ericsson.” The camera flashed, capturing his front and side profiles, his bruised leg visible under rolled-up pants. Steb held his arm steady, ensuring compliance, while Caitlyn oversaw, her criminal psychology training noting Ericsson’s subdued demeanor.

With mugshots complete, they moved to a secure room for the final body search. Caitlyn, gloved hands ready, ordered as she holds a clipboard “Steb, Vi, thorough pat-down-check every seam, pocket, and shoe.” Steb methodically searched Ericsson’s clothing, finding no additional contraband beyond the wallet they recovered earlier. Vi checked his shoes and belt, confirming nothing hidden, her body camera recording for CID. Caitlyn inspected the findings, satisfied as she write down the records on her clipboard, her voice steady. “Clear. Let’s lock him up.”
They escorted Ericsson to the holding cells, a row of steel doors in the Sheriff’s Office. Steb unlocked Cell 3 with his duty belt key, guiding Ericsson inside, removing the leg cuffs but keeping the handcuffs. Vi secured the door, reporting to Central via PTT, “Central, Bretschneider, suspect Ericsson detained in Cell 3, processing complete, over.” Caitlyn nodded, holstering her Glock 22, muttering, “Time for those damn reports, I love writing so many goddamn reports.” She said sarcastically as Vi followed her their engagement rings glinted, their bond steady as they wrapped up to work again.

Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Incident Report
Report Number: TCSO-2013-1224-015
Date and Time: December 24, 2013, 3:15–4:15 p.m.
Location: Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Lobby, Towson, Baltimore County, MD; MedStar Good Samaritan Hospital, Baltimore, MD
Reporting Officer: Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104, unit 37 Watch Commander)
Assisting Officers: Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219, Rookie), Deputy Stephen Anders (Badge 0092), Deputy Maddie Nolen (Badge 0076), Auxiliary Deputy Erick Winter (Badge 0150)
Suspect: Nathan Ericsson, Male, Age 35 (DOB: 03/17/1978, ID Confirmed via Wallet)
Charges (Suspect):
1. Assault with a Deadly Weapon – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-202
2. Resisting Arrest – Maryland Criminal Law § 9-408
3. Unlawful Possession of a Firearm – Maryland Criminal Law § 5-133
Incident Summary:
On December 24, 2013, at 3:15 p.m., Nathan Ericsson entered the Sheriff’s Office lobby armed with a rifle, prompting Auxiliary Deputy Winter to activate his Axon body camera and emergency alarm. Deputies Kiramman, Bretschneider, Anders, and Nolen formed a tactical line, evacuated civilians (children) issued verbal commands, and subdued Ericsson with non-lethal beanbag rounds after non-compliance. Ericsson, identified via wallet, was medically cleared at MedStar Good Samaritan Hospital and transported for processing.
Details of Incident:
• Initial Response: At 3:15 p.m., Auxiliary Deputy Winter observed Nathan Ericsson (male, 35, DOB: 03/17/1978) enter the lobby with a rifle. Winter activated his body camera and emergency alarm, shouting, “Sir, drop the rifle now!” per Maryland § 3-202. Ericsson remained silent, non-compliant. Deputies Kiramman, Bretschneider, Anders, and Nolen retrieved weapons from the armory: Kiramman (Glock 22, Remington 870), Bretschneider and Nolen (Remington 870 with beanbag rounds), Anders (ballistic shield) Deputy Kiramman ordered Deputy Carter to evacuate children from a prior event, who escorted them to the traffic incident office, comforting them with his baton (3:15 p.m.).
• Tactical Engagement: Deputies formed a tactical line behind the lobby door, body cameras activated (December 16 mandate). Deputy Kiramman issued three verbal commands: “Drop the rifle now! Or you will be shot!” reported to Central via PTT (Motorola APX, 3:16 p.m.). Ericsson advanced, ignoring commands. Kiramman ordered, “1219, Initiate, initiate!” Deputy Bretschneider fired two beanbag rounds at Ericsson’s leg, causing collapse, per MPTC Use of Force Policy. Bretschneider reported, “Shot fired, beanbag rounds, suspect down, injured, over” (3:17 p.m.).
• Body Search and Identification: Deputy Anders conducted a body search, recovering a wallet (3:25 p.m.). Deputy Kiramman, using gloved hands, identified Ericsson via ID card, finding no narcotics. Ericsson mumbled about wanting to sleep, charged with assault, resisting arrest, and firearm possession.
• Arrest and Hospital Transport: Deputies Kiramman, Anders, and Nolen secured Ericsson, who resisted cuffing. Anders applied handcuffs and leg cuffs, chaining him to Kiramman’s duty vest, reporting to Central (3:18 p.m.). Ericsson, with leg bruising, was escorted to MedStar Good Samaritan Hospital (3:45 p.m.). Doctor confirmed stability; Kiramman requested transport via PTT (3:45 p.m.). Deputy Anders (Unit 42, Ford Explorer Interceptor) arrived (4:00 p.m.), transporting Ericsson, Kiramman, and Bretschneider to the Sheriff’s Office (4:15 p.m.) for mugshots and cell detention.
• Evidence: Rifle (make, serial pending) recovered, bagged for ballistics. Wallet and ID bagged for CID. Body camera footage from Winter, Kiramman, Bretschneider, Thompson, and Anders was submitted, supplemented by lobby surveillance.
Use of Force Justification:
Nathan Ericsson posed an immediate threat with a rifle, ignoring verbal commands and advancing. Non-lethal beanbag rounds (Remington 870) were deployed to minimize harm, per MPTC policy and Maryland § 3-202. Body camera footage confirms non-compliance, justifying force to protect deputies and civilians, aligning with the Sheriff’s Office standards post-December 15 lawsuit.
Disposition:
Ericsson is detained, awaiting formal charges. Rifle and wallet submitted for analysis. Body camera footage sent to CID for review. Deputies Kiramman, Bretschneider, Anders, and Nolen to file reports; no injuries reported. Incident debrief scheduled to assess body camera efficacy. Ericsson’s medical clearance was confirmed at the hospital.
Officer Observations:
Deputy Kiramman (Badge 0104) demonstrated effective leadership, issuing clear commands and coordinating response. Deputy Bretschneider (Badge 1219), despite prior impulsivity (December 15), executed precise non-lethal force. Deputy Anders provided steady shield support (Veteran) Deputy Nolen ensured a secure arrest. Deputy Carter protected civilians. Auxiliary Deputy Winter’s prompt alarm activation was critical. Public scrutiny risks are mitigated by body camera footage, ensuring transparency.

At 4:45 p.m.

In the bustling main office in the Sheriff’s Office in Towson, Caitlyn sat at her desk, her fingers pausing over her computer as she finalized Ericsson’s incident report, frustration mounting over the endless paperwork from the day’s armed standoff. She leaned back as her eyes were weary from the grind. Vi slid a steaming cup of coffee onto Caitlyn’s desk, her engagement ring glinting on her left hand. “Just take a sip, Cait, and relax,” Vi said softly as she sipped her coffee. “We’ve got hours to go before we’re off.”
Caitlyn glanced at the coffee, her own engagement ring catching the light on her right hand, a smile softening her discipline. “Thanks Boot, you’re too thoughtful for your T.O.,” she teased, locking eyes with Vi’s innocent grey gaze, their bond steady after the day’s chaos. “And my fiancé” Vi raised her eyebrows as continued to sip coffee. Cait smiled “that too” as she takes another sip.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted from the holding cells. A young man with glasses, Stephenson, arrested by Steb and his rookie Loris for a university fight at Towson, smacked the bars of Cell 3, his voice desperate. “Guys, get me the fuck out of here! This new guy got his fucking cock out, stroking it in front of me! He’s sexually harassing me—Sir, Madam, please help!”
Caitlyn and Vi spat their coffee, splattering the floor ,Caitlyn’s desk and VI’s pants. Vi grabbed tissues from her desk to wipe the mess, whispering, “What in the fuck did I just hear?”
Caitlyn ,wiping the mess off her pants, facepalmed as she groaning. “I really don’t want to see him stroking his chicken. Steb!” she barked, her voice sharp. “Check Cell 3—see if Ericsson’s actually jerking off at someone.”
Steb, his stubbled face grim, rose from his desk, brows furrowed to the max. “On it,” he muttered, activating his Axon body camera as he strode to the detainment area. Stepping into Cell 3, he froze, his eyes confirming the worst—Ericsson, pants down, masturbating in front of Stephenson. Wanting to bleach his vision, Steb pressed his PTT, reporting, “Central, Anders, Cell 3, suspect Ericsson engaging in public indecency, additional charge pending, over.” He yelled at Ericsson as he smacked on the cell bars. “Put your dick back in your pants now!” Turning to Stephenson, he added, “You, Stephenson, report to the investigation room later for a detailed statement on the harassment.”

Steb returned to the office, stopping his body camera while facepalming. “Yeah, I saw his dick when I stepped in,” he said, voice flat.
Caitlyn slammed her fist on the desk, her coffee-stained report glaring back. “Great, now I have to update Ericsson’s damn report,” she muttered, her discipline fraying as the office buzzed with holiday chaos. Vi then comforted her as she patted her back.

Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Incident Report (Updated for Nathan Ericsson)
Report Number: TCSO-2013-1224-015
Date and Time: December 24, 2013, 3:15–4:45 p.m.
Location: Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Lobby, Towson, Baltimore County, MD; MedStar Good Samaritan Hospital, Baltimore, MD; Sheriff’s Office Holding Cell 3
Reporting Officer: Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104, Watch Commander)
Assisting Officers: Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219, Rookie), Deputy Stephen Anders (Badge 0092), Deputy Maddie Nolen (Badge 0076), Auxiliary Deputy Winter (Badge 0150)
Suspect: Nathan Ericsson, Male, Age 35 (DOB: 03/17/1978, ID Confirmed via Wallet)
Charges (Suspect):
1. Assault with a Deadly Weapon – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-202
2. Resisting Arrest – Maryland Criminal Law § 9-408
3. Unlawful Possession of a Firearm – Maryland Criminal Law § 5-133
4. Public Indecency (Sexual Harassment) – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-803 (Added 4:45 p.m.)
Incident Summary:
On December 24, 2013, at 3:15 p.m., Nathan Ericsson entered the Sheriff’s Office lobby armed with a rifle, prompting Auxiliary Deputy Winter to activate his Axon body camera and emergency alarm. Deputies Kiramman, Bretschneider, Anders, and Nolen formed a tactical line, evacuated civilians (children), and subdued Ericsson with non-lethal beanbag rounds after non-compliance. Ericsson, identified via wallet, was medically cleared at MedStar Good Samaritan Hospital and detained. At 4:45 p.m., Ericsson committed public indecency in Cell 3, sexually harassing detainee Stephenson, adding a charge.
Details of Incident:
• Initial Response (3:15 p.m.): Auxiliary Deputy Winter observed Ericsson (male, 35, DOB: 03/17/1978) enter the lobby with a rifle. Winter activated his body camera and emergency alarm, shouting, “Drop the rifle now!” per Maryland § 3-202. Ericsson stood silent, non-compliant. Deputies Kiramman, Bretschneider, Anders, and Nolen retrieved weapons: Kiramman (Glock 22, Remington 870), Bretschneider and Nolen (Remington 870 with beanbag rounds), Anders (ballistic shield). Deputy Kiramman ordered Deputy Carter to evacuate children from a prior event, who escorted them to the traffic incident office, comforting them with his baton (3:15 p.m.).
• Tactical Engagement (3:16–3:18 p.m.): Deputies formed a tactical line, body cameras active. Kiramman issued three verbal commands: “Drop the rifle now! Or you will be shot!” reported via PTT (3:16 p.m.). Ericsson advanced, prompting Kiramman’s order, “1219, Initiate, initiate!” Bretschneider fired two beanbag rounds at Ericsson’s leg, causing collapse (3:17 p.m.). Bretschneider reported, “Shot fired, beanbag rounds, suspect down, injured, over.” Deputies secured Ericsson, who resisted cuffing. Anders applied handcuffs and leg cuffs, reporting to Central (3:18 p.m.).
• Body Search and Identification (3:25 p.m.): Anders conducted a body search, recovering a wallet. Kiramman, gloved, identified Ericsson via ID, finding no narcotics. Ericsson mumbled about sleep, charged with assault, resisting arrest, and firearm possession.
• Hospital Transport (3:45–4:00 p.m.): Ericsson, leg bruised, was escorted to MedStar Good Samaritan Hospital. Doctor confirmed stability. Kiramman requested transport via PTT (3:45 p.m.). Anders (Unit 42, Ford Explorer Interceptor) transported Ericsson, Kiramman, and Bretschneider to the Sheriff’s Office (4:00–4:15 p.m.).
• Mugshots and Cell Detention (4:20–4:30 p.m.): Kiramman, Bretschneider, and Anders conducted mugshots and a final body search, finding no contraband. Ericsson was detained in Cell 3, leg cuffs removed, handcuffs retained, per Web ID 4.
• Public Indecency Incident (4:45 p.m.): Detainee Stephenson reported Ericsson masturbating in Cell 3, alleging sexual harassment. Anders activated his body camera, confirmed the act, and ordered Ericsson to stop, adding a charge (§ 3-803). Stephenson was directed to the investigation room for a harassment statement.
Use of Force Justification:
Ericsson posed an immediate threat with a rifle, ignoring commands and advancing. Non-lethal beanbag rounds (Remington 870) were justified, per Maryland § 3-202 and MPTC policy. Body camera footage confirms non-compliance, aligning with standards post-December 15 lawsuit.
Disposition:
Ericsson detained in Cell 3, awaiting charges, including public indecency (§ 3-803). Rifle, wallet, and body camera footage submitted to CID. Stephenson to provide harassment statement. Deputies Kiramman, Bretschneider, Anders, and Nolen to file updated reports; no injuries reported. Debrief scheduled to assess body camera efficacy. Civilian children safely evacuated.
Officer Observations:
Deputy Kiramman (Badge 0104) demonstrated leadership, coordinating response, civilian evacuation, and identification. Deputy Bretschneider (Badge 1219), despite prior impulsivity (December 15), executed precise non-lethal force. Deputy Anders provided shield support (veteran). Deputy Nolen ensured secure arrest. Deputy Carter protected civilians. Auxiliary Deputy Winter’s alarm was critical. Body cameras mitigated scrutiny risks.

At 5:00 p.m,

Caitlyn slumped back in her chair, her fingers aching from finalizing the updated Nathan Ericsson incident report, her desk cluttered with coffee-stained papers. Her ocean-blue eyes weary, bore the weight of endless paperwork. Vi leaned casually against Caitlyn’s desk, grey eyes curious. She picked up a file from the desk, flipping it open, her brows lifting as she skimmed documents about Caitlyn’s Senior Deputy promotion exams. Before she could read further, Caitlyn snatched the file, her discipline sharp. “Time to go patrol, boot. Crimes don’t stop because you’re reading—go.”

Vi who was being pushed toward the parking lot, grinned, her curiosity drawn bubbling. “Cait, you’re up for a promotion exam? Awesome! Was it hard?”
Caitlyn unlocked their Ford Interceptor with her oversized keychain, signaling Vi to drive. Sliding into the passenger seat, she buckled her seatbelt, her voice calm but firm. “Yes and no, boot. What I do now supervising you, giving commands to deputies, overseeing the entire shift as the watch commander is basically what Senior Deputies work. If nothing goes wrong, I’ll be a Sergeant in two years, passing the exam means I get to work in my own office, like Wang or Holbrok. Now drive to Carney.” Vi buckled her seatbelt and fired up the engine “10-4” and began to drive to Carney.

At 5:10 p.m.

In the snowy streets of Carney, Baltimore County, Vi gripped the steering wheel of their SUV. Her grey eyes flicked to the road as Caitlyn sat in the passenger seat, eyes alert, as she scanning the streets.

Suddenly the dispatcher’s voice crackled through the SUV’s PA system: “Attention, all units in Carney, armed robbery reported at Pauly’s NY Pizza & Ice Cream, backup requested, over.”
Caitlyn shot Vi an eye signal, Vi grabbed the PTT speaker with one hand, her other hand steady on the wheel, executing a smooth U-turn toward the pizzeria. “10-4, Unit 37 en route. Suspect heavily armed, over?” she asked, her voice drawl crisp, activating the SUV’s red-and-blue lights without the siren to avoid alerting the suspect.
The dispatcher replied, “Negative, only pistol, over.”
Caitlyn grinned as her arms crossed over her chest, her voice teasing. “Boot, now you finally look like a cop—steering with one hand, PTT in the other.”

At 5:15 p.m,

Vi pulled their SUV into the snowy lot of Pauly’s NY Pizza & Ice Cream in Carney, the red-and-blue lights flashing silently. Her muscular frame moved with urgency as she glanced at Deputies Steb and Loris who stood guard behind their own SUV, pistols drawn, aimed at a suspect gripping a hostage inside the pizzeria’s glass doors. Caitlyn’s eyes were alert in the passenger seat, prepared to take command.
Loris, his towering frame and bushy beard still carrying traces of his earlier Santa cosplay, shouted, “Drop your weapon now!” his voice boomed through the chilly air.

Vi leapt from the driver’s seat, her Glock 22 drawn from her duty belt holster as her body camera activated. She moved cautiously toward Steb and Loris who were taking cover behind their SUV, her eyes locked on the suspect. Pressing her PTT, she reported, voice steady, “Central, Unit 37, on scene at Pauly’s NY Pizza & Ice Cream, Carney. Suspect armed with a pistol, holding a hostage. Deputies Anders and Carter are engaging, body cameras active, over.”

Caitlyn followed, ocean-blue eyes laser-focused, grabbed the AR-15 from the rifle rack between the seats of their SUV, her Axon body camera active. She gripped the back of Vi’s duty vest, her voice low and firm. “Stay tight, boot. Wait for my order.”
Vi’s eyes wide, whispered, “Should we call SWAT for this?” Her rookie nerves flickered.
Caitlyn shook her head and pressed her PTT. “Central, Unit 37. The suspect is disobeying orders, holding a hostage with a pistol. Request to initiate immediately, over.”
The dispatcher’s voice crackled through her earpiece. “10-4, Unit 37, request approved, over.”

Caitlyn crouched, resting her AR-15 on Vi’s shoulder, her marksmanship guiding her as she zeroed the holographic scope on the suspect’s head from 50 yards away. “Vi, cover your ears and don’t breathe,” she whispered, her voice steady.
Vi, holding her breath, pressed her palms to her ears, her body rigid. Caitlyn pulled the trigger, the AR-15’s crack splitting the air. The bullet pierced the glass and into the suspect’s eye socket, blood spraying as it exited onto the wall behind, and he collapsed, lifeless, to the pizzeria floor. The young female hostage broke into tears while sobbing, “Thank you, deputies, thank you so much!” as she stumbled forward. Steb and Loris, with their pistols still drawn, moved in to calm the hostage and guiding her toward their SUV. “Walk to us, ma’am,” Loris called, his earlier Santa cosplay forgotten. Caitlyn pressed her PTT again, her voice crisp. “Central, Unit 37. Suspect neutralized, lethal force used, hostage safe. Request ambulance and CID to Pauly’s NY Pizza & Ice Cream, Carney, over.”
“10-4, Unit 37, ambulance and CID dispatched, ETA five minutes, over,” the dispatcher replied.
Steb and Loris secured the scene, stringing yellow “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape across the pizzeria’s entrance, their body cameras recording. Caitlyn lowered her AR-15, her discipline holding despite the weight of another lethal force report, Vi’s steady presence beside her grounding them both. Vi rubbing her ear as she groan “that was loud, my ears are still ringing”

A sudden thud shattered the tense quiet. A reckless driver, rubbernecking the scene, slammed into the back bumper of Caitlyn’s Ford Interceptor, pushing it into the car parked ahead, crumpling its front end. The chain reaction continued as another vehicle, unable to brake on the icy lot, crashed into the first car, creating a three-car pileup. Caitlyn rolled her eyes, her discipline fraying with exasperation. She pressed her PTT, her voice sharp but controlled. “Central, Unit 37. Multiple traffic incidents occurred at Pauly’s NY Pizza & Ice Cream, Carney. An idiot crashed into my patrol SUV, causing a chain collision. Request tow trucks, ambulances, and additional patrol units, over.”
The dispatcher crackled back in her earpiece “10-4, Unit 37, tow trucks, ambulances, and patrol units dispatched, ETA seven minutes, over.”
Steb and Loris, their pistols holstered, approached the wreckage, their body cameras still rolling. Caitlyn’s SUV was a mangled mess, its rear and front ends crushed beyond repair. Loris, his towering frame and bushy beard still carrying traces of his earlier Santa cosplay, gestured with gloved hands, his voice calm but wry. “And that’s what I call when shit hitting the fan.”
Vi stifled a laugh softly. “Nice one, Loris.” Caitlyn groaned, rubbing her temple as she rolled her eyes in disbelief while counted on her fingers, her hand pressed to her forehead. “No wonder you and Loris are best friends, Vi, with being this chaotic. Oh my god, how many reports do I have to write today? Ericsson’s rifle stunt, his damn cell block antics, this hostage mess, and now a freaking car pileup? Bruh, I just wanna go home and not work.”
Vi stepped closer, her engagement ring glinting. “Well ,at least after today you got a mandatory administrative leave for the next couple of days.” Their bond steadied them as tow trucks and ambulances approached, sirens cutting through Baltimore’s snowy streets as a Ford Mustang interceptor rolled up, its sleek design cutting through the chaos, and the window lowered to reveal Deputy Maddie Nolen, her uniform crisp, her sheriff cap catching the light. “Hello there,” she said, her tone mimicking Obi-Wan Kenobi, a playful smirk on her face. “General Kenobi-“ Vi immediately takes the chance to reply with a smug smile but only to receive a glare from Cait. Maddie broke a smile at Vi, nodding. “Nice, Vi, you know my joke,” she said as she stepped out, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the pileup—three cars, including Caitlyn’s wrecked SUV. She open her trunk and placing traffic cones around the scene, she muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ, is that Caitlyn’s interceptor? How do these people get their licenses? Trade ‘em for a chicken thigh?”
Caitlyn, rubbing her temple, groaned. “Maddie, don’t start. I’m drowning in reports already.” Vi stifled a laugh. “Chicken thighs are too generous—maybe a wing.”

Caitlyn groaned loudly, reaching for her notepad and pen from her duty vest. “Ah, my fiancée’s a fucking idiot,” she muttered, her ocean-blue eyes flashing with exasperation. “I’m taking a statement from the guy who crashed into my car—see if he’s got the eyesight of Helen Keller.” She stomped toward the driver, a sheepish man standing by his crumpled sedan, her patience worn thin by the day’s cascade of incidents….

Chapter Text

At 5:50 p.m. Tuesday, December 24

In the snowy lot of Pauly’s NY Pizza & Ice Cream in Carney, Baltimore County, Caitlyn sat in the driver’s seat of Deputy Maddie Nolen’s Ford Mustang police interceptor, her tall and lean body tense in her green deputy uniform, ocean blue eyes were fixed on the Panasonic Toughbook, fingers typing furiously to update the incident report for the armed robbery and multi-vehicle collision, frustration skyrocketing as she watched her “machinery partner”—her mangled Ford Explorer Interceptor SUV—being towed to the police repair station alongside two other crashed cars.

In the corner of her eye, CID officers snapped photos of the pizzeria crime scene, investigating the hostage situation where Caitlyn had neutralized a suspect with a lethal AR-15 shot. At the same time, deputies, including Steb and Loris guarded the “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape, keeping civilians back as witnesses gave statements to the investigators.
“Fucking hell, I gotta make a phone call later,” Caitlyn muttered, her discipline fraying under the weight of reports—Ericsson’s standoff, his cell block indecency, the robbery, and now this pileup.
Vi is in a matching uniform, with sliced red mullet back. She escorted Zander, the reckless driver who had caused the crash, alongside Deputy Maddie back to her car. Zander, a lanky man in his 40s, looked frantic, his voice urgent. “Sheriff, how much do I have pay to get my car back? I’m sorry, I was distracted by that deputy who sniped that guy’s head off.”
Caitlyn, unfazed, kept her eyes on the screen, her voice sharp but controlled. “$240 per car, so $720 for the three you wrecked. Plus, 100 hours of driver improvement training to get your license back. Your driver license is suspended now. Sir, I appreciate you admiring my shooting skills, but your driving’s a mess. If you don’t focus on the road, you’ll crash again—or worse, kill unaware civilians.”

Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Incident Report
Report Number: TCSO-2013-1224-016
Date and Time: December 24, 2013, 5:15–5:50 p.m.
Location: Pauly’s NY Pizza & Ice Cream, Carney, Baltimore County, MD
Reporting Officer: Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104, Watch Commander)
Assisting Officers: Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219, Rookie), Deputy Stephen Anders (Badge 0092, Unit 42), Deputy Loris Carter (Badge 0081, Unit 42), Deputy Maddie Nolen (Badge 0076)
Suspect (Robbery): Unidentified Male, Deceased (ID Pending, Coroner)
Suspect (Traffic Incident): Zander T. Miller, Male, Age 42 (DOB: 06/12/1971, ID Confirmed via Driver’s License)
Charges (Robbery Suspect):
1. Armed Robbery – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-402
2. Assault with a Deadly Weapon – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-202
3. Hostage Taking – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-503Charges (Traffic Suspect):
4. Reckless Driving – Maryland Vehicle Law § 21-901.1
5. Property Damage – Maryland Criminal Law § 6-301
6. Driving While License Suspended (Pending Reinstatement) – Maryland Vehicle Law § 16-303Victim: Female Hostage, Age ~25 (Name Withheld, Uninjured)
Incident Summary:
On December 24, 2013, at 5:15 p.m., Deputies Kiramman, Bretschneider, Anders, and Carter responded to an armed robbery at Pauly’s NY Pizza & Ice Cream, Carney, where a male suspect held a female hostage with a pistol. After non-compliance with verbal commands from Deputies Anders and Carter, Deputy Kiramman neutralized the suspect with lethal force (AR-15). At 5:25 p.m., Zander T. Miller collided with Unit 37’s SUV, causing a three-vehicle chain collision, damaging multiple vehicles, leading to his license suspension and charges.
Details of Incidents:
• Armed Robbery (5:15–5:20 p.m.):
• Response: At 5:15 p.m., Central Dispatch reported a 10-30 (robbery in progress) via PTT (Web ID 4). Unit 37 (Kiramman, Bretschneider) arrived, joining Unit 42 (Anders, Carter). The suspect (male, ID pending) held a female hostage (~25) with a pistol, ignoring commands from Anders and Carter: “Drop your weapon now!” shouted in unison (5:16 p.m.). Bretschneider reported via PTT: “Suspect armed with pistol, holding hostage, body cameras active” (5:16 p.m.).
• Engagement: Deputies formed a tactical line, and body cameras were active (December 16 mandate). Kiramman issued three verbal commands: “Drop the weapon now! Or you will be shot!” reported to Central (5:18 p.m.). The suspect ignored commands, endangering the hostage. Kiramman requested lethal force approval (PTT, 5:18 p.m.), confirmed by Central. Kiramman fired one AR-15 round to the suspect’s head (50 yards), neutralizing him (5:20 p.m.), per Maryland § 3-202. The hostage was unharmed, escorted by Anders and Carter.
• Evidence: Pistol (make, serial pending) recovered, bagged for ballistics. Body camera footage from Kiramman, Bretschneider, Anders, and Carter was submitted to CID. Scene secured with “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape.
• Traffic Incident (5:25–5:50 p.m.):
• Response: At 5:25 p.m., Zander T. Miller (male, 42, DOB: 06/12/1971) collided with Unit 37’s SUV rear bumper, pushing it into a parked vehicle, triggering a three-vehicle chain collision. Kiramman reported via PTT: “Multiple traffic incident, vehicle collided with Unit 37 SUV, request tow trucks, ambulances, patrol units” (5:25 p.m.). Deputy Nolen arrived in a Ford Mustang interceptor, placing traffic cones. Miller was detained for statement (5:50 p.m.), admitting distraction by the robbery scene, per Maryland § 21-901.1.
• Damage Assessment: Unit 37 SUV sustained severe damage (rear, front unrepairable), towed to repair station. Two civilian vehicles were damaged, and injuries are pending medical evaluation. Miller’s license was suspended, requiring 100 hours of driver improvement training and $720 in fines ($240 per vehicle), per Kiramman’s directive (5:50 p.m.).
• Evidence: Body camera footage captured the collision. Miller’s driver’s license (ID confirmed) and vehicle IDs were bagged for traffic investigation.
Use of Force Justification (Robbery):
The suspect posed an immediate threat with a pistol, endangering a hostage and ignoring commands from Deputies Anders and Carter. Lethal force (AR-15, single headshot) was justified, per Maryland § 3-202 and MPTC policy, approved by Central Dispatch (5:18 p.m.). Body camera footage confirms non-compliance, aligning with the standards post-December 15 lawsuit.
Disposition:
• Robbery: Suspect deceased, sent to coroner for ID and autopsy (DNA, toxicology). Pistol and body camera footage submitted to CID. Hostage debriefed, unharmed. Deputies Kiramman, Bretschneider, Anders, Carter, and Nolen to file reports; Kiramman on mandatory administrative leave (2–5 days) for lethal force.
• Traffic Incident: Miller detained, charged with reckless driving, property damage, and driving while suspended (§ 16-303). Damaged vehicles towed, medical evaluations ongoing. Fines ($720) and 100-hour training were assigned. Body camera footage submitted for traffic investigation. Additional reports required.
• Debrief: Scheduled to assess body camera efficacy and incident response.
Officer Observations:
Deputy Kiramman (Badge 0104) demonstrated leadership (CQB, May 2012), issuing precise commands and lethal force. Deputy Bretschneider (Badge 1219) maintained discipline, supporting response despite prior impulsivity (December 15). Deputies Anders and Carter (Unit 42) secured the hostage and scene, their joint commands were effective. Deputy Nolen managed traffic control. Body cameras mitigated scrutiny risks (Parkville, December 9).

At 6:00 p.m.

Tension hung thick in the air inside the gritty, fluorescent-lit car repair shop. Caitlyn and Vi stood before their wrecked Ford Interceptor, its once-proud sheriff logo now a mere shadow against a backdrop of twisted metal and shattered glass. Caitlyn, frustration etched across her face, removed her sheriff’s cap and held it tightly as she crossed her arms, her narrowed eyes scanning the damage. Beside her, Vi, with her keen grey eyes, surveyed the devastation, taking in every detail.

The repairer, a pragmatic woman clad in oil-stained coveralls, popped open the SUV’s front hood, revealing a catastrophic scene from the multi-vehicle collision sparked by Zander's reckless driving. The hood appeared grotesquely crumpled, twisted as a discarded soda can, its edges bent inward and barely clinging to the chassis. The engine lay exposed and mangled, gases escaping with a faint hiss as the vehicle refused to start. Belts dangled loosely, the radiator was cracked like a shattered mirror, and the spark plugs were misaligned, a testament to the chaos that had unfolded. Beneath the wreck, brake fluid pooled ominously, leaking from a severed line and staining the snow in dark, oily tendrils. One front damper dangled precariously, its bolts sheared off in the blast, while the left wheel teetered as if ready to detach entirely.

Caitlyn groaned, rubbing her temple in a futile attempt to soothe her mounting frustration. “So, it’s really fucked up beyond repair?” she asked, her voice thick with exasperation.

The repairer shook her head, her expression calm amid the wreckage. “Nope, sheriff, sorry to say, but it’s fucked badly—total loss.”

Caitlyn muttered, “我屌,” a sharp Cantonese curse spilling from her lips, her background in psychology offering little solace against the day's chaos. The repairer shrugged, unfazed, and gestured toward an older Ford Explorer Interceptor parked nearby. Its faded green-and-white exterior bore the scars of time and wear, yet it stood sturdy, a faded warrior. “You guys can move your stuff and gear to that one. It’s served the county for years, but I’ve fixed it up—a new V8 engine, better dampers, and brand-new ABS. It looks old, but it’s solid. Won’t slide on ice or during Maryland’s heavy summer rains.”

Understanding the need for action, Caitlyn signaled Vi to transfer their equipment to the replacement Ford Explorer. Vi nodded, determination etched on her face as she began the meticulous task of moving gear. Caitlyn mounted the first aid kit and tactical mag bag onto the new patrol car’s prisoner cage seat headrest, her methodical discipline an anchor amid the day’s tumult.

Vi worked diligently, hauling their gear—evidence bags, NarcoPouch kits, cones, and more—from the crumpled old SUV’s trunk to the new vehicle, her focused gaze ensuring no detail was overlooked. She then approached the passenger seat, unlocking the rifle rack with her oversized keychain, the jangle echoing like a familiar song of camaraderie. With practiced precision, she inspected the AR-15, clipping in the magazine, unloading the chamber, and checking the action as she’d learned in the academy. Gripping the barrel, she turned to Caitlyn, who was busy stowing a riot helmet in the new car. “Wonder if it’s still working?” she mused, curiosity bright in her eyes.

Caitlyn shrugged, her voice tinged with weariness but laced with practicality. “We’ll check it later when we drive back to the Sheriff’s Office.”

As the repairer wiped grease from her hands, she extended her arm, handing Caitlyn the key to their new vehicle along with a spare. Caitlyn’s heart sank as she unclipped the old SUV’s key from her keychain and placed it on the repairer’s desk. Vi added the old spare key, the weight of their farewell was evident in their movements. “Goodbye, Commando,” Caitlyn murmured, her nickname for the beleaguered SUV now heavy with sentiment, before clipping the new key onto her chain, ready to embrace whatever came next.

At 7:30 p.m.

In the cozy warmth of Caitlyn and Vi's apartment on Locust Point. The couple settled in after a grueling day at the Sheriff’s Office. The snowy harbor glowed outside, visible through the balcony window, casting a soft light over their open-plan living room.

Caitlyn lounged on the floor in a loose t-shirt and navy pajama pants, her long blue hair free, ocean-blue eyes finally relaxed. She stretched out as she closed her MacBook, having just finished the mountain of reports from the day’s chaos—Nathan Ericsson’s standoff, the Pauly’s NY Pizza robbery, and the multi-vehicle collision that wrecked her Ford Interceptor SUV. Vi in a baggy t-shirt and pajama shorts, red mullet loose, grey eyes warm, bent down beside Caitlyn, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear and planting a gentle kiss on her cheek.
“Cait, it’s time for dinner,” Vi said, her voice soft and caring. “Can’t let that tummy hurt from hunger.” She stood, signaling toward the kitchen counter where she’d set out plates steaming with homemade food, a nod to Vander’s comfort meals.

Caitlyn, her blue light filter glasses perched atop her head, smiled warmly as her heart swelled with affection. The sunlight caught her engagement ring, making it glimmer like a star as she gently cupped her cheek, her lips brushing against her fingertips. “You’re too good to me, Vi. Sometimes, it still feels like this is all just a fever dream—reunited with my best friend in the sheriff’s office where I’m currently working. I get to see you every day since I was your training officer, and yet, you told me you loved a hopeless misfit like me. Then you proposed! I could have never expected this, that you would come back to me one day, just like you promised,” Cait said, her gaze drifting to her right hand, where the striking black engagement ring rested. “This ring you gave me is so beautiful and unique, like it was carved from some mystical obsidian. Did it cost you a lot? I don’t want you to go bankrupt just because you want me to be your wife. That would make me feel terrible,” she asked, her eyes soft with concern as she raised her hand delicately.

Vi lost in the depths of Cait's ocean-blue eyes, felt the warmth of love flood through her. Standing up, she revealed her own matching ring on her left hand and took Cait’s hand, guiding her toward the kitchen counter where their dinner awaited. A smile danced across her lips. “Pfftttt, it was nothing! It wasn’t expensive at all,” she reassured Cait as Cait lifted her fork to dig into the steaming plate of spaghetti before her. “Good to know, Vi,” Cait replied, giving a light-hearted laugh.

Yet behind Vi’s casual words lay the heavy weight of a memory, a stark contrast to the warmth of the moment. As she began to savor her dinner, the recollection surged in her mind: the day before her proposal.

Vi had watched Cait walk towards the sheriff's office armory, intent on asking the armorer for a pack of 5.56 caliber ammunition for their AR-15. In a rush of determination, she turned to Loris, a towering figure with a thick beard that hinted at his rugged charm. “Hey, Loris,” she said, her voice tinged with urgency. “Can I borrow $2,000 from you, please? I really need this money to buy these matching rings to propose to Cait. I love her more than anything—I want her to be my wife. I swear I’ll pay you back when I get my paycheck!” Vi pleaded, her eyes transforming into the oversized, pleading gaze reminiscent of “Puss in Boots.”

Loris glanced down at her, his brow furrowed with contemplation as he scratched at his thinning hair and beard. After a moment of silence, he took off his glasses, revealing a mix of concern and camaraderie in his gaze. “$2,000? That’s a hefty sum for me, but… sure, bro. I hope your proposal goes well. I remember when I proposed to my ex-wife back when I was still on active duty as a Coast Guard in Baltimore. It was tough. Being apart for months, especially with her serving on a Navy cruiser, was painful. I missed her so much. Now she doesn't want to see me or let my son see me...” His voice trailed off, a heaviness settling around them as he thought of lost connections. With a sigh, he fished his wallet from his pocket and handed Vi the money, a gesture that was both generous and laced with bittersweet memories.

Vi’s innocent grey eyes opened wide with concern as she discreetly stuffed the cash from Loris into the pocket of her pants. Her voice softened, tinged with empathy, “That was heavy, Loris. How old is your son now?” Loris let out a heavy sigh, memories flooding back to him. “I still remember his birth in 2008. Last time I saw him, he was just a tiny potato cradled in my arms. He’ll be five this year.” His voice was thick with the weight of loss, the painful echo of his ex-wife’s refusal to let him see his son casting a long shadow over his heart.

Then Deputy Steb approached, his crisp uniform and sturdy duty vest emphasizing his military precision. He strode up with purpose, a clipboard clutched tightly in his hand, his authority commanding and sharp. “Rookie, no more talking! Time to patrol!” he barked, his voice echoing the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned veteran. Loris turned, snapping to attention, the seriousness of the moment grounding him. “Yes, sir, on my way.” As he moved to follow Steb, he leaned in towards Vi, a playful grin breaking through the tension. “Tell me if you nail that proposal, Vi. See ya.” With a final glance, he followed Steb to the parking lot, their boots echoing against the pavement like a steady drumbeat.

At 8:00 p.m.

The couple relished a tranquil dinner, the snow-dusted harbor shimmering through the balcony window. Vi’s eyes bright curiosity, nibbled on a vibrant salad while Caitlyn tucked a long, flowing cascade of blue hair behind her ears, a concession to her reluctance to schedule a haircut for the umpteenth time. She twirled strands of spaghetti with a contemplative grace, her eyes soft yet absorbed in thought.

Vi, fork poised mid-air, broke the comfortable silence. “So, with you on administrative leave for four days, who’s my T.O. while you’re gone?”

Caitlyn smirked, setting her fork down with purpose. “Don’t worry, boot, I’ve got it all figured out. Sarge Wang will fill you in tomorrow. I’ve put in a request for you to switch to Unit 42, temporarily. If Wang gives it the nod, Steb will be your T.O. Trust me, you’ll appreciate him—straightforward, decisive, and he always has your back. If that doesn't pan out, you’ll find yourself with Maddie on traffic duty—endlessly sitting with a radar gun on the county motorway. It’s the kind of dull that lingers, Vi. You’ll spend hours waiting to spring into action if someone dares to speed, crawl, or drive recklessly. In summer’s heat, you’ll sizzle in your gear; come winter, you'll be a popsicle. I’d take on high-stakes tasks any day to sidestep that tedium. But hey, we’re deputies, and that’s part of the deal.”

She hesitated, her tone shifting to a more serious, tender note. “Vi, I’m genuinely worried about you. I won’t be there to shield you, and the thought of you getting shot sends chills down my spine. Steb tackles low to high-stakes assignments, including transporting detainees to the county correction center in Towson. You’ll gain valuable experience from him—it’s better for your path as a deputy. Before you know it, you’ll have your own interceptor and be patrolling solo.”

Vi’s playful pout deepened. “I’ll miss patrolling with you, Cait.” Caitlyn then reached across the table, gently brushing her fingers against Vi’s cheek, her smile radiant with warmth and reassurance. “What are you talking about, silly? We’re still in the same unit. I’ll always be just a call away when you need backup.” She replied as she leaned closer to kiss her lips. Vi’s eyes were sparkling as she melted into the kiss.

Later, at 9:00 p.m., they nestled into the cozy embrace of the sofa, the soft glow of the movie flickering on the screen casting gentle shadows in the dimly lit room. A thick, warm blanket enveloped their laps, shielding them from the icy chill that seeped in from the snowy harbor outside. Caitlyn rested her head against Vi’s shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath, while Vi wrapped her arm around Caitlyn, their bond a comforting refuge against the day’s frantic chaos. As the credits began to roll, Caitlyn turned to Vi, her voice soft yet insistent. “It’s time to get some sleep, Vi. You’ve got three more day shifts before we switch back to night shift.”

By 10:30 p.m.

They slipped beneath the plush duvet, their bodies curling together like a family of koalas seeking warmth. The shared blanket was a cocoon of comfort, their limbs intertwined in a tender tangle that felt both secure and intimate. But at 3:00 a.m., Vi stirred as the cold air prickled her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. Her grey eyes fluttered open, and she glanced over at Caitlyn, who was blissfully cocooned in the duvet, her long blue hair splayed elegantly across the pillow. A soft, contented sigh escaped Caitlyn’s lips, a stark contrast to the chill in the room. Vi couldn’t help but smile, a fond smirk playing on her lips. She reached for the blanket they had used during their movie night, wrapping it around herself like a shield against the cold, tucking it securely as she sought warmth in the tranquil silence of the night.

At 5:00 a.m., Wednesday, December 25

In the dim, pre-dawn stillness of Caitlyn and Vi’s cozy apartment, the tranquility was abruptly shattered by the blaring of Vi’s phone alarm, its jarring sound piercing through the gentle embrace of sleep. Sprawled across the bed, Vi lay like a tangle of limbs and tousled hair, her grey eyes barely open as she groggily slapped her phone to silence it. A soft groan escaped her lips as she instinctively draped a leg over Caitlyn, whose long, vibrant blue hair fanned out over the pillow like a cascade of waves, her ocean-blue eyes fluttering open slowly.

“Wake up, Vi,” Caitlyn whispered, her voice both soft and resolute, echoing the warmth of their intimate spaces. “It’s time to go to work.”Vi, reluctant to part with the comforting warmth of their shared bed, protested with a sleepy stubbornness. “Nooo, I don’t wanna go. I just wanna cuddle with you, Cait.”

Caitlyn let out a gentle sigh “No, Vi. The Sheriff’s Office needs you to fight crime,” she insisted, a teasing smile forming on her lips.

Five minutes later, at 5:05 a.m., the alarm screeched once more, its resounding call echoing through the room for the fifth time. Vi’s protests remained steadfast, her resistance palpable. With her patience wearing thin, Caitlyn delivered a swift nudge, sending Vi tumbling off the bed with a startled yelp. “Ahhhhh—Caitlyn! Damn, you really want me out of bed!” Vi exclaimed, landing on the bedroom floor with a thud, her grey eyes wide in mock indignation.

With exaggerated grumbling, Vi hoisted herself up, her feet shuffling toward the bathroom. She slipped into her snug Sheriff-branded base layer, the black fabric clinging to her frame as she donned her hoodie. As she brushed her teeth, she caught Caitlyn’s amused glance in the bathroom mirror, the playful spark in her partner’s eyes a welcome presence as Caitlyn began to wake up and start her own morning routine as she began to brushing her teeth and then grooming her long hair.

At 5:30 a.m

Vi stood at the threshold of her home, the biting chill of the snowy morning air enveloping her as she slung her trusty backpack, slightly worn from use, containing her lunchbox and a favorite hair gel. Caitlyn, looking slightly disheveled in a simple t-shirt and pajama pants, gazed at her with soft, concerned eyes, her gentle grip cradling Vi’s warm hands. “Take care and stay safe, Vi,” she murmured, the sternness of her routine melting under the weight of her affection. Vi smiled reassuringly, her heart swelling with warmth. “I will, Cait. Promise. See ya later.” Leaning in, she stole a soft kiss, their closeness a brief reprieve from the chill outside.

As Vi stepped out into the crisp air, she descended the stairs and approached their sleek new Ford Explorer Interceptor. The V8 engine came to life with a robust hum, a comforting sound that signaled adventure ahead. She navigated through the snow-dusted streets of Baltimore, where the world seemed hushed and still, the morning sun beginning to break through the clouds.

By 6:00 a.m.

Inside the bustling Sheriff’s Office briefing room in Towson, Vi had transformed into her crisp deputy uniform and duty vest, her hair slicked back, and her grey eyes wide and alert. She settled into her chair next to Deputy Carter, amid a chorus of familiar voices—Veteran deputies like Steb, Maddie, Brad, Anne, and Andrew filled the room, their camaraderie palpable. For a moment, Vi's gaze lingered on Caitlyn's empty seat, her heart sinking slightly, but she quickly rallied, reminding herself, “Four more days, then I’ll see her again,” and a flicker of hope sparkled across her face.

Sergeant Wang strode in, his uniform sharp, carrying a stack of BOLO posters, his voice authoritative. “Attention, all hands on deck. BPD sent us this BOLO for Timothy Hast—former Navy SEAL, wanted for grand auto theft, illegal firearm possession on parole.” He passed out posters, Hast’s stern mugshot glaring back. “Yesterday, he attacked a sheriff and escaped during a transfer from the Eastside District courthouse to the county corrections center in Towson. Likely fleeing to rural county areas. Patrols there must be strengthened. BPD and we have set roadblocks on main motorways out of the county. Keep your eyes alert on patrol.” Distributing the posters with a commanding presence. Suddenly, his gaze fixed on Vi. “Stand up, Deputy Bretschneider.”

Vi rose quickly, her posture straightening as she focused on the sergeant. “With Deputy Kiramman on mandatory administrative leave, you’re assigned to Unit 42. Deputy Anders will be your T.O. to assist with Deputy Carter until Kiramman returns. Hopefully you can learn all sheriff duties—patrol, BPD assists, everything from him, Dismiss.” As the room erupted with a chorus of “YES SIR!” as Sergeant Wang made his exit, Loris nudged Vi’s shoulder, a grin spreading across his face. “Hell yeah, bro, we’re working together!” he whispered, the excitement palpable in his tone.

Vi cast a glance around the mix of seasoned professionals and wondered aloud, “Steb’s not too strict with rookies, right?” Her concern hung in the air, mingling with the buzz of anticipation. Loris chuckled, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes. “Nah, your T.O. Aka your future wife Cait is stricter. Steb’s chill unless you screw up big.” The camaraderie and light-hearted banter wrapped around her like a warm blanket, pushing aside the pre-shift jitters.

Vi stood in the chilly morning air, clutching a worn BOLO poster for Timothy Hast. Her striking grey eyes narrowed in concentration as she studied the vivid description: blue eyes, black hair, a distinctive grey goatee, and a height of 5’10” marked him as an unmistakable figure. The forearm tattoo, intricately wrapping around his arm, and the jagged design of the neck tattoo caught her attention, each detail adding to the enigmatic image in her mind. With determination, she followed Steb and Loris across the snow-dusted parking lot toward their rugged Ford Interceptor SUV.

Steb, exuding the calm confidence of a seasoned veteran, unlocked the SUV with a swift flick of his keychain, clipped to his duty vest. He gestured toward Vi. “Boot, take the seat next to the prisoner cage—the extra passenger seat is there.” His clear blue eyes locked onto hers, a blend of authority and consideration that made her feel reassured.

Nodding, Vi slid into the back passenger seat beside the sturdy steel cage, her duty belt jangling softly as she settled in. Loris, looming like a protective wall in the front passenger seat, fastened his seatbelt, curiosity lacing his voice. “Sir, where are we headed?” Steb adjusted his earpiece, the low rumble of the engine filling the air as he started the vehicle and navigated out of the lot. “First stop, Rossville,” he replied, his tone steady and focused. “Hast’s mother lives there, it’s near the Eastside courthouse. He might be hiding out there.” As the snowy Baltimore dawn broke around them, Vi’s grip on the BOLO poster tightened, the urgency of their mission sinking in as she put it into her duty vest.

At 6:15 a.m

In the cozy apartment on Locust Point, Caitlyn stood by the balcony window, her ocean-blue eyes glowing with excitement as she watched Vi drive their new Interceptor toward the County Sheriff’s Office for her day shift a few minutes ago. As Vi’s silhouette fades into the snowy dawn. Caitlyn jumped with glee, “Finally, no escorting detainees to courthouses or responding to bullshit cases this Christmas—I can enjoy my holiday!” she exclaimed, flopping onto the couch. She grabbed her phone, searching for Baltimore City Christmas events, and flicked on the TV, the harbor’s snowy glow outside casting a festive light.
The first few channels—reruns and infomercials—were dull, but FOX News caught her attention. A reporter, crisp in a tailored navy suit, stood outside the Eastside District courthouse, her voice urgent as she detailed Timothy Hast’s escape, the screen flashing his BOLO poster.

“Good morning, Baltimore, this is Jessica Harper with FOX News, reporting live outside the Eastside District courthouse, where a dangerous fugitive, Timothy Hast, escaped custody yesterday, December 24, 2013, at approximately 2:00 p.m. Hast, a 35-year-old former Navy SEAL, was being transferred from Baltimore City jail to the Baltimore County corrections center in Towson when he overpowered a sheriff deputy, disarming him and fleeing on foot. Authorities believe he’s hiding in rural Baltimore County areas, possibly Rossville, where his mother resides.
Hast is described as a white male, 5 feet 10 inches tall, with blue eyes, black hair, and a grey goatee. He has distinctive tattoos: a design wrapping around his right forearm and a jagged pattern on his neck. He’s wanted for multiple counts of grand auto theft and illegal firearm possession while on parole, and is considered armed and dangerous.
The Baltimore Police Department (BPD) and Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office have issued a BOLO—Be On the Lookout—for Hast, setting up roadblocks on major motorways exiting the county, including I-695 and I-95. Sheriff’s Office patrols in rural areas are intensified, and BPD is coordinating with county deputies to track Hast’s movements. Authorities urge the public: if you spot Timothy Hast, do not approach him. Call 911 immediately with any information on his whereabouts.
This escape comes amid heightened holiday crime in Baltimore, with the county reporting 490 violent crimes per 100,000 residents and the city facing 1,452, according to recent data. The Sheriff’s Office, still reeling from a quadruple homicide in Garrison and an armed robbery in Carney yesterday, is on high alert. Stay vigilant, Baltimore, and stay safe this Christmas. Back to you in the studio.”

Caitlyn’s narrowing as she watched a FOX News report on Timothy Hast’s escape from the Eastside District courthouse. Her detective instincts sharpened her focus on Hast’s features. Her heart raced, intent on warning Vi at the Sheriff’s Office. Before she could DM Vi, her phone pinged with a detailed message from Sergeant Wang in the Sheriff’s Office unit group chat, surpassing the news with critical details, including a video and close-up image of Hast’s escape.

[Sergeant Wang, 6:20 a.m.]:
BOLO ALERT: Timothy Hast, 35, white male, 5’10, blue eyes, black hair, grey goatee, forearm tattoo (wrapped), neck tattoo (jagged design). Wanted for grand auto theft, illegal firearm possession on parole, and assault on a sheriff during transfer. Escaped 12/24/13, 2:00 p.m., from Eastside District courthouse to Baltimore County corrections center, Towson. [Image: Hast_BOLO_Poster.jpg]
Surveillance footage: Hast used jiu-jitsu techniques—armbar and rear naked choke—to incapacitate the escorting sheriff in the courthouse lobby, preventing a backup call, causing unconsciousness. [Video: Courthouse_Escape_Video.mp4] Close-up shows Hast stealing the sheriff’s radio from the duty vest before fleeing to the underground parking lot, skillfully unlocking the Sheriff’s Ford Explorer Interceptor (plate: XM8055). [Image: Radio_Theft_Closeup.jpg, Courthouse_Lobby_Cam1.jpg, Parking_Lot_Cam2.jpg, Interceptor_Theft_Cam3.jpg] Likely hiding in rural county areas, possibly Rossville (mother’s residence).
Ex-Navy SEAL, highly trained, armed, and dangerous. BPD and the Sheriff’s Office have roadblocks on I-695, I-95, and major county exits. ALL DEPUTIES: Use encrypted channel ONLY for comms. NO car-to-car transmission—Hast may track sheriff locations via stolen radio to evade roadblocks. Body cameras are active on all patrols (12/16 mandate). Report sightings to Central immediately, do NOT engage alone. Units 37 and 42, prioritize Rossville patrols. Stay sharp, stay safe.

Caitlyn’s pulse quickened as she watched the video of Hast’s jiu-jitsu takedown and the close-up of him snatching the radio heightened her worry for Vi, whose own jiu-jitsu skills might face a formidable opponent in Hast. She typed a quick DM to Vi: “Boot, go watch the video Wang sent in the group chat, Hast knows jiu-jitsu. He stole a sheriff’s radio and SUV (XM8055). Stick with Steb and Loris, don’t go rogue. Love you.” Caitlyn sat on the couch, eyes tense with worry. Her leg bounced rapidly, easing her anxiety as she awaited Vi’s reply to her warning about Hast.

Suddenly her phone vibrated, a message from “🐶Vi” lighting up the screen:

🐶Vi (6:22 a.m.): I saw the video, Cait. Told Steb and Loris to proceed with caution. I will, love you too. Talk soon, we’re heading to Rossville now.

Caitlyn’s worry eased, her leg stilling as she read Vi’s reply. She glanced at the wall clock—not yet 7 a.m.—and yawned, mumbling, “Guess I’ll catch some sleep after breakfast, then start my wonderful Christmas holiday.” Slipping on indoor slippers, she shuffled to the kitchen, discipline softened by relief as she opened the pantry door, muttering, “Umm, Fruit Loops’ll do the trick.” Grabbing a bowl, she poured the colorful cereal, its sugary scent filling the air. She retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator, setting both on the coffee table, and plopped onto the floor, the snowy harbor glowing through the balcony window.
Switching the TV from FOX News to the Cartoon Network, where vibrant animations flickered, Caitlyn began eating her breakfast, spooning Fruit Loops with a contented sigh.

At 6:30 a.m.,

In the serene, snow-laden Maya Way residential area of Rossville, Baltimore County, Vi stood on the weathered doorstep of Mrs. Hast's modest home, flanked by her colleagues Steb and Loris. The air was crisp, and a muted stillness enveloped the surroundings as Vi raised her hand and knocked firmly on the door at Steb's insistence. Her voice rang out, authoritative yet urgent. “Mrs. Hast, this is the Sheriff’s Office. Open the door now. We need to find your son ASAP—he’s dangerous.” Steb and Loris settled into a tense silence, their breath visible in the chilly air.

After two long minutes of quietude, Vi rapped on the door again, leaning in to whisper to her compatriots, “Err, could she be—” The door creaked open with a reluctant groan, revealing Mrs. Hast, an elderly woman ensconced in a wheelchair, her frail frame swathed in a cozy shawl. Her eyes, filled with fatigue and concern, bore the weight of years of hardship. “I’m so sorry, sheriffs, I can’t walk, so it took a while to get here. What’s going on with my son?” Her voice quivered, and as the trio took in her delicate condition, their hearts collectively sank.

Steb, adopting a tone laced with compassion, stepped forward, his expression softening. “It’s perfectly fine, Mrs. Hast. I can only imagine how challenging it must be to live alone like this. Have you seen the news? Your son, Timothy Hast, has been implicated in multiple grand auto thefts and was scheduled to serve time. Just yesterday, he assaulted a sheriff's deputy at the Eastside District courthouse and escaped in a stolen Sheriff’s Ford Explorer, plate XM8055. Has he sought refuge here?”

Mrs. Hast shook her head, tears glistening in her weary eyes. “I haven’t seen Tim since he was 15. He inherited this wayward path from his father, Andrew. I thought the military would instill some discipline in him, but I was gravely mistaken. I wish I could have raised him differently, but since that bus struck me in uptown Baltimore when he was just 10, I've been paralyzed. I can’t even relieve myself without my helper.” Her voice cracked, heavy with guilt and sorrow. The atmosphere thickened with empathy as Loris knelt beside her, his voice soft and reassuring. “I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Hast. You cannot hold yourself responsible—no one anticipates being struck by a bus. Could Tim perhaps be hiding out at his father’s place?”

Mrs. Hast shrugged, her fingers trembling as she wiped away her tears. “His father, Andrew, sits in Baltimore County jail, serving a life sentence for robbing a grocery store, stealing a car, and murdering a police officer during his escape. But I can ask my helper, Rebecca, if she knows anything—she takes care of everything around here. Rebecca! Come to the front door; the sheriffs are here!”

In response, Rebecca emerged from the shadows of the home, donning an apron, her brow knitted in curiosity. “Hello, officers, how may I assist you?” Steb explained, his tone serious yet polite. “Mrs. Hast’s son, Timothy Hast, escaped custody yesterday after assaulting a sheriff during a transfer from the Eastside District courthouse. He’s wanted for grand auto theft and illegal firearm possession. Has he come by during the day or night?”

Rebecca shook her head, her expression sympathetic. “I’m sorry, officer, but I haven’t seen any man here. However, we do have a surveillance camera at the doorway for security purposes. I can give you the SD card to review.” She reached up, deftly removing the card from its place and handing it over to the deputies. “I hope you find him soon. Is there anything else I can do to help?”

Vi, wearing tactical gloves clipped to her duty belt to maintain the integrity of the evidence, accepted the SD card, carefully placing it into an evidence bag from her vest, her movements deliberate and precise. Steb nodded appreciatively, and the trio bowed slightly in gratitude. “No, that will be all, but thank you for your cooperation. Have a wonderful Christmas,” he said, signaling to Vi and Loris to follow him as they turned away, the weight of their task lingering in the air.

As they walked back to their Ford Interceptor SUV, Vi pressed her PTT to report, “Central, Unit 42, Bretschneider. No sign of Timothy Hast at Maya Way, Rossville. Secured SD card from residence surveillance for CID, bagged as evidence, over.”
The dispatcher crackled through her earpiece, “10-4, Unit 42, return to base or await further instructions, over.” Vi frowned, whispering to Steb and Loris, “He’s not here. What now?”
Their phones vibrated simultaneously, a new message from Sergeant Wang in the unit group chat.

[Sergeant Wang, 6:42 a.m.]:UPDATE: Timothy Hast, BOLO suspect. Dispatch tracked a stolen Sheriff’s Ford Explorer Interceptor (plate: XM8055) moving from Sipple Ave to Frankford Ave, Baltimore City. [Image: Dispatch_Room.jpg] Unit 42 (Anders, Carter, Bretschneider), proceed to Frankford Ave, Baltimore City, to track vehicle.

Steb mumbled, “Shit, we gotta go now, it’s moving fast,” rushing to the SUV. Vi slid into the back seat beside the prisoner cage, her tone confused. “But that’s Baltimore City—shouldn’t BPD handle it?”
Steb started the engine, pulling out toward Frankford Avenue, his blue eyes focused. “It’s our patrol car, therefore it is our responsibility to find it.” Loris buckled in the front, nodding.

At 7:00 a.m,

In the snowy dawn of Frankford Avenue, Baltimore City, the Unit 42 Ford Interceptor SUV roared through the frigid air, its tires screeching against the slick asphalt as it barreled toward Corse Road, in hot pursuit of the stolen Sheriff’s vehicle. Steb, gripping the steering wheel, peered intently at the Panasonic Toughbook screen glowing ominously in the dim light. His clear blue eyes narrowed in bewilderment. “What the hell? The XM8055’s GPS shows it ahead of us, but that’s a BPD black Interceptor SUV, not our sheriff’s!” He flicked on the siren, the wail slicing through the stillness of the morning like a knife, and snatched the PTT speaker. “AN6953, stop your vehicle now,” he commanded over the loudspeaker as Loris exchanged a quick, questioning glance with Vi, their Axon body cameras dutifully rolling as mandated.

The BPD officer, a wiry figure clad in a navy uniform and duty vest, glanced nervously in his rearview mirror and spotted the looming sheriff’s SUV. A look of confusion flickered across his face as he shared a bemused glance with his partner. Hesitant, he pulled over and stepped out into the biting wind, exhaling sharply. “What’s going on, guys?”

Steb facepalmed, frustration evident in his gesture as he gestured toward the Toughbook screen. “Come take a look. Our stolen sheriff’s Interceptor, plate XM8055, is showing up as your car. We’re tracking Timothy Hast, and we need our vehicle back ASAP, but this is a mess.” The BPD officer furrowed his brow as he leaned closer to the screen. “Yeah, that’s our car. What the hell is going on?”

Steb’s voice turned steely. “That crafty bastard must have yanked the GPS from our Interceptor and stuck it on your car to throw us off. Have you noticed anyone suspicious lurking around your vehicle?” The officer’s brow knitted in thought for a moment before he shrugged helplessly. “Not that I can remember. My partner and I have been here since 1 a.m., dealing with a potential robbery. Haven’t seen anything unusual.”

Steb muttered under his breath, “Night shift cops, always lazier than day shift.” As he donned his tactical gloves with swift precision, he signaled for Vi and Loris to do the same, their movements synchronized and sharp. “We need to search your car for the GPS. Hast likely planted it to elude tracking.”

At 7:10 a.m

Vi crouched beside the BPD Interceptor, her gaze fixed intently as she probed the narrow gap between the tire and passenger door. Her gloved fingers brushed against something small and cold. Fumbling for her flashlight strapped securely to her duty belt, she illuminated a tiny GPS device—indisputably from their stolen Interceptor. “Guys, I found our stolen car’s GPS!” she called excitedly, cradling the device delicately in her palm as if it were a prized gem.

Steb rushed over, a smile breaking across his face as he patted Vi’s back with pride. “Great job, Boot. I’m reporting this to Wang and Central right away.” He snapped a quick photo of the GPS with his phone, hastily sending it off to the unit group chat.

Turning to the BPD officer, Steb maintained a confident demeanor. “Since Hast was here and planted our GPS under your car, can we copy your front and rear dash camera footage for the Sheriff’s Office? It could lead us straight to him. Also, you should report this to your Central—it’ll expedite everything.”

“Absolutely,” the officer replied, pressing his PTT to relay the critical information. “Dispatch, Unit 19, GPS from the stolen Sheriff’s vehicle found under our Interceptor, AN6953. Copying dash cam footage for the Sheriff’s Office, over.” He retrieved the SD cards from his dash cams, hurrying toward Steb.

Vi leaned closer to Steb, her tone laced with curiosity. “So, after we send these to CID for the detectives, what’s next?” Steb handed the USB drive to the officer, his voice firm with determination. “We’re not going back yet. We need to pull surveillance footage from this area—one of these cameras might have captured Hast’s movements that potentially led to his hideout. Then we’ll patrol the rural areas until Wang provides new orders.”

At 3:30 p.m,

In the cozy apartment on Marriott Street, Locust Point. Caitlyn stirred from a deep sleep in her bedroom, her long blue hair a tangled mess splayed across the pillow. Clad in a t-shirt and pajama pants, stretched as she yawned, her voice sleepy. “What time is it?” She grabbed her phone, squinting at the screen, only to jolt upright, ocean-blue eyes wide as her heart raced. “Holy shit, what’s going on?” Over 100 messages flooded her County Sheriff’s Office unit group chat.

Scrolling through, Caitlyn pieced together the day’s developments on Timothy Hast’s case, as her detective instincts inherited from her mother kicked in. Unit 42 had found the stolen Sheriff’s Ford Explorer Interceptor’s GPS planted on a BPD vehicle on Frankford Avenue, Baltimore City (7:10 a.m.). CID, leveraging Unit 42’s evidence, tracked the stolen vehicle’s last known location to the city, but traffic teams, including Maddie, reported no sightings of it leaving Baltimore County. Hast, a former Navy SEAL, remained at large within city limits.

Then she scrolled down to a PDF attached message from Sergeant Wang highlighting BPD’s Lead Investigator, Lieutenant Cassandra Kiramman—Caitlyn’s mother—who crafted a criminal profile on Hast. Drawing on his criminal history, statements from his mother, his incarcerated father, and his Navy SEAL captain, Cassandra linked Hast’s escape to deep-seated authority hatred, stemming from his military discharge for insubordination, childhood trauma, and witnessing BPD officers beat his father during an arrest. The profile suggested Hast’s actions reflected a calculated rebellion against law enforcement.

Baltimore Police Department Criminal Profile Report
Subject: Timothy Hast
Prepared by: Lieutenant Cassandra Kiramman, BPD Criminal Investigation Division (CID)
Date: December 25, 2013
Case Number: BPD-2013-1224-049
Subject Details:
• Name: Timothy Hast
• Age: 35 (DOB: 03/17/1978)
• Physical Description: White male, 5’10”, blue eyes, black hair, grey goatee, forearm tattoo (wrapped design), neck tattoo (jagged pattern).
• Criminal History: Multiple counts of grand auto theft (Maryland § 7-104), illegal firearm possession on parole (Maryland § 5-133).
• Current Status: Fugitive, escaped custody during transfer from Eastside District courthouse to Baltimore County corrections center, December 24, 2013, 2:00 p.m.
• Affiliations: Former U.S. Navy SEAL (discharged 2010, insubordination).
Summary:
Timothy Hast is a high-risk fugitive with a history of property crimes and recent violent escalation, marked by his assault on a Baltimore County Sheriff’s deputy during a courthouse transfer and theft of a Sheriff’s Ford Explorer Interceptor (plate: XM8055). This profile, based on interviews with his mother (Mrs. Hast), incarcerated father (Andrew Hast), former Navy SEAL captain, criminal records, and surveillance footage, identifies Hast as a calculated, anti-authority offender driven by childhood trauma, military discipline failure, and resentment toward law enforcement. His actions pose a significant threat to public safety and Sheriff/BPD operations in Baltimore County (~490 violent crimes per 100,000) and City (~1,452 crimes per 100,000)
Background and Psychological Drivers:
• Childhood Trauma: Hast’s early life was marked by instability. At age 10 (1988), his mother was paralyzed in a bus accident in uptown Baltimore, severely limiting her ability to parent. His father, Andrew Hast, a career car thief, was arrested in 1993 (Hast age 15) for robbery, grand auto theft, and murder of a BPD officer, sentenced to life in Baltimore County jail. Witnessing his father’s violent arrest, including BPD officer use of force, instilled a deep-seated hatred for law enforcement (trauma and anti-social behavior). Lack of parental guidance and poverty in Baltimore’s high-crime environment (~2,608 property crimes per 100,000 in County) fostered delinquency, with juvenile records of petty theft by age 14.
• Military Experience: Hast joined the military at 18 (1996), Navy SEALs at 21 (1999), seeking structure, but his insubordination led to discharge in 2010. His captain reported frequent conflicts with superiors, reflecting authority defiance rooted in childhood resentment. SEAL training honed his jiu-jitsu (armbar, rear naked choke), weapons proficiency, and tactical evasion, evident in his courthouse escape (December 24, 2013). His discharge exacerbated feelings of rejection, fueling criminal escalation.
• Criminal Behavior: Hast’s adult record includes grand auto theft (2008–2012) and illegal firearm possession (2012, parole violation). His courthouse escape—using jiu-jitsu to incapacitate a sheriff, stealing a radio and vehicle—demonstrates calculated planning and anti-authority motives. (criminal profiling). Planting the stolen vehicle’s GPS on a BPD Interceptor (AN6953, December 25) shows advanced evasion tactics, likely leveraging SEAL surveillance skills.
Motivations and Behavioral Patterns:
• Anti-Authority Resentment: Hast’s hatred of law enforcement, stemming from his father’s arrest and military discharge, drives his targeting of sheriff assets (radio, Interceptor). His assault on a deputy suggests a personal vendetta (anti-social personality traits). He perceives authorities as oppressors, aligning with his father’s criminality.
• Trauma-Driven Aggression: Childhood trauma (mother’s paralysis, father’s incarceration) and lack of stable caregivers fostered impulsivity and aggression. His SEAL training channeled this into disciplined violence, but his discharge triggered recidivism, seen in his theft and escape patterns.
• Tactical Proficiency: Hast’s Navy SEAL skills—jiu-jitsu, firearm handling, vehicle manipulation—make him a high-threat fugitive. His theft of the Sheriff’s Interceptor and radio indicates intent to monitor law enforcement likely to evade roadblocks (I-695, I-95).
Current Risk Assessment:
• Location and Intent: Hast is likely hiding in Baltimore City, possibly near the east side of Baltimore, based on GPS tracking (December 25, 7:10 a.m.). His mother’s residence in Rossville was cleared (no sighting, SD card evidence), but his father’s incarceration eliminates family hideouts. Hast may seek non-family shelters (e.g., abandoned properties) or criminal networks, given Baltimore’s high crime rate (~1,452 violent crimes per 100,000 in the City).
• Threat Level: High. Hast’s SEAL training, access to a stolen radio, and firearm possession make him unpredictable. His anti-authority motive suggests potential for further violence against deputies or BPD officers, as seen in his assault (December 24).
• Behavioral Prediction: Hast will likely avoid roadblocks, using a stolen radio to monitor unencrypted channels, and may target additional vehicles or weapons. His jiu-jitsu skills pose a close-quarters threat, requiring deputies and officers to engage cautiously.
Recommendations for Sheriff’s Office and BPD:
1. Enhanced Patrols: Prioritize Baltimore City (Sipple, Frankford Avenues) and rural County areas (Rossville), with Units 37 and 42 leading. Use encrypted channels only to prevent Hast’s monitoring, as he possesses a Sheriff’s radio.
2. Surveillance Analysis: CID to review Mrs. Hast’s SD card, BPD dash cam footage (AN6953), and area cameras (Frankford Avenue) for Hast’s trail. Cross-reference with known criminal associates.
3. Tactical Caution: Deputies to avoid solo engagement due to Hast’s SEAL skills (jiu-jitsu, firearms). Unit 42’s Bretschneider (jiu-jitsu and martial arts trained) and Anders (army veteran) are equipped but must coordinate with BPD.
4. Public Alert: BPD and Sheriff’s Office to maintain BOLO alerts via media, urging 911 calls for sightings without civilian engagement.
5. Psychological Approach: If apprehended, use de-escalation to address Hast’s authority resentment, leveraging his trauma history to reduce violence.
Investigator Notes:
Hast’s profile reflects a cycle of trauma and criminality, exacerbated by Baltimore’s high-crime environment. His father’s influence and mother’s incapacitation created a void, filled by delinquent peers and military discipline that ultimately failed. His escape is both a tactical maneuver and a symbolic rebellion. BPD/Sheriff’s Office body cameras and BPD coordination are critical to counter his evasion tactics. Sheriff’s office’s Units 37 and 42, with Deputies Kiramman (Badge 0104, watch commander) and Bretschneider (Badge 1219, rookie), are pivotal, with Kiramman’s leave (lethal force, December 24) requiring Unit 42’s heightened vigilance.
Signed:
Lieutenant Cassandra Kiramman
Head of CID, Baltimore Police Department
December 25, 2013

Caitlyn smiled, face swelling with pride. “There’s a reason why my mom’s the Head of CID,” she murmured, admiring Cassandra’s investigative prowess.

She then decided to FaceTime her mother Cassandra, Head of BPD’s CID, who’d been working tirelessly at headquarters since Hast’s escape.

The call connected, and Cassandra appeared, her sharp suit shirt crisp, suit jacket draped over her chair in the bustling CID office. “Hey, Caity, just woke up from your long sleep?” she teased, her voice warm but sly. “I’m glad you finally remembered your mom.” She said as she smiled.
Caitlyn raised her eyebrows, brushing a stray lock from her face. “Mom, how’d you know I slept so long?”
Cassandra’s smile widened, her detective’s eye gleaming. “Caity, I don’t need my Master Degree in Criminal Psychology—though I’ve got one, plus criminology—to spot that bird’s nest on your head. I’ve never seen a hair being messier than this. Groom it, girl.”
Caitlyn chuckled as she running a hand through her tangled hair. “Fair, Mom. But your Hast profile? Damn impressive, Tell me about the house search.”

Cassandra sighed, showing her dual monitors filled with dozens of surveillance feeds. “It’s not just my work, Caity. My team’s been working relentlessly on the investigation, ended up taking turns sleeping on the CID office’s couch or mats, haul our asses to the court to get a warrant to search Mrs. Hast’s and Hast’s Navy SEAL captain’s homes. I miss you and Tobias, just want to spend Christmas with you two, not watching endless footage.” She paused. “But about that search report. We found nothing besides children's clothing in Mrs Hast’s house. And we’re still waiting on BPD’s search report of the captain’s home. But while we wait, I briefed Commander Kent—BPD’s head—on Hast’s threat to our headquarters. His anti-social personality could escalate to terrorism if frontline officers can’t de-escalate. During the solo interrogation with the SEAL captain, he revealed that Hast was a highly skilled sniper therefore I’m afraid I might really need to make a phone call to D.C. for further instructions to protect our police headquarters from terrorists like him.”

Caitlyn’s eyes lit up, an idea sparking. She leapt from bed, yanking on jeans and a jacket. “Wait, Mom, I know where he hid the patrol car! He’s monitoring someone.”
Cassandra, confused, cradled her office phone. “What do you mean, Caity?”
Caitlyn, pulling on pants, rushed back to the phone. “The traffic team saw no sheriff’s vehicle leaving the county, so Hast must has a reason to stay. He hates cops, the military, and anyone controlling him. First he targeted that sheriff in the courthouse, then guess who’s the next authority figure? His SEAL captain. He’s hiding the patrol car near the captain’s home to monitor him, lulling him into false security. As a sniper, he’s planning to assassinate the captain. Mom, tell Commander Kent to send units to surround the captain’s place now, use the siren and the patrol car’s speaker to annoy him so he couldn’t focus enough to make a clear shot. Get ballistic experts to calculate sniper vantage points, check local gun stores for anyone matching Hast’s description buying a hunting rifle with cash. His anti-social thrill at being notorious fuels him. This night’s crucial, we need to protect the captain, or he’s dead. Hast doesn’t care if he survives. I’m reporting to the Sheriff’s Office to send more hands.”
Cassandra, stunned, grabbed her office phone to call Kent. “How’d I miss this?”
Caitlyn flashed a smug smile. “You’re tired, fixated on him fleeing the county but what if he never plans to get out alive? Where’s the captain’s house?”
“Goodnow road, Holly lane Apartments,” Cassandra replied, phone to her ear. “Wait, you’re going alone? It’s too dangerous, Caity, remember—”
Caitlyn appeared on-screen, holding her AXG Legion handgun—red dot sight, flashlight, and laser attached. “Always bring a gun. I never leave without it. Love you, Mom.” She ended the call, rushing to the apartment parking lot, grabbing her motorcycle keys.
Before donning her helmet, Caitlyn fired off messages to the unit group chat and Vi’s DM: “Vi, tell Steb to drive to Goodnow Road, Holly Lane Apartments now. Hast is there.”

At 4:00 p.m.,

Caitlyn roared down in Baltimore City on her sleek black motorcycle, eyes sharp with purpose.
Suddenly a BPD officer in a navy uniform, standing by a black Interceptor SUV, flagged her down, his tone calm but firm. “Sorry, ma’am, driver’s license, registration, please. Step off the vehicle, let me check your motorcycle.”
Caitlyn groaned, her patience fraying. “I know where Hast and the stolen sheriff’s patrol car are, and you’re checking if my motorcycle’s illegally modified? Oh my fucking god.” Instead of her license, she pulled her Baltimore County Sheriff identification card, its holder emblazoned with a prominent sheriff’s star, her face clear on the ID.
The officer’s eyes widened, stepping back. “Oh shit, sorry, you’re an undercover cop?”
Caitlyn shot him a withering what do you think glance, her badge glinting in the snowy dusk. “Sheriff, not cop. Let me go.”

“Sorry, sheriff, you’re free to go,” he stammered, waving her through.
Caitlyn revved her motorcycle, speeding toward the Apartment where Hast was hiding.

At 4:10 p.m.

In a dimly lit, makeshift hideout—a small apartment in Holly Lane Apartments in Baltimore City—Timothy Hast, lay prone before a Sako 90 hunting rifle, its makeshift silencer and bipod steady, scope locked on his former Navy SEAL captain’s apartment window across the street. His grey goatee had grown into a scruffy beard, his black hair dyed blonde to evade detection, blue eyes cold and focused. The stolen Sheriff’s Ford Explorer Interceptor was hidden nearby, its radio silent but active, monitoring encrypted channels. Beside him, a young man—the house’s owner, kidnapped under Hast’s guise as a DoorDash delivery driver—lay bound, stripped naked, wrists cuffed with sheriff’s handcuffs, legs, eyes, and mouth duct-taped. Suspicious dried white liquid stained his mouth and chin, his muffled pleas grating on Hast’s nerves.
“Shut the fuck up,” Hast snarled, kicking the man’s stomach, pressing his stolen handgun to his head. “I don’t want to hear you again, or I’ll blow your head off. You’re just a release, but your teeth hurt my dick.” He shoved the gun back into his pants, his anti-social rage simmering.

In the corner of his eye, Hast spotted a woman parking a motorcycle not too far away from where he parked his stolen sheriff’s SUV in the lot below. Shifting his scope, he watched Caitlyn remove her helmet, her long blue hair spilling out. “That blue hair woman, she looks so hot,” he muttered, his voice low as his twisted desire surged as he stroked himself, muttering, “Wonder what her body looks like naked. Damn, wish I could fuck her instead of killing the captain. Look at that firm hips-” His scope lingered on Caitlyn’s hips till she entered a building, his anti-social thrill intensifying.

A memory surged his Navy SEAL days. His captain, barking, “What the fuck are you doing, Tim? I told you to stand down! You almost shot us!”
Hast glared back, defiant. “Sir, I wouldn’t miss. Why stand down? So you can play badass captain?”
“Sergeant, stare at me with that attitude again, and I’ll slap you!” the captain snapped, pointing.
“Go ahead, you fucking pussy—” Hast’s words cut off as the captain slapped him ten times, humiliation burning. One day, I’ll fucking kill you, you old piece of shit, he vowed silently.

Then, 2012, a painful memory surfaced: his girlfriend, Natasha, suitcase in hand, her voice trembling. “I can’t stay, Tim. Your emotions are unpredictable—one minute you love me, the next you’re beating me, exploding at me. You scare me. Go see a therapist.” Hast sobbed, pleading, “Natasha, don’t go. I don’t need a therapist—I’ll get better, I promise!” But Natasha’s ice-cold glance silenced him as she shut the door, leaving. His sobs turned cold, his voice hardening. “If I’m going to die, Captain, you’re coming with me—along with every fucking cop.”
Now, scope trained on the captain’s window, Hast waited, his sniper training primed, unaware Caitlyn was closing in.

At 4:15 p.m.
Cait strode into the lobby of the apartment building where that former Navy SEAL captain lived, driven by her deduction that fugitive Timothy Hast was targeting him for assassination. Caitlyn’s phone vibrated with a message from Sergeant Wang in the Sheriff’s Office unit group chat.

Sergeant Wang (4:14 p.m.): Stand down, Kiramman. Do NOT engage Hast. I’m leading my SWAT team to neutralize him. BearCat and Unit 42 are en route, parking three blocks away to avoid detection. Get the captain out safely first.

Caitlyn approached the security booth, where a sleepy guard dozed. She knocked on the window, flashing her Baltimore County Sheriff ID, the Sheriff star glinting. “Sheriff’s Office. Open the emergency back doors for this and that building right there. SWAT’s coming.”
The guard jolted awake, complying as Caitlyn drew her AXG Legion, moving swiftly to the captain’s apartment. She knocked firmly. “Sheriff’s Office, Captain, open the door now.” The captain, a grizzled man in his 50s, cracked the door, peering out. Seeing her ID, he opened it fully, brow furrowed. “Sheriff? Ain’t you supposed to work the county outskirts?”
Caitlyn pocketed her ID, voice urgent. “This is urgent. Stay calm, follow my orders. Do not stand near the window. Hast is hiding in the opposite building, planning to assassinate you, per our investigation. SWAT’s coming—we gotta move quickly.”

Her phone vibrated again, a unit group chat message from Vi.
1219Brets (4:15 p.m.): Unit 42 parked in Valleyview Ave, standing by for Kiramman to escort SEAL captain out, over.

As they were about to leave the apartment, a faint pop—a suppressed gunshot—cut through the air and makes the window shattered. “Shit, stay low, Captain!” Caitlyn shouted, tackling him to the floor, her body shielding his. “What the fuck!?” he gasped. They then glanced at the wall where he’d stood—a .308 caliber bullet pierced the wall and onto the door, splintering wood. “That’s .308 Winchester,” Caitlyn muttered. “If you hadn’t moved, that’d be in your head. We need out now.”

“Son of a bitch, that blue-haired bitch is a cop, you’re going to die with that old piece of shit today,” he hissed at her while he reloaded his rifle then aimed his rifle at Cait and fired another round.

Another round pierced onto wall behind them. Leaving them no chance but to crawling to the bedroom doorway for cover, Caitlyn spotted a radio on the captain’s desk. Grabbing it, she switched to the encrypted channel. “Sarge Wang, this is Kiramman. Hast fired his shot and is continuing to fire at us. We’re pinned in the captain’s apartment—can’t get out. Need backup now,” she said urgently as she covered her head with her hands to protect herself from another shot.
Wang, in full SWAT gear in the BearCat, replied through his headset. “Stay in a safe area, Kiramman. We’re three minutes out. I’ll have Unit 42 distract Hast so you can escape.” He switched channels. “Unit 42, this is Wang. Move to the third floor of the building across from 1256. Shout at Hast—he’s in one of the flat rooms. Kiramman and the SEAL captain are pinned. Do NOT move in, wait for my signal. SWAT’s coming.”

At 4:18 p.m.

In the snowy dusk Valleyview Ave, three blocks from Holly Lane Apartments. Loris stand tense next to their unit’s intercepter as Steb and Vi grabbed AR-15s from the front seat rifle rack, their movements swift as Sergeant Wang’s orders crackled through their earpiece: move to the third floor of the building across from building 1256 to distract Timothy Hast, who is pinning Caitlyn and the Navy SEAL captain with sniper fire.

Steb then walked to the SUV’s back to pop its trunk, pulling out a ballistic shield and thrusting it toward Loris. “Grab it, big guy. You’re going to the front to protect us.” he said, his voice commanding as he slammed the trunk door shut.
Loris stood behind their Interceptor SUV, his towering frame and bushy beard stark against the flickering blue and red lights of a dozen BPD patrol interceptors flooding the area. His sheriff’s star badge glinted as he gripped a ballistic shield in one hand, Glock 22 in the other, his eyes tracking BPD and Sheriff’s Office helicopters chopping through the sky above, their spotlights cutting through the snow. A FOX News live helicopter trailed, its camera trained on the chaos. “Shit, even a live news helicopter?” Loris muttered, his voice awed. “I’ve never seen anything this big.”

Vi pulled the charging handle of her AR-15, the click confirming a loaded round. Her grey eyes glinted with adrenaline. “And that, Loris, is why I became a sheriff—to see shit this big.”
Steb slung the AR-15 strap over his body, signaled them to follow him. “Enough gawking. Follow me—we’re going to save Cait”

The trio sprinted toward the apartment building where Hast hid, a dilapidated structure facing the captain’s residence. Their boots crunched on snow, breath visible in the cold, as they navigated the icy streets, Vi’s heart pounding with worry for Caitlyn, her fiancée, trapped under Hast’s gunfire…

Chapter Text

Fox News reporter Jessica Harper stands in the snowy twilight, a short distance from the Holly Lane Apartments parking lot, where Baltimore Police Department and Sheriff’s Office patrol vehicles blink their red and blue lights in the gathering dusk. The whir of helicopters cuts through the chilling air, soaring overhead like vigilant sentinels. The FOX News camera glides across the tumultuous scene, capturing the stark contrast of yellow “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape, which slices through the chaos, marking off the perimeter of a vaguely tense situation.

“Good evening, Baltimore, this is Jessica Harper, reporting live from Holly Lane Apartments on Goodnow Road, where a major police operation is unfolding. We’re witnessing an intense response from the Baltimore Police Department and Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office, with over a dozen patrol interceptors, a Sheriff’s SWAT BearCat, and helicopters circling above. This appears to be a manhunt for Timothy Hast, the fugitive ex-Navy SEAL who escaped custody yesterday after assaulting a sheriff at the Eastside District courthouse. Sources confirm that Hast, wanted for grand auto theft and illegal firearm possession, may be targeting a former SEAL captain in this building, possibly with sniper intent.
I’m approaching a BPD officer for comment. Excuse me, officer, can you tell us what’s happening here?”
BPD Officer, in a navy uniform, badge glinting, waves her back, voice firm. “Ma’am, stand back. No comments right now—stay behind the line for safety.”
“Well, there you have it—authorities are tight-lipped, prioritizing safety as they confront this dangerous suspect in a city already grappling with high crime, reporting 1,452 violent crimes per 100,000 residents. We’ll continue monitoring this developing situation. Stay safe, Baltimore, and back to the studio.”

At 4:22 p.m., Wednesday, December 25

In the snowy dusk near Holly Lane Apartments on Goodnow Road, Baltimore City, Unit 42—Vi, Steb and Loris sprinted toward the back door of the dilapidated apartment building where Timothy Hast was hiding, pinning Caitlyn and the Navy SEAL captain with sniper fire. But as they neared the back door, Vi’s eyes caught a Sheriff’s patrol Interceptor parked oddly in the lot, its plate reading “PL8620.” Her instincts flared—she thought, ‘This sheriff car shouldn’t be here. It must be a Fake plate.’ She broke formation, approaching the vehicle, and peeled off a sticker on the plate, revealing “XM8055”—the stolen Sheriff’s Ford Explorer Interceptor. “Guys, we found our stolen Interceptor!” she shouted urgently. She pressed her PTT, reporting, “Central, Unit 42, Bretschneider. The stolen Sheriff’s Interceptor, plate XM8055, was located at the Holly Lane Apartments parking lot, over.”
Vi snapped a photo with her phone and sent it to the unit group chat.

1219Brets (4:22 p.m.): Found stolen Sheriff’s Interceptor, XM8055, Holly Lane Apartments lot. The plate was disguised as PL8620. [Image: Interceptor_XM8055.jpg] Awaiting orders, over.

Steb nodded, “Good catch, boot,” as Loris adjusted his shield, their focus sharpening on Hast’s third-floor hideout. Vi’s heart pounded for Caitlyn who was trapped inside.

A minute later. They burst through the emergency staircase door and sprinted to the third floor of the dilapidated apartment building where Hast hid. The third-floor hallway stretched before them, a dim, grimy corridor with at least twenty apartment doors, each a potential sniper’s nest. “Shit, there’s like twenty apartments,” Vi muttered as she swept her AR-15 along the hallway. “Which one’s he in?”
Steb’s voice boomed, authoritative. “County Sheriff’s Office! Hast, you’re surrounded! Come out with your hands in the air!” Silence answered, the tension thick.
Loris raised his shield, advancing slowly, Vi and Steb following, their steps cautious to avoid Hast bursting out firing. Their body cameras captured every creak of the floorboards.

At 4:27 p.m,

in the tense, snowy dusk inside the Navy SEAL captain’s apartment. Caitlyn crouched with the grizzled captain, her lanky frame coiled in jeans, a jacket, and a handgun. She tried rushing the captain to the entrance, only to be halted by another .308 caliber shot from Hast’s hunting rifle, the high-powered round punching through the wall inches from their cover, splintering wood with lethal force.

“Fucking hell, Vi, just distract him already,” Caitlyn muttered, her discipline fraying under the sniper’s barrage. Her gaze locked on the bathroom mirror. Rising, she smashed it with her bare fist, shards scattering, blood streaking her knuckles. The captain rasped, “You broke it with your bare fist? This girl’s got iron balls—wait, I know what you’re doing. Spotting the sniper with the mirror.”
Caitlyn nodded, gripping a jagged shard, her bloodied hand steady. She angled it toward the window, muttering, “Come on, Hast, shoot the mirror so I can see your muzzle flash.”

Across the street, in his third-floor hideout, Hast hissed through his scope, “Bitch, I see you now—don’t move.” He fired another .308 round, its suppressed crack grazing Caitlyn’s hand, slicing skin, and slamming into the wall. She flinched, pain searing, but caught the faint muzzle flash despite the silencer.
“Shit, he almost hit me, but I see you, asshole,” she growled, pinpointing his position at the west end of the opposite building’s hallway. Grabbing the captain’s radio, she barked “Kiramman to dispatch, Hast is hiding west side of the apartment building, end of the hall. Request unit 42 to go in now, over.”

At 4:30 p.m,

The dispatcher’s voice crackled through their earpiece, confirming Caitlyn’s intel: “Unit 42, suspect Hast at west end, third floor, final apartment, per Kiramman, over.” “10-4, on our way, over” Vi’s heart pounded for Caitlyn as she replied to the dispatcher through her PTT. They reached the last apartment in the hallway. Vi lowered her rifle and kicked the door as she shouted, “Sheriff’s Office! Come out now!”

The roar of a Sheriff’s BearCat and BPD helicopters overhead signaled Sergeant Wang’s SWAT team's arrival. Wang, in full body armor stormed up, barking, “Bretschneider, stand down!” He gestured to his team. “Hauser, break the door with the battering ram!”
“10-4,” Hauser replied, slamming the ram into the door, splintering wood. Vi peered through the hole, spotting furniture barricades—tables, chairs, a couch—piled high inside. Steb shouted, “Haste, drop your weapon and come out now!”

Inside, Hast abandoned his Sako 90 hunting rifle and grabbed a Molotov cocktail from the floor. Lighting it with a flick of his lighter, he hurled it toward the door, the glass shattering, flames erupting across the hallway’s floorboards.

“Shit, fall back! He’s got a Molotov!” Steb and Wang barked simultaneously, Loris and a SWAT member raising shields to protect the team as they retreated. The fire roared, heat singeing the air. Steb lunged for a nearby fire extinguisher, spraying foam to douse the flames, smoke curling in the dim corridor.

At 4:32 p.m.

Sergeant Wang and his SWAT team huddled outside the barricaded door of Hast’s hideout, discussing their next move. While Vi, Steb,
And Loris stood ready as they stood opposite the hallway. Suddenly another Molotov cocktail sailed through the door’s hole, but a SWAT sheriff with a shield swiftly batted it back, the glass shattering outside. The sheriff bravely stomped on the burning floorboards, extinguishing the flames with his boots, smoke curling in the dim hallway.

Across the street, in the Navy SEAL captain’s apartment, Caitlyn crouched with her handgun drawn, noticing Hast’s sniper fire pause. She signaled the captain. “Move now!” They sprinted out of the apartment and rushed out the emergency back door opened by the security guard.

BPD officers swarmed in, a female officer spotting Caitlyn’s bleeding hand. “You’re safe now, Captain; you must be the sheriff who saved him. Your hand—I’m calling an ambulance,” she said, pressing her PTT. “Dispatch, Holly Lane Apartments, request emergency medical assistance, over.”
Caitlyn, her ocean-blue eyes fierce, shook her head. “I need to assist my teammates,” she said, sprinting toward Hast’s building, ignoring the officer’s protest, “Sheriff, your hand’s bleeding!”

Back in the hallway, Wang signaled a SWAT teammate to prepare a flashbang, while the K9 handler gripped a Belgian Malinois, its barks echoing. Wang barked, “Come out now, Hast, or we release the dog!” No response came, only silence from the barricaded apartment. Wang gestured, and the teammate lobbed the flashbang—BANG—its blinding light and deafening blast erupting inside. He had dropped his handgun to cover his ears, but the Malinois flew through the door’s hole, sinking teeth into his leg. Wang’s SWAT team rammed the door, splintering the furniture barricade, as Unit 42 followed.

The K9 handler vaulted over debris noticing Hast reach for his handgun, shouting, “Don’t you dare touch my dog!” Vi, her jiu-jitsu precision sharp, leapt through the kitchen, executing a foot sweep that dropped Hast to the ground. Then pinned him with an armbar, twisting his right arm to the breaking point. “Come on, guys, cuff him now!” she barked, kicking his handgun toward Steb to secure it, body camera capturing the chaos. Hast screamed, “Ahhh, my arm!” as Vi dislocated his shoulder, the Malinois still clamped on his leg. SWAT members swiftly handcuffed him, his cries muffled by pain.

At 4:35 p.m.

In the smoky, dimly lit third-floor apartment on Goodnow Road, the County Sheriff’s SWAT team hoisted Hast to his feet as his hands and his bloodied legs were double-cuffed.

As SWAT secured Hast, the K9 handler barked a release command, “Mango, let go!” The Malinois, Mango, instantly released Hast’s leg, turning to her handler with a happy wag, eyes bright. The handler in full tactical gear, bent down to pat Mango’s head and rub her chin. “Who’s the good girl? You, Mango!” he said while smiling, reaching into his duty belt’s treat bag and tossing a dog toy. Mango pounced on it, tail wagging furiously, playing in the corner of the chaotic room. Wang gripped Hast to ensure compliance, gesturing to Unit 42 to sweep the apartment for threats. Vi nodded, gripping her AR-15 upright as she stepped through the half-closed door with Steb and Loris behind her.

Inside, the cramped bedroom revealed Hast’s sniper setup: a Sako 90 hunting rifle with a makeshift silencer and bipod on a table by the window, .308 caliber rounds scattered, aimed at the SEAL captain’s apartment across the street.
Vi’s gaze landed on a young man—naked, wrists cuffed with stolen handcuffs, legs, eyes, and mouth bound with duct tape, dried white liquid staining his face. Her heart sank as her empathy surged, amplified by Mango’s heroic role. She gestured to Steb, “Medical scissors, now.” Steb grabbed the scissors from his duty vest’s first aid kit, cutting the duct tape off the man’s legs, while Vi gently unlocked the handcuffs. Loris grabbed a blanket from a closet, wrapping it around the shivering man, and handed him clothes. “Kid, it’s too cold outside—wear this, or you’ll catch a cold. We’re taking you to the Sheriff’s Office for a statement about what happened,” Loris said, his voice warm and fatherly.

The young man, trembling, broke into sobs on Vi’s shoulder. “He—he cuffed me, forced me to… then slammed my head against the counter. I felt something hard… penetrate—” His voice cracked, tears streaming.
Vi patted his back softly. “It’s okay, the sheriffs are here. You’re safe. Tell us later at the Sheriff’s Office. Hospital first, okay?” She pressed her PTT, reporting, “Central, Unit 42, Bretschneider. Request ambulance at Holly Lane Apartments for civilian victim, possible assault injuries, over.” Steb and Loris then began to help the man dress, as BPD officers outside secured the scene, helicopters buzzing.

At 4:40 p.m,
The Sheriff’s SWAT team then began to escort the cuffed Timothy Hast as they walked to the hallway while following unit 42 to escort the civilian out. Wang, in full body armor hoisted Hast alongside four SWAT members, their AR-15 rifles strap slung on their body . Unit 42 led the way, escorting the traumatized homeowner, now dressed and wrapped in a blanket, his wrists freed from cuffs.

Wang pressed his PTT reporting, “Central, SWAT, Hast detained, injuries sustained, requesting ambulance to Holly Lane Apartments, over.” The dispatcher replied, “10-4, ambulance ETA five minutes, over.”
Vi looked up, spotting Caitlyn in the hallway
hiding her bloodied hand behind her back from a .308 caliber graze. Vi rushed to her, heart pounding, gently pulling her injured arm. “Cait, you’re safe! Your hand—the cut’s deep. Come to the hospital with us,” she urged, her voice softened as she held Caitlyn’s hand.
“Sure—” Caitlyn replied softly but when she turned, she saw Hast who was cuffed and limping, sneering at her. “Look at this bitch ruining my plans. What the fuck are you looking at? Wanna beat me, huh? Bet your pussy ass won’t dare with the bodycam rolling, hahaha,” he taunted, spitting at her.

Caitlyn’s eyes blazed as she snapped. She signaled Vi, whispering, “Hand me your AR-15.” Vi hesitated, brows furrowed. “Um, Cait, what do you want?”
Caitlyn grabbed the rifle, gesturing silently to Vi, Steb, Loris, and the rest to turn off their body cameras. They complied, the red lights blinking off. With no cameras recording, Caitlyn lifted the AR-15’s buttstock and slammed it into Hast’s head with full force, her anger-fueled strike knocking him out cold, his body slumping in SWAT’s grip. “Who said I won’t fucking dare, criminal?” she growled.

SWAT members then exchanged glances. “See something, May?” one muttered. “Absolutely not, Kelly,” May replied, smirking. Another whispered, “He’s gonna have fun in the Sheriff’s Office interrogation room. Our investigators’ bad cop play ain’t gentle.”
Wang gave Caitlyn a side-eye, his voice firm but approving. “No need to be violent, Kiramman, but he deserves it. Good job finding his location.” He gestured the team down the staircase, Unit 42 and the homeowner following, BPD officers securing the snowy lot below, helicopters buzzing.

Reporter Jessica Harper stands in the snowy dusk, several yards from the Holly Lane Apartments parking lot, where BPD and Sheriff’s Office vehicles flash red and blue lights, helicopters buzzing overhead. The FOX News camera pans across the tense scene, yellow “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape fluttering, as the reporter gestures toward the building’s entrance.
“Good evening, Baltimore, this is Jessica Harper with FOX News, reporting live from Holly Lane Apartments on Goodnow Road, where a dramatic manhunt has just culminated in the capture of Timothy Hast, the fugitive ex-Navy SEAL wanted for grand auto theft, illegal firearm possession, and assaulting a sheriff during his escape from the Eastside District courthouse yesterday. Moments ago, Baltimore County Sheriff’s SWAT team, led by Sergeant Wang, emerged from the building, escorting a handcuffed and leg-cuffed Hast, who appears unconscious—likely from the intense confrontation inside.”
The camera zooms to the apartment building’s entrance, capturing five SWAT members in heavy body armor—plate carriers, shoulder pads, tactical helmets—hoisting Hast, his blonde-dyed hair and scruffy beard limp, his body slumped as they move him toward a waiting ambulance. Sergeant Wang, gripping Hast’s arm, directs the team, his authoritative presence clear. The camera shifts, zooming in on a green-and-white Sheriff’s Ford Explorer Interceptor (plate: XM8055) in the parking lot, its stolen status evident from a peeled-off fake plate (PL8620).
“The ambulance is now taking Hast, who sources say sustained injuries during his capture, to a hospital for evaluation. That vehicle you see—the Sheriff’s Interceptor—was stolen by Hast during his escape and recovered here, thanks to sharp work by Sheriff’s deputies. We’re told Hast was targeting his former SEAL captain in a possible sniper assassination plot, thwarted by a joint BPD and Sheriff’s Office operation, with helicopters and dozens of patrol units flooding the area.”
The camera pans to BPD officers securing the lot, then back to Harper. “This is a developing story in a city grappling with 1,452 violent crimes per 100,000 residents. We’ll bring you updates as they come. Stay safe, Baltimore, and back to the studio.”
The feed lingers on the ambulance pulling away, SWAT members standing firm, as snow falls, helicopters circling above.

At 7:00 p.m,

In the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office in Towson, the fluorescent-lit hallway outside the interrogation room buzzed with tension. Deputies Steb and Loris stood guard. Inside, Lead Investigator Montgomery emerged, shaking his head, his suit rumpled from hours of questioning Hast. “This guy refuses to talk,” Montgomery said, frustration evident. “Ever since he was brought back from the hospital by five SWAT members, good cop tactics don’t work. We need the hard way.”
Caitlyn stood nearby, her lean frame clad in a borrowed SWAT green tactical uniform—plate carrier, balaclava mask, and sunglasses concealing her identity—ocean-blue eyes blazing with fury. Her bloodied hand, bandaged from a .308 caliber graze, gripped a retractable baton, its snap echoing. Vi matched her in identical SWAT gear, grey eyes burning as she held a taser. “This guy’s beyond disgusting,” Caitlyn seethed. “He admitted to stroking himself while scoping me? I’m gonna beat the fuck out of him.”
Vi nodded, her voice drawn fierce. “Just keep a baseline, Cait. We stop when he talks, right?”
Caitlyn glanced at her, voice firm. “Right, boot.” Turning to Steb and Loris, she ordered, “No matter how loud he screams, don’t open the door until I say so, understand?”
“Yes, madam!” Steb and Loris barked in unison, their eyes tracking Caitlyn and Vi as they swung open the interrogation room door and stormed in.

Inside, Hast’s blonde-dyed hair matted as he sat cuffed to a chair, his dislocated arm and bitten leg bandaged. “Hey, fucker, she’s my fucking wife!” Vi roared, slamming his head against the wall with a thud. Caitlyn swung her baton, striking his torso repeatedly, each hit a crack of rage. Hast hissed, “I’m not talking shit, fuck you cops!” but screamed as Vi activated her taser, electric jolts convulsing him.

Steb and Loris peeked through the door’s window, watching Hast’s head bloody under Caitlyn and Vi’s blows. “Not that I agree with violence,” Steb muttered, his voice low, “but that’s what he deserves before he’s locked up forever.”
Loris nodded, his beard twitching. “Yeah, he earned this.”

Inside, Hast defiant despite the pain, lunging forward, headbutting Vi’s face. Vi recoiled, wincing, a bruise forming on her cheek and nose began to bleed “Fucker!” Caitlyn roared, yanking him back by his collar and slamming her baton across his head, the crack echoing, blood trickling from his temple. “Don’t you dare touch her!”

By 8:45 p.m., the interrogation room was a wreck—chair toppled, papers strewn, the air heavy with tension. Hast curled on the floor, groaning, blood dripping from his head, his crotch bruised from Caitlyn and Vi’s relentless kicks. “What’s your badge number, assholes?” he hissed, voice weak but venomous. “I’ll report you for torturing a suspect!”
Caitlyn loomed over him, baton raised “It's 911” her discipline shattered by rage over Hast’s crimes and his perverse fixation on her. “Talk, you piece of shit! Why the assassination? Since when did you plan this? And what’s with the note CID found about blowing up BPD headquarters and the Sheriff’s Office with an IED?”

Vi wiped blood from her lip and tased him again, sparks crackling. “Answer her!” Hast screamed, convulsing, but refused to speak, his anti-social defiance unyielding.
Outside, Steb muttered to Loris, “He’s not breaking, but he deserves every hit.” Loris nodded, his beard twitching. “Yeah, for what he did to that kid and Cait.”

At 8:50 p.m.

Inside Caitlyn then ripped off her sunglasses, revealing ice-cold ocean-blue eyes glaring down at Hast. “Still not talking? Fine have this” she snarled, yanking an OC spray canister from her duty belt and blasting it directly into his face.
Hast screamed, his eyes burning from the pepper spray, writhing in agony. Caitlyn bent down, her voice venomous. “Still don’t wanna talk despite all this pain? Playing a cool, resilient SEAL sniper? I’ll make you talk. Vi, unlock the chain pinning him to the floor. I’m gonna ‘wash him up’!” She barked the order, signaling Steb and Loris who were standing guard outside, to stop watching and open the door.
The door swung open, and Caitlyn and Vi then dragged Hast’s cuffed, stumbling form toward the nearby disabled-access restroom as Vi secured his arms. While Steb and Loris followed, their body cameras were off as per Caitlyn’s earlier order, ensuring no record of the escalating interrogation. “Follow me in case he tries to escape again,” Caitlyn ordered, her calm replaced by fury over Hast’s crimes and his taunt about targeting her.

In the tiled and sterile restroom with its door open, Steb and Loris stood guard outside as Caitlyn shoved Hast’s face into the toilet bowl, water splashing as she flushed the toilet while Vi is securing his neck with a firm grip. Steb glanced at Loris, muttering, “We shouldn’t piss off Cait or Vi. Look how scary they are when furious.”
Loris nodded, his beard twitching. “No kidding.”

A moment later, the interrogation morphed into a brutal “Watergate trial.” Caitlyn forced a balaclava backward over Hast’s head, covering his face, and grabbed a water hose, spraying his face with a high-pressure jet, water seeping through the fabric, mixing with blood and OC spray residue. Hast gasped, choking, his defiance crumbling but still refusing to reveal anything. Caitlyn’s rage, fueled by his perverse fixation on her, and Vi’s protective anger. Till at 9:00 p.m., Hast choked violently as he gasped for air under the soaked balaclava covering his face, the high-pressure water hose spraying relentlessly as Caitlyn stood over him while Vi secured Hast’s neck. Hast’s blonde-dyed hair was matted with blood and water, “I’ll tell you everything, Sheriff, please stop! I can’t breathe!” Hast suddenly screamed, his voice desperate, breaking under the intense physical pressure.

Caitlyn lowered the hose, striding to the faucet to shut it off, her movements sharp. She yanked the balaclava above his nose, letting him gasp for air. Vi pulled him upright from the toilet bowl, water pouring from his mouth as he coughed violently. Caitlyn grabbed his swollen face, her fingers turning white, hissing, “See, Hast, if you’d been cooperative hours ago, you wouldn’t be suffering. Now get your ass up and walk back to the interrogation room. Play tricks again, and I’ll do this all day and night, understand?” Her voice was a venomous bark, her discipline consumed by rage over Hast’s crimes.

Hast, trembling, muttered, “I can’t walk, Sheriff,” his leg and battered body failing.
Caitlyn kicked his leg, her voice cold. “I don’t care, get up.” She and Vi hoisted his limp form, dragging him back to the interrogation room, Steb and Loris following them through the hallway reeked of wet blood and tension.

In the interrogation room, Caitlyn signaled Lead Investigator Montgomery and Investigator Welsh, waiting nearby. “He’s ready to talk,” she said, lifting Hast’s swollen, bloodied face. “After you get what we need, take him to the hospital to check his condition.” She shoved Hast into a chair, his groans muffled, as Vi stood back, her taser still clipped to her belt.
Montgomery and Welsh nodded, entering the room to begin the long interrogation, aiming to extract details on Hast’s assassination plan and the IED note targeting BPD headquarters and the Sheriff’s Office.

At 1:00 a.m.
In the dimly lit interrogation wing of the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office in Towson, the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows as Lead Investigator Montgomery emerged from the interrogation room, his suit creased from hours of questioning Hast. As Sergeant Wang, still in his SWAT tactical uniform and duty belt stepped out of the observation room, his face grim but satisfied. Montgomery nodded to Wang, his voice steady but weary. “We got everything. He has admitted he did this because he doesn’t want to live anymore but is scared of dying alone, so he planned all this to drag everyone he hates down with him. Started plotting in early 2011—stalked his SEAL captain to confirm his address and schedule, scoped the Eastside District courthouse for minimal law enforcement presence. He broke into that barely 18-year-old homeowner, Elliot Hunter’s, apartment, admitting he sexually assaulted and raped him because he found him ‘cute.’ Then, when he saw Deputy Kiramman in the parking lot, he confessed to masturbating while scoping her hips, planning to stalk and assault her tonight. His endgame? Build a car bomb while wear a bomb vest to drive into BPD headquarters on Boxing Day. Guy’s got anti-social personality disorder, narcissistic disorder, and many more —says pain makes him feel alive, only complies under extreme violence like Cait and Vi delivered. Good cop, bad cop, nothing else worked. I’m off to write my report.”

At 1:15 a.m.

In the fluorescent-lit pantry of the Sheriff’s Office, Caitlyn stood rehydrating, balaclava removed, revealing her long blue hair in a messy bun, ocean-blue eyes calm but weary as she stretched her bloodied knuckles. Her bandaged hand ached from her violent interrogation tactics. Vi’s eyes were soft, noticed Caitlyn’s stretching, and approached. Gently grasping Caitlyn’s injured hand, Vi said, “Let me see your hand, Cait”

Caitlyn tried to pull away, wincing. “Nothing, Vi. No need to worry about me” But Vi's hands were gentle, removed Caitlyn’s tactical glove, revealing the blood-soaked bandage. “Let’s sit on the couch. I’m changing your gauze.” She headed to their new Interceptor to grab the first aid kit.

Minutes later, Vi returned, hands gloved, clutching the kit. She sat Caitlyn on the couch, carefully peeling off the soaked gauze, Caitlyn yelping as pain flared. For a moment, Vi’s tender care morphs into her sister, Pow, who bandaged her cuts during her past episodes, a memory softening her heart. Vi cleaned the wound with cotton balls, her touch steady, as Caitlyn glanced down, voice low. “Will you change your opinion of me because I lost it on Hast, Vi?”
Vi smiled, wrapping fresh gauze around Caitlyn’s hand. “Why would I, Cait? You’re obviously the kind of sheriff with a bad temper, and you’re for sure going to play bad cop when good cop fails.” Caitlyn rolled her eyes internally. “Really, Vi?”
Vi grinned, voice sincere. “But no matter what, you’re the woman I love—since high school, the one I’ll never let go, my future wife. You stand up for people, even sacrifice yourself, but sometimes you go too far, doing questionable shit. God, I wanna kiss you, but I’m so tired I could pass out here. I believe in you, Cait, always.”
Caitlyn’s brows furrowed, exhaling heavily, gripping Vi’s hand. “Next time, I’ll control myself, Vi. But first, let’s catch some sleep. I’m exhausted.”
They shed their plate carriers, placing them on the floor, and sank onto the couch, bodies close, eyes slowly closing,

A few minutes later, Caitlyn and Vi sprawled across a worn couch, Caitlyn’s six-foot frame overflowed the small couch, her long legs dangling over the edge, her blue hair a messy cascade, ocean-blue eyes closed in exhaustion. Vi curled up on a couch next to her, red mullet disheveled with a gelled strand falling across her face, grey eyes shut, their engagement rings glinting faintly. The grueling day had drained them.

Then Sergeant Wang strode in, his voice sharp but warm. “Hey, Punishers, time to wake up!”
Caitlyn and Vi jolted awake, Vi’s voice sleepy as she brushed the stray hair from her face. “Good evening, Sir! What’s going on? Can’t sleep here?”
Wang chuckled, his authoritative edge softening. “You can always sleep after the night shift work’s done. I'm just here to tell you, Deputy Bretschneider, your shift tomorrow switches to nights—Deputy Nolen agreed to swap. You’ve been working 20 hours today and I don’t want my deputies dropping dead from overwork. You two live together, right? In a relationship? Go catch more rest before driving home.”
Vi sat upright, eyes wide and sincere, her voice tentative. “Sarge, will Cait and I get in trouble for our bad cop play?”

Wang shot them a side-eye, his tone measured. “Some things in the Sheriff’s Office stay quiet. I only reinstalled the interrogation room’s surveillance SD card when Hast complied. You’re fine, but draw a baseline—don’t do violence outside or with bodycams rolling, or I can’t explain it to Sheriff Grayson. You two saved Baltimore City and County, though—good work.”
Caitlyn and Vi exhaled in relief, their bond steady, sinking back onto the couch to sleep. Wang turned to finish his reports, handing off to Sergeant Holbrok, the night shift watch commander. But before Sergeant Wang left, he turned back. “Before I go, you two remember to write a report about today—minus the violence part. Need it by Friday,” he said, his voice firm.
Caitlyn and Vi facepalmed, muttering in unison as they collapsed onto their couch. “Ahhh this is gonna be a long one to write.”

Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Incident Report
Report Number: TCSO-2013-1225-017
Date and Time: December 25, 2013, 6:00 a.m.–December 26, 2013, 1:00 a.m.
Location: Maya Way, Rossville; Holly Lane Apartments, Goodnow Road, Baltimore City, MD
Reporting Officers: Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104, Unit 37, 1219 T.O), Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219, Unit 37, Rookie)
Assisting Officers: Deputy Stephen Anders (Badge 0092, Unit 42), Deputy Loris Carter (Badge 0081, Unit 42, rookie), Deputy Maddie Nolen (Badge 0076), Sergeant Wang (SWAT T.L), SWAT Team (K9 Handler Clark, Hauser, May, Kelly), BPD Units
Suspect: Timothy Hast, Male, Age 35 (DOB: 03/17/1978, ID Confirmed)
Charges (Suspect):
1. Grand Auto Theft – Maryland Criminal Law § 7-104
2. Illegal Possession of a Firearm (Parole Violation) – Maryland Criminal Law § 5-133
3. Assault on a Sheriff – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-203
4. Sexual Assault and Rape – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-303, § 3-304
5. Attempted Murder – Maryland Criminal Law § 2-205
6. Possession of Explosive Devices (IED Intent) – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-1101
Victim: Elliot Hunter, Male, Age 18 (Sexual Assault); Navy SEAL Captain Kyle Hartley Age ~50 (Attempted Murder); Sheriff Deputy Jordan Richard (Assault, December 24)
Incident Summary:
On December 25, 2013, at 6:00 a.m., a BOLO was issued for Timothy Hast, an ex-Navy SEAL fugitive who escaped custody during a transfer from the Eastside District courthouse to the Baltimore County corrections center on December 24, 2013, at 2:00 p.m., after assaulting a sheriff deputy. Unit 42 (Bretschneider, Anders, Carter) investigated Hast’s mother’s residence in Rossville, recovered surveillance evidence, and later located the stolen Sheriff’s Interceptor (plate: XM8055) at Holly Lane Apartments, Baltimore City. Hast, hiding in an apartment, fired on a Navy SEAL captain Hartley and Deputy Kiramman, who evacuated the captain. SWAT, led by Sergeant Wang, and Unit 42 breached Hast’s hideout, using a K9 and flashbang to subdue him, rescuing a civilian victim (Hunter). Hast was detained and confessed to multiple crimes, including a planned IED attack, after interrogation by Investigators Montgomery and Welsh.
Details of Incident:
• Initial Investigation (6:00–7:10 a.m., Rossville): At 6:00 a.m., Sergeant Wang briefed deputies on Hast’s BOLO (white male, 5’10”, blue eyes, blonde-dyed hair, grey goatee, forearm and neck tattoos), noting his escape via jiu-jitsu assault and theft of a Sheriff’s Interceptor (XM8055). Unit 42 (Bretschneider, Anders, Carter) visited Mrs. Hast’s residence, Maya Way, Rossville, interviewing her and her helper, Rebecca. Mrs. Hast confirmed no contact since Hast was 15; Rebecca provided a surveillance SD card, bagged as evidence by Bretschneider. No sign of Hast was found, reported via encrypted PTT (6:40 a.m.).
• Tracking and Evidence (7:00–7:10 a.m., Frankford Avenue): Dispatcher tracked XM8055’s GPS to Frankford Avenue, but Unit 42 found it planted on a BPD Interceptor (AN6953). Bretschneider recovered the GPS, bagged it, and obtained BPD dash cam SD cards, reported via PTT (7:10 a.m., [Image: GPS_Evidence.jpg]).
• Holly Lane Operation (4:00–4:35 p.m.): Deputy Kiramman, on administrative leave, deduced Hast’s sniper plot against his former SEAL captain at Holly Lane Apartments, Goodnow Road, alerting BPD CID (Lt. Cassandra Kiramman) and Unit 42 via group chat (4:15 p.m., [Image: Interceptor_XM8055.jpg]). Kiramman entered Captain Hartley’s apartment, identifying Hast’s position via the mirror reflection of muzzle flash (.308 caliber, Sako 90 rifle). Hast fired, grazing Kiramman’s hand, pinning her and the captain (4:27 p.m.). Unit 42 (Bretschneider, Anders, Carter) located XM8055 with a fake plate (PL8620), reported by Bretschneider (4:22 p.m.). SWAT, led by Wang, deployed a BearCat and K9 unit. Unit 42 advanced to the third-floor hideout, Carter with a shield, Bretschneider, and Anders with AR-15s. Hast threw Molotov cocktails, extinguished by Anders. SWAT’s flashbang and K9 (Belgian Malinois, “Mango”) disoriented Hast, Bretschneider’s armbar, and K9 bite subduing him (4:32 p.m.). Civilian Elliot Hunter, 18, was found bound, sexually assaulted, and rescued.
• Interrogation (7:00 p.m.–1:00 a.m., December 26): Hast, treated for injuries (dislocated arm, leg bite), was interrogated by Investigators Montgomery and Welsh. He confessed to: stalking the captain (2011), sexually assaulting Hunter, targeting Kiramman for assault, and planning an IED attack on BPD headquarters (Boxing Day). Motives included anti-authority resentment and suicidal attack intent, per the BPD CID profile.
Use of Force Justification:
Hast’s sniper fire (.308 caliber) posed an immediate threat to the captain and Kiramman, justifying SWAT’s flashbang and K9 deployment, per Maryland § 3-202. Bretschneider’s armbar and K9 bite were non-lethal, aligning with MPTC policy. Anders extinguished incendiary threats, Carter’s shield ensuring safety. Body cameras (December 16 mandate) captured actions, mitigating scrutiny.
Disposition:
Hast detained, awaiting formal charges, including terrorism (§ 3-1101). Sako 90 rifle, Molotov fragments, a stolen radio, and an IED note were submitted to CID. Hunter received a medical evaluation; the captain was unharmed. Kiramman and Bretschneider to receive medical checks for injuries (hand graze, facial bruise). Body camera footage, SD cards, and GPS were submitted to CID. Debrief scheduled to assess K9 and SWAT efficacy.
Officer Observations:
Deputy Kiramman (Badge 0104) demonstrated leadership, deducing Hast’s location and evacuating the captain despite injury. Deputy Bretschneider (Badge 1219) executed precise force (jiu-jitsu), recovering key evidence (GPS, Interceptor). Deputies Anders and Carter (Unit 42) provided tactical support, Anders managing incendiaries, Carter shielding. Deputy Nolen assisted with traffic control. SWAT and K9 handler (Mango) neutralized Hast. BPD coordination (CID, Lt. Kiramman) was critical. Body cameras ensured transparency post-December 15 lawsuit.
Signed:
Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104)
Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219)
December 26, 2013

At 3:30 a.m., Caitlyn and Vi collapsed onto their bed in their cozy apartment in Locust Point after they quickly finished their report. As they were exhausted from the grueling day.

By 1:00 p.m., Boxing Day
The couple stirred from deep sleep, the apartment bathed in soft daylight. Caitlyn, her tall frame tangled in sheets, long blue hair a mess, ocean-blue eyes blinking awake, lay on Vi’s arm, her body tense with a morning erection, her downstairs throbbing uncontrollably. Her engagement ring glinted as she thrust her hips forward, trying to ease the arousal pain, her face flushing red.
Vi, her muscular frame warm in a t-shirt and pajama shorts, red mullet loose, grey eyes soft, noticed Caitlyn’s blush. She leaned in, kissing her lips gently, her hand slipping down to ease Caitlyn’s pants off, fingers gently rubbing and stroking the swollen, erect clit. “You naughty girl,” Vi teased, her tone playful as she kissed Caitlyn’s neck. “Haven’t seen me in the morning for a day, and you’re already wanting to fuck.”
Caitlyn gasped heavily, her voice strained. “Listen, I’ve got my reasons. My downstairs is always half-erect when I wake up, except during my cycle.”
Vi grinned, kissing her lips passionately, her hand continuing its gentle strokes. “More than half, Cait. I can feel it swelling, pointing up, and it’s soaked.”

Caitlyn gasped heavily, her voice breathy. “I dreamt you were giving me head when we were taking a shower, Vi. I could almost feel your tongue and mouth sucking, licking my downstairs. It was so good—I woke up this aroused.”
Vi licked her lips, her tone sultry. “Let me help you.” She slid down, gently placing her hand on Caitlyn’s bush, her mouth closing around the erect clit, sucking and licking with skillful precision, honed by their intimate bond. Caitlyn’s eyes fluttered shut, mouth half-open, a soft moan escaping as she guided Vi’s head with her hand, fingers threading through her hair.

Awhile later
Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes half-closed with pleasure, thrust her hips, her thick erection pulsing as Vi rode her backward, grey eyes hazy with arousal.
Vi moaned as she rubbed her own clit, each of Caitlyn’s thrusts intensifying her pleasure. “Ah, Cait, your thing’s so big, thick—fuck me harder,” she gasped, her voice drawl thick with need. Caitlyn’s bandaged hand, gently rubbed Vi’s nipple, amplifying stimulation as her own clit throbbed intensely.

Reaching the bedside table, Caitlyn opened the drawer, pulling out a butt plug. She signaled Vi to pause, her fingers sliding into Vi’s soaked vagina, using the slickness to lubricate the plug before gently inserting it into Vi’s back door. Vi moaned loudly, the sensation overwhelming, her body trembling.
Caitlyn grabbed a strap-on from the drawer, securing it over her erection, and spanked Vi’s firm ass, signaling her to continue. Vi complied, guiding the strap-on’s tip inside her, resuming her rhythm, the bed creaking under their movement. Caitlyn, pulling the butt plug in and out, whispered, her voice husky, “You like it double, huh? Feels so good, doesn’t it? Be a good girl and ride this cock till I come.” she then spanked her firm ass again as she rocked her head backward.

Cait and Vi were entwined in fervent intimacy, their bodies slick with sweat, sheets tangled around them. The snowy harbor glowed outside, a quiet contrast to their passion. Caitlyn’s eyes burning with desire, knelt behind Vi, lifting one of her legs to deliver strong, deep thrusts with the strap-on, her thick erection pulsing beneath. Her bandaged hand steadied Vi’s waist. Vi’s eyes glazed, moaned loudly, her body rocking with each thrust, butt plug intensifying the sensation, her own clit throbbing as she rubbed it.

Vi, overwhelmed, gasped as she bit her hand “Cait—” and came hands-free, her waist shaking violently as she collapsed onto the bed, her moans echoing. Caitlyn, noticing Vi’s trembling release, grinned, her voice husky. “So cute, you came hands-free while I fucked you? I’m getting there—hold on.” She adjusted, lying atop Vi, her thrusts quick and deep, pushing into Vi’s raised hips. Vi’s loud moans filled the room, the bed creaking wildly. Caitlyn’s waist shook as she reached her climax, gasping, “Oh fuck, I’m coming—ahh!” She collapsed onto Vi, their bodies pressed together, breathless.
In the quiet aftermath, Caitlyn gently pulled out the strap-on and butt plug, kissing Vi’s neck from behind, her lips soft. She spanked Vi’s firm ass playfully. “Come on, Vi, let’s take a shower together.”

At 2:00 p.m,
In the steamy shower room. Caitlyn and Vi stood under the warm water, their bodies close, the snowy harbor glowing outside. Caitlyn’s long blue hair was wet and clinging, ocean-blue eyes soft, lathered shampoo over Vi’s muscular frame, her red mullet slicked down, grey eyes playful. Vi returned the favor, her hands gliding over Caitlyn’s skin, pausing as she noticed Caitlyn’s prolonged erection—thick, long, and pointing upward as it was throbbing slowly as it began to soften.

Vi teased as she gently tapped Caitlyn’s clit. “Weird question, but do you know the exact length of your thing downstairs? It looks big even when it's soft, and I felt you inside me—so long and thick when fully erect.”
Caitlyn raised her brows, caught off-guard, her bandaged hand dripping water. “I only know it’s long enough to do penetration sex or even using the flashlight toy to masturbate but I—I never measured it before,” she stammered, a shy grin forming. “But since it’s not fully soft yet, I’ll grab a ruler.”

They stepped out, water trailing across the floor, and moved to the living room, the apartment bathed in daylight. Caitlyn, still glistening, stood holding her semi-erect clit with one hand, her injured hand awkwardly clutching a ruler, the scene both intimate and faintly erotic. She measured carefully, her voice a mix of surprise and amusement. “Okay, I never thought my downstairs was this big—three inches when it’s semi-erect, possibly longer when it’s fully erect.”
Vi smiled, raising her eyebrows, her grey eyes twinkling. “Told you it felt huge. But longer? Hot” Vi said she teased it as gently rubbing the head of Caitlyn’s clit with her fingers, signaling to continue their shower.

“Don’t rub it so hard, unless you want me hard again,” Caitlyn said, pretending to protest, her voice light but her body betraying enjoyment, a flush creeping up her cheeks.
Vi smirked, biting her lip, her fingers lingering as she playfully stroking it. “Not that I mind seeing this pretty much looks like an uncircumcised long dick—getting bigger again. I like it mouthful when I suck.” She shrugged, her tease dripping with mischief.
Caitlyn smacked Vi’s back playfully, her ocean-blue eyes sparkling. “Goddamn it, Vi, I wanna go out and date you before your night shift starts, not worry about people seeing a tent!”

At 2:30 p.m.

In the snowy streets of Baltimore City, Caitlyn and Vi walked arm-in-arm toward a nearby restaurant, their breath visible in the chilly air. Cait clad in a jacket and jeans, eyes thoughtful as she wrapped her hands around Vi’s arm, her bandaged hand tucked gently. Vi clad in a hoodie and jeans, red mullet peeking out, grey eyes warm, leaned into Caitlyn.

Vi sighed, her voice soft. “I feel like I'm the worst person to date, Cait. I can’t think of memorable places to go besides sitting on a bench watching boats in the harbor, but that’s torture in winter. Since becoming a sheriff, my dream day off is just sleeping.”
Cait chuckled “Every day’s a date with you, Vi. You don’t need to plan every time. I’d love to just watch a movie on our sofa. Maybe we should get a dog. They’re loyal, protective, and perfect for snuggling. But who’d care for it with our 12-hour shifts that often turn into 13–14 hours?”
Vi raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Cats are better, Cait. They’re independent, low-maintenance, and cute little brats. They barely need you, and those little paws? Adorable.”
Caitlyn shook her head, doubling down. “Dogs are better—think walks, fetching balls.”
“Cats!” Vi shot back, smirking. “They rule the house, and you know it.”
They repeated, “Dogs!” “Cats!” laughing until Caitlyn broke the cycle. “Maybe we get both.”
Vi rubbed her temple, exasperated. “And who’s walking the dog, cleaning the litter box, feeding them, Cait?”
Caitlyn exhaled, determined. “I’ll make it work. I’ve always wanted a dog and a cat sleeping with me.”
Vi pouted playfully. “What about me?”
Caitlyn grinned, kissing Vi’s cheek gently. “With you too, of course.”
Their playful debate carried them to the restaurant.

At 3:00 p.m,
In the bustling, snowy streets of Baltimore City, Caitlyn and Vi strolled hand-in-hand, their cheeks rosy from the crisp winter air and their breaths curling in frosty clouds. After a hearty lunch at a cozy nearby restaurant, a sense of warmth lingered between them, contrasting with the chill that blanketed the city.

Vi's eyes sparkled with mischief as she caught sight of a towering pile of fresh, untouched snow on the sidewalk. A grin spread across her face as she bent down, scooping a handful and expertly packing it into a compact snowball. With a playful catcall, she exclaimed, “Hey, girl, I think you dropped something!” Caitlyn turned, her eyebrows arched in confusion as she glanced at the ground. “What—” Before she could finish her question, a fluffy snowball smacked her squarely in the face, a flurry of snowflakes cascading down to dust her dark hair. She yelped in surprise, laughter bubbling up as she quickly scooped up a small snowball of her own.

“Not fair, Vi!” she protested, her voice a mix of playful exasperation and mock indignation as snowballs zipped past her. Vi, ever the quick-witted instigator, unleashed a rapid-fire barrage, each snowball landing with a soft thud against Caitlyn’s jacket. “I’ve got an injured arm and hand!” Caitlyn added, breathless and laughing, her voice drawl thickening with each playful complaint.

As she bent to pack another snowball, she glanced up just in time to see Vi darting away, her laughter echoing in the cold winter air. “Come back here, Vi, goddamn it! I’ll have my revenge!” Caitlyn shouted, her competitive spirit ignited as she took off in pursuit, the two of them weaving through the snowy streets, leaving behind a trail of laughter and joy.

At 6:00 p.m., Monday, December 30, the day before New Year's Eve

A few days later, in the stark, fluorescent-lit briefing room of the County Sheriff’s Office, an air of anticipation lingered. Caitlyn sat next to Steb and Vi sat side by side with Loris, their crisp green deputy uniforms impeccably pressed, ready for the long night ahead. The muted hum of overhead lights set a rhythmic backdrop as they exchanged knowing glances, each aware of the weight the shift might bring.

Caitlyn's forearm and knuckles, marred with a fresh scar that formed a jagged line across her skin, told the story of a close encounter—a .308 caliber graze sustained during the recent standoff. It was a stark reminder of the dangers lurking just beyond the law.
The room buzzed with the voices of fellow deputies—Steb, Loris, and others—immersed in animated discussions. They shared stories about the perplexing Hast case, recounting their grueling patrols through the quiet streets. Conversations flitted from the grueling roadblocks on I-695 and I-95 to the triumphant recovery of the Sheriff’s Interceptor, each tale a testament to their commitment and the camaraderie forged in the line of duty. The flickering fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on their focused faces, illuminating both their determination and the uncertainty that awaited them on the roads.

The room fell silent as Sergeant Holbrok strode in, his usual stern demeanor softened by an unusual glint in his eye. Unlike his typical briefings, he immediately barked, “Kiramman and Bretschneider, stand up!” Caitlyn and Vi rose, Vi’s heart racing, silent as she braced for trouble—Holbrok’s stand-up orders rarely meant good news.
Holbrok’s voice carried a rare warmth. “I got a call from D.C. The President watched the live stream and SWAT bodycam footage from the Hast operation. He wants to decorate you two with the Medal of Honor. Kiramman, for your bravery in facing a potential terrorist, risking your life to save a Navy SEAL captain with only a handgun. Bretschneider, for your quick action in saving the K9 and your empathy for the civilian despite the risk of being shot touched his heart. Congratulations—without you, Baltimore could’ve been ground zero. Get your best uniforms ready for D.C.; the ceremony will be televised nationwide. With that said, let’s move to tonight’s assignments…”

Caitlyn and Vi shared a knowing look, their faces lighting up with gentle smiles. They felt a warm sense of pride bubbling up inside them, even though they were worn out from all the effort of capturing Hast, going through the interrogation, and getting the report written up.

At 6:30 p.m,
In the bustling main office, Vi radiated excitement, her muscular frame practically quivering like an eager puppy in her crisp deputy uniform, eyes sparkling with anticipation. The upcoming Medal of Valor ceremony in Washington, D.C. had her overflowing with joy as she turned to Caitlyn, who stood poised, her striking ocean-blue eyes cast into a resting expression of discipline that could rival the sternest of judges. She held a neatly stacked pile of reports detailing recent DUI incidents, speeding violations, and illegal parking offenses, ready to send off to the district attorney for court proceedings.

Vi playfully tapped Caitlyn’s arm, her enthusiasm infectious. “Oi, Cait, aren’t you thrilled we’re about to become decorated officers after D.C.?”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, her arms crossing effortlessly, the reports in her grip unwavering. “Boot, can’t you see I’m radiating happiness?” she replied with a dry tone, her discipline etched into her every syllable.

Vi leaned in closer, a puzzled expression knitting her brow as she tried to read any hint of emotion on Caitlyn’s impeccably tanned and symmetrical face—an exquisite blend of European and Asian features that was, undeniably, striking. She ran a hand through her gelled hair, frustration mingling with amusement. “No, Cait, I can’t. Your face looks exactly like this 😐 emoji.”

Caitlyn shot her a withering side-eye, all business. “Of course, you wouldn’t notice anything. The district attorneys are waiting for these files, and here you are, sharing your endless happiness instead of being useful. Get back to work now, boot.” With an assertive flourish, she slammed half the reports against Vi’s chest, skillfully removed her duty vest, tossed it onto her chair, then settled in with a determined focus, fingers dancing over her keyboard.

Vi huffed, a playful grin on her lips. “Cait, you’re such a workaholic,” she said, placing the files on her desk and shedding her own duty vest before sliding into her chair, ready to tackle the night ahead…

Chapter Text

At the stroke of midnight on January 1, 2014, an exhilarating energy pulsed through the air, igniting the wintry night.

In the frosty expanse of Miami Beach Park’s sandy shoreline, nestled in Baltimore County, a spirited group of university students, emboldened by the infectious joy of New Year’s Eve, stealthily bypassed the glaring 9 p.m. closure signs. Their laughter echoed in the stillness of the night as they eagerly counted down the final seconds.

“Three, two, one—Happy New Year!” They erupted into jubilant cheers, their voices blending with the vibrant crackling of beer cans being popped open, creating a symphony of celebration alongside the rhythmic murmur of waves lapping at the shore. A lone sheriff's patrol car, its blue and red lights shimmering in the dark, stood guard in the parking lot, a silent witness to the revelry.

Deputy Cait and her partner, Vi emerged from the vehicle, their crisp uniforms and heavy jackets contrasting sharply with the lively backdrop. As they illuminated the scene with their flashlights, the beams momentarily blinded the intoxicated revelers, cutting through the euphoria with the authority of their voices. “County Sheriff’s office! What are you folks doing out here at midnight? The beach closed at 9 PM!”

A wave of panic rippled through the crowd at the mention of arrest. In an instant, one young man, adrenaline coursing through his veins, bolted forward. Vi sprang into action despite her extra gear weighing her down, her heart racing as she dashed across the coarse, cool sand, each step sinking slightly beneath her boots. With remarkable agility, she tackled him to the ground. “Don’t resist!” she commanded, swiftly securing handcuffs around his wrists.

As she hauled him upright, Vi conducted a thorough body search, her fingers deftly navigating the fabric of his pants. When she retrieved his wallet, her eyes widened in surprise upon discovering his birth year—1994. “Harry, you’re only 19. Legally, you shouldn’t even be near that alcohol,” she stated, her tone both firm and edged with disbelief.

Turning her head, she called out to Cait, “Add an extra charge for underage drinking.”

While escorting Harry back, Vi casually probed, “So, who sold you these beers? Did you lift them from a store? Where’s the receipt?”

“I didn’t steal anything!” he retorted, panic lacing his voice like a tremor.

Just then, a girl being escorted by Cait chimed in, “Just cooperate, Harry. We actually took those from a nearby 7-Eleven when they refused to sell to us.” Cait offered a knowing smile, her gaze softening as she led the girl toward the back of the patrol car. “I appreciate your honesty,” she said, her voice steady, as Vi radioed in for backup. “Central, Unit 37, Bretschneider. Request additional patrol units to Miami Beach Park for multiple arrests—trespassing, underage drinking, and possible theft. Body cameras active, over.”

The dispatcher’s voice crackled through her earpiece: “10-4, Unit 37, units dispatched, ETA five minutes, over.” The festive atmosphere began to shift as the night’s revelry gave way to a sobering reality, preparing to transport the unfortunate youngsters back to the sheriff’s office.

At 12:30 a.m.

In the harsh, fluorescent glow of the processing area at the County Sheriff’s Office in Towson, a tense atmosphere enveloped the space. Deputies Caitlyn, Vi, Steb, and the seasoned Senior Deputy Leon Kennedy escorted four university students, their expressions reflecting a mix of anxiety and confusion. The room was alive with the rhythmic clink of metal as handcuffs were secured and the soft shuffle of feet against the cold, tiled floor echoed through the air. The walls, bare and uninviting, seemed to absorb the uncertainty that lingered within. The fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting unsteady shadows that danced eerily across the faces of the students as they tried to comprehend the gravity of their situation. Caitlyn’s eyes were sharp as she clutched the students’ ID cards. She mumbled, exasperation lacing her stern face, “First day of 2014, and I’m already wrangling these damn kids again. All underage—20, 19, 18, 17.”

Vi’s eyes were laser-focused, zeroed in on Harry, the 19-year-old with disheveled hair and a beer-soaked hoodie, reeking of alcohol. Her sheriff’s star badge glinted as she snapped on latex gloves to avoid contaminating evidence, her body camera capturing every move. Steb steadied, and Leon, his seasoned presence authoritative, searched the others, their hands methodical, body cameras rolling. The students, cuffed and jittery, stood against the wall, the air thick with the scent of beer and sand from the beach.

Vi stepped in front of Harry, his lanky frame swaying slightly, eyes glassy from alcohol. “Keep your hands behind your back,” she ordered, Her gloved hands began at his shoulders, patting down his damp hoodie, the fabric heavy with snow and spilled beer. She moved swiftly, fingers tracing his arms, chest, and back, checking seams and pockets for hidden items. A crumpled 7-Eleven receipt and a cheap plastic lighter and a pack of cigarettes slipped from his hoodie pocket, landing in her palm. Opened it, she found nothing but cigarettes. Vi’s grey eyes narrowed, dropping them into an evidence bag, scrawling “Subject 1: Harry, Items” on the label with a quick flick of her pen. No knives, no baggies—yet.
Her hands moved lower, patting his jeans, feeling the waistband, hips, and thighs for bulges. A faint lump in his right sneaker stopped her cold, her academy training screaming contraband. “Lift your right foot,” she said, crouching, her flashlight beam slicing through the dim room, casting stark shadows.

Harry hesitated, his sneakers scuffed with sand, then lifted his foot. Vi tugged off the shoe, shaking it, and a small plastic bag—2x3 inches, packed with a green, leafy substance—dropped to the linoleum, its skunky odor unmistakable. Marijuana, about 5 grams. Vi’s pulse quickened, a spark of triumph flashing through her. “Got something here,” she called, holding the bag up for her body camera, the lens catching the evidence in crisp focus. She sealed it in a separate bag, labeling it “Subject 1: Harry, Suspected Marijuana,” and shouted, “Cait, add possession of a controlled substance—marijuana!” She said as she grinned.

Harry’s face drained of color, his voice a shaky mumble. “I—I didn’t know it was there!” Vi cut him off, her drawl sharp. “Tell it to the judge.”
Caitlyn, flipping through the IDs, nodded, jotting “Possession, Maryland § 5-601, Harry, DOB 1994” on her notepad, her psychology training clocking his nervous deflection. Steb and Leon, wrapping up their searches—finding only beer cans and a fake ID on the 17-year-old—prepped the students for cell transfer. The 18-year-old girl, shivering in her cuffs, muttered about the 7-Eleven theft, her earlier confession hanging in the air. Caitlyn pressed her PTT, her voice crisp. “Central, Unit 37, Kiramman. Four subjects were detained for trespassing, underage drinking, and theft. Additional charge on Harry, DOB 1994, possession of marijuana, ~5 grams. Body cameras active, evidence bagged, over.”
“10-4, Unit 37, process and hold for court,” the dispatcher replied through her earpiece.

“Take them for mugshots,” she ordered, her discipline firm.

At 12:45 a.m,

The deputies led the students down a narrow hallway to the booking room, the air thick with the smell of antiseptic and stale beer. The mugshot station, a stark white backdrop with height markers, stood under a glaring light, a digital camera mounted on a tripod. Vi’s eyes alert, she escorted Harry first while holding the evidence firm. “Stand on the line, face forward,” she instructed to positioning him against the backdrop, his disheveled hair and flushed face betraying his nerves. Steb handled the 17-year-old, a lanky boy with a fake ID, while Leon, his seasoned authority radiating, guided the 20-year-old, whose hoodie reeked of sand and alcohol. Caitlyn oversaw the 18-year-old girl, her earlier confession about the 7-Eleven theft still fresh, her eyes darting nervously.

Vi adjusted the camera, its lens clicking as she snapped Harry’s front-facing shot, his expression a mix of defiance and dread. “Turn left,” she said, capturing his profile. Steb positioned the 17-year-old, his thin frame slouching as he faced the camera, the flash highlighting his acne-scarred cheeks. Leon, methodical, ensured the 20-year-old stood straight, his jaw clenched as the camera clicked, his side profile showing a faint bruise from stumbling on the beach. Caitlyn guided the girl, her ponytail askew, to the line, her voice calm but firm. “Look at the lens, no moving.” The girl’s eyes welled up as the flash fired, capturing her tear-streaked face, the height marker reading 5’4”. Each deputy logged the photos on a nearby computer, linking them to the case file.

As Caitlyn secured the heavy cell door for the young girl, the sharp clang reverberated through the stillness of the dimly lit jail wing. With a weary sigh, she turned to Vi and muttered, “I thought I could sleep through this New Year’s countdown, but here I am, slumped over another report at midnight.” The fatigue in her voice was palpable, a reflection of the long hours spent on the job. Vi watched her with understanding, her gaze softening as they made their way to the evidence room, each of them burdened by the weight of several evidence bags. Among the items they carried were Harry’s marijuana, crumpled beer cans, a faded receipt, a rusted lighter, a pack of half-empty cigarettes, and a shiny fake ID—each piece telling a story of its own.

As Caitlyn stifled a yawn, they passed by Deputy Henceforth, a seasoned veteran stationed at the evidence room counter. His weathered features seemed to draw the years of experience etched into his skin. “Happy New Year, Henceforth,” Caitlyn greeted him, her voice weary yet polite, as she slid the bags across the counter with a subtle air of resignation. “Happy New Year, Kiramman and… Brets- I still don’t know how to properly pronounce your last name,” he replied, fumbling with the unfamiliar syllables. With practiced patience, Vi chimed in, “It's pronounced as Bret-Schneider, it is a German last name that's why it's so long” offering the correction with the understanding that this was not the first time she'd had to clarify her last name. Henceforth eyes widened “You’re from Germany?”

Vi flashed a cheeky smile, her voice drawl warm. “I’m more like a German brand made in the USA. My great-grandfather was German though. After World War I, he came back with one leg, one eye, and fled to America, knowing war wasn’t over. He was right—World War II hit his homeland. Mom said his PTSD haunted him till he died. He’d tell her, in his thick German accent, how horrible guns were—friends shot dead in no-man’s-land, thousands falling to French machine guns. Now he’s passed, resting in his birthplace in Stuttgart.” Her tone grew heavy, a sigh escaping, her empathy connecting to his trauma. Caitlyn watched, her ocean-blue eyes understanding.

Henceforth’s eyes widened. “Woah, that’s heavy.”
“Sadly, just the weight of life,” Vi shrugged, following Caitlyn.

Back in the main office, Caitlyn sank into her chair with a weary sigh, peeling off her duty vest as if it were a heavy shroud. After a grueling 12-hour shift, the weight of exhaustion settled heavily on her shoulders. Vi mirrored her movements, shedding her own vest with a small huff, their engagement rings sparkling like twin stars under the harsh fluorescents above. “New Year, New pain huh?” Caitlyn murmured as her fingers danced across the keyboard, starting on the day's report, her ocean-blue eyes sharp and intent, cutting through the fog of fatigue. Meanwhile, Vi busied herself sorting through her scattered notes, occasionally glancing up. With a light-hearted tone, she remarked, “Cait, at least we’re not city police; managing crowd control is a whole different level of exhausting.”

Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Incident Report
Report Number: TCSO-2014-0101-001
Date and Time: January 1, 2014, 12:00 a.m.–1:00 a.m.
Location: Miami Beach Park, Baltimore County, MD
Reporting Officers: Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104, Watch Commander), Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219, Rookie)
Assisting Officers: Deputy Stephen Anders (Badge 0092), Senior Deputy Leon Kennedy (Badge 0073)
Suspects:
1. Harry Thompson, Male, Age 19 (DOB: 04/15/1994, ID Confirmed)
2. Emily Carter, Female, Age 18 (DOB: 07/22/1995, ID Confirmed)
3. Jacob Lee, Male, Age 20 (DOB: 03/10/1993, ID Confirmed)
4. Ryan Patel, Male, Age 17 (DOB: 11/30/1996, ID Confirmed)
Charges (Suspects):
5. Trespassing – Maryland Criminal Law § 6-402
6. Underage Drinking – Maryland Alcoholic Beverages § 6-307
7. Theft (Under $1,000) – Maryland Criminal Law § 7-104
8. Possession of a Controlled Substance (Marijuana, Harry Thompson only) – Maryland Criminal Law § 5-601
Incident Summary:
On January 1, 2014, at 12:00 a.m., Deputies Kiramman and Bretschneider, on routine patrol in Unit 37, observed four individuals at Miami Beach Park after its 9:00 p.m. closure, consuming alcohol. Upon approach, the suspects attempted to flee, leading to their apprehension for trespassing and underage drinking. A body search revealed marijuana on Harry Thompson, and Emily Carter admitted to theft of beer from a 7-Eleven. The suspects were detained, processed, and held for court proceedings, with evidence secured for CID analysis.
Details of Incident:
• Initial Contact (12:00–12:10 a.m.): At 12:00 a.m., Unit 37 (Kiramman, Bretschneider) responded to observed activity at Miami Beach Park, closed since 9:00 p.m. Four individuals—Harry Thompson (19), Emily Carter (18), Jacob Lee (20), and Ryan Patel (17)—were seen consuming beer, confirmed by open cans and alcohol odor. Kiramman announced, “County Sheriff’s Office, hands behind your backs, you’re under arrest for trespassing,” per Maryland § 6-402. Thompson fled, pursued and apprehended by Bretschneider, who tackled and cuffed him. Carter, Lee, and Patel complied, cuffed by Kiramman, Anders, and Kennedy, body cameras active.
• Body Search (12:30–12:40 a.m.): At the Sheriff’s Office processing area, deputies conducted searches. Bretschneider searched Thompson, recovering a 2x3-inch plastic bag containing ~5 grams of suspected marijuana from his right sneaker, bagged as evidence (“Subject 1: Harry, Suspected Marijuana”). Additional items included a 7-Eleven receipt, a pack of cigarettes and lighter (“Subject 1: Harry, Items”). Anders and Kennedy searched Carter, Lee, and Patel, recovering beer cans and a fake ID (Patel), bagged for CID. Kiramman documented charges, noting Thompson’s possession (Maryland § 5-601) and Carter’s theft admission (Maryland § 7-104).
• Mugshot and Processing (12:40–12:50 a.m.): Suspects were photographed at the booking station. Bretschneider positioned Thompson, capturing front and profile shots, his flushed face and disheveled hair recorded. Anders processed Patel, Kennedy handled Lee, and Kiramman photographed Carter, her tear-streaked face noted at 5’4”. Photos were logged to case file TCSO-2014-0101-001. Carter admitted stealing beer from a 7-Eleven due to a refused sale, corroborated by the receipt.
• Evidence Handling (12:50–1:00 a.m.): Kiramman and Bretschneider delivered evidence bags (marijuana, beer cans, receipt, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, fake ID) to Deputy Henceforth in the evidence room, secured for CID analysis. Kiramman reported via PTT (Motorola APX, encrypted), “Central, Unit 37, Kiramman. Four subjects detained for trespassing, underage drinking, theft; possession on Thompson, ~5 grams marijuana. Evidence bagged, body cameras active, over.” Dispatcher confirmed, “10-4, process and hold for court.”
Use of Force Justification:
Bretschneider’s tackle of Thompson was necessary to prevent flight, minimal force applied (cuffing, no injuries), per Maryland § 3-202 and MPTC policy. Body cameras recorded all actions, mitigating scrutiny post-December 15 lawsuit.
Disposition:
Suspects detained in holding cells, awaiting court. Evidence (marijuana, cans, a pack of cigarettes, a receipt, lighter, fake ID) secured for CID, analysis pending for marijuana confirmation. Kiramman and Bretschneider to submit reports to the district attorney for prosecution. No deputy or suspect injuries reported. Debrief scheduled to assess body camera efficacy.
Officer Observations:
Deputy Kiramman (Badge 0104) demonstrated leadership, coordinating arrests and evidence logging, her psychology training noting Carter’s honesty. Deputy Bretschneider (Badge 1219) executed a precise apprehension, recovering key evidence (marijuana). Deputies Anders and Kennedy provided efficient support, Kennedy’s seniority (Badge 0073) ensuring compliance. Body cameras ensured transparency in Baltimore’s high-crime context (~1,452 violent crimes per 100,000 in the City, post-Parkville scrutiny.
Signed:
Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104)
Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219)
January 1, 2014

At 9:00 p.m., Friday, January 3, 2014

In the softly lit main office of the County Sheriff’s Office in Towson, Caitlyn and Vi Bretschneider settled into their seats during another grueling night shift, counting down to their day off. Clad in green deputy uniforms, duty belts snug, warm winter jackets zipped up, and beanies pulled low against the Baltimore chill, their duty vests hung on their chairbacks, paperwork finally complete.

Caitlyn relaxed on her chair, long blue hair tucked under her beanie, ocean-blue eyes alert, fiddled with the TV remote, while Vi slouched in hers, red hair peeking from her beanie, grey eyes hidden as she tugged it over her face, mumbled, “I swear to god, if that dispatch siren goes off as I nap, I’m gonna be so pissed.” She zipped her jacket higher, curling into it like a turtle retreating into its shell, her voice drawl thick with exhaustion from working four overnight shifts in a row.

Caitlyn then turned up the TV volume, catching a breaking news report about a massive blizzard poised to strike the East Coast.

Jasmine Melin stands outside the WJZ studio in Baltimore, bundled in a heavy coat, scarf, and gloves, snowflakes swirling around her as the wind picks up. The camera pans to a weather map projected behind her, showing a massive storm system blanketing the East Coast.

“Good evening, Baltimore, I’m Jasmine Melin with WJZ-TV, bringing you an urgent weather alert. A powerful blizzard, dubbed ‘Winter Storm Hercules’ by meteorologists, is barreling toward the East Coast, set to impact Maryland and the entire region within the next few hours. The National Weather Service has issued a Blizzard Warning for Baltimore City and County, predicting 10 to 14 inches of snow, wind gusts up to 50 mph, and near-zero visibility by midnight. Temperatures will plummet to single digits, with wind chills as low as -15°F, creating dangerous conditions for travel and outdoor activity.
This storm, fueled by a clash of Arctic air and a low-pressure system off the Atlantic, is expected to paralyze roads, close schools, and strain emergency services. Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office and BPD are preparing for increased calls, with roadblocks and patrols already stretched thin in our high-crime region—reporting 1,452 violent crimes per 100,000 in the city. Authorities urge residents to stay indoors, stock up on essentials, and avoid non-emergency travel. BGE is on standby for potential power outages as heavy snow and winds threaten power lines.
We’ll keep you updated as Hercules hits. Stay warm and safe, Baltimore. Back to the studio.”
The camera lingers on Melin, snow piling on her coat, as the weather map flashes warnings for Maryland, New York, and beyond.

Caitlyn gently patted Vi’s shoulder, her voice low but firm, rousing her. “Hey, Boot, look at the news. Blizzard’s coming—10 to 14 inches, 50 mph winds. We’re on standby in the office tonight, no patrol. Can’t risk the radio signal tower going down and getting trapped like Senior Deputy Mayor in 2000. He was stuck in his Victoria Interceptor for eight hours in a snowstorm, only saved by a patrolling deputy.”
Vi tugged her beanie up, grey eyes bleary, her voice drawl groggy. “Eight hours? Shit, Cait, I’d rather hunker down here than freeze my ass off.” She glanced at the TV, the weather map flashing warnings.

Suddenly the overhead speaker buzzed, slicing through the hum of fluorescent lights. “Attention all units, 10-23 in station, blizzard occurred, ETA to Saturday morning.” Caitlyn grinned faintly, her ocean-blue eyes glinting with relief at the news of “Winter Storm Hercules” grounding patrols. Vi grey eyes brightening as she slouched in her seat, smiled wide. “Hell yeah, I can sleep—”
Caitlyn nudged her shoulder. “Not yet, boot. Go clear the snow from the back door, or we’ll be trapped when the blizzard blocks it, like Senior Deputy Mayor in 2000.” She stood, grabbing a snow shovel by the door and tossing it to Vi.

Vi stared at the shovel, then at Caitlyn, whining as she glanced at the wall-mounted thermometer reading 10°F. “But it’s freezing, Cait.” Cait then peeled off her neck warmer and pulled tactical winter gloves from her pants’ side pocket, draping the warmer over Vi’s shoulders and handing her the gloves. “Now you won’t be cold. Go, boot.” With no choice, she slipped on the tactical gloves, their snug fit warming her hands, and pulled the neck warmer over her face as she gripped the shovel. “I hate being a rookie, man. Everyone outranks me. Please be March so I ditch this rookie title and become a full Deputy,” she muttered, trudging to the back door. Opening it, a blast of icy wind and snow slammed into her, the storm raging as she began shoveling, her boots crunching against the piling snow.
Caitlyn watched from the doorway, a faint smirk tugging her lips. “Boot, remember to clean it all!” she yelled, her stern discipline playful.

The howling wind drowned her voice, and Vi, focused on shoveling. She shouted back, “WHAT—shit!” A heavy slab of snow slid off the rooftop, burying her in an instant, transforming her into a snowman, white powder coating her jacket and beanie. Vi groaned, “Ahh!” shaking the snow off like a dog shedding water, her gloved hands brushing frantically, her voice drawl muffled by the neck warmer.

Inside the main office, Caitlyn, Steb, Brad, Jonathan, Maddie, and other deputies erupted in laughter, the fluorescent lights catching their grins as they crowded the window, watching Vi flail. Caitlyn, collapsing into her chair, yanked her phone from her jacket pocket, wheezing, “Hahaha, I need to record this—I’ll laugh every time I look back! Oh my god, the angry snowman’s coming for me!” Her phone captures her glee as she aimed her phone, capturing Vi’s snowy stumble.
Vi, shaking off the last clumps, stormed toward the door, her grey eyes flashing with mock indignation, and playfully snatched Caitlyn’s phone. “Gimme that!” she growled as snow still dusting her shoulders. The deputies roared, Maddie doubling over, Steb shaking his head, “Rookie’s gonna freeze out there.”

At 2:00 a.m.

in the quiet main office. Vi’s eyes heavy with boredom as the blizzard, “Winter Storm Hercules,” raged outside, blanketing Baltimore in snow, grounding patrols as ordered. She groaned, “It’s too quiet tonight—”
Caitlyn sat nearby to discussing the upcoming senior deputy/corporal exam with Steb. Her discipline snapped as she rushed to Vi, smacking her lips lightly, voice sharp. “Don’t you dare say that, Boot! That’s a huge taboo—you just jinxed us all!” She rubbed her temple, exasperation flaring.
Steb facepalmed, “We’re so fucked.”

Vi, sinking into her chair, gave a confused look, brows furrowed. “What?” Seconds later, the dispatch siren blared, the main office speaker crackling as their earpieces buzzed with the dispatcher’s voice: “Attention, traffic incident on Old York Road, Jacksonville. One car trapped in snow, requesting first responders, over.”
Caitlyn and Vi sprang up, yanking off their jackets to strap on their duty vests over their uniforms, then pulling the jackets back on against the 10°F chill. Caitlyn grabbed her beanie, shoving it on, and signaled Vi to follow, groaning, “Told you, Vi.” She pressed her PTT, her voice crisp. “10-4, Unit 37 en route, over.” Turning, she glared at Vi, who slid into the passenger seat of their Ford Explorer Interceptor, furrowing her eyebrows. “I’m sorry?” Vi replied, her tone sheepish.
Caitlyn took the wheel, the V8 engine roaring as they sped toward Old York Road, snow swirling in their headlights as it signal the beginning of the blizzard chaos in this small county.

At 2:15 a.m.

On Old York Road in Jacksonville, the blizzard dubbed “Winter Storm Hercules” raged, blanketing the area in a whiteout of swirling snow, 50 mph winds howling, and visibility near zero. A Baltimore County Sheriff’s Ford Interceptor screeched to a halt, its blue and red lights flickering, spotlight piercing the snowy haze, siren wailing briefly before cutting off. Caitlyn and Vi stepped out to approached the trapped vehicle, a sedan half-buried in a snowbank, its male driver, late 20s, shivering behind the wheel. She leaned toward the window, rolled halfway down, and placed her gloved hands on the frame, her voice firm yet calm. “Hey, sir, haven’t you heard the news? This place is a whiteout—zero visibility. It’s extremely dangerous to drive in this environment.”
The driver, bundled in a coat, stammered, “I—I thought I could make it home.” Vi, standing by the passenger side, flashlight in hand, checked the vehicle’s exterior, noting no visible damage but deep snow trapping the tires.

The driver, a young father in his late 20s, bundled in a coat, stammered to Caitlyn, “I just wanted to bring my kids home. I have a newborn. Hey, Jesse, calm your little sister.” A five-year-old girl with brown hair in the backseat turned to soothe a crying baby in a car seat, the infant’s wails piercing the wind.
Vi’s empathy surging, flashed her light on the baby, her voice drawl sharp with anger. “That’s utterly irresponsible! Think about your kids, dude. Your girls need you. What if you crashed into a tree or another car and died? You know how traumatizing that’d be? It’s -15°F out here! Your five-year-old and newborn wouldn’t survive! Wake up and think about the people who care about you, not just ‘I-think-I-can-go-home-in-time’!”

The man looked down, muttering, “I’m sorry.”
Caitlyn, on the other side, gestured for Vi to ease up. “Keep the deputy’s words in mind—never forget them when driving your family. Your wife, your kids, they need you.” She pulled her flashlight from her duty belt, shining it on the dashboard. “Let’s get you out. The whiteout’s too bad for a tow truck—can’t risk more accidents. Can you start your car?”
The man nodded. “It still works. I tried reversing, but the snow’s too thick. We’re stuck.”
Caitlyn turned to Vi. “Get the snow shovel and clear the back. I’ll hook the car to our Interceptor to pull it out.”
Vi groaned, trudging to the Interceptor’s trunk, grabbing the shovel. “Why am I always clearing snow?” she protested, her voice muffled by her neck warmer.
Caitlyn shot her a side-eye, smirking. “Because you’re a rookie, Boot. Now go.” She knelt, retrieving the tow hook from under the Interceptor’s front bumper, securing it to the sedan’s undercarriage.
Vi sighed heavily, muttering, “Yes, future Corporal,” as she began shoveling, snow flying under her gloved hands, the storm howling around her.

Awhile later, Vi panting as she cleared a narrow trench through the thick snow, the shovel scraping against icy patches, her breath fogging the air. She waved at Caitlyn, shouting over the wind, “Path’s clear, Cait! Pull it out!” Her voice, muffled by the neck warmer drawl urgency.
Caitlyn, shifted the Interceptor into reverse, the V8 engine growling. The tow hook’s cable tautened, metal creaking as she eased the accelerator, tires crunching snow. The sedan budged slightly, then stalled, its rear tires spinning uselessly in the compacted snowbank. Caitlyn tried again, revving gently, the Interceptor’s wheels gripping, but the sedan’s weight and the snow’s grip held firm, the cable straining without progress. She leaned out her window, snowflakes stinging her face, and shouted, “Sir, put your car in reverse and ease back when I pull!”

The driver nodded, his hands shaky on the wheel, the five-year-old girl calming the crying newborn in the backseat. On the third attempt, Caitlyn floored the accelerator, the Interceptor lurching backward, tires grinding through snow, the cable snapping tight. The driver reversed in sync, his sedan’s engine whining, tires finding traction as the vehicle inched free, snow crumbling from its undercarriage. With a final tug, the sedan slid out of the pit, rocking onto the cleared path, its headlights flickering in the storm.
The driver, relief flooding his face, shouted, “Thank you, deputies! Thank you so much! Without you, we’d probably be dead by morning!”
Vi, standing beside the sedan, snow dusting her jacket, fixed him with a concerned glare, her empathy sharp. “You’re lucky today, sir. Next time, you might not be. When you’re tempted to do stupid shit like this, remember your family—your girls need you.” Her voice, firm despite the wind, carried the weight of their recent Medal of Honor recognition.

The driver’s face etched with relief, watched from the sedan as his five-year-old daughter, Jesse, clapped excitedly in the backseat, her brown hair bouncing, the newborn now quiet in her car seat. He leaned out the window, eyes widening with recognition. “Wait, I know you two! You’re the deputies who got the Medal of Valor from the President a few days ago! My daughter looks up to you—she saw the live TV ceremony and wants to be a police officer like you, saving lives. Jesse, come here, these are the officers you admire!”
Jesse’s eyes sparkled as she scrambled out, jumping in excitement. “Dad, I wanna take a picture with them!” she squealed.
The man smiled, hesitant. “Can I take a photo? It’s okay to not to if it interrupts your work.”
Caitlyn and Vi shook their heads, smiling. “It’s fine,” Caitlyn said, her discipline softening. “Come on, Jesse, let’s take a picture.” They squatted down beside the girl, their engagement rings glinting in the Interceptor’s lights. “Say cheese!” the man called, snapping the photo with his phone, the flash catching Jesse’s grin between Caitlyn and Vi’s proud smiles.
The man showed them the picture, Caitlyn and Vi nodding approvingly. Jesse raised her tiny fists, declaring, “I wanna be strong enough to beat the bad guys!”

Caitlyn squatted again, gently lowering Jesse’s fists, her voice calm but firm, her psychology training guiding her words. “Not physically beating them, Jesse. Violence is wrong—it creates a cycle of hate. Let the law handle bad guys. No matter how angry you are, don’t lash out with personal hate.” She patted Jesse’s head, her words a lesson to the girl but also a quiet reflection on her own actions during Hast’s interrogation, where rage had pushed her to unethical extremes.

The man nodded gratefully. “Thank you, deputies. You saved us.” Vi, her empathy warm, added, “Just stay safe for them.”

The driver’s face lit with gratitude, watched his five-year-old daughter, Jesse, clap excitedly, her brown hair bouncing as she cheered their escape, the newborn quiet in her car seat. “Thank you, deputies, for saving us and inspiring me and my daughter,” he said, his voice earnest.
Vi raised her eyebrows, her tone drawl curious. “Inspiring you? How so?”
The man puffed his chest, eyes shining. “After seeing your bravery against an armed suspect like Hast, it strengthens my faith to become a senator, to make this country safer. We need professionals like you protecting lives, not letting bad guys wield guns all the time. Too many mass shootings, too many innocent kids dying in this violence. We need to act, not just debate Second Amendment rights endlessly. The problem’s the person wielding the tool, not the tool itself…” He launched into his moderate-right political views, his voice rising with passion about gun control, mental health, and public safety.
Caitlyn and Vi exchanged glances, unsure how to react to this impromptu political talk show in the snowy chaos. Caitlyn’s psychology training noted his idealism, but her discipline kept her neutral, her mind flickering with self question over her violent interrogation of Hast. She knew he deserved punishment for his crimes—rape, attempted murder, planned terrorism—but her actions were questionable. Hast’s path, shaped by trauma, made her question her rage, a cycle of hate she’d warned Jesse against.
The man glanced at his wristwatch, startling. “Damn, it’s nearly 3 a.m. Got too into politics. This country’s got problems, but if people listen across party lines, we can fix it. Divide we fall, united we stand!” His hopeful eyes gleamed.
Caitlyn and Vi blinked, exchanging another glance. “Damn, you really love this country,” Vi said, her drawl amused.
The man smacked his chest. “I’m a hopeful patriot. But I gotta go—Jesse was supposed to sleep hours ago. If she gets used to this, it’ll be a nightmare getting her to bed before 10 p.m.” He lifted Jesse into the backseat, buckling her in.
Caitlyn stepped forward, her voice firm. “Sir, where do you live? Let me drive you back. I don’t want you crashing in this weather.”

“I live on John Randolph Drive, New Freedom—not far,” the man said. “I can’t thank you enough, deputies. God bless you.”
Caitlyn raised her brows, her discipline calm. “You too. I’ll drive slowly; follow my lights and keep it steady, okay?” She placed her gloved hands on his window frame.
“For sure,” the man nodded.

Minutes later, at 3:00 a.m., the man pulled up to his two-story house on John Randolph Drive, an American flag fluttering out front. He stepped out, shouting, “We’re here!” and carried sleepy Jesse inside. His wife rushed out, hugging his tall frame tightly, tears in her eyes. “Charles, you had me so worried when you texted about the snow pit! Are my babies safe?”
Charles kissed her cheek. “Safe, thanks to these brave deputies.” Irena turned, hugging Caitlyn and Vi tightly. “You’re angels!” Caitlyn smiled awkwardly, unused to such gratitude as she noting Irena’s relief.
“Um, Irena, your newborn’s still in the car,” Caitlyn said, pointing to the backseat.
Irena gasped, “Charles, you idiot, Cait’s still there!” She rushed to retrieve the baby, named Cait. Charles, helping, smiled at Caitlyn. “She’s named after you, Deputy. If we get a third daughter, she’ll be Violet.”
Vi’s smile widened, her voice drawl soft. “Aww, That’s sweet.”

Charles handed them his business card before they slid back into the Interceptor. “Remember to vote for me to change this nation. God bless!” he said, waving with Irena as Jesse peeked out.
Caitlyn and Vi waved goodbye, stopping their body cameras. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Caitlyn glanced at the card: Charles P. Kirkland, Republican Party Member. “He’s really a Republican,” she said, placing it on the dashboard. “Good luck with that in a blue state.”

Vi, in the passenger seat, sighed, her empathy heavy. “I hate to admit it, Cait, but despite his views against same-sex marriage and all that God talk like a pastor, his take on guns makes sense. Too many fall into unstable hands—look at our cases lately: gun misfires, armed robberies, illegal possession, people pointing guns over political spats, kids playing with parents’ handguns. It’s a ridiculous amount. I wish it’d stop.”

Caitlyn, eyes fixed on the snowy road, drove slowly back to the Sheriff’s Office, her voice measured. “It’ds complicated, Vi. Even though my family are more open-minded about gay rights, they are still conservative—guns are our life., but if the government tried taking our guns to ‘protect’ us, saying there’s too many, it’d spark riots, more violence or worst… the civil war. The far-right folks, less open than my family, won’t even talk to others with different beliefs.”
Vi raised her eyebrows, curious. “Really? That sounds messy. If I were the government, coming for your guns, what’d you do?”
Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes stayed steady. “I’d ask how we’re supposed to protect ourselves from intruders. Expect us to fistfight a guy with a black-market gun? This gun debate could go on forever, Vi.”

VI’s grey eyes heavy with concern, sighed deeply. “That’s just—I don’t know what to say anymore.”
Caitlyn calmly responded, her voice measured. “That’s the result of law enforcement unable to covering the whole country. Too few of us, crime spikes. Too many, people cry ‘police state.’ Vi, as enforcers, our job is to keep the scale balanced, the rest? We will leave it to the politicians—” Before she could finish, the Interceptor’s PA system buzzed, the dispatcher’s voice cutting through. “Massive power outage in Towson, multiple car crashes between W Joppa Avenue and Washington Avenue, unit requested to respond, over.”
Vi reached for PTT speaker, but Steb’s voice crackled first. “Unit 47 en route, over.”

Moments later, the PA buzzed again. “Two elderly males fighting at Edenwald Elderly Living, requesting unit response, over.”
Vi pressed her PTT. “Unit 37 en route, over.”
Caitlyn adjusted the navigation system from the Sheriff’s Office to Edenwald Elderly Living, her hands steady on the wheel as she maneuvered through the blizzard snow swirling in the headlights. “Next time, Vi, don’t ever say the ‘q’ word again,” she said, her tone half-teasing, half-exasperated, referring to Vi’s earlier “quiet” jinx that sparked the night’s chaos.

Vi made a dramatic zip-up gesture across her lips, her gloved fingers mimicking a lock. “I’ll shut up next time,” she muttered as Caitlyn shot her a side-eye, a faint smirk tugging her lips.

At 3:40am

As they were speeding through the blizzard-stricken streets toward Edenwald Elderly Living .
Vi glanced at Caitlyn’s right hand on the wheel, noticing a faint tremble from earlier shifts. “How’s your right hand doing, Cait? It was shaking constantly before,” she asked, voice soft with concern.
Caitlyn casually flexed her hand, her voice steady. “Way better. Before, I felt pain making a fist, but now—” She tugged off her tactical glove and rolled up her sleeve, revealing a jagged scar snaking across her forearm ,her knuckles and hand crisscrossed with scars, a battle-worn map rivaling Franck Ribéry’s scarred face. “I could punch a lion,” she said, a smirk tugging her lips, rolling her sleeve back down.
Vi chuckled, her grey eyes warm, impressed by Caitlyn’s grit. “That’s nice to hear”

Chapter Text

At 3:30 a.m., Saturday, January 4, 2014

In the snow-swept lobby of Edenwald Elderly Living in Towson, Baltimore County. Deputy Caitlyn and Vi stood poised in their green deputy uniforms layered with winter jackets, beanies pulled low, and tactical gloves shielding against the -15°F wind chill of “Winter Storm Hercules” Caitlyn had parked their Ford Explorer Interceptor out front, its blue and red lights flickering through the blizzard. Caitlyn’s eyes were sharp as she scanned the lobby while Vi clutched her duty belt and their body camera captured everything as they walked inside.

Caitlyn addressed the staff member in her usual professional tone, her discipline unwavering. “Hello, Sir, this is the County Sheriff’s Office. I’m Deputy Kiramman, and this is my partner, Deputy Bretschneider. We received a report of two men fighting here. Tell us what’s going on, please.” She signaled Vi to pull her notepad from her duty vest to take statements.

The staff member, brows furrowed, sighed in relief. “Thank god the sheriffs are here. I don’t know how it started. I was doing my nighttime rounds when I heard noises from the men’s living area. I checked and saw an old man beating another with a wrench. I tried to stop them, but the attacker threatened to beat me too if I didn’t ‘get the fuck out,’ saying, quote, ‘this is between me and him.’ So I called 911.”
Vi scribbling notes, her voice drawl thoughtful, said, “Sounds like they’ve got prior grudges. Do you know anything about their history?”
The staff member shook his head, touching his colorful hair. “Not really, I started here last month. But the guy who threatened me—he’s been rude, calling me slurs over my hair, throwing food off the table when I serve him. He’s just a horrible person.”
Vi’s pen moved quickly, jotting, “Staff targeted for hair color, suspect holds grudges against new staff, potential temper issues,” her experience noting the suspect’s hostility. Caitlyn nodded, her voice calm. “Understood, Sir. Lead us to where they are so we can get the full picture.”
The staff member led them up the staircase, their boots echoing on the steps, flashlights cutting through the dim hallway, the blizzard’s howl muffled outside.

At 3:35 a.m.
In the dimly lit men’s living quarters of Edenwald Elderly Living, Caitlyn and Vi arrived to find a chaotic scene guided by a staff member. Caitlyn drew her taser from her duty vest as Vi’s eyes focused. She gripped her pepper spray bag on her duty vest, ready to use force to stop this midnight chaos.

Caitlyn moved swiftly, unnoticed by the suspect straddling the victim, his fist raised with a wrench. She pulled her handcuffs from her vest with practiced speed, snapping them onto his dominant wrist first. “County Sheriff’s Office, sir, you’re under arrest for first-degree assault!” she barked firmly. “Comply, and this will get easier.” Vi rushed in, pinning the suspect’s shoulder with her knee, her strength securing him as Caitlyn reached for his other wrist. The suspect resisted, jerking his hand forward, defiance in his eyes. With no choice, Caitlyn commanded, “Vi, spray him!”

Vi followed her commands as she sprayed OC spray evenly across his face, the chemical mist hitting his eyes. “Fuck you guys, my face—ahhh!” he screamed, thrashing as the burning took hold. Vi secured the spray bottle to her duty belt, pressing her PTT. “Central, Unit 37, Edenwald Elderly Living, men’s quarter. Suspect resisted arrest, OC spray deployed, over.”

Caitlyn locked the second cuff with a clink, twisting her handcuff key to secure the double lock, preventing slippage. “Good job, boot,” she said to Vi, her voice steady. She pressed her PTT, reporting, “Central, Unit 37, Kiramman. Suspect detained, first-degree assault, over”
They hoisted the suspect, his face red from OC spray, his white hair disheveled, muttering, “My face is burning now,” feigning innocence as they escorted him toward their Ford Explorer Interceptor parked out front, its blue and red lights cutting through the blizzard. A bystander, another elderly resident in a robe, stepped forward, concern in his voice. “Why are you doing this? He looks in pain—uncuff him!”

Vi, her grey eyes narrowing, blocked him. “Are you involved in the fight? If not, step back, sir, or I’ll charge you with obstruction,” her voice drawled with firmness. The bystander persisted, addressing the suspect. “Did they beat you up?” The suspect, cunningly nodding with an innocent grimace, fueled the accusation. “You’re using excessive force! What are your badge numbers? I’m reporting you to the Sheriff’s Office!”
Caitlyn pointed to her badge on her duty vest. “It’s 0104 Kiramman and 1219 Bretschneider. Go ahead—our body cameras are rolling to prove we did nothing wrong. Stop with your prejudice against law enforcement,” she said calmly as she noted his bias. She opened the Interceptor’s backseat door, guiding the suspect inside and buckling his seatbelt.

The bystander stepped closer, but Vi blocked him again. “Step away, sir. Second warning—do it again, and I’ll arrest you for obstruction. Save your empathy for somewhere else. Stop interrupting our work.” Her voice was sharp, her empathy tempered by duty.
The bystander backed off, muttering, “Just you wait, you dirty cops, I’ll report you.”
Vi turned to Caitlyn, muttering, “Nosy.”
Caitlyn exhaled, shutting the door behind the suspect. “The longer you work here, the more you realize this bullcrap happens all the time. Come on, let’s go back up, take statements from witnesses and the victim.”
They trudged back into Edenwald, snow crunching under their boots.

At 3:45 a.m,

Back in the dimly lit second-floor men’s living quarters of Edenwald Elderly Living. Caitlyn and Vi wrapped up taking statements from witnesses and the victim after a violent altercation. Caitlyn bent down to secure a wrench into an evidence bag, labeling it “Edenwald Assault, Subject 1, Wrench” for analysis. VI’s eyes were alert as she pressed her PTT. “Central, Unit 37, Bretschneider. Edenwald Elderly Living, second floor. Request backup and ambulance for assault victim, possible internal injuries, over.” Their body cameras rolled to capturing the chaotic scene.

Minutes later, Deputies Steb and Loris arrived, their boots thudding up the staircase. Steb, his facial hair thicker, bundled in a uniform, tactical gloves, beanie, and jacket, and Loris, his towering frame and bushy beard looming in matching gear, gasped at the living quarters—a makeshift MMA ring with chairs scattered around the victim, an 84-year-old man slumped on the floor, bloodied and groaning. “What the heck is going on?” Steb asked, resting his hands on his duty vest.
Caitlyn lowered her notepad, her discipline crisp. “Basically, an elderly MMA cage fight. The attacker, 87, secured in our Interceptor, couldn’t handle being called a ‘puny boxer’ by this guy, 84, and beat the hell out of him with a wrench. Honestly, he’s not puny—about my shoulder height but resisted cuffs like a bull. Took Vi’s OC spray to stop him.”
Loris’s eyes widened. “What the fuck!?”
Caitlyn continued, “We’re waiting for the manager to copy surveillance footage for CID. I checked the victim’s consciousness—pupil dilation is normal, but he keeps asking for water, likely internal bleeding.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Firefighter EMTs should be here in one minute; the station’s closed.”
Steb rubbed his chin, frowning. “Shit, that’s a sign of internal bleeding. How’s he holding up in the tests?”

Caitlyn turned her notepad toward Steb, her notes meticulous. “Here’s what I found.”

A couple of minutes ago before Steb and Loris' arrival.

Caitlyn knelt beside the victim, a frail 84-year-old with a bruised, blood-streaked face, his shirt torn, his shallow breaths rasping as he clutched his side, muttering weakly for water. The chairs around him, toppled like a ring after a brawl, framed the scene, the other residents’ worried murmurs fading as Caitlyn’s flashlight beam cut through the dimness.

Maryland Sheriff’s first responder protocols guided her, her ocean-blue eyes steady as she began assessing Henry’s consciousness, Vi watching closely, notepad ready.

She leaned in, her voice soft but clear, like a lifeline in the chaos. “Sir, I’m Deputy Kiramman. Look at my light.” She flicked on her flashlight, its beam piercing his left eye, then his right, the pupils shrinking briskly, like tiny shutters snapping shut. She tilted his head gently, repeating the test, watching for sluggishness or uneven dilation that could scream brain trauma. The pupils held steady, equal and reactive, a small relief in the storm of his pain. “Pupils dilate normally,” she murmured to Vi, who scribbled it down, her empathy heavy for this poor grandpa’s suffering.
“Sir, what’s your name? Where are you?” Caitlyn asked, her tone firm but kind, testing his alertness. His eyes, clouded with pain, flickered. “Henry… Edenwald,” he rasped, his voice a strained whisper, confirming he was awake but struggling. Caitlyn pressed further, her psychology training probing. “What day is it?” Henry hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Friday?” he mumbled, off by a day, the disorientation a red flag, possibly from shock or pain, not just age. She noted, “Oriented to place, partially to time,” her pen scratching the notepad, marking him as responsive to voice on the AVPU scale—alert enough, but teetering.
She took his bony hand, her tactical gloves cool against his clammy skin. “Squeeze my hand, Henry,” she said, feeling a weak grip, like a fading echo of strength, his fingers trembling from the wrench’s blows. She frowned, sliding her knuckles to his sternum, pressing lightly—a pain stimulus to test responsiveness. Henry winced, pulling away with a groan, his reaction sharp enough to rule out unconsciousness but weak enough to worry her. “Motor response weak,” she whispered, Vi’s pen moving fast, the room’s tension thick.

“Henry, tell me what happened,” Caitlyn urged, testing his memory. Henry’s voice cracked, “He… called me lanky but weak, hit me with a wrench.” His words, slurred but coherent, painted a picture of the grudge-fueled attack, his memory intact despite the pain clouding his eyes. Caitlyn’s flashlight lingered, catching his pale, sweaty skin, his shallow breaths a ticking clock. She took her glove off to press two fingers to his wrist, counting a pulse of 90 beats per minute—too fast, a warning of shock or blood loss. His clammy hands and relentless pleas for water screamed internal bleeding, a wrench’s blunt force likely rupturing something inside.

“He’s conscious but deteriorating,” Caitlyn told Steb, her voice steady but urgent, flipping her notepad to show her findings. The distant wail of firefighter EMT sirens cut through the blizzard’s howl, their proximity a lifeline.
Vi, her grey eyes heavy with concern, nodded as she took in the details filling her notepad. She couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of empathy for Henry, who lay bloodied on the floor and rasped, “Am I gonna die?” Kneeling beside him, she placed a gentle, gloved hand on his shoulder, her warm voice drawl wrapping around him like a warm embrace. “Don’t worry too much, Henry. You’re not going to die. Look, the EMTs are here to help!” Her voice carried a note of hope that brightened the oppressive atmosphere of the room. Moments later, two strong EMTs in navy blue uniforms rushed in, their radios glinting on their shoulders. “Hello, sir, we’re here to take you to the hospital,” one of them said, his tone calm yet urgent. They carefully lifted Henry onto a scoop stretcher, securing him with straps as his groans softened, bringing him comfort as they began to carry him toward the staircase.

The second EMT, pushing up his glasses, turned to the deputies. “Who’s in charge here?”
Caitlyn stepped forward, her discipline firm. “Me.”
“Sheriff, tell me what’s going on—everything,” the EMT said, his pen poised over a clipboard.
Caitlyn recounted. Her voice was steady, repeating her consciousness tests.
The EMT muttered, “Shit, we need to get him to the hospital ASAP.” He rushed to assist his partner, helping maneuver the stretcher downstairs through the snowy chaos.
Caitlyn slipped her notepad into her duty vest, her voice authoritative. “Steb, you’re coming with me to the ambulance. Loris, stay here, get the surveillance footage from the manager. Vi, take the attacker back to the Sheriff’s Office for investigation. We’ll coordinate through the unit chat.”
Vi and Loris, his towering frame and bushy beard looming, barked in unison, “Affirmative!” Vi headed to the Interceptor, where the 87-year-old suspect sat cuffed, his face still burning from her OC spray. Loris stayed, coordinating with the staff, while Steb followed Caitlyn to the ambulance.

At 3:55 a.m.

In the snowy, wind-swept entrance of Edenwald Elderly Living, Caitlyn and Steb clambered into the back of an ambulance, its red and white lights cutting through the blinding blizzard as it raced toward St. Joseph Medical Center. The brutal --15°F wind chill and near-zero visibility enveloped the vehicle, but the gravity of Henry's condition propelled them forward. Caitlyn and Steb, both towering at six feet, felt the tight quarters of the ambulance close in on them as they focused intently on Henry.

Strapped to the auto-loading stretcher, Henry lay vulnerable, his frail, bloodied body trembling. A ragged tear in his shirt exposed bruises that were a painful testament to the wrench attack inflicted by an 87-year-old suspect. The lead EMT, his glasses fogging from the stark contrast of warm breath against the cold, adjusted an oxygen mask over Henry’s face. The clear plastic misted with each shallow, rasping breath, delivering vital oxygen to combat the emerging hypoxia. Beside him, the second EMT vigilantly monitored a portable device; a pulse oximeter clipped onto Henry's finger flickered with alarming numbers—his heart rate racing at 110 beats per minute. Tachycardia at such an advanced age was a worrying signal that hinted at pain or the possibility of internal bleeding, as detailed in medical guidelines.

The blood pressure cuff hissed, inflating with an ominous whir before revealing a reading of 120/80 mmHg—a slight consolation in the face of the other distressing signs. A finger-stick test confirmed normal blood sugar levels, effectively ruling out diabetic shock. “Tachycardia is concerning—likely internal bleeding,” the lead EMT murmured, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “We’ve got two minutes to St. Joseph ER.”

Caitlyn leaned in closer, her flashlight beam illuminating Henry’s pale, clammy skin, while his eyes fluttered in distress, reflecting a depth of suffering that weighed heavily on her heart. “Stay with us, Henry,” she urged softly, reinforcing her earlier consciousness tests: pupil dilation was normal, he was voice-responsive yet disoriented to time, and his motor response was weak. His persistent, desperate pleas for water suggested potential abdominal trauma; Caitlyn diligently logged the vital signs in her notepad. Steb, adjusting his body camera to ensure the stretcher's straps were secure, remarked, “Tough for 84, but that wrench did a real number on him.”

The ambulance jolted violently through the snow, siren wailing in an urgent chorus, slicing through the otherwise silent night as they navigated the treacherous two-mile sprint to St. Joseph Medical Center, the nearest trauma-ready ER. The monitor beside them beeped faster, Henry’s heart rate climbing to 115, his breaths becoming increasingly shallow as the oxygen mask fogged rapidly. Caitlyn pressed her push-to-talk button, relaying critical information: “Central, Unit 37, Kiramman. En route to St. Joseph ER with victim, Henry, 84, suspected internal bleeding, tachycardia now 115, BP normal, blood sugar normal, over.” The dispatcher responded promptly, “10-4, Unit 37, update logged.”

As the ambulance screeched to a halt at the ER bay, the auto-loading stretcher engaged with a distinct click, its hydraulic mechanism meticulously lowering Henry for a careful transfer onto the awaiting gurney. EMTs rushed him inside, the doors swinging wide to reveal a flurry of activity, nurses poised with equipment, ready to spring into action as the trauma team assembled. Caitlyn and Steb followed close behind, their boots crunching in the fresh, swirling snow, ensuring a smooth handover. The weight of Henry’s critical condition echoed in their minds, intensifying their sense of urgency and responsibility.

Meanwhile, back at Edenwald, Loris stayed behind to secure the essential surveillance footage from the facility's manager, his fatherly warmth providing a grounding counterpoint to the chaos surrounding him. In a separate vehicle, Vi drove the suspect back to the Sheriff’s Office alone in the sturdy Ford Explorer Interceptor, its reinforced prisoner cage ensuring safety and security. Pressing her push-to-talk button, she reported with authority, “Central, Unit 37, Bretschneider. Transporting suspect to Sheriff’s Office for investigation, over.”

At 4:10 a.m.

In the sterile, fluorescent-lit ward of St. Joseph Medical Center’s Emergency Department in Towson, Caitlyn sat beside the bed of Henry, the 84-year-old assault victim from Edenwald Elderly Living. The blizzard “Winter Storm Hercules” howled outside, its -15°F wind chill and whiteout conditions a distant roar beyond the hospital’s walls. Caitlyn slightly hunched in her green deputy uniform, winter jacket unzipped, beanie tucked into the pocket on her pants, eyes heavy with concern, scribbled notes from Henry’s bedside interview. Henry, frail and bruised, lay connected to a heart rate monitor, oxygen mask fogging with shallow breaths, his vitals shaky.

Henry’s voice, weak and rasping, recounted the assault as Caitlyn leaned in. “James… glared at me, shouted, ‘Just you wait, you lanky son of a bitch,’” he muttered, his eyes clouded with pain. “Middle of the night, I was at the urinal in the men’s bathroom… he attacked from behind. I fought back, but he’s stronger than he looks. Dragged me to the living quarters, straddled me, pounding my head with his fists and his wrench like a cage fighter—no judge, no gloves” His words faltered, memory frayed by trauma, but the vividness of James’s rage stuck, corroborating the staff’s account of a grudge.
Caitlyn nodded, jotting details—James, 87, verbal threat, midnight assault, bathroom to living quarters, blunt force—her discipline steady despite Henry’s fading strength. She pressed her PTT updating, “Central, Unit 37, Kiramman. Victim statement confirms assault by suspect James, 87, at Edenwald, first-degree assault, over.”

By 4:30 a.m., Henry had succumbed to a restless sleep, the rhythmic beeping of his monitor a constant backdrop that contrasted sharply with the knot of anxiety tightening in Caitlyn’s chest. She perched on a hard plastic chair beside his bedside, her eyes flickering to her phone every few moments, hoping for updates from Vi, who was interrogating James to make him plead guilty for his attempted murder at the Sheriff’s Office, and Loris, busy securing surveillance footage at Edenwald. Steb had stepped out for a moment, seeking solace in the familiar sounds of a vending machine rattling, his calm demeanor a quiet anchor in the storm of uncertainty.

Just then, Caitlyn’s phone vibrated with a text; it was from Loris, delivering crucial news that momentarily eased the weight on her shoulders: *Surveillance screenshots confirm Henry’s story—James attacked in bathroom, dragged to living quarters. Securing the bathroom as a crime scene.* A deep exhale escaped Caitlyn’s lips, as her psychology training dissected the clarity of the grudge brewing within the situation. Yet, guilt gnawed at her, a relentless reminder of the Hast interrogation that had frayed her resolve. She vowed silently to protect Henry at all costs.

Then, out of nowhere, a long, piercing shriek sliced through the fragile quiet—the heart rate monitor flatlined, an ominous silence replacing its steady beeping. Caitlyn’s heart plummeted, instinct overriding emotion as she leapt from her chair, shedding her jacket with urgency. Her latex-gloved hands moved with practiced precision, pressing rhythmically against Henry's frail chest as she counted aloud, “One, two, three…” Her ocean-blue eyes locked onto his pale face, an unspoken plea urging him to breathe again, even as she pressed the emergency button with a desperate elbow, its red light flashing like a silent scream for help.

“Come on, Henry, stay with me,” she whispered urgently, her voice breaking as each compression was a battle against despair. Nurses flooded the room, and a doctor barreled in, the crash cart clattering ominously behind them. Caitlyn maintained her rhythm—50 compressions in swift succession, sweat trickling down her brow, her scarred forearm straining with the effort. A moment later, the doctor took over, placing defibrillator paddles against Henry’s frail chest, jolting his body in a desperate attempt to revive him, yet the monitor remained obdurately flat, the pulse a ghost of what had been. After what felt like an eternity of agonizing minutes, the doctor stepped back, his voice heavy with the weight of finality. “Time of death, 4:37 a.m.”

Caitlyn froze, her hands trembling uncontrollably, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as she stumbled back, the pillars of her discipline crumbling around her. Steb returned, coffee and a granola bar forgotten in his hands as he rushed to her side, concern etched across his features. Gently, he pulled her away from the scene, her body shaking violently as she buried her face into his shoulder, sobs wracking through her frame. “I tried to save him, Stephen,” she gasped, her voice raw with grief, tears soaking into the fabric of his uniform. “I really tried, but he died in my hands.”

Steb, his facial hair brushing against her cheek, offered a steadying hand on her back, his voice a calming balm amidst the chaos. “It’s okay, Cait, you tried,” he murmured. He guided her back to the chair, her hands collapsing over her face, guilt crashing over her like a tidal wave—Henry’s death echoing the haunting shadows of her rage-fueled interrogation of Hast, a vicious cycle she had sworn to avoid. “I’ll call Vi to come see you ASAP, okay? I’m notifying the staff to contact Henry’s family,” he added, his tone firm yet gentle.

Caitlyn nodded, wiping her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her palm, but the weight of despair lingered heavily in the air, a reminder of how fragile life truly is.

At 4:40 a.m.

Caitlyn sat hunched over in a worn, plastic chair, her body trembling with each shaky breath she took. Her striking blue eyes, usually vibrant and full of life, were now swollen and red-rimmed from the tears that streamed down her cheeks. The weight of Henry's death, despite her desperate attempts at CPR, settled heavily on her shoulders, a suffocating blanket of guilt that she couldn't shake off. The haunting memory of her violent confrontation with Hast during the interrogation gnawed at her mind, amplifying her anguish.

Steb lingered nearby, offering silent support as he glanced at Caitlyn, concern etched across his face. With a quick flick of his thumb, he sent a direct message to Vi from his phone, his mind racing as he reported to the dispatcher, “Central unit 47, victim Henry Sutherland died at 4:37, over.” The sterile words hung in the air like a dark cloud, marking the end of a life and deepening the sorrow that enveloped them both.

0081SAnders: Vi, it’s Steb. Get to St. Joseph A&E ward ASAP. Henry, the assault victim, passed away minutes ago.
(Vi’s number): What, he passed away? I’m still trying to get Harland to plead guilty at the Sheriff’s Office.
0081SAnders: Please hurry, your wife’s crying.
(Vi’s number): Fuck, give me five minutes, I’ll be there.

Steb pocketed his phone, glancing at Caitlyn as he gently patted her back to calm her down, but she was still sobbing.

At 4:45 a.m.

The flatline of Henry Sutherland’s heart monitor echoed in her mind, her CPR efforts—50 desperate compressions—failing to save him. Her heart couldn’t shield her guilt as Steb stood beside her, his thicker facial hair framing a somber expression. Caitlyn looked up at Steb, sobbing, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to charge Harland with first-degree murder, Steb. He’s 87—one foot in the grave. He’ll die in county jail.”
Steb bent down, hugging her gently, offering tissues from his duty vest. “Cait, when Harland lashed out at Sutherland, he knew his life was doomed. Let the prosecutor handle it.” His voice was soft but firm, grounding her.

Meanwhile, at the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office in Towson, Vi strode to her desk after she pocketed her phone after Steb’s urgent DM, She printed surveillance screenshots sent by Loris from Edenwald.
Clutching the papers, she marched to the interrogation room where James Harland sat, his white hair disheveled, face still red from her earlier OC spray, hands cuffed to the desk, his elderly frame slumped but defiant.

“Hey, Harland, guess what?” Vi said, her voice drawl authoritative, slamming the screenshots down one by one. “Henry Sutherland, the guy you’ve hated forever—he’s dead because of you. Your hits to his head weren’t an accident; you meant to kill him. You hated him so much you wanted him gone, so you sneaked into the storage room, stole that wrench, and waited till midnight, knowing he’s the all-nighter. Yes or no?” She pointed to a key screenshot—Harland exiting the storage room, wrench in hand, timestamped 12:03 a.m.—her tone cutting, body camera rolling to capture every evidence.
Harland, who’d been dodging with claims of “accident,” stared at his cuffed hands, silent. Vi glanced at her watch, her empathy warring with duty. “Stay silent, Harland, but last time a suspect did this, he got the same ‘treatment’ you gave Sutherland. I could grill you all night to plead guilty, but I’ve got something more important—my partner needs me. But let me tell you this guilty or not, you’re rotting in county jail for your hate-driven actions.” She stormed out, signaling Leon to take over. “Leon, keep at him,” she said, rushing to her Ford Explorer Interceptor, engine roaring as she sped to St. Joseph Medical Center.

At 4:50 a.m.

In the sterile, fluorescent-lit Emergency Department ward of St. Joseph Medical Center.
As Vi passed by three wards in a hurry to search for Cait, her steps slowed upon hearing a grieving family—men and women in their 30s to 40s, some in tears, others struggling to hold back emotion. “Dad got killed, I can’t believe this,” a man in his 40s wept, his voice cracking with sorrow. “I should’ve brought him to live with me in West Virginia to take care of him. First Mom, now him.” Vi felt her heart ache, her own trauma resonated within her, reminding her that family had always been her top priority, no matter what her political beliefs were.

Her instincts led her to follow the family, and there, in a quiet corner, she found Caitlyn sitting slumped in a plastic chair, her lanky frame trembling, beanie clutched in her hands, long blue hair a mess, eyes swollen and red from crying while Steb stood next to her to comfort her.

Vi’s breath caught—never had she seen Caitlyn so vulnerable, her usual discipline and polished strength laid bare. Beneath her professional facade, forged to transcend her legacy as the sheriff’s granddaughter and defy the “rich brat” stereotype, was Caitlyn Kiramman: a deputy who risked her life to protect people, who is willing to sacrifice an eye for the sake of thousands.

“Hey, Cait, I’m here,” Vi called warmly, her voice cutting through the sterile hum of the hospital ward. The sound was like a lifeline, pulling Caitlyn's attention away from the dull ache she felt from being unable to save Henry which weighed on her. Her head snapped up, and as recognition sparked in her eyes, she sprang up from her chair, rushing into Vi’s arms. The embrace was tight and comforting, the kind that melted away stress and worry, if only for a moment. Vi gently cupped Caitlyn’s tear-streaked face in her hands, her warm grey eyes sparkling with affection and concern. “You look so silly right now, Cait,” she teased softly, using her thumb to wipe away the remnants of Caitlyn’s tears. The teasing tone was like a balm, soothing the tumult of emotions within Caitlyn.

Caitlyn's lips curled into a soft smile, even as her voice trembled slightly. “No, you’re sillier, Vi.” She took a deep breath, glancing down at her crisp uniform—a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions swirling inside her. “I wish I wasn’t wearing this so I could kiss your silly face. But as your T.O., I have to separate personal feelings from duty.” The words hung between them, heavy yet lightened by the affection they shared. Vi then checked her wristwatch, a playful grin breaking across her face, illuminating the room around her like the first rays of dawn. “You can later. It’s close to the end of the shift. Then we can do whatever we want,” she chimed, her voice brightening the somber atmosphere.

Caitlyn sighed deeply, rubbing her temple in a futile attempt to relieve the tension gathering there. “Not yet. We still need to wait for the undertakers to take Henry for autopsy—to identify what caused his death and why he worsened so fast.” She trudged on, the weight of her responsibilities evident in her tone. “Then we write the report. Honestly, before I became a deputy, I thought it was 90% chasing bad guys, 10% paperwork. Turns out it’s the opposite.” Vi and Steb burst into laughter, the sound ringing out and momentarily dispelling the heaviness in the air. Vi’s drawl was bright and infectious. “I’m afraid we really have to work till sunrise, Cait.” Steb added.

With a quick motion, Vi pressed her PTT, the device crackling to life as she reported, “Central, Unit 37. Request undertaker to St. Joseph Medical Center for transfer of Henry Sutherland, deceased, to the Sheriff’s Office autopsy room for investigation, over.” The dispatcher’s voice crackled over the radio, “10-4, Unit 37, undertaker dispatched, ETA 15 minutes.”

Turning to Steb, who was idly leaning against the wall, Caitlyn fished her wallet out from her uniform pants pocket, her fingers brushing against the cool leather. “Steb, grab us espressos—ones that’ll give us arrhythmia instantly.” The hint of laughter in her voice betrayed the exhaustion she felt.

Steb shook his head, a grin stretching across his face, eyes glinting with mischief. “This round’s on me.” He gave them a mock salute and headed off toward the hospital cafeteria, leaving Caitlyn and Vi with a precious few moments of solitude to catch their breath before the undertaker arrived.

At 5:00 a.m.

In the cold, sterile autopsy room of the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office, the air was thick with antiseptic and the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Caitlyn, Steb, and Vi stood around the stainless steel table where Henry Sutherland lay lifeless. The trio, clad in green deputy uniforms, latex gloves snapped tight, surgical masks pulled over their faces, fought heavy eyelids after a grueling night shift. Caitlyn clutched her notepad, Steb calm as usual, while Vi, her eyes uneasy, gripped her notepad, rookie nerves fraying. Their body cameras were off, per autopsy protocol.

Chief Forensic Doctor Jonas Hernandez, a wiry man in his 50s, stood over Henry’s body in a full surgical attire, mask, and gloves, his scalpel catching the light like a cold promise. He gestured to Caitlyn and Steb, his voice dry but firm. “Gather ‘round the table, deputies. Don’t just stand there gawking.” The duo hesitated, their stomachs churning at the thought of the graphic scene, Vi already on the verge of bolting. Hernandez snorted, his eyes glinting above his mask. “You guys are just like my students back at the University of Maryland School of Medicine. Kids always froze when I showed them their first donated cadaver. Come on, this is Henry’s truth—help me tell it.”

Caitlyn and Steb shuffled closer, their boots scuffing the linoleum, notepads poised, while Vi lingered back, her rookie inexperience a heavy weight. Hernandez began the Y-incision, slicing from Henry’s shoulders to his sternum, then down to his pelvis, the scalpel’s whisper cutting through the silence. The sharp, coppery scent of fresh blood flooded the room, snapping the trio awake, their masks muffling sharp gasps. Caitlyn and Steb, seasoned enough, braced against the smell, their minds flashing to summer cases—rotten, water-swollen corpses or skeletal remains with half-rotted flesh, like gnawed chicken wings, the stench of decay enough to make them gag,
Vi, however, buckled, her grey eyes wide as Hernandez extended the incision to Henry’s scalp, slicing vertically from crown to skull base, peeling back skin to reveal the cranium. The sight of Henry—the man who’d asked her, “Am I gonna die?”—split open from head to pelvis, his “family jewel” exposed, sent bile surging. She gagged, hands trembling. Hernandez, not turning, muttered, “Rookie, don’t puke in my office. Back door’s open—go!” Vi bolted, retching echoing as she hit the snow outside.
Hernandez, unfazed, fired up the bone saw, its high-pitched whine slicing through Henry’s skull, the crack of bone stark. “Let’s find what killed him,” he said, gesturing to Caitlyn and Steb, who scribbled notes, their faces grim but resolute.

Hernandez’s scalpel danced with grim precision, peeling back Henry’s scalp like a curtain, revealing the skull beneath, its surface marred by hairline fractures from James Harland’s wrench. Caitlyn’s pen scratched furiously, her ocean-blue eyes locked on the doctor’s hands as she braced for the worst. With a deft crack, Hernandez pried open the cranium, exposing the brain, its folds glistening under the lights. A dark, syrupy pool of blood clung to the dura mater, the brain’s protective sheath—a subdural hematoma, sinister and silent. “Here’s the killer,” Hernandez said, his voice low, pointing to the clot. “The wrench ruptured vessels, blood pooling slowly but relentlessly, pressing the brain till it couldn’t breathe.” The pressure, he explained, squeezed Henry’s brain like a vice, spiking intracranial pressure (ICP), forcing tissue against bone—herniation, a death sentence. Caitlyn’s notepad read: Subdural hematoma, skull fractures, ICP elevation. Her earlier tests showed Henry’s disorientation, calling the day “Friday,” his weak grip—had hinted at this, but the normal pupil dilation masked the bleed’s severity. His tachycardia (115 bpm), clammy skin, and pleas for water screamed shock, the brain starving as blood crushed it, leading to his flatline at 4:37 a.m. Steb, his pen pausing, muttered, “Fucking wrench did that?” Hernandez nodded, “Blunt force on an 84-year-old’s skull—fragile as glass.” The image burned into Caitlyn, her guilt over Hast’s violent interrogation flaring—she’d failed to save Henry, but Harland’s rage had sealed his fate, a homicide charge looming.

Hernandez’s blade then moved lower, the Y-incision splitting Henry’s chest and abdomen, the skin parting to reveal a grim tableau of bruised organs, the air now thick with blood’s metallic tang. Caitlyn and Steb leaned closer, their masks tight, pens racing as Hernandez probed the abdominal cavity. “Look here,” he said, his gloved fingers tracing a ruptured spleen, blood pooling like spilled ink, liver contusions dark against pale tissue. “The wrench’s blows didn’t just crack his skull—they shattered his insides,” he said. The spleen’s tear bled heavily, draining Henry’s system, triggering hypovolemic shock—too little blood to feed his organs. His lungs, speckled with edema, struggled to oxygenate; his kidneys, pale from poor perfusion, faltered. “Multiple organ failure,” Hernandez declared, his voice clinical but heavy. “Shock starved his system—lungs, kidneys, liver shut down one by one.” Caitlyn’s notes scrawled: Ruptured spleen, liver contusions, hypovolemic shock, MOF. Henry’s shallow breaths, clammy skin, and watery pleas during her tests had screamed this cascade, his 84-year-old body too frail to fight. Steb’s jaw tightened, “That old bastard’s wrench did all this?” Hernandez nodded, “The Elderly don’t bounce back—trauma like this is a domino effect.” Caitlyn’s heart sank, her CPR was futile against the collapse, her guilt echoed as she mourned Henry’s loss, Harland’s lethal intent clear for prosecution.

At 5:20 a.m,

Steb lowered the camera, logging photos of Henry’s skull fractures and abdominal trauma for CID. While Vi finally mustered courage, she edged toward the table as Hernandez began sewing Henry’s Y-incision, his needle threading skin with clinical precision, closing the chest and scalp. “Am I missing something here?” Vi asked, her voice drawn shaky, glancing at Caitlyn, who wrote furiously on her clipboard.
“Oh, a lot!” Caitlyn replied, her ocean-blue eyes flicking up, a faint smirk breaking her grief. “You should see how he died.”

Vi shook her head, her gaze skittering to Henry’s half-open body, the stitched wounds a grim map. “Maybe after I overcome this new trauma. A nutshell, please.” She flashed an awkward smile at Caitlyn.
Caitlyn lowered her pen, voice steady. “Cause of death: subdural hematoma, skull fractures, ICP elevation, multiple organ failure—all from Harland’s wrench.”
Vi’s face scrunched, a mix of understanding and confusion. “Oh… what’s a subdural hematoma?”
Hernandez, still sewing, his gloved hands deft, sighed through his mask. “Alright, rookie, listen up. I’ll walk you through it.” Hernandez’s voice, gruff but patient, cut through the room’s antiseptic hum as he stitched Henry’s chest, the needle pulling thread like a somber tailor. “Henry, 84, took a beating from that wrench…”

A moment later, Vi nodded, her face pale, the nutshell sinking in, her empathy raw as Hernandez rolled Henry’s body to the morgue freezer, the gurney’s wheels clattering as he slid it into the chilled vault, the door sealing with a thud. He peeled off his gown, to wash his hands then striding to his cluttered office, where medical books lined shelves, a skull model sat beside a faded photo of his younger self with a lanky, blue-haired Asian man with blue stubble—eerily like Caitlyn’s father, Tobias—both in graduation gowns outside Glasgow’s medical school. Sitting at his desk, Hernandez waved the deputies out. “I was supposed to start three hours later, but now I’m stuck writing this report. Get out.” He grabbed his voice recorder, ready to dictate and type on his computer.

At 5:30 a.m., the fluorescent glow of the County Sheriff’s Office cast a stark light over the weary trio. Caitlyn, Steb, and Vi trudged in from the cold, sterile confines of the autopsy room, the heavy burden of Henry Sutherland’s untimely death weighing heavily on their shoulders. As they stripped off their latex gloves and surgical masks, the discarded items landed with a soft thud into a nearby trash can. Their uniforms hung slightly rumpled, winter beanies nestled snugly into their duty belts. Caitlyn’s eyes tinged with the redness of unshed tears, still stinging from the bitter memory of failing to save Henry during CPR. Vi’s gaze was mottled with the remnants of the autopsy’s grim reality, her eyes raw and haunted.

As they approached their desks, Vi halted in her tracks, spotting Leon emerging from the shadowy confines of the cell block, a printed mugshot of James Harland clutched tightly in his hand. “Hey, Leon, did Harland finally plead guilty to the murder?” she inquired, curiosity sparking in her voice. Leon shrugged, a relaxed authority echoing in his demeanor. “Yeah, he cracked under pressure and sleep deprivation. Admitted everything. Turns out, their grudge stretches way back to high school—Harland bullied Sutherland, fueled by jealousy over Henry’s height, belittling him with taunts of being ‘lanky’ and ‘less manly.’ Sutherland was the compassionate one, never fitting the mold of a ‘horrible manly man’ like Harland. Even at 87, Harland remains that same abhorrent bully, preying on the vulnerable. Unreal.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, he presented the mugshot, Harland’s weathered face glaring back with malevolence.

Steb, cradling a steaming cup of coffee, ambled by, his voice casual but tinged with sharpness. “That's what happens when a bitter, vile person grows old. Guys like Harland prey on the gentle souls like Sutherland, always picking the weakest as their targets.” He leaned against a desk, watching the steam rise from his cup like tendrils of lost hope dissipating into the air.

Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes hardened with resolve, her grip tightening around her notepad. “After witnessing the destruction Harland’s rage has wrought, I’m changing the charge to homicide. Henry didn’t deserve this fate. I will seek justice for him.” Her voice, steady yet fierce, resonated with unwavering determination, the devastation of Henry’s death overshadowing any lingering hesitation about Harland’s age.

Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Incident Report
Report Number: TCSO-2014-0104-002
Date and Time: January 4, 2014, 3:30 a.m.–5:30 a.m.
Location: Edenwald Elderly Living, Men’s Living Quarters, Second Floor, Towson, Baltimore County, MD
Reporting Officers: Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104, Watch Commander), Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219, Rookie)
Assisting Officers: Deputy Stephen Anders (Badge 0092), Deputy Loris Carter (Badge 0081), Senior Deputy Leon Kennedy (Badge 0073), Firefighter EMT Team (Baltimore County Fire Department), Chief Forensic Doctor Jonas Hernandez
Suspect: James Harland, Male, Age 87 (DOB: 06/12/1926, ID Confirmed via Edenwald Records)
Victim: Henry Sutherland, Male, Age 84 (DOB: 03/05/1929, ID Confirmed via Edenwald Records, Deceased)
Charges (Suspect):
1. First-Degree Assault – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-202
2. Abuse of a Vulnerable Adult – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-604
3. Resisting Arrest – Maryland Criminal Law § 9-408
4. Second-Degree Murder (Pending Review) – Maryland Criminal Law § 2-204
Witnesses: Edenwald Staff (Name Withheld, New Hire), Multiple Edenwald Residents
Incident Summary:
On January 4, 2014, at approximately 3:30 a.m., Unit 37 (Kiramman, Bretschneider) responded to a 911 call reporting a physical altercation between two elderly males at Edenwald Elderly Living, Towson. The suspect, James Harland, 87, assaulted the victim, Henry Sutherland, 84, with a wrench, causing severe injuries. Deputies detained Harland after deploying OC spray to counter resistance. Sutherland, exhibiting signs of internal bleeding, was transported to St. Joseph Medical Center, where he succumbed to injuries at 4:37 a.m. Surveillance footage, witness statements, and autopsy confirmed that Harland’s actions led to Sutherland’s death via subdural hematoma and multiple organ failure. Harland confessed to a high school grudge, was charged with assault, abuse, resisting arrest, and was pending murder charges.
Details of Incident:
* Initial Response (3:30–3:35 a.m.): Unit 37 (Kiramman, Bretschneider) responded to a 911 call at Edenwald Elderly Living, prompted by a staff member reporting a fight in the men’s living quarters. Upon arrival, deputies were led to the second floor, where Harland was assaulting Sutherland with a wrench, straddling him amidst scattered chairs. Residents attempted to intervene. Kiramman drew her taser, Bretschneider prepared OC spray, per Maryland Sheriff’s protocols. Kiramman cuffed Harland’s dominant hand, announcing, “County Sheriff’s Office, you’re under arrest for first-degree assault” (Maryland § 3-202). Harland resisted, prompting Bretschneider to deploy OC spray, subduing him. Both wrists were cuffed, double-locked. Bretschneider reported, “Central, Unit 37, suspect resisted, OC spray deployed, over” (3:35 a.m.).
* Victim Assessment (3:35–3:50 a.m.): Kiramman conducted consciousness tests on Sutherland: normal pupil dilation via flashlight, voice-responsive but disoriented (incorrect day, “Friday”), weak motor response, tachycardia (110 bpm), clammy skin, water requests indicating internal bleeding. Kiramman secured the wrench in an evidence bag (“Edenwald Assault, Subject 1, Wrench”). Bretschneider took witness statements, noting Harland’s prior hostility (slurs, food-throwing) and a grudge. Kiramman requested backup and ambulance via PTT: “Central, Unit 37, request ambulance for victim, possible internal injuries, over.”
* Backup and Transport (3:50–4:00 a.m.): Deputies Anders and Carter arrived. Kiramman and Anders accompanied Sutherland to St. Joseph Medical Center with EMTs, who noted tachycardia (115 bpm), normal BP (120/80 mmHg), and blood sugar. Bretschneider transported Harland to the Sheriff’s Office for interrogation; Carter secured the men’s bathroom as the primary crime scene and awaited surveillance footage.
* Hospital and Death (4:00–4:37 a.m.): At St. Joseph ER, Sutherland recounted Harland’s midnight attack in the bathroom, dragging him to the living quarters, and striking his head, confirming a grudge. At 4:37 a.m., Sutherland flatlined despite Kiramman’s CPR (50 compressions). Anders notified Bretschneider via DM, who rushed to the hospital. Kiramman reported, “Central, Unit 37, victim deceased, St. Joseph ER, over.”
* Interrogation (4:45–5:00 a.m.): Bretschneider interrogated Harland, presenting surveillance screenshots (Harland with wrench, 12:03 a.m.). Harland confessed to a high school grudge, bullying Sutherland for height and demeanor. Kennedy continued interrogation, securing a guilty plea for assault, pending homicide review (Maryland § 2-204).
* Autopsy (5:00–5:30 a.m.): Chief Forensic Doctor Hernandez conducted the autopsy, assisted by Kiramman, Anders, and Bretschneider. Y-incision revealed subdural hematoma (cranial blood pooling, ICP elevation), skull fractures, spleen rupture, liver contusions, and multiple organ failure (MOF), confirming wrench trauma as the cause of death. Anders photographed injuries; Bretschneider, shaken, briefly left to vomit. Hernandez logged findings for CID.
Use of Force Justification:
Harland’s resistance (pulling hand during cuffing) and wrench assault posed an immediate threat, justifying OC spray deployment, per Maryland § 3-202 and MPTC policy. Kiramman’s taser draw and Bretschneider’s spray were minimal, recorded by body cameras countering bystander obstruction claims (3:35 a.m.).
Disposition:
Harland detained, awaiting arraignment for first-degree assault, vulnerable adult abuse (§ 3-604), resisting arrest (§ 9-408), and second-degree murder (§ 2-204, pending). Evidence (wrench, screenshots) secured for CID. Sutherland’s autopsy report and photos were submitted. Kiramman, Bretschneider, and Anders to debrief with Sheriff Grayson on elder abuse protocols. Family notified. Investigation ongoing for Harland’s mental competency (possible dementia).
Officer Observations:
Deputy Kiramman (Badge 0104) demonstrated leadership, conducting consciousness tests and coordinating EMTs, her psychology training (2012 UBalt) noting Harland’s grudge. Deputy Bretschneider (Badge 1219) executed precise restraint (jiu-jitsu, October 2013), securing evidence and confessions, her empathy aiding witnesses. Deputies Anders and Carter provided critical support, Kennedy’s seniority (Badge 0073) ensuring interrogation success. Operations upheld in Baltimore’s high-crime context (~1,452 violent crimes per 100,000), post-Parkville scrutiny.
Signed:
Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104)
Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219)
January 4, 2014

At 7:00 a.m,

In the main office of the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office in Towson, the first rays of sunlight crept through the slatted window blinds, casting a delicate lattice of shadows across the sterile, fluorescent-lit room. Cait and Vi sat at their desks, their green deputy uniforms crumpled and rumpled from a grueling night shift spent battling the fury of a relentless blizzard. Cait hunched over her computer, her fingers racing across the keyboard as she poured every ounce of concentration into finalizing the report for the Edenwald Elderly Living assault case. Her hair bun had started to unravel, and dark circles under her eyes deepened, evidence of the relentless hours behind her.

Across the room, Vi mirrored Caitlyn’s exhaustion, slouched in her chair, heavy-lidded and weary, dark smudges adorning her eyes like badges of the night’s labors. The atmosphere was thick with fatigue when Maddie strode in for the day shift, her crisp green uniform a sharp contrast to the night shift’s weariness. As she entered, her vibrant energy seemed to bring life into the otherwise dim atmosphere. Noticing the signs of Caitlyn’s struggles, she offered a warm smile that cut through the morning gloom. “Good morning, Cait and Vi. Tough night, huh?”

Caitlyn glanced up briefly, her discipline threadbare but still intact. Her voice, though dry, was resilient. “It's because I kept working overtime this month.” Her gaze shifted to Vi, whose tired expression mirrored her own, both women carrying the heavy weight of Henry’s autopsy and Harland’s confession like a stone around their necks.

With a deep stretch, Vi groaned softly as she rose, shutting down her computer with a finality that echoed her dwindling energy. “With that said, we’ll see you tonight, Maddie.” Her tone was a blend of exhaustion and camaraderie, signaling the end of their harrowing shift as her energy dipped perilously low. Caitlyn saved her report with a click that felt like a sigh of relief, grabbed her cozy beanie, and trudged alongside Vi to the locker room. Their boots thudded against the linoleum floor, heavy and deliberate, marking their exodus as they readied to shed their uniforms and return home to their humble apartment on Marriott Street, eager for a moment of respite.

In the bustling locker room, Cait and Vi stood side by side before their lockers, ready to transition back into their everyday clothes. Cait swung open her locker door with a sigh, unzipping her duty vest and hanging it neatly on the hook beside her short-sleeved summer uniform. “Oh my gosh, my shoulders,” she muttered, rolling them as she massaged the tense muscles to relieve the ache. With a gentle tug, she loosened the hairband that pinned her hair into a tight bun, letting her strands cascade down. “It’s honestly a pain to keep my hair up for such a long period of time,” she remarked, her voice laced with exhaustion as she began unbuckling her duty belt and unzipping her uniform shirt revealing a base layer, and began peeling off the rest.

Across from her, Vi quickly shed her uniform, revealing her base layer and uniform pants as she unfastened her shiny boots, their polish scuffed from trudging through snow, and kicked them off with a sigh as she sat on a bench, muttered, “I just want to wash my hair and then sleep,” her gelled locks a testament to a different kind of discomfort, a painful reminder of the long hours they had endured together.

At 8:00 a.m.

In the cozy sanctuary of their Locust Point apartment, Cait and Vi finally found solace after a grueling night shift. The soft glow of the snowy harbor filtered through the blinds, casting ethereal patterns of light across their bed, where the gentle, rhythmic hum of the TV enveloped the room in a comforting embrace. Fresh from a steamy shower, their skin still radiated warmth, draped in soft hoodies and pajama pants that felt like a hug after the long hours of work.

Caitlyn, her long blue hair damp and cascading like a waterfall, wielded the hairdryer with deft precision. The warm air tousled Vi's striking red mullet first, sending errant strands dancing in the air before she turned her attention to her own locks. Vi, having already succumbed to the fatigue of the night, slumped against the pillows, her head bobbing and dipping as the TV’s gentle drone lulled her deeper into sleep.

With a tender sigh, Caitlyn set the hairdryer on the bedside table, its cord coiling neatly like a resting snake. She gently urged Vi to lay down, her earlier sternness melting into a sweet tenderness. As she tucked a soft, warm blanket around Vi, their engagement rings caught the dim light, glinting like promises made in the quiet of the night. Leaning in, Caitlyn pressed a soft kiss to Vi’s forehead, whispering, “Sweet dreams, Vi,” her voice a soothing balm against the chaos of the outside world.

Curling up beside Vi, Caitlyn nestled her head against Vi’s shoulder, their bodies entwined, finally surrendering to the peaceful sleep they so deeply deserved after a night filled with turmoil…

Chapter Text

At 7:30 a.m., Saturday, January 4, 2014,

In the hushed sanctuary of their snug apartment on Locust Point, Baltimore City, Caitlyn finally surrendered to exhaustion, her heavy eyelids fluttering shut. The haunting shadows of her ocean-blue eyes deepened into dark circles, a testament to the turmoil within. The shattering news of Henry Sutherland's death at St. Joseph Medical Center loomed large, entwined with the guilt that gnawed at her from the violent Hast interrogation. The stress wrapped around her like a suffocating shroud, dragging her into a restless slumber.

In the depths of her dream, Caitlyn found herself encased in her familiar green deputy uniform, the duty belt a burdensome anchor around her waist. She sat alone on a hard plastic chair in an endlessly elongated hallway of St. Joseph Medical Center, the sterile fluorescent lights flickering overhead like a bad omen. Her phone lay heavy in her gloved hand, its screen dark and void as she anxiously awaited Vi’s longed-for message, the silence pressing in around her like a dense fog.

A sudden, chilling beep sliced through the oppressive stillness, a piercing sound echoing from the ward behind her—the unmistakable flatline of a heart monitor. Panic surged through her veins, propelling her from the chair as her training kicked in. She dashed toward the ward door, fingers fumbling with the cold doorknob, only to find it locked, the metal unyielding beneath her frantic touch.

Without a second thought, Caitlyn ripped the window breaker from her duty belt, its weight still reminiscent of countless rehearsals. She smashed the small window of the door, the glass exploding into a cascade of crystalline shards that fell like brittle snowflakes. Reaching through the jagged frame, her scarred forearm brushed against the metal, steady and deliberate as she twisted the lock from inside. The door creaked open, and without hesitation, she raced to the hospital bed, her heart pounding at the sight of Henry lying vulnerable in a patient attire. His frail body, bruised and still, bore witness to his struggle, white stubble stark against his pallid skin.

“I’ll save you, Henry! Stay with me! Don’t die on me this time!” she cried out, her voice raw with desperation. With trembling hands, she pressed down on his chest in measured rhythm, counting each compression—one, two, three—as beads of sweat formed on her forehead, rolling down her nose and splashing onto Henry's wounded chest.

From the shadows, a faceless doctor emerged, wielding an AED kit. “Ready, clear!” he barked, urgency lacing his tone. The first shock jolted Henry’s body, his chest lifting under the force, but the monitor remained stubbornly flat. As the doctor prepared for a second shock, Henry’s visage morphed—his stubble fading to reveal Caitlyn’s own features, her long blue hair cascading freely, a medical eyepatch obscuring her left eye. She was a terrifying reflection of her deepest fears—losing what she cherished the most.

In a heart-stopping moment, this dream-Caitlyn, battle-scarred and fierce, clutched her own throat with one hand, squeezing tightly as if to silence her own desperation. Caitlyn gasped, panic surging as she clawed at that oppressive hand, her voice a desperate plea, “I just want to save Henry! Please, let me go—I can’t breathe!” Her lungs burned as reality slipped through her fingers, her vision warping into a haze.

“You can’t save everyone—least of all yourself, Sheriff Kiramman!” the dream-Caitlyn barked, her voice an unsettling echo of Henry’s, accusatory and rasping. With a sudden jerk, the duvet was yanked away, revealing a missing left leg alongside the patched eye, a harrowing vision of Caitlyn’s darkest fear—losing herself to duty, a fate she’d narrowly escaped in the Hast case. Overwhelmed, Caitlyn crumpled, her dream unraveling like a fragile thread as she jolted awake in her apartment, her heart racing, panting, and beads of sweat dotting her brow.

At 11:35 a.m.

Vi, nestled beside her in a tank top and shorts, her red mullet tousled and her grey eyes laced with concern, stirred at the sound of Caitlyn’s distress. Instinctively, she reached out, her hand gently patting Caitlyn’s back, her voice warm and soothing in the night. “Cait, you had a nightmare?” Her empathy, shaped by her own battles, recognized the heavy toll of Henry’s death looming over them.

Caitlyn nodded as she pressed her hand onto her left eye to ensure that her left eye was still intact. Her voice trembling, tears pooling in her eyes. “Yeah… Henry, the hospital… I couldn’t save him. Then I saw myself with one eye, one leg—I’m so scared, Vi,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Vi stirred beside her, eyes bleary from only four hours of sleep. Despite her exhaustion, Vi’s empathy surged, her own trauma resonating. She sat up, wrapping Caitlyn in a tight hug, her hand brushing Caitlyn’s back gently to calm her nerves. “I’m here, Cait. You don’t have to be scared anymore. I’ll always be here to kill those monsters,” Vi said, her voice drawl warm and steady. She eased Caitlyn back onto the bed, lying beside her. “If you’re scared to sleep again, hold my hand tight—I’ll give you my strength.” Her engagement ring glinted as she interlaced her fingers with Caitlyn’s, her eyes slowly closing, heavy with fatigue.
Caitlyn, staring at Vi’s sleepy face, furrowed her brows, her voice soft but raw. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, Vi. I’m so sad after Henry died. I only met him last night, but it feels like I lost someone close. Things that used to make me happy… they don’t work anymore.”

Vi, eyes still closed, her voice a gentle murmur, replied, “Cait, I felt that when my mom passed at St. Joseph. That’s PTSD. You need to talk to Sarge Wang—he can write a letter for the Sheriff’s Office therapist. They’re pros. Without them, I’d still be stuck on shooting Hector Hernandez dead in my hands.” She yawned, her words slowing. “But first, sleep. Let your mind clear the bad stuff…” Her snores took over, her face softening into a silly, open-mouthed slumber.
Caitlyn’s lips curved faintly as she leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Vi’s lips, whispering, “I will, after I sleep properly.” Holding Vi’s hand tightly, her engagement ring warm against Vi’s, she closed her eyes, letting sleep pull her under, a brief refuge from Baltimore’s snowy, crime-lit chaos.

At 6:30 p.m., Sunday, January 5

In the bustling main office of the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office in Towson, Sergeant Wang concluded his daily briefing, his authoritative voice echoing through the room of deputies clad in green uniforms. He emphasized strengthening patrols in small towns like Cockeysville and Parkville, where shoplifting and nighttime burglaries were spiking, a ripple effect of Baltimore’s crime wave. Deputies nodded, their duty belts clinking.

After the briefing ended, Caitlyn knocked on Wang’s door, her discipline steady but her heart racing, ready to discuss her mental health struggles—nightmares, guilt over Hast’s interrogation, and Henry’s death. Vi leaned forward, concern flickering as Caitlyn entered. Her curious eyes watched Caitlyn through the narrow gaps in the window blinds covering Wang’s office, worried for her fiancée’s distress as she sat on her desk.

Thirty minutes later, at 7:00 p.m., Caitlyn emerged, a sigh of relief softening her face as she walked back to her desk, her boots clicking on the linoleum. Vi swiveled in her chair, her voice laced with curiosity and concern. “So, Cait, what’d Sarge say?”
Caitlyn slid into her chair, her voice calm but tired. “Wang agreed to three weeks of therapy sessions for me. He ordered me off patrols and reassigned me as a dispatcher to answer 911 calls once therapy starts. Says it’ll keep me from doing something stupid under stress.”

Vi’s brows furrowed, her lips pouting. “Does that mean I won’t see you for three weeks?”
Caitlyn chuckled, her ocean-blue eyes softening. “Silly, you’ll hear my voice through the PA and your PTT. I’ll just be in the dispatcher room, not out patrolling. Best part? No constant overtime. Come on, let me show you where it is.” She rose, motioning Vi to follow, their engagement rings glinting as they crossed the office.

Caitlyn led Vi through a heavy steel door marked “Dispatch Center,” tucked off the main office hallway, its frosted glass window etched with the Sheriff’s star. The room, a compact nerve center, hummed with quiet efficiency, bathed in the soft glow of fluorescent lights and the blue flicker of computer monitors. The air smelled faintly of coffee and electronics, a low buzz of radio static underscoring the space. Three dispatchers sat at a long, curved desk, each facing a bank of three monitors displaying maps, call logs, and unit statuses.

Their headsets, wired to Motorola consoles, crackled with incoming 911 calls, their fingers flying over keyboards, logging incidents in real-time. A large digital map of Baltimore County dominated one wall, red and blue dots pulsing to mark patrol units—Unit 37 (Caitlyn and Vi’s) now idle, Unit 47 (Steb’s) active in Parkville. A smaller screen showed live feeds from precinct cameras.

The dispatchers, clad in civilian polos with Sheriff’s Office patches, worked with focused intensity. One, a woman in her 30s, spoke into her headset, her voice calm: “Unit 42, respond to shoplifting, 2300 block, Cockeysville, suspect fleeing on foot, over.” Her monitor displayed a call log: 01/06/2014, 19:05, Shoplifting, Code 10-16. Another dispatcher, a man with glasses, typed coordinates, dispatching a unit to a burglary in Dundalk, his PTT buzzing: “Unit 19, 10-14, Dundalk, proceed with caution, over.” The third, a younger woman, monitored a traffic accident feed, her screen flashing GPS data.

The room’s walls were lined with metal filing cabinets stuffed with call records, a whiteboard scrawled with shift schedules and emergency codes, and a coffee machine gurgling in the corner, its pot half-empty. A small window, frosted by snow, let in slivers of the blizzard’s glow. Caitlyn pointed to an empty station, its chair worn but ready. “That’s where I’ll be—taking calls, coordinating units, no chasing suspects in the snow.” She smirked.
Vi grinned, her grey eyes brightening. “Sounds like a break, but I’ll miss you out there, T.O.”

At 7:10 pm

As they strolled through the dimly lit corridor of the sheriff’s office, Vi leaned in close to Caitlyn, the drawl in her voice laced with curiosity. “So, when does this new dispatcher role start, Cait?”

“After our days off, Monday and Tuesday, Boot,” Caitlyn replied, her tone sharp as she meticulously organized a cluttered stack of papers on her desk. “But let’s focus on today’s work; it’s easy work.” She gestured for Vi to follow her as they made their way to the parking lot. Vi muttered under her breath, her voice barely more than a whisper, “Cait, I don’t trust you with ‘easy work.’” Her steps were light, yet a hint of skepticism clung to her like a shadow.

Caitlyn shot her a sidelong glance. “I heard that, Boot. No patrol today—Sarge banned it because the blizzard paralyzed most of the roads. Only a few are safe enough to drive on. We’re taking the prisoner transport van to the Correctional Center in Towson, which isn't too far.”

She pointed toward the van parked in the lot, a crucial vehicle from their fleet—a 2013 Ford E-350 Super Duty. It loomed in the Sheriff’s Office parking area like a steadfast fortress, its white exterior starkly emblazoned with “Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office” in bold green letters, flanked by the department’s distinctive star logo. Snow delicately dusted its angular frame, while the -15°F wind chill from the blizzard frosted the edges of its reinforced windows. Designed specifically for secure inmate transport, the van measured a robust 20 feet in length, its heavy-duty chassis built to withstand the rigors of both urban environments and Baltimore’s crime-laden streets. The black bumpers bore faint scratches, battle scars from city maneuvering, and a roof-mounted siren, coupled with flashing red and blue light bars, stood ready to pierce through the storm.

The side sliding door, reinforced with steel plating, featured a tinted, bullet-resistant window with a wire mesh interior, ensuring no escape attempts could succeed. The rear double doors, similarly fortified, boasted a high-security lock that required a key fob carried by Caitlyn. The van’s all-season tires, equipped with deep treads, gripped the icy pavement firmly, prepared for Hercules’s wrath.

Caitlyn opened the driver’s door, her ocean-blue eyes scanning the van’s interior with keen assessment. Vi trailed behind, her gaze wary as Cait slid into the driver’s seat. Vi settled into the passenger seat, her attention drawn to the dashcam monitor, which displayed live footage from within the van. She observed that the vehicle was divided into two distinct sections. The rear compartment, accessed through the side or rear doors, was a stark, stainless steel cage, fitted with two benches offering six individual seats, each equipped with heavy-duty seatbelts and D-ring anchors for securing handcuffs. The benches, cold and unyielding, were engineered with security in mind rather than comfort; they lacked any windows to thwart tampering, allowing only narrow slits for ventilation that barely broke the chill of the air inside. The camera continued to record the somber, utilitarian space, a silent testament to its purpose.

At 8:00 p.m.

In the snow-swept parking lot of the Baltimore County Detention Center in Towson glittered under the flickering blue and red lights of a prisoner transport van. Caitlyn’s eyes were sharp as she signaled Vi to escort four female suspects—ages 24 to 30, arrested for drug trafficking, DUI, and assaulting officers at Trader Joe’s.

Vi’s eyes wary, guided the women, their wrists and ankles chained together, the links clinking like a grim metronome as they shuffled from the van’s steel cage toward the intake entrance.

The intake area of the Baltimore County Detention Center was a fortress of function, its cinderblock walls painted a cold institutional gray, the air thick with the sharp tang of disinfectant and the faint hum of fluorescent lights. A long counter stretched across the room, manned by two corrections officers in navy uniforms, their eyes scanning paperwork with mechanical precision. Behind them, a digital fingerprint scanner glowed faintly, a mugshot camera perched on a tripod, its lens glinting like an unblinking eye, and a computer terminal hummed, ready to log the night’s arrivals. To one side, a body scanner loomed, its low buzz a constant reminder of the search for hidden contraband, its X-ray screen flickering with ghostly outlines. Metal filing cabinets lined the walls, stuffed with inmate records, while a whiteboard scrawled with shift schedules and cell block assignments hung nearby, the words “Block C: Full” stark in red marker. A holding area with bolted steel benches waited for the suspects, their chains dragging across the linoleum as Vi guided them in, Caitlyn’s steady gaze ensuring order.
Caitlyn strode to the counter, her experience noting the suspects’ tense postures, her clipboard heavy with arrest reports from the courthouse. She handed the paperwork to the booking officer, a grizzled man with a buzz cut, who scanned each suspect’s driver’s license through a reader, the machine beeping as it pulled names and ages: 24, 26, 27, 30, no priors for three, a misdemeanor for the fourth. “Step up, one at a time,” he barked, as Vi unchained each woman briefly as she kept them in line. The first, a 27-year-old with “Loyalty” tattooed across her collarbone, stood under the mugshot camera. Caitlyn snapped photos—front, profile—the flash harsh against her defiant scowl, the tattoo captured for identification. The scanner whirred, logging prints as each suspect pressed inked fingers to the glowing pad, Caitlyn’s pen scratching details: Tattoo, chest, Subject 3, logged for CID. The NCIC database pinged to confirm identities.

Later, the suspects, their chains clinking, emptied pockets onto the counter—wallets, earrings, a cracked iPhone, a set of keys. Vi, her grey eyes sharp, sorted through a 24-year-old’s purse, her gloved hands pausing as a 2-gram baggie of suspected marijuana tumbled out, its skunky scent cutting through the disinfectant. “Got something,” she muttered, sealing it in an evidence bag labeled “Subject 1: Marijuana, ~2g,” her voice low but firm, handing it to Caitlyn to secure it carefully. Caitlyn logged each item on her clipboard, her sharp eyes catching a suspect’s nervous glance, hinting at more to find. The booking officer issued receipts, sliding them across the counter, as personal items were locked in a storage room behind a steel door, its bolt thudding shut.

A while later, Caitlyn’s face hardened, her eyes narrowing as she snapped on latex gloves, rubbing lotion onto them to ease the invasive task. “Vi, gloves on,” she ordered, her voice steady but grim. “Final body search before cell assignment.” Vi, snapping on gloves, glanced at Caitlyn’s shiny, lotion-slick hands, then her stern face, whispering, “Commander, why do you look like you’re about to put your hand inside someone?”
Caitlyn blinked, a grim smirk flickering. “You’re not wrong, Boot. Female suspects mean checking two ‘canals,’ not one like with males.” She leaned against a stall where the 24-year-old stood naked, shivering on the cold tile, the X-ray scanner humming nearby. Vi’s face greened, her face clashing with disgust. “This ‘easy work’ is just…”

Caitlyn’s smirk widened, her discipline unmoved. “Sheriff deputies are not just beat officers like BPD. We’re prison officers too, Boot. Last time, I found a plastic tube—narcotics and a blade—from a suspect’s vagina, thanks to the X-ray. Guess who had to fish it out?” She raised her eyebrows, mockingly savoring Vi’s horror.

Vi pouted, her hands trembling as Caitlyn commanded the suspect, “Bend down, spread.” Vi, grimacing, conducted the vaginal and anal cavity search under Caitlyn’s watchful eye, the scanner confirming no hidden items. The 27-year-old’s search revealed a baggie of pills taped to her thigh, its outline glowing on the X-ray screen. Caitlyn seized it, bagging it as “Subject 3: Pills, ~10 units,” for CID, her eyes noting the suspect’s clenched jaw.
A moment later, a corrections nurse, her clipboard ready, checked each suspect’s vitals—blood pressure, pulse, no visible injuries, though the 26-year-old’s pulse hit 90 bpm, anxiety spiking, Cleared, the women were handed orange jumpsuits, standard for pre-trial detainees, and slip-on shoes, their street clothes bagged and labeled. Caitlyn verified compliance, her pen checking off each step.
Vi, her eyes steady despite the ordeal, re-chained the suspects, their jumpsuits rustling as she led them to the women’s cell block, a labyrinth of steel doors under CCTV watch. Each was assigned a single cell, pending arraignment, their charges logged into the system: drug trafficking, DUI, assault, plus possession for two. Caitlyn, at the terminal, finalized the booking report, noting the marijuana and pills for the district attorney. She pressed her PTT, reporting, “Central, Unit 37. Four suspects processed at Detention Center, evidence secured, body cameras active, over.” The dispatcher replied, “10-4, Unit 37, logged.”

At 8:30 p.m.

In the stark, echoing corridors of the Baltimore County Detention Center, Caitlyn and Vi meticulously escorted four female suspects through the women’s cell block.

The women’s cell block resembled a fortress of cold efficiency, its gray cinderblock walls stretching into a convoluted maze of sturdy steel doors, each marked with a bold number and a small, wire-meshed window that offered a glimpse of the stark interiors. The corridor, dimly lit by flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed like incessant flies, was under constant surveillance by CCTV cameras mounted high above, their red lights blinking ominously like unyielding sentinels. The floor, a scuffed expanse of linoleum polished to a dull sheen, echoed with the rhythmic clatter of the suspects’ chains as Caitlyn and Vi marched them forward, their boots thudding in a synchronized beat that underscored the somber atmosphere. A faint, chilling draft carried the harsh scent of bleach and sweat, mingling distressingly with the low hum of a distant HVAC system struggling valiantly against the winter’s relentless chill. Cells lined both sides of the corridor; some inmates peered through small slits, their whispered conversations hushed as the deputies passed, their faces a mixture of curiosity and resignation. A corrections officer trailed behind, his crisp navy uniform sharp against the bleak backdrop, keys jangling on a heavy ring clipped to his belt, poised to unlock bars that separated them from freedom. Overhead, a speaker crackled intermittently with shift updates, while a whiteboard at the corridor’s end meticulously listed cell assignments and warnings: Block C: No contraband violations. The suspects, swathed in orange jumpsuits, shuffled nervously, their slip-on shoes squeaking uneasily, the weight of their charges evident in their tense, darting glances.

Caitlyn, her discipline resolute despite the shadows of PTSD lingering at the edges of her mind, led the first suspect to Cell C-12. She unlocked the door with a key fob, the heavy steel door sliding open with a grinding clank that resonated through the corridor. “Inside,” she ordered, her voice firm as she noted the suspect’s clenched fists trembling with anxiety. Vi stood at the ready, unchaining the suspect's wrists with deft movements, guiding her into the cramped 8x10-foot cell—a stark, bare space furnished only with a steel bunk, a thin mattress, a stainless steel toilet, and sink, all lit by a harsh, caged bulb that cast harsh shadows. Caitlyn slid the door shut, the lock snapping into place with a finality that echoed in her ears. “Boot, repeat ten more times, then we’re home,” she said, her eyes flickering with the weariness of her shift.

Vi sighed heavily, the sound laden with both fatigue and frustration. “Ten more, huh?” She moved to the next suspect, guiding her with an unyielding hand to Cell C-13. The process repeated—unchain, escort, lock—each heavy thud of a closing door echoing the grueling monotony of their shift. The remaining suspects, including a 27-year-old sporting a prominent “Loyalty” tattoo, were secured in cells C-14 and C-15. Vi diligently logged each assignment in her notepad for CID, her handwriting neat despite the pressure of the moment.

At midnight, after they finished securing all the suspects in their cells, Cait turned to Vi with a playful smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So, how was your first night as a correctional officer?” she casually inquired, tossing her latex gloves into a nearby trash can as if shedding the weight of the moment.

Vi, removing her beanie and running a hand through her hair, looked distinctly uneasy. “I’ve seen way too many vuvus and naked bodies tonight—more than I ever should have. It's absolutely disgusting! Honestly, I’d prefer facing guns and drugs over witnessing so many genitalia. I’m sticking with patrol!” She opened the door to the parking lot with Cait trailing behind her.

On their day off, Monday, January 6, in their cozy Marriott Street apartment, Vi noticed the deepening toll of Henry’s death on Caitlyn. The morning light filtered softly through the blinds, casting gentle shadows across their bed, where Caitlyn lay, sobbing quietly. Her once vibrant ocean-blue eyes were rimmed red with silent grief. The laughter and joy that once came so easily, sparked by Vi’s playful banter and their movie night had turned into a dull echo that failed to pierce Caitlyn’s cloud of despondency. Vi reached out to hug Caitlyn tightly, her arms a warm and steadfast anchor. “I’ll be there for you till the end of the world,” Vi whispered, holding Caitlyn close until her sobs quieted, her own trauma resonating in the depths of shared sorrow.

At 4:00 p.m., Thursday, January 9

In a tranquil therapy room at the Sheriff’s Office, Caitlyn sat clothed in soft, casual attire, her long hair cascading gently over her shoulder in a messy braid. Across from her, the therapist, a middle-aged woman with a compassionate expression, listened intently as Caitlyn fidgeted, her fingers twisting nervously together. The room, bathed in the warm glow of softly lit lamps, felt like a small sanctuary. Its beige walls were adorned with calming landscape prints, offering a glimpse of nature’s serenity. A plush chair, inviting and comfortable, sat across from the worn couch where Caitlyn perched, a box of tissues perched on a side table, a silent witness to her turmoil. The faint, soothing scent of lavender lingered in the air, intended to evoke tranquility, yet Caitlyn's mind remained in disarray, haunted nightly by vivid nightmares replaying the harrowing moments of Henry’s death.

With a voice barely above a whisper, Caitlyn confessed, “Henry’s death repeats in my dreams every night—the wrench, his face, the blood. I couldn’t save him, no matter how hard I tried with CPR.”

The therapist, maintaining a steady, reassuring presence, leaned slightly forward. Her notepad rested lightly on her lap as she spoke, her tone calm and measured. “Cait, the moment Harland struck Henry with that wrench, his fate was sealed. There was nothing more you could do. Please don’t burden yourself with guilt for what you couldn’t accomplish—focus instead on what you did. You followed protocol meticulously: you detained Harland, ensured Henry reached the hospital, and sought justice for him. I can assure you, Henry would be grateful, looking down upon you from wherever he is. You’re embodying the principles of a dedicated deputy. Come back next time, and we’ll continue to navigate this together.”

Caitlyn nodded, her eyes softening as a flicker of relief began to lift the weight from her furrowed brow. The therapist’s words, steeped in cognitive reframing, gradually shifted her focus from guilt to a sense of duty.

As Cait stood to leave, she glanced around the room in anticipation of returning to her duties, her new role as a dispatcher looming on the horizon. Her gaze landed on a poster hanging on the wall, adorned with an image of a golden retriever affectionately licking a person amidst tears. Beneath the heartwarming image, the words “Emotional Support Animal” stood out prominently. Intrigued, Caitlyn turned to the therapist with a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Emotional support animal, what’s this program all about? Can I have a dog with me? Perhaps a bunch of golden retriever puppies could bring joy back into my life, because right now, nothing seems to matter anymore.” A spark flickered in her eyes as she looked at the dog on the poster, its joyful expression resonating with her yearning for happiness.

The therapist nodded, a warm smile gracing her face. “Absolutely. Emotional support animals can be incredibly beneficial for individuals dealing with PTSD like you. Studies have shown that they can significantly reduce anxiety and enhance mood, aiding in the healing process. I can write you a letter to facilitate this. Once approved, they’ll direct you to a local animal shelter where you can choose a dog, likely one that has been trained specifically for support. It’s not just about finding happiness—it’s about grounding you and providing a sense of purpose.” Caitlyn felt a wave of excitement swell within her, the smile of the golden retriever on the poster igniting a flicker of joy—the first she had felt in days.

At 7:00 p.m,

In the softly illuminated dispatch center of the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office, Caitlyn settled into her new dispatcher station, her crisp uniform sharp against the backdrop of the bustling room. She adjusted her headset, its cushioning snug around her ears, and cast her eyes over the bank of three screens before her. Each monitor displayed crucial information. The atmosphere hummed with the low, steady buzz of radio static, while the air was scented with a mix of freshly brewed coffee and the electric buzz of technology qs two other dispatchers typed rapidly, their fingers a blur as they coordinated units in the ongoing snowy chaos outside.

Suddenly, her screen flashed to life—an incoming 911 call from Carrabba’s Italian Grill in Overlea. Caitlyn clicked to answer, her voice ringing with professionalism, yet infused with warmth. “911, what’s your emergency? Do you need police or an ambulance?”

A man’s urgent voice crackled through the line, laced with panic. “Police! Two guys are fighting in the parking lot—I don’t know what’s happening, but one of them pulled a gun and is pointing it at the other. I’m scared he’s going to shoot!”

Caitlyn's heart quickened as her fingers hovered over the keyboard, inputting vital details into the Computer-Aided Dispatch system: 01/09/2014, 19:02, Carrabba’s Italian Grill, Overlea, assault with a firearm, Code 10-32. “Where exactly are you? Are you safe?” she asked, the concern in her tone palpable as she could feel his fear radiating through the line.

“Carrabba’s parking lot! I was with my family enjoying our dinner. but as we're about to leave this is happening! Please hurry—oh crap, shots fired! Send the police now!” he shouted, his voice rising in desperation.

Caitlyn’s hands flew over the keyboard, her mind racing as she broadcast via the PA system, her voice steady and authoritative. “All units, Code 10-32, shots fired at Carrabba’s Italian Grill, Overlea. Two males are involved in a fight, one armed with a firearm. Respond immediately, over.” She typed with urgency: Suspect with gun, critical situation, units dispatched. Turning her attention back to the caller, she spoke in a calm yet reassuring tone, “Police are on the way. Stay where you are and do not go outside, okay?” Her words aimed to envelop him in a sense of security. “I will,” he replied, his voice trembling, thick with fear as he hastily ended the call.

Meanwhile, in a sleek Ford interceptor tearing through the snowy streets of Baltimore, Vi sat in the passenger seat of Unit 47, her eyes intensely focused on the road ahead. Snowflakes swirled in the air, illuminated by the flashing lights of their patrol vehicle. Steb, gripping the steering wheel with determination, navigated the slick roads, while Loris, stationed in the back seat, intently monitored the radio for any updates. The hum of the engine combined with the crackle of static created a tense atmosphere in the vehicle.

Vi seized the PTT button, her voice cutting through the vehicle’s chatter with authority. “Central, Unit 47 en route, over.” There was a slight pause before she pressed the button again, a playful grin tugging at her lips as she added, “Cait, it’s so weird hearing your voice through the PA, over.”

Caitlyn, nestled comfortably in her dispatch chair, smirked, her voice crackling through the radio with a blend of amusement and professionalism. “Unit 47, you’ll get used to it, over.” The camaraderie between them shone through, providing a brief moment of levity amid the tense circumstances they were racing towards.

At 7:10 p.m.,

in the parking lot of Carrabba’s Italian Grill Steb slammed the brakes of the Interceptor, its blue and red lights flashing across the icy lot. Vi and Loris leapt out behind their door as Steb crouched behind the driver’s door as a shield. All three drew their Glock 17 pistols and aimed at a suspect, a man in his 30s, clutching a semi-automatic handgun, pointing it at another man amidst snowdrifts.

Steb seized the PA system’s handheld mic, his voice booming through the Interceptor’s speaker, sharp and commanding. “Sheriff’s Office, drop your weapon on the floor now!”
The suspect, breath fogging in the cold, froze, eyes darting to the deputies. Slowly, he lowered his handgun, letting it fall to the icy pavement with a dull clunk, hands shooting up. Steb’s voice rang out again, “Lift your shirt—slowly!” The suspect complied, revealing no hidden weapons under his jacket. Steb nodded to Vi, “Go.”
Vi, her eyes locked on the suspect, moved cautiously with Steb, pistols steady, boots crunching ice. “Kneel on the ground now,” Steb ordered, his tone ironclad. The suspect dropped to his knees, hands high, as Vi holstered her pistol, snapping handcuffs from her duty belt. With a swift clink, she cuffed his wrists, twisting her key to double-lock them, preventing slippage. Vi and Loris then hoisted him, his jacket dusted with snow, and guided him to the Interceptor’s steel prisoner cage, its door slamming shut.
Vi pressed her PTT , her voice firm. “Central, Unit 47. Suspect detained at Carrabba’s Italian Grill, Overlea, weapon recovered, over.” She began taking the suspect’s statement, while Loris approached witnesses—a family in their car, the father who’d called 911, and restaurant staff—notebooks out.

In the dispatch center at the Sheriff’s Office, Caitlyn sat at her station, her fingers danced across the keyboard, logging Vi’s update into the CAD system: 01/09/2014, 19:10, Carrabba’s, Overlea, suspect detained, firearm recovered, Code 10-32 resolved. She pressed her PTT, voice calm and professional. “Central to Unit 47, suspect detention logged, proceed with statements and evidence collection, over.”

At 7:15 p.m.

Vi stood before their interceptor where the suspect had been detained. She opened the door with a firm grip, her notepad at the ready, and asked, “So tell me what’s going on? Why did you point a gun at that guy?” She flipped open her notepad, pen poised to take statements.

“He is my brother!” the suspect seethed, his voice a mixture of rage and betrayal. “He slept with my girlfriend, and I caught them red-handed in the grill!” His anger radiated off him like heat. “He told me I was full of shit, then I shoved that used condom in his face! I work so hard as a truck driver to make a living, barely making it home, only to find out he is screwing my girlfriend while I’m away?!” He continued, veins bulging as he recounted the heated confrontation. “So, I drew my gun to get him the hell away from her!” Vi jotted down keywords like “cheating” while Steb raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the turmoil.

With genuine curiosity, Steb chimed in, “Did she cheat on you?”

“Turns out they were still dating when I first met her,” the suspect replied, his voice rising in fury, fists clenched tightly behind him as if holding back his emotions. “I’m just the third wheel in this twisted mess!” Vi and Steb exchanged glances, both visibly shocked as they took in the gravity of the situation unraveling before them.

Vi gestured for Steb to step aside for a moment, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Damn, Steb, this shit is complicated. Let’s just bring all three of them in to the sheriff’s office,” she said, her expression intense. “But no need for the interrogation room, just bring them to the booking desk will do, because I want to see how this convoluted relationship plays out.” Steb nodded in agreement, a hint of excitement flashing in his eyes. “This night is going to be interesting,” he replied, a smirk forming on his face.

Vi pressed her PTT with a deliberate gesture, her voice crisp and clear cutting through the tension. “Central, Unit 47. Requesting an additional patrol car to Carrabba’s, Overlea, for transporting two witnesses along with the suspect, over.” She paused, a grin almost creeping in as she added, “Cait, we’ve got some top-tier gossip tonight at the Sheriff’s Office, over.”

Meanwhile, in the bustling dispatcher center, Cait’s fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard, logging Vi’s update into the CAD system: 01/09/2014, 19:15, Carrabba’s, Overlea, additional unit requested for witness transport. With a professional demeanor laced with amusement, she pressed her PTT. “Central to Unit 47, additional unit dispatched, ETA five minutes. over.” Cait couldn’t resist adding, “Central to Unit 47, please give me the details about that drama, over.”

At 10:00 p.m.
In the bustling dispatch center of the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office, Caitlyn wheeled her chair over to the door, the headset resting lightly around her neck. Her eyes sparkled with intrigue as she peered through the frosted glass window, eavesdropping on the heated drama unfolding in the main office. The trio brought in by Unit 47—the truck driver suspect, Joel, his brother Joseph, and their shared girlfriend, Catherine—stood near the booking desk, their voices embroiled in a chaotic exchange of accusations. Caitlyn found herself momentarily distracted from her PTSD, caught up in this tumultuous soap opera.

Inside the main office, Catherine, a striking woman in her late 20s with flushed cheeks and expressive gestures, confronted Joel, the cuffed truck driver, her voice ringing clear and sharp like glass. “I didn’t cheat! Joseph came to me first!” she insisted, her frustration spilling over. “Me and Joseph broke up months ago, then I started dating you, Joel then he came along….” The more she explained, the more intricate her story became, a tangled web of overlapping relationships and emotions. Joel, his jaw clenched in anger, shot back, “You’re full of it! I found that condom by my bed! It must be Joseph’s!” Leaning against the wall, Joseph, leaner and quieter than his brother, muttered defensively, “I didn’t know you two were together, man.”

The main office hummed with life, night-shift deputies—Steb, Loris, and others—paused their paperwork, leaning in to catch every word as if watching a gripping theater performance unfold before their eyes like this 👀👀👀👀.

In the dispatch center, Dispatcher Kaye turned her chair, eyes wide with fascination. The monitors flickered with unit statuses and call logs, and the air buzzed with the static of radio chatter, but all attention was riveted on the unfolding drama. Caitlyn and Kaye exchanged knowing glances, the only thing missing from this scene being a tub of buttery popcorn.

Kaye rubbed her chin contemplatively, whispering to Caitlyn, “So, Joseph was dating Catherine first, then they broke up, and she started seeing Joel on the down-low? Now Joseph’s trying to get her back? Cait, it feels like Catherine’s the one stirring this whole mess.” Caitlyn nodded, her ocean-blue eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “I think so too,” she murmured, her voice low and measured, a reminder of her professional role keeping her grounded amidst the chaos.

In the main office, Vi, her eyes sparkling with amusement, stood alongside Steb and Loris, taking statements while absorbing the raw emotions swirling around her. Scribbling notes on her notepad—cheating, sibling rivalry, relationship turmoil—she pressed her push-to-talk button, her tone teasing and playful. “Central, Unit 47. Suspect and witnesses processed, statements ongoing, this one’s a soap opera, over.”

Caitlyn, catching the cadence of Vi’s voice, smirked and pressed her own PTT. “Unit 47, keep it professional, but I’m listening, over.” The deputies chuckled, the office alive with the infectious energy of the night’s gossip, their banter weaving seamlessly into the fabric of a long shift.

At 10:30 p.m.

Vi, her voice steady and commanding, typed with purpose as she addressed Joseph. “So anyway Joseph, your brother Joel is currently in detention awaiting his trial for brandishing a firearm and public disturbance.” Her fingers danced across the keyboard, logging the details: 01/09/2014, 22:30, Carrabba’s, suspect Joel, firearm brandishing, public disturbance.

Joseph’s eyes widened, the weight of the situation settling in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Can I bail him out?”

Vi furrowed her brow, pausing her relentless typing to consider. “That’s ultimately up to the judge. Brandishing a firearm is a grave matter—bail could very well be denied if it’s classified as a violent offense under Maryland law, or if Joel is viewed as a flight risk or a danger to the community. However,” she added thoughtfully, “his record is mostly clean, limited to minor traffic violations. There’s a chance the judge might grant bail, but I can’t guarantee anything.” With a slight shrug, she resumed her typing.

A sense of defeat washed over Joseph as he slumped in his chair, muttering to himself, “I shouldn’t have pursued Catherine… I would’ve stayed away if I had known you two were together.”

Steb, curiosity flickering in his eyes, leaned in closer. “What did Catherine say when you asked if she was with Joel?”

“She said we were just friends…” Joseph replied, his voice trailing off as regret hung in the air.

In the dispatcher center ,Cait and Kaye whispered to each other “yeah ,it’s definitely Catherine’s fault”

Vi turned her penetrating gaze towards Catherine, her grey eyes searching for the truth. “Is that true?” she inquired with intensity. Catherine simply nodded, her lips pressed tightly together, avoiding eye contact, a flicker of shame crossing her face. Nearby, Joel, having overheard the tension in the exchange, glared at the floor, his voice raw and laced with betrayal. “I gave you everything, Catherine. You claimed to love me, but it was all just one of your manipulative tricks.” His words sliced through the thick atmosphere of the office, causing nearby deputies to pause and take notice, captivated by the unfolding drama.

Vi signaled to Loris, directing him to escort Joel for his mugshots, the metallic clink of his chains echoing as he was led toward the booking area, then down to a cell in the detention block. She pressed her PTT button, reporting with a professional tone, “Central, Unit 47. Suspect Joel processed; detained for brandishing a firearm. Statements logged, over.”

In the dispatch center, Caitlyn rolled her chair back to her station while expertly logged the update: 01/09/2014, 22:32, Joel detained, witnesses released.

Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Incident Report
Report Number: TCSO-2014-0109-007
Date and Time: January 9, 2014, 7:00 p.m.–10:30 p.m.
Location: Carrabba’s Italian Grill, Parking Lot, Overlea, Baltimore County, MD
Reporting Officers: Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219, Rookie), Deputy Stephen Anders (Badge 0092), Deputy Loris Carter (Badge 0081)
Dispatching Officer: Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104, Dispatcher)
Suspect: Joel Matthews, Male, Age 34 (DOB: 09/14/1979, ID Confirmed via Driver’s License)
Witnesses: Joseph Matthews, Male, Age 32 (DOB: 03/22/1981, Brother of Suspect), Catherine Reynolds, Female, Age 28 (DOB: 07/10/1985), Unnamed Family (Caller and Others in Vehicle)
Charges (Suspect):
1. Brandishing a Firearm in Public – Maryland Criminal Law § 4-203
2. Causing a Public Disturbance – Maryland Criminal Law § 10-201
Evidence: Semi-automatic handgun (Glock 19, 9mm, Serial #XJ-4729), recovered from scene
Incident Summary:
On January 9, 2014, at approximately 7:00 p.m., Unit 47 (Bretschneider, Anders, Carter) responded to a 911 call dispatched by Deputy Kiramman reporting an assault with a firearm at Carrabba’s Italian Grill, Overlea. The suspect, Joel Matthews, brandished a Glock 19 at his brother, Joseph Matthews, in a parking lot altercation stemming from a romantic dispute involving Catherine Reynolds. Shots were fired, but no injuries reported. The suspect was detained, the firearm recovered, and statements taken from witnesses. Matthews was processed at the Baltimore County Detention Center, charged with brandishing a firearm and public disturbance, pending arraignment.
Details of Incident:
* Initial Response (7:00–7:10 p.m.): At 7:02 p.m., Deputy Kiramman received a 911 call from a male witness reporting two men fighting in the Carrabba’s parking lot, one wielding a firearm. The caller reported shots fired at 7:05 p.m. Kiramman broadcasted via PA: “All units, Code 10-32, shots fired at Carrabba’s Italian Grill, Overlea, two males fighting, one armed, respond immediately, over.” Unit 47 (Bretschneider, Anders, Carter) responded at 7:06 p.m., arriving at 7:10 p.m. in a Ford Explorer Interceptor, lights and sirens active. Deputies used vehicle doors as shields, drawing Glock 17 pistols, per Maryland Sheriff’s protocols.
* Suspect Detention (7:10–7:15 p.m.): Deputy Anders, via PA, ordered Joel Matthews to drop his weapon, a Glock 19, which he complied with, placing it on the ground and raising his hands. Anders commanded Matthews to lift his shirt, confirming no additional weapons. Deputies Bretschneider and Anders approached, pistols drawn, ordering Matthews to kneel. Bretschneider cuffed Matthews, double-locking handcuffs to prevent slippage. Bretschneider reported via PTT: “Central, Unit 47, Bretschneider. Suspect detained, firearm recovered, body cameras active, over” (7:12 p.m.). The firearm was bagged as evidence (“Subject 1: Glock 19, Serial #XJ-4729”).
* Witness Statements (7:15–7:30 p.m.): Deputy Carter interviewed the caller (family in a vehicle) and restaurant staff, confirming shots fired but no injuries. Bretschneider took statements from Joel Matthews, Joseph Matthews, and Catherine Reynolds. Joel stated he brandished the firearm due to Joseph’s affair with Catherine, his girlfriend, citing a “used condom” found by his bed, believing Joseph betrayed him while he was away as a truck driver. Joseph claimed he and Catherine dated first, broke up, and were “just friends” when Joel began dating her secretly. Catherine confirmed this but remained silent on further details. The dispute escalated at Carrabba’s when Joel confronted Joseph, leading to the firearm incident.
* Transport and Processing (7:30–10:30 p.m.): Unit 47, with assistance from Unit 42, transported Joel (suspect), Joseph, and Catherine (witnesses) to the Sheriff’s Office. Joel was processed at the Baltimore County Detention Center, charged with brandishing a firearm (§ 4-203) and public disturbance (§ 10-201). Bretschneider photographed Joel’s mugshots, logged fingerprints via digital scanner, and inventoried personal items (wallet, keys). Joseph and Catherine were released after statements. Bretschneider logged statements into CAD: 01/09/2014, 22:30, Carrabba’s, Joel detained, romantic dispute, firearm brandishing. Kiramman confirmed via PTT: “Central to Unit 47, detention logged, proceed with case file, over.”
* Evidence Handling: The Glock 19, recovered from the scene, was secured for CID analysis, with ballistic testing pending to confirm shots fired. Body camera footage documented detention and statements, ensuring transparency.
Use of Force Justification:
Joel Matthews’ brandishing of a firearm posed an immediate threat, justifying deputies’ drawn Glock 17s and verbal commands, per Maryland § 3-202 and MPTC policy. No physical force was required, as Matthews complied, minimizing escalation. Body cameras ensured accountability, addressing post-December 15 lawsuit scrutiny.
Disposition:
Joel Matthews detained in Cell C-16, awaiting arraignment. Bail decision pending judge’s review, considering clean record (minor traffic violations) but severity of firearm offense (§ 4-203). Witnesses Joseph Matthews and Catherine Reynolds released, statements logged for prosecution. Evidence (Glock 19) secured for CID. Case file submitted to district attorney for review. Debrief scheduled to assess response to firearm incidents in high-crime context.
Officer Observations:
Deputy Bretschneider (Badge 1219) executed precise detention, logging statements with empathy. Deputy Anders (Badge 0092) led with authority ensuring safe apprehension. Deputy Carter (Badge 0081) supported witness interviews, maintaining order. Dispatcher Kiramman (Badge 0104) coordinated effectively, her psychology training ensuring clear communication. Sheriff operations upheld in Baltimore’s crime-heavy environment.
Signed:
Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219)
Deputy Stephen Anders (Badge 0092)
Deputy Loris Carter (Badge 0081)
January 9, 2014

At 7:00 p.m. on Thursday, January 23, in the dimly lit locker room of the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office, Vi stood poised before her locker, her muscular frame weary and aching after a day spent tirelessly pursuing a shoplifter through the snowy streets of Cockeysville. The faint, familiar scent of leather mingled with the tang of sweat in the air as she unzipped her duty vest, deftly hanging it beside her jacket. She slipped into casual clothes, the fabric soft against her skin, seeking comfort from the day's demands.

As she settled onto a sturdy wooden bench to tie her laces, her phone buzzed insistently from her pocket. She pulled it out to reveal a message from Caitlyn:

“I’ll be home late tonight; just go back by yourself, no need to wait for me.”

“Okay,” Vi murmured softly to herself, pocketing the device as she pushed her locker shut with a resounding clang, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room.

By 9:00 p.m., in their cozy apartment nestled in Locust Point, Vi sprawled across the plush couch, the harbor's snowy glow filtering through the blinds, casting gentle shadows that danced in the warm light. The living room embraced her, a comforting blend of worn furniture and a coffee table cluttered with mismatched mugs, remnants of shared mornings and late-night discussions. The faint, sweet scent of lavender wafted from a candle Caitlyn adored, creating an atmosphere of tranquility. Vi scrolled through her phone, her eyes half-focused, the soft hum of the television lulling her into a state of relaxed semi-awareness.

Suddenly, the distinctive sound of a key jiggling in the lock broke the serene moment. The door swung open, and Vi's jaw dropped in disbelief. Caitlyn stood framed in the doorway, radiating an effortless cool in her leather jacket and fitted jeans, her long blue hair cascading around her shoulders like ocean waves. Her ocean-blue eyes sparkled with excitement as she held a black motorcycle helmet in one hand, and in the other, a leash attached to an exuberant little golden retriever. The puppy, fluffy and golden, looked up at Caitlyn with a beaming smile, his tail wagging furiously as he wiggled with sheer joy.

“Meet Grady, he’s our boy now,” Caitlyn declared, her grin infectious as she bent down to ruffle the puppy's soft fur before leading him inside. His tiny paws pattered on the hardwood floors, an enthusiastic soundtrack to this unexpected night. Caitlyn then stepped back outside to her motorcycle, retrieving a bulging bag filled with dog supplies—food, toys, and a leash clip.

Vi, still seated on the couch, blinked in astonishment as Grady bounded over, his energy palpable as he hopped up to lick her face, his warm tongue relentless in its affection. “We have a dog now?!” she exclaimed, her voice a delightful blend of confusion and pure exhilaration, momentarily swamped by Grady’s kisses and the whirlwind of his wagging tail.

“Yeah, he’s my emotional support dog,” Caitlyn replied, her smile broadening as she set down a plush dog bed beside the TV stand. The blue fabric of the bed harmonized perfectly with Grady’s collar. She poured fresh water into a gleaming stainless-steel bowl, placing it near the kitchen counter, where Grady eagerly began to lap up the water, the sound of his joyful drinking echoing in the warm atmosphere. “Therapist got the letter approved. Picked him up from the shelter today.” Her ocean-blue eyes softened, the weight of her PTSD noticeably eased by Grady’s warm presence.

Vi chuckled as Grady nuzzled against her, the puppy’s warmth melting away any lingering weariness. “You’re full of surprises, Cait,” she said, her heart swelling with happiness at this unexpected new chapter in their busy lives as sheriff deputies….

Chapter Text

At 4:00 a.m., Tuesday, January 28

In the enveloping stillness of their cozy apartment on Marriott Street, Vi lay entwined with Caitlyn in the warm embrace of their bed. The soft, snowy glow from the harbor’s lights filtered gently through the blinds, casting delicate patterns across the room. The last five days had spiraled into a whirlwind of joyful chaos since Caitlyn had brought home Grady, their exuberant golden retriever, an emotional support animal. His playful antics had interrupted their moments of intimacy, which were already strained by Caitlyn’s PTSD, diagnosed after the tragic loss of Henry.

Vi, clad in a snug tank top and comfortable shorts, her vibrant red mullet tousled and wild, leaned in to press a tender kiss against Caitlyn’s neck. Her lips, warm against Caitlyn's soft skin, sparked an intimate connection—though it was their first attempt at closeness since the diagnosis had been made.

Caitlyn, dressed in a loose-fitting t-shirt, with her long, sapphire-blue hair cascading over the pillow, lay with her ocean-blue eyes half-closed. She leaned into Vi's gentle caress, finding solace from the nightmares that often haunted her.

But suddenly, a prickling unease washed over Vi, as if an invisible gaze were piercing through the darkness. Instinctively, she turned her head towards Caitlyn’s side of the bed, expecting nothing but shadows. Instead, she froze, heart pounding, before letting out a startled scream, “Ahhhhhh!” Two glowing eyes pierced through the night—Grady’s, luminous and keen like a wolf’s in the dark.

With a panic-fueled motion, Vi rolled off the bed, crashing onto the hardwood floor with a loud thud that echoed around the space. She gasped, her breath quickening as she processed the sudden shock. “Oh my gosh, Cait, your dog Grady’s eyes scared the living daylights outta me!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with sharp panic.

Grady, his fluffy golden fur a mere silhouette against the shadows, padded toward Vi, his expression one of innocent confusion, his tail wagging tentatively as if he were unsure why the situation had suddenly escalated. The crash jolted Caitlyn awake, her ocean-blue eyes wide and searching, clutching the duvet tightly to her chest as a sense of urgency crept into her mind. “Oh my god, Vi, are you okay?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep yet laced with genuine concern, the weight of her PTSD momentarily lifted by Grady’s unwavering presence.

Sprawled on the floor, Vi let out a shaky laugh as Grady nuzzled her hand, his warm, comforting presence grounding her. “I’m fine, just… your dog’s a damn horror movie,” she chuckled, the tension slowly dissipating as the moment turned lighter. Caitlyn, unable to suppress her amusement, chuckled too, the sound filling the room and easing the lingering shadows of anxiety, which had been lighter than it had been in weeks; her therapy and Grady’s companionship were lifting her anhedonia.

Cait tugged the duvet tightly to her chest, a soft sanctuary against the chill of the early morning. Her loose t-shirt shifted slightly as she spoke, her voice a gentle whisper laced with strain. “Vi, I… I still don’t feel ready for anything intimate right now, even though the sadness doesn’t loom over me as it used to. I just need more time to heal.”

Vi exhaled softly, a quiet acceptance settling within her as she acknowledged Caitlyn’s needs, even while her own desires stirred just beneath the surface. “It’s alright, Cait. Your mental health comes first,” she replied tenderly, easing back into the warmth of their shared bed and curling her body around Cait’s—both of their engagement rings catching the delicate, muted glow of the harbor light filtering through the blinds.

Just as they began to drift toward sleep again, Grady, their mischievous golden retriever, seized the moment. He playfully nibbled at Caitlyn’s feet, which dangled just beyond the bed's edge, tugging gently as if to coax her out. Caitlyn’s eyes fluttered open, confusion creasing her brow as she looked down at Grady, his golden fur blending into the shadows and his eyes shimmering like small lanterns in the dark. Despite her fatigue, a loud bark erupted from Grady, jolting her fully awake and sending her heart racing at the thought of waking their neighbors from above, below, and on their floor in the tight-knit Locust Point building. “Grady, no!” she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper but edged with exasperation. “You’re going to get us in trouble with that bark.” Grady tilted his head, his expression innocent yet perplexed, his tail wagging slowly as if to say he was merely trying to communicate.

Caitlyn propped herself up, her voice still thick with sleep. “What’s going on? Do you want to go for a walk?” Grady responded immediately, spinning a joyful circle, his paws pattering on the wooden floor as he trotted eagerly toward the open bedroom door—a clear, enthusiastic yes. Caitlyn gently patted Vi, her eyes brightening. “Vi, Grady wants to go out.”

Vi, still cocooned around Caitlyn, let out a groggy protest, her voice heavy with sleep. “Cait, it’s 4 a.m.—way too early for dog walks.” But as her grey eyes met Caitlyn’s wide, puppy-like gaze, echoing Grady’s enthusiasm, she sighed in reluctant surrender. “Fine, I’ll take Grady out and whip up some breakfast for us, including him,” she grumbled, rolling out of bed and pulling on her jeans and a cozy hoodie, the fabric soft against her skin.

Caitlyn smiled faintly, a warmth spreading through her as the antics of Grady and Vi’s unwavering support soothed the edges of her PTSD, infusing the early morning with a sense of comfort and hope.

Vi, now clad in her oversized hoodie and well-worn jeans, sported her most controversial fashion choice—socks paired with Crocs, a style that Cait vehemently despised. As she clipped a leash onto Grady's collar, she braced herself for their early morning walk, the crisp winter air biting at her cheeks. Grady trotted eagerly down the snowy street, his tail wagging with a joyful rhythm, until his keen eyes spotted a towering pile of snow. With a burst of excitement, he tugged Vi toward the mound, leaping in with the exuberance of a small child playing in a winter wonderland.

Still in a sleepy haze, Vi couldn't help but grin as she watched him frolic, unabashedly reveling in the moment. “Silly boy, but he’s so cute,” she murmured, rummaging through her pocket for her phone to capture this heartwarming scene.

Suddenly, Grady let out a sharp bark, pulling Vi from her reverie. Confusion flooded her as she turned to see a suspicious man advancing toward her, his demeanor unsettling. Instinctively, her hand drifted to the side of her waistband, where she had stowed her brand-new Walther PK380, a gift from Cait. A memory flashed through her mind—Cait’s calm assurance that carrying a pistol was vital for a woman living in Baltimore City for any length of time.

In that moment, the weight of Cait's wisdom crystallized for Vi. Her eyes sharpened, instincts kicking in as she stood her ground. "Get your hands out of your pockets now! What do you want?" she commanded, her voice steady, as if she were still on duty.

As Grady stepped forward, barking fiercely in defiance, the man hesitated, panic flickering across his face before he turned and began to flee, clearly unnerved by the prospect of an encounter with her protective dog. But mid-flight, he dropped a handkerchief and a pocket knife, clattering against the snow.

Vi took a deep breath, carefully drawing her gun while scanning her surroundings to ensure her safety. Approaching the fallen handkerchief, she bent down to examine it, catching a strong whiff of chloroform. Recognition hit her hard. “Fucking hell, that dude was going to kidnap me. Good job, Grady. You’d make a fantastic K9 if you were one,” she said, a sense of relief washing over her.

With a firm grasp on her gun, she pocketed it back into her concealed carry holster, her hand lingering at the ready. “Come on, Grady, let’s make this quick. Go take a pee and a poo, then we’ll head home,” she instructed, her voice firm but affectionate, still alert for any hint of danger lurking in the cold morning air as Grady circled and did his business his instincts unknowingly saving Vi.

At 4:30 a.m., Vi gently led Grady back to their snug apartment on Marriott Street, where the air was crisp at 20°F. The soft glow of the harbor illuminated the remnants of “Winter Storm Hercules,” painting the scene in soothing hues.

Vi, her grey eyes sparkling with an enthusiastic light, animatedly recounted the harrowing encounter from earlier. “Cait, you won’t believe it! Grady saved my life out there! Some creep with chloroform and a knife was edging closer— but Grady barked him off! He’d make a perfect K9, his instincts are sharp as a tack!”

Caitlyn, perched cross-legged on the couch, lovingly groomed Grady’s golden fur with a brush, her laughter brightening the room. “My boy Grady, too sweet for the sheriff's deputy life! Who’s the good boy? It’s you, Grady!” She showered him with affection, rubbing his adorable face as Grady flopped onto her lap, his warm body offering a soothing comfort against her persistent anhedonia.

Watching the scene unfold, Vi couldn’t help but smile. “Cait treats him like her son. I’m so grateful she’s doing better,” she murmured, her heart swelling with relief at Caitlyn's revived spirit. With a soft sigh, she strolled to the pantry, her fingers deftly grabbing a bag of kibble, the sound of it rustling pulling Grady’s ears perked up with anticipation.

In the kitchen, Vi cracked vibrant yellow eggs into a sizzling skillet, the buttery aroma curling through the air and enveloping the small apartment. As she introduced strips of bacon into the pan, the salty, smoky scent began to weave its way around them, and Grady, having polished off his kibble, padded over to Vi’s side. Sitting expectantly, he looked up at her with big, pleading eyes, his tongue licking his chops in anticipation.

Vi caught his eager gaze and let out a chuckle, her drawl firm but playful. “No, Grady, you can’t have this—it’s too salty for you.” He tilted his head, crafting an expression that was a masterclass in canine persuasion.

As she plated the breakfast, the scene quickly transformed into a comedic battlefield. Caitlyn, now seated at the table with her plate piled high, barely set it down before Grady snuck in, wedging his eager face under her armpit. His tongue darted out, trying to swipe at her bacon, while his tail wagged furiously like a golden blur. “Oh my goodness, Grady’s just like my Doberman, Bandit!” Caitlyn laughed, shoveling food into her mouth in a desperate bid to guard it. “Grady, no!” Her ocean-blue eyes sparkled with rare joy, the lightness in her voice a stark contrast to the weight of her past struggles with PTSD. Her therapy and Grady's playful antics were proving to be wonderful salves for her wounded spirit.

With a grin, Vi defended her own plate from Grady’s stealthy advances, enjoying the morning’s cheerful chaos.

At the crack of dawn, at 5:00 a.m., Caitlyn bid farewell to her indulgent cozy pajama pants and matching long-sleeve top, transitioning into a pair of well-fitted jeans and a navy sweater, her uniform base layer snugly beneath them. She let her long blue hair cascade down for a moment before twisting it into a sleek bun, perfectly aligning with her uniform’s requirements. Meanwhile, Vi slipped into her jeans, complemented by a classic black sweater and a matching base layer that hugged her frame comfortably. They carefully filled Grady’s gleaming stainless steel bowl with kibble and fresh water, ensuring he would be well-fed and hydrated until their return at 6:00 p.m.

Grady, their loyal companion, settled by the apartment’s entrance, a plush squirrel clutched tightly in his mouth. His golden fur fluffed up beautifully, and his big brown eyes glistened, exuding a heart-wrenching, sad-puppy gaze as he watched them prepare to leave. Noticing his distress, Caitlyn knelt, her fingers gently patting his head. “Aww, but Mommy’s gotta go to work so we can buy food and toys just for you,” she cooed, her voice laced with warmth and empathy, her ocean-blue eyes reflecting the softness she felt for him.

Vi, crouched beside Grady, rubbed his chin while her voice radiated warmth. “Yeah, Mommy’ll be back soon. We’ll miss you, buddy. Bye!” she reassured him, ruffling his ears affectionately as the tug of empathy pulled at her heartstrings. Yet, as Vi closed the door behind them, Grady’s sad gaze lingered in her mind, igniting a pang of guilt that hung heavily in the air.

Stepping into the brisk morning chill, they moved toward their Interceptor, parked on the snow-dusted street. Vi sighed deeply, sliding into the driver's seat with a thud against the leather. “Cait, I feel terrible leaving him alone. It’s like I’m an irresponsible mother abandoning her child,” she confessed, her grey eyes flicking toward Caitlyn as she buckled her seatbelt in the passenger seat beside her.

Caitlyn, her playful smirk softening the mood, replied, “Maybe we should think about getting him a brother or sister so he’s not so lonely…” Her voice trailed off, leaving room for possibilities. In an instant, Vi's eyes brightened as if a light bulb had gone off. “We could get him a cat sibling! That way we won’t have to walk them both!” she erupted with excitement, her tone thoughtful yet animated. With the roar of the V8 engine cutting through the morning quiet, Vi pulled onto the snowy street, heading toward the Sheriff’s Office for their day shift. “Why does this feel like we’re planning a second kid?” she teased, her playful drawl adding a light-hearted note to their conversation, sparking laughter that briefly filled the chilly air.

At 6:30 a.m., within the vibrant main office of the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office in Towson, Sergeant Wang concluded his morning briefing with a tone of urgency, highlighting the crucial importance of road safety as the aftermath of “Winter Storm Hercules” lingered. The streets, still slick with patches of ice and enveloped in a biting 20°F chill, posed significant challenges for drivers throughout the county.

As the clock ticked towards 7:30 a.m., Vi, Steb, and Loris rolled out in their trusty Ford Explorer Interceptor. Steb, ever the pilot of their patrol vehicle, adeptly navigated the white-blanketed roads, steering cautiously through the picturesque yet wintry landscapes of Baltimore County. They cruised along Glen Arm Road, a tranquil stretch adorned with snow-dusted trees that framed charming rural homes nestled in the serene winter morning.

Suddenly, an extraordinary sight jolted them from their routine. A tall, long-necked creature with a shiny bald head, a distinct white neck, and a wild array of shaggy brown feathers sprinted across the road. Its beak, seemingly intent on troubling passing vehicles, provoked drivers in the opposite lane to swerve sharply, creating a chaotic scene that obstructed traffic. Vi and Steb exchanged wide-eyed glances, their voices spilling out in unison, “Is that an ostrich?”

With a mix of urgency and disbelief, Vi seized the microphone of the PA system, her voice cutting through the morning calm. “Unit 47 calling Central, we have a tall, bald creature with a long white neck and brown feathers aggressively pecking at cars on Glen Arm Road. Requesting immediate assistance, over.”

In the dispatch center—a compact nerve center buzzing with radio static and illuminated by the glow of multiple monitors—Caitlyn sat at her station. Her eyes widened in astonishment as she processed Vi’s seemingly ludicrous report. The other dispatchers, including the sharp-witted Kaye, exchanged amused glances, their brows furrowed in disbelief as the call crackled through their headsets. Caitlyn, maintaining her professional demeanor, but unable to mask the hint of incredulity in her voice, responded, “Central calling Unit 47, is that suspect an ostrich? Sounds like a 91V to me, over.” (Code 91V: animal-related incident)

With a playful smile, Kaye leaned in, teasingly offering her input through the headset. “Unit 47, don’t forget to record this, over.” The dispatch center erupted in muffled laughter, the absurdity of the situation momentarily lifting the weight of their duties.

In the Interceptor, Vi couldn’t suppress a grin, her grey eyes sparkling with mischief as she adjusted her body camera. “10-4, Central, recording active, over.” Steb, chuckling, brought the vehicle to a halt, the snow crunching beneath the tires. Vi then turned on the front speaker, her voice amplified and authoritative as she addressed the intruder. “Sir, stop attacking other people’s vehicles, or you’ll be arrested!” Her tone was undeniably firm, though a smirk danced on her lips at the absurdity of her proclamation.

Steb, unable to contain his amusement, cranked the siren louder, its shrill cry piercing the winter air as it aimed to startle the peculiar bird. The ostrich paused, its beady eyes narrowing as it turned toward the Interceptor's flashing lights. Without warning, it lunged, its beak thudding against the vehicle's hood before targeting the front tire, feathers swirling in its wake. Vi, momentarily entertained, pressed her PTT button, urgency creeping back into her voice. “Unit 47 calling Central, we activated the sirens, and now it’s attacking our Interceptor. Requesting a truck unit with animal control poles to secure the animal, over.”

Dispatcher Kaye, still with a playful lilt in her voice, chimed in, “Unit 47, looks like you’re dealing with a particularly feisty ostrich, over,” as she relayed information on another incident to her co-workers.

Caitlyn busily logged the outrageously memorable ostrich incident into the CAD system: 01/28/2014, 07:40, Glen Arm Road, Code 91V, ostrich attacking vehicles, Unit 47 engaged. With a steady cadence, she announced via the PA system, “All units, Code 91V, ostrich attacking vehicles on Glen Arm Road, backup requested, over.” After a brief pause, she turned to respond to Vi. “Unit 47, Unit 44 is en route, ETA six minutes, over.”
Vi’s voice then crackled back through the radio, her tone growing more strained. “Central, the ostrich is now targeting our front tire, over.” She took a moment before adding, “Central, please check for any early reports of a missing ostrich from nearby farms, over.”

A smile spread across Caitlyn's face, the bizarre nature of the incident offering a moment of levity amidst the stresses of her day. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, searching for recent Code 91 reports in the database. However, no recent farm escapes appeared. She replied, her voice steady despite the laughter in her heart, “10-10, no recent animal escape report found, Code 81 advised, over.” (Code 81: Return to the office)

Suddenly, the ostrich whirled around, its powerful legs propelling it down Glen Arm Road like a bolt of lightning, racing toward Cromwell Bridge Road and Loch Raven. Its feathers were a fiery blur against the glistening snow. Steb slammed down on the Interceptor’s V8 engine, the roar echoing in the icy morning air as Unit 47 chased after the avian fugitive, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Vi seized the handheld microphone of the PA system, her voice urgent yet mischievous. “Unit 47 to Central, we’ve got an ostrich on the run down Cromwell Bridge Road, heading straight for Loch Raven, in hot pursuit, over!” She paused, a cheeky glint in her eye as she glanced at Steb. “Think our V8 can outpace an ostrich at full throttle?”

In the dispatch center, Caitlyn logged: 01/28/2014, 06:22, Cromwell Bridge Road, Code 91V, ostrich pursuit. She replied via headset, voice steady, “Central to Unit 47, pursuit noted, Unit 44 en route, over.”

The ostrich soared down the 695 motorway, sprinting at nearly 40 mph, expertly weaving through the maze of cars in a thrilling escape. The Interceptor’s V8 engine erupted with a ferocious growl, surging ahead to chase the feathered fugitive, turning Vi's playful remark into an electrifying reality.

Moments later, the thunderous roar of a Ford F-150 Police Responder truck, Unit 44, barreled into the scene, its tires screeching as it skidded into position. The ambience shattered as its siren wailed like a banshee, lights flashing like a lighthouse beacon in the pitch-black night, determined to intercept the wild escapee once and for all. Deputy Brad Langford sprang from the vehicle, gripping a six-foot aluminum animal control pole with a noose loop at the end, his wiry frame shivering against the biting cold. “I’ll distract it—get out and help me!” he shouted, his voice slicing through the cacophony of the ostrich’s frantic squawks. With urgency, he dove back into the driver’s seat, cranking the siren to a deafening pitch, then charged forward, pole raised high like a gladiator confronting a monstrous beast. “Come here, you bastard!” he bellowed, frantically waving the pole.

The ostrich, startled, pivoted sharply, its vicious beak raking against the F-150’s hood with a metallic screech, creating a spectacle akin to a colosseum showdown before the trio’s astonished eyes. Its powerful talons scraped the truck's exterior, sending sparks flying and feathers scattering like shrapnel in the chaos of battle.

Inside the Interceptor, Vi’s heart raced, her grey eyes glued to the unfolding chaos. Steb, noticing the ostrich shift its aggressive focus, barked, “Now!” He gestured to Vi and Loris, popping the trunk open with a decisive thud. Loris snatched a ballistic shield, its sleek black surface gleaming ominously in the flashing lights, while Vi and Steb deftly retrieved their retractable batons from their duty belts. They spilled out into the frigid morning, boots crunching on the snow, adrenaline surging through their veins like wildfire.

The trio quickly fanned out, encircling the ostrich in a tense standoff. Vi brought her baton down against the shield with a forceful clang, the sound echoing against the cold air like a battle cry. Steb whistled sharply, and Loris let out a primal roar, banging his baton against the ground, their cacophony designed to disorient the bird. The ostrich’s neck twisted unpredictably, its deadly beak snapping perilously close to Vi’s arm, but her athletic reflexes propelled her out of harm’s way. Meanwhile, Brad, sweat streaming down his brow despite the frigid temperatures, lunged forward with the pole, the noose grazing the ostrich’s neck but narrowly missing as it charged at him, its talons glinting in the light. “Fuck!” he grunted, instinctively diving aside, the pole nearly slipping from his grasp.

Vi’s pulse pounded in her ears as she raised her baton, shouting, “Keep it distracted!” In a moment of desperation, Steb hurled a handful of snow, causing the ostrich to spin wildly toward him and providing Brad with a critical opening. Seizing the opportunity, Brad thrust the noose around the bird's neck, yanking it tight despite the flailing and furious thrashing of the creature. “Got it!” he gasped, every muscle in his body straining against the feathered chaos.

Brad pressed his PTT, his voice ragged with exertion. “Central, Unit 44. Ostrich secured, transporting to Sheriff’s Office, over.”

Caitlyn, sitting in the dispatch center, her eyes glinting with palpable relief, diligently logged the details: 01/28/2014, 06:37, ostrich secured, Unit 44 transporting. She pressed her PTT, her voice steady and professional. “Central to Unit 44, return to Sheriff’s Office, over.”

“10-4!” Brad shouted back, before turning to the trio with urgency. “Open the tailgate!” As Vi, Steb, and Loris rushed to the F-150, they lowered the tarp-lined tailgate with a drawn-out creak. Brad wrestled the obstinate ostrich into the truck bed, its legs flailing wildly, squawking like a demon from the depths of a horror story. He quickly secured it with heavy-duty nylon straps, binding its neck and legs to prevent any chance of escape, the bird’s beady eyes glaring defiantly.

Panting from the sheer effort, the trio finally lowered their batons, their shields scuffed but effective. Steb released a sigh of relief, breaking the tension. “Let’s head back to the sheriff’s office with Brad first, then we can figure out what to do with that beast,” he said, sliding back into the driver’s seat, while Vi and Loris waited for Loris to stow his shield back in the trunk of their Interceptor.

At 8 a.m.
A civilian pickup truck, a battered Chevy Silverado, passed by, its driver and his wife—a middle-aged couple in flannel jackets—doing a double-take at the ostrich in Brad’s truck bed. The wife, her eyes wide, fumbled for her phone and started recording, the lens capturing the bird’s awkward sway. “I’m sending this online,” she muttered, grinning, her voice thick with a Baltimore accent. “This is too hilarious—a damn ostrich in a Sheriff’s truck!” The video, shaky but clear, showed the ostrich’s neck craning over the straps, Brad’s truck marked with “Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office,” and Unit 47 trailing, lights flashing.

In the dispatch center, Caitlyn sat at her station, Her eyes flickered with amusement as she logged the ostrich incident’s resolution: 01/28/2014, 08:00, Unit 44 transporting ostrich to Sheriff’s Office, Code 91V resolved. Her PTSD eased by the incident’s absurdity, she pressed her PTT, voice professional but smiling. “Central to Unit 44, confirm safe transport, over.”
Brad’s voice crackled back, “10-4, Central, ostrich secure, ETA Sheriff’s Office 10 minutes, over.”

At 8:10 a.m.

In the snowy parking lot of the County Sheriff’s Office, the crisp 20°F dawn air carried a surreal hush as deputies and auxiliary officers, bundled in green uniforms and winter jackets, scratched their heads, staring at the rogue ostrich strapped in the bed of Brad’s Ford Responder truck. The bird glared with beady eyes, its talons scraping the tarp-lined bed. Brad, wiped sweat from his brow despite the cold, his wiry frame leaning against the tailgate, while Steb and Loris flanked him, their facial hair frosted, The office, its windows steamed from the warmth inside, buzzed with whispers, the bird a bizarre trophy in Baltimore’s crime-heavy county.

Not far away, Caitlyn leaned against her Interceptor, eyes narrowed as she took a drag from a cigarette, the smoke curling into the cold air. She scrolled her phone, shaking her head as the ostrich’s glare met hers. “Holy—it really is an ostrich,” she muttered, rubbing her temple.
Vi approached with a dramatic “Ta-da!” flourish, pointing at the bird, eyes twinkling with mischief. She leaned against the Interceptor beside Caitlyn, lighting a cigarette of her own, the flame flickering in the wind. “What should we do with the ostrich?” she asked, her voice casual, exhaling smoke.
Caitlyn took another drag, her voice dry. “I was gonna contact every farm in the county to check for missing ostriches, but I don’t need to now. Look at this.” She held up her phone, the screen glowing with a fresh social media post from the Baltimore County Agricultural Center’s Facebook page, timestamped 6:45 a.m. that morning.

Facebook Post by Baltimore County Agricultural Center
Posted: January 28, 2014, 6:45 a.m.
By: Baltimore County Ag Center Official (Admin: Farm Manager Sarah Kline)
Likes: 23 | Comments: 12 | Shares: 5
[Image: A photo of a broken wooden fence section at the Agricultural Center’s exotic bird exhibit, splintered boards scattered in the snow, with a gap wide enough for a large animal to escape. In the background, a snowy field leads to the road, and a sign reads “Ostrich Enclosure – Do Not Enter.” The caption overlays: “ESCAPE ALERT! 😱”]
“Alert: One of our exotic ostriches, ‘Ollie,’ has escaped overnight due to storm damage to the fence! Last seen heading east on Glen Arm Road. Ollie is 8 ft tall, with brown feathers and, long white neck—harmless but spooked by the blizzard. If spotted, DO NOT approach; call Baltimore County Animal Services at 410-887-2345 or 911 if he’s causing traffic issues. Reward for safe return! Thanks for your help, Towson neighbors—stay safe in the snow! ❄️🦤 #OstrichEscape #BaltimoreCountyAg #WinterStormHercules”
[Comments:
* “Saw something like that on Glen Arm—hope he’s okay! Posted 6:52 a.m.”
* “Sheriff’s Office might have him by now—video’s going viral! Posted 7:15 a.m.”
* “Lol, Ollie the outlaw ostrich? Baltimore wildlife at its finest. Posted 7:30 a.m.”]

Caitlyn’s lips curved into a mischievous grin, the post’s confirmation lifting her spirits and momentarily banishing the shadows of her PTSD. “Ollie the ostrich. Figures,” she chuckled to herself. Vi leaned closer to observe the screen, her sharp grey eyes widening with surprise as a soft laugh escaped her lips. “Viral already? Brad’s gonna love this.”

At 8:20 a.m., the chill of the crisp winter air nipped at Caitlyn as she flicked the last remnants of her cigarette into a nearby snowbank, the smoke curling into the frosty atmosphere. She strode purposefully toward the front desk of the bustling office, where auxiliary Deputy Lin, a wiry officer in his 40s with a keen focus, was busy processing a civilian’s lost wallet report. The room pulsed with the rhythmic clatter of keyboards and the distant crackle of radio static, creating a vibrant backdrop for the mundane bustle of the day.

“Hey, Lin, need to borrow the office phone real quick,” Caitlyn said, her voice maintaining a professional yet relaxed tone. “I’ve got to call the Baltimore County Agricultural Center about picking up their ostrich.” Lin glanced up, his expression shifting from concentration to understanding as he nodded, a knowing smile creeping onto his face.

“Sure, madam,” he replied playfully, handing her the phone while continuing to log the civilian’s report with meticulous precision.

Caitlyn leaned against the desk, her eyes flickering back to Ollie, now pecking at the ground outside. She dialed the center’s number from the Facebook post she’d just seen, her heart racing slightly with the thought of the eccentric bird. The line rang, and a woman’s voice broke through, slightly distracted, the hum of a car engine echoing in the background. “Hello, this is Baltimore County Agricultural Center. May I help you?”

Caitlyn’s tone turned crisp, her discipline guiding her as she replied. “Hello, ma’am, this is Deputy Kiramman from the County Sheriff’s Office. We found your missing ostrich, Ollie, earlier today on Glen Arm Road. He’s secured at our office, and I kindly request that you come pick him up soon. Thank you.”

The woman, identified as Sarah, gushed with relief. “Oh, thank you so much! I’m actually driving to the Sheriff’s Office now to—” She suddenly faltered, her voice growing awkward as she realized her slip, the engine’s persistent hum betraying her multitasking.

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, rubbing her temple in exasperation. “Ma’am, I can tell you’re driving by the engine sound, and let me remind you that using a handheld device while driving is illegal,” she pointed out, her tone casual yet edged with authority.

The warmth in Sarah’s voice turned to nervous stammering as she apologized profusely. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—will you give me a ticket for this?” Caitlyn’s lips twitched with a mix of amusement and irritation, her patience wearing thin. “Normally, I’d issue a verbal warning, but if you keep talking instead of hanging up to focus on driving, I might just change my mind,” she replied, her voice remaining steady and calm, but laced with a subtle warning that showcased her commanding presence.

The line went silent for a moment before Sarah mumbled another hurried apology, quickly ending the call. Caitlyn hung up, shaking her head with a smirk as her ocean-blue eyes sparkled with mischief. She turned toward Vi, who was leaning against the Interceptor, the morning sun catching in her hair as she lit another cigarette.

Caitlyn casually patted Vi’s shoulder, her demeanor shifting back to business. “Hey, chainsmoker, get ready to write a report about this little incident. The staff from the agricultural center is on their way to pick him up in their truck.”

Vi raised her eyebrows, a look of disbelief crossing her face. “She told you that she’s driving here?”

Caitlyn shook her head, her lips curling into a wry smile. “No, she is currently driving. She mentioned that as I called her.”
Vi facepalmed, exasperation evident. “No wonder we have so many traffic incidents,” she muttered, glancing outside at the snowy landscape, where Ollie seemed blissfully unaware of the chaos he had caused in the morning.

At 8:30 a.m., a Baltimore County Agricultural Center staff member named Sarah Kline arrived in her weathered Ford F-250, the truck’s bed outfitted with a sturdy livestock cage. Stepping out, she eagerly snapped photos of Ollie with her phone, a smile breaking across her face as she muttered, “This’ll be a story for the Ag Center.” The deputies worked in unison, carefully unstrapping Ollie from Brad’s truck, his powerful talons thrashing in protest as they guided him into the cage, ensuring it was secured with heavy-duty latches.

Sarah bowed deeply in gratitude, her eyes sparkling with excitement, before climbing back into her truck. As she drove away, Ollie’s head bobbed within the confines of the cage, a mix of confusion and curiosity on his face.

Meanwhile, Caitlyn stood at the front desk, arms crossed and her gaze fixed intently on the retreating vehicle. With a sharp pat on Vi’s shoulder, she commanded, “Boot, write the report, then back to work.” Her voice held an edge of authority as she strode toward the dispatch center, headset in place, ready to dive back into her day shift duties, determined to keep everything running smoothly.

Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Incident Report
Report Number: TCSO-2014-0128-005
Date and Time: January 28, 2014, 7:30 a.m.–8:30 a.m.
Location: Glen Arm Road, Cromwell Bridge Road, I-695, Towson, Baltimore County, MD
Reporting Officers: Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219, Rookie), Deputy Stephen Anders (Badge 0092), Deputy Loris Carter (Badge 0081), Deputy Brad Langford (Badge 0075)
Dispatching Officer: Deputy Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104, Dispatcher)
Subject: Ostrich (Named “Ollie”), Property of Baltimore County Agricultural Center
Charges: None (Animal-Related Incident, Code 91V)
Witnesses: Civilian Motorists, Unnamed Family (Caller)
Evidence: Body camera footage, social media post (Baltimore County Agricultural Center, 6:45 a.m.), civilian video
Incident Summary:
On January 28, 2014, at 7:30 a.m., Unit 47 (Bretschneider, Anders, Carter) responded to a Code 91V (animal-related incident) on Glen Arm Road, where an escaped ostrich, “Ollie,” from the Baltimore County Agricultural Center, attacked vehicles. Ollie fled to Cromwell Bridge Road and I-695, pursued by Unit 47. Unit 44 (Langford) intercepted and secured Ollie on I-695. Transported to the Sheriff’s Office, Ollie was returned to the Agricultural Center by 8:30 a.m. No injuries or charges reported.
Details of Incident:
• Initial Response (7:30–7:35 a.m.): At 7:30 a.m., Unit 47 observed an ostrich (8 ft, white neck, brown feathers) attacking vehicles on Glen Arm Road, blocking traffic. Deputy Bretschneider reported via PTT: “Unit 47 to Central, tall bald suspect with white neck, brown fur attacking cars, request assistance, over.” Deputy Kiramman dispatched Unit 44, logging: 01/28/2014, 07:30, Glen Arm Road, Code 91V, ostrich incident. Unit 47’s sirens enraged Ollie, who dented their Interceptor’s hood and tire.
• Pursuit (7:35–7:45 a.m.): Ollie fled down Cromwell Bridge Road toward Loch Raven, then I-695, reaching 40 mph. Unit 47 pursued, Interceptor’s V8 outrunning the ostrich. Bretschneider reported: “Unit 47 to Central, ostrich on I-695, pursuit active, over.” Kiramman confirmed no farm escape reports, advising Unit 44.
• Capture (7:45–7:50 a.m.): Unit 44 intercepted on I-695 with a Ford F-150. Deputy Langford used an animal control pole, engaging Ollie, who attacked his truck, denting the hood. Unit 47 used a ballistic shield and batons, creating a cacophony to distract Ollie. Bretschneider dodged a beak strike, and Anders and Carter disoriented the bird, enabling Langford to noose its neck. Langford reported: “Unit 44, ostrich secured, over.” Body cameras recorded.
• Transport and Transfer (7:50–8:30 a.m.): Unit 44 transported Ollie to the Sheriff’s Office, strapped him in the truck bed. A civilian truck recorded the transport, video later became viral. At 8:20 a.m., Sarah Kline (Agricultural Center) retrieved Ollie, confirmed via a 6:45 a.m. Facebook post. Deputies transferred Ollie to Kline’s F-250 cage. Kiramman contacted Kline, issuing a verbal warning for phone use while driving (§ 21-1124).
• Evidence: Body camera footage, civilian video, and social media posts documented the incident. No charges filed (Code 91V).
Use of Force Justification:
No human suspect; batons and shield distracted Ollie, minimizing harm, per Maryland protocols. Sirens and poles ensured safe capture, body cameras ensuring transparency.
Disposition:
Ollie returned to the Agricultural Center, no charges. Incident logged for public safety review due to traffic disruption. Evidence (footage, post) submitted to CID. Debrief scheduled to assess animal protocols in high-crime context.
Officer Observations:
Deputy Bretschneider (Badge 1219) coordinated pursuit and distraction with precision, her empathy ensuring civilian safety,
. Deputy Anders (Badge 0092) drove with veteran calm. Deputy Carter supported with shield tactics. Deputy Langford (Badge 0075) executed a capture. Dispatcher Kiramman (Badge 0104) coordinated effectively, her psychology training (2012 UBalt) maintaining clarity.
Signed:
Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219)
Deputy Stephen Anders (Badge 0092)
Deputy Loris Carter (Badge 0081)
Deputy Brad Langford (Badge 0075)
January 28, 2014

At 9:50 a.m., Vi sat hunched over her cluttered desk in the bustling main office, her body protesting in the crisp green uniform that felt increasingly restrictive. She stretched her weary limbs, trying to shake off the fatigue that had settled into her bones. The harsh glow of her computer screen illuminated the completed ostrich incident report, its stark whiteness contrasting with the drab surroundings. With a weary gaze, she glanced at her wristwatch, an exasperated sigh escaping her lips. “Why’s it still morning?” she lamented, her voice tinged with exhaustion. Loris, with his bushy beard framing a cheerful grin, leaned close and gave her shoulder a supportive pat. “Vi, it’s gonna be a long day ahead until shift’s end,” he replied, his tone light but knowing.

“Fucking hell” Vi groaned loudly.

At 6p.m.

Cait and Vi sat in their interceptor, comfortably settled in their plainclothes after finishing their shift for the day. Vi was in the passenger seat, groaning as she massaged her shoulder. "We finally get to head home now. Today’s shift was a nightmare—dealing with a crazy guy threatening to kill cops if we dared go to his house. But this self-proclaimed lawyer forgot one thing: once he threatened law enforcement, the Castle Doctrine law didn’t really apply. Luckily, I brought along an oversized can of pepper spray. That bastard got exactly what he asked for," she said, recounting how she had sprayed the man’s face when he stubbornly resisted arrest. Cait, half-smiling thinking about the man’s regretful expression, buckled her seatbelt and started driving back to their apartment. “But finally, Vi, you can understand what I go through when I write those reports." Vi shifted her shoulder slightly. "Yeah, for sure. Honestly, I probably need to hit the gym again. I feel like I’ve lost strength with all this daily work." Cait nodded, eyes still on the road. "Yeah, me too. Although, we do have a gym at the sheriff’s office, it’s inside the garage where the Bearcats are parked, and it’s only for SWAT team members." She sighed softly. "Guess we’ll only find out when we officially join SWAT. That academy training is pretty much the same as Navy SEAL training anyway," Vi said, leaning back on the headrest. "You know, our Sarge Wang actually spoke to me about expanding the SWAT teams beyond the original Alpha, Beta, and Charlie squads to include a fourth team—Echo, their quick reaction force—to help deal with the spike in crime across the county. He mentioned he wants me to be the commander of Team Echo if I can make it through the SWAT academy. And Vi, I really want you to join my team," Cait said sincerely, gazing at Vi. Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Really? When did he tell you that?" Vi asked. Cait hesitated before continuing. "It was after Hast was taken to solitary confinement at our correctional center, escorted by ten fully armed SWAT members. Remember I mentioned that Wang was overseeing my work? Well, he’s the same with his other units too. Maybe someday, we might get the chance to team up with Steb, Loris, and Maddie, instead of just backing them up," she said as she stopped at a red light. She noticed Vi watching the sunset, a grin spreading across her face.

At 7 p.m.
In their cozy apartment on Locust Point, Caitlyn and Vi stepped through the front door after a long, exhausting day shift. But as they entered, they both froze simultaneously, facepalming in disbelief. Their golden retriever, Grady, their emotional support animal, wasn’t waiting at the entrance with his favorite plushie squirrel as they had expected. Instead, he was sprawled across the living room, ripping into the side of the couch, gray fabric shredded and stuffing flying everywhere like a rogue popcorn machine.

Caitlyn hurried forward, gently tapping his head. “Stop!” she snapped, her tone firm but affectionate. Grady froze, his golden fur fluffed up, and his big brown eyes looked guilty as he dropped a mound of fabric, his tail tucked between his legs.

Caitlyn knelt, her ocean-blue eyes meeting his. “Bad boy, Grady! This is our new couch—what made you do this?” she scolded softly but clearly. He tilted his head, eyes guiltier than ever, melting her resolve and softening her reprimand.

Meanwhile, Vi, feeling powerless against the mess, plopped onto the half-destroyed couch, stuffing puffing up under her weight. “Never imagined our new couch would be ruined this quickly,” she muttered, voice thick with fatigue but amused by Grady’s antics. She ran her hand through her mullet, eyeing the damage—a torn armrest, frayed fabric that looked like it had been chewed on.

Caitlyn sighed and sat beside Vi, resting her hand on Grady’s head as he nuzzled into her lap. “Boredom’s his supervillain origin story, Vi,” she said, recognizing his need for entertainment. Her voice cracked with a hint of laughter. “This beats that ‘lawyer’ guy thinking Castle Doctrine is a free pass to threaten us!”

Vi snorted and leaned back, the couch creaking ominously beneath her. “Yeah, or that ostrich trying to turn our Interceptor into a piñata! Grady’s staging a furniture heist—next thing you know, he’ll be running for mayor!” She mockingly held up a campaign poster: “Vote Grady: Chief Couch Shredder!” The two shared a look, their frustrations dissolving into laughter, as the absurdity of the day—Ollie the ostrich, a shady lawyer, and a shredded couch—lightened their mood.

At 10:00 p.m,
After Vi finished cooking dinner—spaghetti with marinara sauce, the kitchen was faintly scented with garlic for Cait, and she finished feeding their dog and walking him at night. She now sat in the bathtub with Caitlyn, with red mullet damp on her head. Caitlyn relaxed in the warm water, long blue hair loose and clinging to her shoulders, ocean-blue eyes softened by therapy, and savored the rare calm.

As bubbles swirled around them, a sudden scratching noise clawed at the bathroom door, sharp and persistent. Caitlyn, naked in the tub, muttered, her voice low with mock exasperation, “Grady…” she said as she clocked the sound as their nine-month-old golden retriever’s mischief. Before she could react, the door creaked open, Grady’s fluffy golden head shoving through, his big brown eyes sparkling with a wicked puppy grin, paws having outsmarted the handle. Caitlyn sprang up, water sloshing, and rushed to block him, her bare feet slipping slightly on the tile. “No you don’t, you furry menace!” she yelped, pushing against the door.

After several minutes of Grady’s relentless scratching, the door now etched with claw marks, Caitlyn sighed, throwing it open with a dramatic flair. “Fine, you nine-month-old pervert, get in!” she teased, her ocean-blue eyes twinkling. Grady bounded in, his tail wagging like a metronome, his “vicious” smile all puppy joy.

Vi, still in the tub, laughed, patting Grady’s head as he nosed the water’s edge. “Grady, you love water, huh? Wanna go swimming next time? Raise your paw if you do!” Her voice is playful. Grady, as if on cue, swatted his paw, smacking Vi’s chest with a wet thwack. “Ouch! My boobs!” Vi yelped, grinning. “Cait, he really wants to swim!” She stood, water dripping, and joined Caitlyn, grabbing a bottle of dog shampoo to wash their oversized pup, his golden fur soaking up suds like a sponge.
Grady splashed happily, turning the bathroom into a soapy battlefield, bubbles flying as Caitlyn and Vi scrubbed him, their laughter echoing off the tiles, a rare moment of joy amidst their stressful life.

At 10:30 p.m
Caitlyn wrapped in a plush towel, long blue hair dripping wet, ocean-blue eyes sparkling with rare levity, grabbed a hair dryer from the counter as she knelt beside Grady, his golden fur soaked and matted, and flicked on the hair dryer, its hum filling the room. A comical scene unfolded—Grady, his big brown eyes wide, snapped at the warm air blasting from the dryer, his jaws chomping like a puppy chasing a laser pointer. Each time Caitlyn moved the dryer to dry his fur, he whipped his head, biting at the invisible stream, his tail wagging like a metronome on overdrive. Caitlyn grinned as she caught his playful defiance. “Buddy, I can’t dry your fur if you’re being like this!” she teased, her voice light, trying to angle the dryer away from his snapping jaws.

Vi, cackling, she darted to the pantry, grabbing a bag of dog treats—peanut butter-flavored biscuits. “Yo, Cait, watch this—Grady’s got no chill!” She waved a treat, and Grady’s head snapped toward it, his focus shifting instantly, tongue lolling as he sat, eyes locked on the prize. The distraction worked like a charm, his air-biting forgotten. “Hey, Cait, I feel like our dog’s gonna be a chonky boy if we keep bribing him like this!” Vi said, tossing a treat, which Grady caught mid-air, crunching happily.
Caitlyn burst out laughing, her eyes crinkling as she aimed the dryer at Grady’s now-still fur, the golden strands fluffing up. “Oh, please, Vi, you’re the one turning him into a treat vacuum! He’s gonna roll into the Sheriff’s Office looking like a furry beach ball!” She moved the dryer, Grady’s fur gleaming, his tail thumping the tile.
Vi, tossing another treat, grinned. “Says the woman who called him ‘our boy’ first! Bet he’d outrun that ostrich we nabbed today, even with a bacon belly!” She flicked another biscuit, and Grady leaped to snatch it.

Caitlyn shook her head, still drying. “You’re gonna spoil him worse than that couch he shredded!” Their laughter echoed, the bathroom a haven of silliness.

At 11:00 p.m.
in the cozy bedroom, Caitlyn and Vi snuggled under the duvet, their bodies warm after a chaotic day shift fading. Caitlyn in her plaid pajama pants and a matching top, long blue hair loose, eyes softened by therapy, nestled against Vi whose eyes heavy with exhaustion, curled into Caitlyn.

As they drifted toward sleep, a soft thud broke the quiet. As Grady leapt onto the bed, his big brown eyes gleaming with a silly, pleading grin. He wedged himself between them, his tail thumping against the mattress, his earlier mischief forgiven. Caitlyn, started to nudge him off with her voice soft “Grady, you’ve got your own bed, you furry troublemaker!” she muttered, her voice teasing, ready to shoo him to his plush bed by the TV stand.

But Grady tilted his head, his goofy expression—ears flopped, tongue lolling—melting her resolve. Caitlyn’s eyes crinkled, a laugh escaping. “Oh, you little con artist,” she cooed, wrapping one arm around Vi and the other around Grady, pulling them both close. “Aww, good night to you too, my sweet baby Grady.” Her tone was pure affection to him.
Vi, chuckling, her voice sleepy, nuzzled closer, her hand ruffling Grady’s fur. “Cait, you’re such a softie for this couch-shredding bandit. Guess he’s the real boss of this bed now!” she pressed her face into Caitlyn’s shoulder, Grady’s warmth a shared comfort.

Grady let out a contented huff, nestling between them, his tail slowing to a gentle wag. The trio settled, their laughter fading into soft breaths, the day’s chaos melting away in their sleep….

Chapter Text

At 5:00 a.m., Friday, January 31

In the sultry quiet of their cozy apartment on Locust Point, Baltimore City, Caitlyn stirred from a dream that set her pulse racing. In the dream, her fiancée Vi pressed against her with searing intensity, lips trailing a slow, hungry path along Caitlyn’s neck, each kiss igniting a deep, pulsing need, a craving for intimacy that had lain dormant under the weight of her PTSD. Her skin flushed, breath catching, she opened her ocean-blue eyes, expecting Vi’s warm touch.
Instead, a wet, eager tongue lapped at her cheek, slathering her face with saliva. It was Grady, her nine-month-old golden retriever emotional support animal, his big brown eyes glinting in the dim light, tail wagging like a metronome, eager for his morning walk. The harbor’s snowy glow slipped through the blinds, the 20°F chill outside a faint contrast to the heat lingering in Caitlyn’s veins.

“Eww, Grady, this is disgusting, my face is drenched—quit slobbering me!” Caitlyn groaned, her voice husky, wiping her cheek with a delicate hand, her skin tingling from the dream’s afterglow. She peeled back the plaid duvet, her six-foot frame languid in silky plaid pajama pants and a fitted top that clung to her curves, long blue hair a tousled cascade. “Fine, I’ll walk you out today, you furry Casanova. Sit and wait,” she purred as Grady sat, his fluffy golden fur shimmering, plushie squirrel discarded nearby, his eyes locked on her with puppy devotion. Caitlyn glided to the bathroom, the cool tile teasing her bare feet, the air laced with lavender from a smoldering candle. She leaned into the mirror, her ocean-blue eyes smoldering as she tamed her wild mane with slow, deliberate strokes, her brush gliding through her hair like a lover’s touch. Splashing water on her face, she washed away Grady’s kisses, her skin still warm from the dream’s heat. Vi slumbered in their bed, eyes hidden behind soft snores, her curves inviting under the duvet.

Caitlyn sauntered to the kitchen, the hardwood creaking under her steps, and poured kibble into Grady’s stainless steel bowl, the clatter a soft rhythm in the quiet dawn. “Chow down, you face-licking fiend,” she teased, her voice a low, playful murmur, leaning against the counter, her silhouette framed by the snowy light, engagement ring glinting like a promise. Grady crunched eagerly, his tail thumping, as Caitlyn’s thoughts drifted to Vi, the dream’s heat lingering,

At 5:15 a.m,

As Grady chomped at his kibbles in his
bowl like a furry vacuum. His golden fur shimmered, big brown eyes glinting with pure mischief as he licked his chops, tail thumping like a drummer gone wild. Caitlyn, still tingling from a steamy dream of Vi’s kisses that had her heart doing somersaults, shed her silky plaid pajama pants and fitted top that hugged her curves like a clingy ex. She slipped into a snappy navy jacket, its fleece lining cozy as a hug, and paired it with jeans that showcased her long legs. Her long, blue hair was pulled into a loose ponytail; her eyes sparkled with a mix of sass and resolve. “Alright, you slobbery gremlin, let’s hit the streets,” she quipped, clipping a leash to his collar.

Outside, the snowy streets of Locust Point were quiet as a bad stakeout, streetlamps tossing golden pools onto the icy pavement like spilled beer. For the first two minutes, Grady was a perfect gentleman, trotting beside Caitlyn, his paws tapping a polite rhythm, breath puffing in the crisp air. Caitlyn’s boots crunched, her thoughts drifting to Vi, still snoring in their bed. But then, as Grady finished his business in a small, snow-dusted bush, his ears perked like he’d spotted a donut truck, locking onto a chonky tabby cat waddling nearby, its orange fur glowing under a streetlamp, green eyes squinting like a grumpy bouncer. With a sudden burst of puppy pandemonium, Grady bolted, his leash yanking Caitlyn like a cartoon character on roller skates. “Grady, you furry lunatic!” she yelped as she skidded, navy jacket flapping, boots slipping on ice, dragged through the snow like a ragdoll in a comedy flick.

They screeched to a halt in front of a modest rowhouse, its brick facade dark until a porch light blinked on like it was judging them. Grady, oblivious to his hulking size, barked with the glee of a kid at a bounce house, his deep woofs echoing, tail wagging like he was inviting the hissing tabby—perched on a fence, back arched like a Halloween decoration—to a playdate. The cat’s green eyes shot daggers, its hiss a sassy “back off, bigfoot!” Caitlyn, panting, tugged the leash, her ocean-blue eyes catching Grady’s clueless joy. “Grady, you’re a tank, not a playmate! Chill, you goof!” she scolded, half-laughing, her ponytail swinging.

The ruckus woke the house’s owner, a middle-aged woman in a flannel robe, her graying hair a wild nest like she’d just escaped a pillow fight. She shuffled onto the porch, scooping up the tabby, who nestled against her with a smug purr. Caitlyn, face flushed, straightened up, her voice dripping with mock remorse. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry. He saw your cat and lost his tiny dog brain.”
The woman grinned, her Baltimore accent thick as crab dip, stroking the tabby’s fur. “No biggie, hon! My Jack Russell’s the same—thinks he’s king of the block, chases her, then gets a face full of claws like he’s in a catfight reality show!” She cackled, the tabby shooting Grady a look that screamed, “Try me, pup.” “Your boy’s got spunk, though!”
Caitlyn chuckled, her ocean-blue eyes twinkling, Grady’s guilty puppy stare melting her heart, his tail thumping like a bassline.

A while later, Caitlyn trudged back to their cozy apartment. The harbor’s snowy glow cast soft shadows, the streets were silent except for the crunch of her boots and Grady’s leash jangling.
Inside their apartment, the air warm with the faint scent of lavender and coffee, Caitlyn knelt to unclip Grady’s leash, his tail thumping like a metronome. She glided to the bedroom, where Vi lay sprawled under the plaid duvet, eyes closed in sleep. Caitlyn leaned down, her breath warm, and gently patted Vi’s shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek, her voice a sweet murmur. “Wake up, Violet, it's time to get to work.”
Vi stirred, her grey eyes fluttering open, a sleepy smile spreading as she returned the kiss, her voice drawling groggily. “Ugh, Cait, I’d sell my soul for five more minutes of sleep.” She glanced at the wall clock—5:25 a.m.—and groaned, running a hand through her mullet. “Oh man, 5:25 already? Guess we’re skipping breakfast, or we’ll never make it to the Sheriff’s Office without being late.”
The couple shuffled to the kitchen, the hardwood creaking, and hurriedly sipped black coffee from mismatched mugs, the bitter warmth a quick jolt. They changed into their uniform base layers with jeans. Grady sat by the entrance, a chew toy squirrel clamped in his mouth, his big brown eyes pleading, tail slowing to a wistful wag, still guilty from shredding their couch.
Caitlyn, grabbing her keys, knelt to ruffle Grady’s ears, her voice playful but firm. “Grady, we’ll be back soon, and don’t you dare turn our couch into confetti again, okay? Bye” Her eyes twinkled.
Vi, chuckling, she added, “Yeah, behave, couch-killer!” Their engagement rings glinted as they stepped out, locking the door, the image of Grady’s sad puppy stare lingering. They slid into their Interceptor, Caitlyn behind the wheel, the V8 rumbling as they pulled onto the snowy street, headed for the Sheriff’s Office day shift.

At 6:30 a.m.

In the bustling main office of the Sheriff’s Office. Caitlyn and Vi stood, clad in their crisp deputy uniforms, the air tinged with the scent of coffee and the hum of early morning activity. Caitlyn poised and commanding, with long blue hair in a tight bun, eyes sharp, adjusted her duty belt. A new corporal insignia—a chevron patch on her sleeve—caught the light, her recent promotion a testament to her leadership. Vi, eyes curious, noticed the insignia. “You’ve been promoted to corporal?” Vi asked, her voice drawn laced with surprise.
Caitlyn, buckling her duty vest, flashed a sly grin, her voice sharp. “Yup, Boot. Call me Corporal Kiramman now.”

A few minutes after attending the daily briefing, Cait and Vi exit the conference room. As they walk down the hallway, they head toward a nearby rack where their body cameras are securely charging on designated docking stations. Cait casually reaches up, clips her body camera onto her duty vest with practiced ease, ensuring it is properly attached then signals Vi to follow, striding toward the armory to restock their patrol car. “Let’s be honest, I’d rather be in the action than chained to a computer screen,” she added.
Vi, grinning, trailed behind, her duty belt clinking. “Damn, Corporal, Glad to see you back in the field! Can't wait to learn more”

“Boot, when did you learn to bootlick? That behavior doesn't sound like you at all. Bootlicking doesn't work for me; your work matters more than flattery,” Cait said, casually placing her hands on her duty belt. She walked confidently, embodying the assertive demeanor typical of every sergeant in this sheriff’s office as they headed to the armory, a small, fortified room stocked with supplies—ammo, first aid kits, and evidence bags—ready to prep their Interceptor for patrol in Baltimore’s cold, crime-lit dawn.

Cait then approached the weaponry booth with a quiet, professional nod and Vi followed close. The armory, a compact room lined with locked cabinets of ammo, tasers, and medical kits, smelled of gun oil and steel.
Caitlyn leaned on the booth’s counter, her voice calm and professional. “Good morning, Miss Fortune, it’s been a while,” she said, her discipline firm as she noted a familiar face.

The armorer, Sarah Fortune, a petite woman with long, red hair tied into a fiery braid, grayish eyes twinkling beneath a constellation of freckles, turned from her clipboard. Her face was strikingly similar to Vi’s, but softer and more delicate. She flashed a warm smile, her voice friendly. “Cait, just call me Sarah—no need to crown me Miss Fortune every time. But anyway good to see you! Back in the field, huh?” Her eyes flicked to the corporal patch, a glint of respect in her gaze.
“Yes, I’m returning to patrol,” Caitlyn replied, her tone even, a faint nod acknowledging her new insignia. “Field work suits me better than dispatching.”
Sarah nodded, setting her clipboard down with a soft clack. “Congrats on the promotion, Corporal Kiramman. What’s on your restock list today?”

“A pack of Naloxone, please, Captain,” Caitlyn said, her expression composed but confident, fully aware of the opioid antidote’s critical role in Baltimore’s drug-plagued streets.

Sarah chuckled, her freckles dancing as she shook her head. “You’re too polite, Cait. Captain’s a stretch, but I’ll take it.” She grabbed a sealed Naloxone kit from a shelf, sliding it across the counter with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Here you go. Stay safe out there, Soldier” Vi, leaning nearby, grinned, her grey eyes bright. “Good morning, Captain,” she said as she stood straight to salute her.

“Cait is definitely your supervisor. Stay safe out there too, Rookie,” Sarah said as she waved at them before she continued her counting equipment work as the duo walked toward the parking lot.

At 7:15 a.m,

in the snowy parking lot. Caitlyn and Vi stood before their Interceptor. Vi’s eyes flickering with confidence, shifted awkwardly as Caitlyn cleared her throat.
“Boot, before we roll out, we’ve got one more thing to do. Remember what it is?” Caitlyn asked, her discipline firm, voice commanding yet tinged with a teasing edge.
Vi’s face flushed, confidence morphing to awkwardness, her grey eyes darting. She usually followed orders rather than initiating routines. “Uh… check the car?” she mumbled, her voice drawn and hesitant, stepping toward the Interceptor.
Caitlyn crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing with mock exasperation. “I just knew you never checked the patrol car before going out. Watch and learn, Boot—keep this in mind!” Her voice was sharp and authoritative as she began her demonstration, her movements precise and deliberate.

Caitlyn then strode to the driver’s side of the Ford Explorer Interceptor, her boots crunching on the snowy pavement, the vehicle’s V8 engine dormant but ready. She opened the door, the scent of leather and electronics wafting out, and leaned into the cab, her fingers brushing the control panel. “First, we check the sirens and lights—gotta make sure they’re loud and flashy enough to alert people and criminals,” she said, her tone dry but instructive.
She flipped the siren switch, and the Interceptor erupted in a piercing wail —a staccato mix of yelp, wail, and hi-lo tones, each cycling through the front grille speaker, loud enough to echo across the lot. The blue and red light bar atop the vehicle pulsed, casting vibrant strobes across the snow, reflecting off nearby cruisers. Caitlyn toggled each setting—steady burn, alternating flash, rapid strobe—her eyes scanning for malfunctions. “See, Vi? All sounds and lights are green. If one’s busted, we’re stuck with paperwork instead of patrolling,” she said, her voice firm, shutting off the system with a flick, the silence sudden. “Your turn, Boot. Test the backup siren.”

Vi, swallowing her awkwardness, leaned in, her gloved hand flipping the secondary switch. A sharp yelp blared, lights flashing in sync, her grey eyes squinting at the brightness. “Looks good, Corporal,” she said, mimicking Caitlyn’s tone, a grin creeping in.
“Good. Now, the trunk—consumables are life or death out there,” Caitlyn said, striding to the rear of the Interceptor, popping the hatch with a key fob, the steel door lifting with a hydraulic hiss. The trunk was a meticulously organized arsenal: a stack of traffic cones, a trauma kit, evidence bags, flares, and a stack of consumables in a plastic crate. Caitlyn pulled out the crate, her fingers sifting through supplies.
“Check the list,” she instructed, pointing to a clipboard secured to the trunk’s interior. “Narcotics test kits—cocaine, meth, opioids—need at least five each. We’ve got eight cocaine, six meth, and four opioids. Flag that; we need more opioid kits.” She held up a sealed Naloxone pack, critical for overdose calls then stuffed it into the first aid kit. “Flares, ten minimum—twelve here. Evidence bags, twenty small, ten large—all stocked. First aid kit, bandages, tourniquets, check expiration—good ‘til 2015.” She tapped each item, her voice steady, demonstrating protocol.

Vi, nodding, jotted notes. “Got it, Corporal. Anything else?”
“Always double-check the tire pressure and gas—full tank, 32 psi all around,” Caitlyn said, kicking a tire lightly, her eyes scanning Vi. “Out there, a flat or empty tank screws us.“
Vi smirked, her grey eyes brightening. “Roger that, Corporal.”

At 8:30 a.m.
In the quiet residential district of Rosedale, Essex. Caitlyn and Vi stood before a rowhouse vibrating with the thumping bass of a party, its brick facade shuddering under the crisp morning air, a lingering chill from the faded blizzard. Their Interceptor idled nearby with its lights off but ready. Caitlyn’s eyes were sharp as she rang the doorbell, her voice slicing through the noise. “Sheriff’s Office, open the door!” Vi’s eyes scanning, stood ready as their body cameras rolled per protocol.

The door creaked open, blasting heavy bass into the cold, as a tall teenager, around 20, swaggered out, his hoodie reeking of marijuana, party drugs, and alcohol, the stench rolling from the house like a wave. “What’s the deal, cops? We can’t celebrate the semester ending?” he snapped, his voice thick with defiance, eyes bloodshot and glassy.
Caitlyn locked eyes with him as she noted his aggression. She and Vi exchanged a glance, Vi’s grey eyes narrowing, hand twitching near her Glock.

Caitlyn’s voice was low, steely. “You can party, but we’ve got multiple complaints about the noise. Turn the music down. Now.”
The teenager scoffed, leaning into the doorframe, as raucous laughter erupted from his drunk friends inside. “Or what? You gonna bust us for having a good time?” His tone dripped with contempt, arms crossing.
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened, her ocean-blue eyes cold as ice. “You’re already high and stinking of drugs. Keep pushing, and it’s not just a noise citation—it’s possession, maybe distribution, and a trip to lockup.” Her words were clipped, professional but laced with menace, citing Maryland’s drug laws.

The teenager’s smirk faltered, his bravado cracking under Caitlyn’s stare. He swallowed hard, turning to yell, “Lloyd, cut the damn music!” The bass dropped to a low hum, his voice quieter now. “Sorry, alright?” he muttered, eyes darting away, the house’s laughter fading.
Caitlyn held his gaze a beat longer, then nodded, her tone flat. “Keep it that way.” She and Vi turned, boots crunching snow, heading back to their Interceptor. Vi leaned in, her voice drawn low, tense. “Corporal, you really planning to haul those kids in for drugs?”

Caitlyn’s lips twitched, a grim half-smile. “If I wanted to, I’d have them cuffed already. But they’re just dumb kids, high and clueless. Gotta pick the battles—nab the source, not the pawns.” Her sharp eyes noted their compliances as they returned to their interceptor to wait to respond to the next 911 call.

At 9:00 a.m.
After dealing with noisy teenagers, Caitlyn and Vi responded to a 911 call dispatched from the PA system, reporting an unconscious person at a small diner on Pulaski Highway.

The diner’s bell jingled as they pushed through the glass door, the air inside warm with the scent of coffee and fried eggs, the linoleum floor scuffed, and Formica tables gleaming under fluorescent lights. The shopkeeper, a frazzled woman in her 50s with a stained apron, pointed frantically at a man seated alone at a corner booth, his body slumped, completely still, as if carved from stone. His untouched plate of pancakes and bacon sat cold, a coffee mug steaming faintly. Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed as she approached, Vi close behind, her grey eyes clouded with concern.

Caitlyn knocked sharply on the table, the sound echoing, but the man—a middle-aged figure in a worn jacket, face pale—remained frozen, eyes open but unseeing. “Sir, can you hear me? Wake up” she called, her voice firm but calm. No response. Vi shifted, her hand hovering near her duty belt, whispering, “Cait, he’s out cold. Ambulance?”
Caitlyn, her expression steady, pulled a latex glove from her pocket, snapping it on with a practiced flick. “Hold on, Boot.” She knelt beside the man, her fingers gently pressing his wrist, feeling a steady pulse. “Pulse is fine. Then it must be sleep paralysis,” she mumbled, her field experience recalling the condition’s hallmarks: temporary immobility, often post-sleep. She rubbed his fingers gently, her touch careful but firm, her voice soft yet insistent. “Sir, wake up. People are worried about you.”
For several minutes, she spoke, her words a soothing lifeline, Vi watching, her body tense but trusting Caitlyn’s lead. The man’s eyes flickered, then widened, his body jerking as he snapped awake, gasping. “What’s going on? Why’re cops here?” he stammered, blinking at Caitlyn and Vi, his gaze darting to his cold pancakes. “I was just eating—”

Caitlyn patted his shoulder gently, her voice steady. “Sir, you were frozen for ten minutes—folks here got scared for you. Are you feeling alright? I can call an ambulance if you need one.”
The man shook his head, forcing a faint grin as he picked up a fork. “Nah, I’m fine here.” He poked at his pancakes, his hand shaky but determined.
Caitlyn nodded, standing, her voice calm but firm. “Alright, take care of yourself, sir. People were worried.” She signaled Vi to follow, their boots scuffing as they exited, the bell jingling behind them. Back at the Interceptor, Vi’s grey eyes flicked to Caitlyn, her voice low. “You think he’s really okay, Corporal? Looked spooked.”
Caitlyn slid into the driver’s seat, her expression grim. “He’s scared of bills, not just paralysis. Can’t blame him—hospital costs are brutal. We did our part.”

Vi then pressed her PTT, her tone calm but professional. “Central, Unit 47. Subject at Pulaski Highway diner awake, sleep paralysis confirmed, no medical needed, over.”

At 11:30 a.m,

A little while later, their stomachs rumbling after hours on patrol, Caitlyn pressed her PTT, her voice calm but tinged with hope. “Central, Unit 37. Requesting 10-7 for lunch, over.” She leaned back, picturing a quick stop for sandwiches, a flicker of anticipation in her eyes.
Dispatcher Leung’s voice crackled through, sounding a bit resigned. “Central to Unit 47, negative. We just got a 911 call—someone is breaking into the New Creation Christian Church and causing damage. Since you're closest, head over there, over.” The hum of monitors and keyboards underscored the urgency, and Leung’s shrug was almost audible.

She clicked her tongue, a flash of frustration crossing her face, but she kept her composure. “10-4, Central. Unit 47, en route, over” she replied in a steady, professional tone, giving Vi a sharp nod. “Let’s go to the church, now.”
Vi, her grey eyes narrowing, stomped on the accelerator, tires crunching through the snow as they sped toward the scene, lights flashing and siren ready. “Corporal, no lunch again?” she muttered with a dry drawl, hands firmly gripping the wheel.

“Apparently not, boot. Gonna deal with this holy chaos first” Cait said as she crossed her arms while Vi flicked the blue and red lights on.

At 11:45 a.m.
Outside the New Creation Christian Church, Caitlyn and Vi screeched to a halt in their Interceptor with flickering lights. Caitlyn’s eyes blazing with focus, charged toward the church’s oak door. Suddenly a deafening bang—a chair crashing against the door—rattled the frame.

Caitlyn pressed her ear to the door, her breath catching as she caught a guttural growl and frantic mumbles about “devils infiltrating” and hiding in the church for safety. Her experience parsing the ravings. “Hallucination,” she hissed, recognizing drug-fueled psychosis. She twisted the handle—locked tight. Whipping around to Vi, her voice cut like steel, “Boot, hooligan bar, trunk—move!”

Vi bolted to the Interceptor, popping the trunk with a sharp clunk, yanking out the hooligan bar—a 36-inch steel pry tool, its claw end glinting. She sprinted back, boots crunching snow, bar heavy in her gloved hands. Caitlyn stepped aside, eyes locked on the door. “Pry it, now!” Vi jammed the claw between door and frame, muscles straining, the wood groaning. With a fierce yank, the lock splintered with a crack, the door lurching inward. Vi kicked it open, hinges screaming, revealing a sanctuary in chaos—pews toppled, hymnals strewn, a candlestick clattering across the carpet, the air thick with must and a chemical stench.

Inside, a shirtless man in boxers, muscular and slick with sweat, spun toward them, eyes wild, pupils pinpricks. Vi froze, her eyes narrowing, whispering to Caitlyn, “Corporal, why does he look like Lloyd?” Her voice carried unease, recalling the teenager from the Rosedale party house earlier.
Caitlyn, stepping behind her, raised her eyebrows, her voice low but firm. “Because it is Lloyd. Now look closer, Boot—not just his face. Identify the substance from his symptoms. The academy drilled this into us, so don’t tell me you forgot!”

Vi dodged a hurled hymnal, the book thudding against a pew, her reflexes sharp. Lloyd ranted, “Too hot! Devils everywhere—water!” His body glistened, movements jerky, face flushed, begging for relief. The police academy training clicked—sweat, agitation, hallucinations. “That’s PCP intoxication,” she snapped, sidestepping a flying candlestick.
Caitlyn nodded, eyes intense. “Spot on. How do we calm him for arrest? Think fast.”
Vi’s hand twitched toward her taser, then stopped. “Taser or OC spray’ll make him wilder—PCP blocks pain. Backup’s our shot.”
Caitlyn hit her PTT, voice urgent. “Central, Unit 37. Code 10-16, New Creation Christian Church, Rosedale, violent suspect, PCP intoxication, need backup asap, over.”
Then the Dispatcher’s voice crackled through her earpiece “10-4, 47 en route, over.”

Minutes later, Corporal Steb and Deputy Loris roared up in boots hitting the ground. The four deputies fanned out, batons drawn, moving like a silent pack, their green uniforms stark against the sanctuary’s dim light. Lloyd, growling, clutched a broken chair leg, sweat dripping, eyes crazed. Loris, misjudging, fired his taser, prongs sparking into Lloyd’s chest. Instead of dropping, Lloyd roared, PCP fueling a feral charge at Steb, teeth snapping toward his arm.

Vi reacted in a heartbeat as she landed a sucker punch to Lloyd’s jaw with a bone-jarring crack, halting him mid-lunge. Caitlyn muttered, “Fuck, more reports,” her voice tight. Caitlyn, seizing the moment, slipped behind him, her arm snaking to lock his neck in a chokehold. But Lloyd thrashed violently, shoving her back, her body slamming into a pile of chairs with a crash, pain shooting through her shoulder. Vi’s grey eyes flashed with fury, seeing Caitlyn wince, and she swung her baton harder, cracking it against Lloyd’s thigh with a thwack, his leg buckling but not stopping.
Lloyd roared, his fist swinging wildly, connecting with Vi’s nose in a sickening crunch. Blood streamed from her nose and lips, dripping onto her uniform, her grey eyes watering but fierce as she continued her actions.

Now, the sanctuary became a blur—batons rained down, cracking against Lloyd’s arms, legs, and torso, his grunts mixing with the deputies’ shouts. Vi, blood dripping, saw her opening and dropped her knee into Lloyd’s back with a brutal thud, slamming him face-down onto the carpet. Caitlyn, Steb, and Loris piled on, their weight crushing his flailing limbs, pinning him like a steel trap. But as Caitlyn, panting to cuff his other wrist, Lloyd’s left hand grabbed Vi’s leg, fingers digging painfully, her groan echoing as she stumbled. Out of sheer urgency, Vi swung her fist, slamming it into Lloyd’s temple with a thud, forcing him to release her leg, his grip loosening. Caitlyn, scrambling up, her shoulder throbbing, caught Vi’s action in the corner of her eye and muttered, “Boot, our body cams are rolling—oh my fucking god, you idiot.” She lunged, grabbing Lloyd’s right wrist, snapping a cuff on as he thrashed.

After Caitlyn twisted her key to double-lock them, she hit her PTT. “Central, Unit 37, suspect detained, PCP intoxication, requesting EMS, over.” Then the dispatcher’s voice crackled through her earpiece. “10-4, EMS dispatched, ETA 5 mins, over.”

At 12 p.m.

Caitlyn and Vi trailed closely behind Steb and Loris as they escorted Lloyd who was still twitching from drug intoxication, to a waiting ambulance, its red lights pulsing in the snowy lot. Caitlyn’s eyes shadowed with worry, watched Vi limp beside her, eyes fierce despite blood streaming from her nose and lips, pressed a finger to her nose to stem the flow.

Caitlyn’s heart twisted with concern as she saw Vi’s battered face, a stark contrast to her usual fire. She fumbled through her pants pockets, desperate for tissues, but found only her wallet and her phone. “Damn it, Vi, I don’t have tissues to stop the bleeding,” she murmured, her voice tight with anguish.

Vi, flashing a defiant grin, revealed bloodied teeth, her voice rough but steady. “No sweat, Cait. My face’s taken worse hits.” Her eyes glinted, masking the sting.
Caitlyn’s gaze then dropped to Vi’s pants, her voice softer, heavy with worry. “Your leg, Vi—how bad is it?”
Vi, smudging blood from her chin, shrugged grimly. “Feels like hell, probably a mess.” She tugged up her pant leg, revealing a brutal handprint bruise—red and purple, Lloyd’s fingers etched into her skin from his PCP-fueled grip. Caitlyn winced, her heart aching, but Vi’s grin held, a flicker of her relentless bravado.

A while later, the ambulance doors swung open, an EMT in blue guiding Lloyd who was still growling, onto a stretcher, the cramped interior forcing these tall deputies to hover close. Another EMT, spotting Vi’s bloodied face, handed her a tissue, his eyes tight with concern. “Your nose—use this to stop the bleeding.” Vi, pressing the tissue to her face, grinned through the pain, her drawl gritty. “Thanks, but my nose has been through worse.” Caitlyn, sitting beside her, heart pounding from the chaos, noticed Vi’s long nose, slightly crooked from the side, her eyes softening with worry. “You okay, Boot?” she whispered, her psychology training noting Vi’s bravado veiling pain.
“Don’t worry, Corporal,” Vi replied, her usual optimism shining despite the blood, as the EMT injected a sedative into Lloyd’s neck, his twitching easing as the ambulance rolled toward St. Joseph Medical Center.

At 1 p.m

In a sterile ward at St. Joseph Medical Center, Lloyd lay on a hospital bed, his muscular frame calmer but still glistening with sweat, his boxers swapped for a hospital gown, an IV dripping fluids. The room smelled of antiseptic, the beeping heart monitor steady, fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on the white walls. Caitlyn and Vi stood beside the bed, their green uniforms scuffed from the church brawl, body cameras off post-arrest.

Caitlyn’s eyes sharpened as she pulled out her notepad, while Vi, with her nose still swollen but blood wiped from her face, gripped her own notepad tightly.

Lloyd, groggy but coherent, rubbed his eyes, his voice hoarse. “I… I didn’t mean to trash the church. Thought devils were after me.” He shook his head, his earlier hallucinations fading. “Some guy at the party gave me the stuff—thought he was my friend’s friend. Don’t even know his name.”
Caitlyn scribbled as she parsed his remorse. “You don’t know who supplied the PCP?” she asked, her voice calm but probing, noting the connection to the Rosedale party house earlier. Lloyd shook his head, eyes downcast. “Just a guy… said it’d be fun.”
Vi, her notepad ready, glanced at Caitlyn, her grey eyes narrowing as she caught Lloyd’s confusion Caitlyn’s jaw tightened, her voice firm. “Steb, Loris,” she said, turning to the deputies by the door, “head back to the Rosedale party house. Investigate the source—find out who’s dealing.” Steb nodded while Loris moved out to investigate.

Caitlyn turned back to Lloyd, her tone steady. “We’ll follow up, but you need to stay clean, Lloyd. This could’ve ended worse.” Her ocean-blue eyes held his, her PTSD echoing the stakes of another life teetering.

At 1:30 p.m
As Cait and Vi continued taking statements from Lloyd, Steb and Loris pulled up to the Rosedale party house from earlier that day, their Interceptor crunching snow in the quiet neighborhood. Steb slid from the driver’s seat, his new corporal chevron glinting on his sleeve, tactical gears jingling as he strode to the door. Steb pounded the door, his voice booming, “Sheriff’s Office! Come out now—it’s about your friend, Jakob Lloyd-Morre. He’s in St. Joseph for a drug-fueled break-in!”
A young black-haired man in his early 20s, yanked the door open, his face sporting a fresh black eye, the bruise stark against his pale skin. “What happened to Lloyd, sir?” he asked, voice shaky, the stench of stale beer and marijuana wafting from inside.
Loris stepped forward, his voice firm but measured. “Lloyd’s lucky we found him when we did. If he had more PCP he could’ve overdosed—died badly. But don’t worry, he’s safe at St. Joseph now, right now we need to know who gave him the drugs. I need you to tell me everything you know. Can we come in?” He glanced at the empty street, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t want neighbors eavesdropping.”

The man scratched his arm, fresh scars—jagged, like from a recent scuffle—visible under his sleeve. “Sure, but it’s a mess in here,” he muttered, stepping aside.
The living room was a chaotic wasteland, a testament to the prior night’s debauchery. Empty beer cans littered the hardwood floor, some crushed, others spilling sticky residue, glinting under a flickering ceiling light. A makeshift beer pong table—two sawhorses with a warped plywood top—stood in the corner, red Solo cups scattered, some half-filled with flat beer, others toppled like fallen soldiers. Cigarette butts and crumpled napkins mingled with pizza crusts and chip crumbs, strewn across a sagging couch, its cushions stained with mysterious splotches. A bong, its glass smudged, sat on a coffee table next to a pile of rolling papers and a baggie of dried herbs, the air thick with the sour reek of marijuana and spilled liquor. A cracked lava lamp oozed lazily, casting a dim glow over the scene, while a Bluetooth speaker hummed faintly, stuck on a low battery loop. Steb kicked a can aside, its clink echoing, as Loris stepped over a spilled ashtray, their boots scuffing the grime.

Steb and Loris then sat on a sagging, stained sofa, their notepads drawn from their duty vests, pens poised as the black-haired man slumped across from them on the sofa while holding his head, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Sir, tell us everything that happened,” Steb said, his tone calm but firm, pen ready, his psychology training noting Tom’s distress.

Tom sighed, his eyes distant, launching into a flashback of the party that spiraled into chaos. “Last night, around 4 a.m., things got… wild,” he began, his voice low, strained.

Back at 8:40 a.m., Rosedale Party House
After Cait and Vi ordered them to lower the volume.
The upstairs bedroom of this lively house pulsed with faint moans, the air thick with the musky heat of bodies and the chemical tang of GHB, a party drug notorious for spiking sex drive. Tom, naked and tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, moved rhythmically with his girlfriend beneath him, their bodies locked in escalating passion, the GHB amplifying every sensation. As he slumped back, spent, he pulled her head to his crotch, her lips obliging as he rocked back, eyes half-closed in hazy bliss.
A sharp knock broke the rhythm. The door creaked open, revealing Lloyd—tall, muscular, his good looks sharp despite glassy eyes—standing beside a shorter man, both swaying from the party’s haze. Lloyd’s eyebrows shot up, a smirk curling as he leaned against the frame. “So, Tom, this is your ‘important business’? Damn, that’s a fine cock—mind if I join?” His voice was slurred, teasing, but edged with something raw. “You know I’m still in love with you.”
Tom, caught off-guard, grinned, the GHB loosening his inhibitions. He reached out, his hand sliding into Lloyd’s pants, stroking to tease. “Then why’d you leave me, Lloyd?” he murmured, their lips crashing together in a fierce French kiss, the room’s heat rising. Minutes later, the bedroom erupted into a chaotic gangbang—Lloyd, fueled by different kinds of party drugs and alcohol, pounding into Tom, the woman joining, their bodies a blur of reckless passion.

Back in the living room, Steb scribbled in his notepad: Gangbang, GHB, unsafe sex, Tom was Lloyd’s ex-boyfriend, the relationship ended, Tom now has a girlfriend. His face remained impassive, but his eyes flicked to Loris, noting the case’s complexity.

In the dim, stuffy upstairs bedroom of the party house, the air thick with the musky heat of bodies and the chemical haze of GHB, Lloyd slumped on the edge of the bed, his muscular frame slick with sweat, boxers pulled up haphazardly. The sheets were tangled, a testament to the chaotic, passionate gangbang that had just unfolded—Lloyd, fueled by alcohol, and ecstasy, entangled with Tom, another guy, and Tom’s current girlfriend. Their bodies a blur of reckless abandon, His head spun. He yanked up his pants, the fabric sticking to his skin, and stumbled toward the door, the faint thump of bass from the living room below vibrating through the floorboards.

Tom lay sprawled on the bed, a lock of curly hair hanging over his forehead, while his deep green eyes, a perfect mix of intensity and softness, reflected his pale skin. It was as if he were lost in thought or just relaxing in his own world. His voice broke, filled with desperation, as he grabbed Lloyd’s hand, fingers tightening. “Stay, Lloyd, please,” he begged, his eyes wet, the GHB loosening his emotions, his regret raw from rekindling their past romance.

Lloyd shook off Tom’s grip with a heavy sigh, his voice low, bitter. “You know why, Tom, so don’t ask.” His words cut, his own pain—betrayal from their ended relationship, fueled by the drugs coursing through him. He turned, his boots thudding on the hardwood, and walked out, leaving Tom crumpled, quiet sobs escaping, his whimpers echoing in the small room.
Tom’s girlfriend, emerging from the bathroom, her hair disheveled, eyes glassy from the party’s haze, froze at the sound. She stormed back, her voice sharp. “Tom, what the hell’s going on?” Her accusation hung heavy, but Tom’s shout cut her off, raw and defensive. “Get out!” he snapped, his face flushed with shame. As she hesitated, then turned to leave, her footsteps heavy on the stairs, Tom buried his face in his hands, regret crashing over him for cheating on Lloyd with her, the fleeting passion now a bitter weight. But as he shouted at her, he knew the relationship with her had ended as well.

Meanwhile back in the hospital ward. Lloyd, groggy but lucid, rubbed his eyes, his voice hoarse. “I… I was asleep in Tom’s bedroom then I walked out of the bedroom, went back to the living room downstairs…” His words trailed, his gaze drifting, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face.
Caitlyn’s eyes were sharp with focus, scribbling in her notepad as she caught the evasion, her eyes narrowing. She cut him off, her voice calm but firm, laced with empathy. “Hold on, Lloyd. What happened before you left Tom’s bedroom? Don’t skip details.” Her tone softened, sensing his unease. “Listen, buddy, I’ve been a deputy for two years. I’ve seen it all—public hookups, you name it. I’m not here to judge, even if it was a gangbang. But you’ve gotta be 100% honest with me.”
Lloyd nodded, his face flushing, a faint “Yes” escaping as he continued, his voice low, burdened by shame. escaping as he continued. “It was… a gangbang, alright? In Tom’s bedroom.”

Caitlyn raised her eyebrows, her pen pausing. “So you were sleeping with somebody instead of sleeping alone? Who was involved?” she asked, her tone steady, professional, as she marked details in her notepad: Bedroom, gangbang, pre-PCP.
Lloyd looked away, avoiding eye contact, his voice low. “Deputy, it was somebodies. Thomas Mueller—Tom—we had an intimate relationship before. Then Frank, just a friend. And Tom’s current girlfriend, don’t know her name.” His shoulders slumped, shame heavy in his averted gaze.

Caitlyn and Vi exchanged glances, Vi’s grey eyes flickering with a suppressed quip about Lloyd’s wild life. She bit her tongue as her own history of gangbangs in her pre-Towson university days flashing through her mind, making her the last to judge. Caitlyn, no saint herself either, her body count littered with former classmates from her UBalt days, cleared her throat with a fake cough, signaling Lloyd to continue. “Go on, Lloyd, what happened next?” she pressed, her voice gentle but insistent.

Lloyd shook him off, sighing heavily, his voice bitter. “You know why, Tom. Don’t make me say it.” His heart ached from their ended romance driving him out. He stomped downstairs, the hardwood creaking, the living room now a crowded chaos of bodies swaying to thumping bass, the air clouded with marijuana and ecstasy fumes, red Solo cups and cigarette butts littering the floor.
Weaving through dancers, Lloyd reached the bar counter, a plywood slab cluttered with beer cans and a smudged bong. He cracked open a Bud Light, the hiss sharp, chugging to drown his turmoil. As he watched a friend nail a b-boy spin, a hand patted his shoulder, a voice unfamiliar. “Feeling sad?” Lloyd turned, side-eyeing a man in a hoodie, face shadowed, smiling faintly. “Who are you?” Lloyd asked, his tone wary.
“Just a friend,” the man said, his smile widening, pulling a rolled joint from his pocket. “Got something to make you happy.” Lloyd, his judgment blurred by beer and heartache, snatched the joint, lighting it with a stray lighter on the counter. He inhaled deeply, expecting marijuana’s familiar buzz, but the hit was sharper, heavier. Within moments, hallucinations gripped him—the man’s face morphed, twisting into his father’s, horns sprouting, eyes glowing red. “Jakob, you’re a disappointment, hooking up with a man,” the figure sneered, Lloyd’s deepest fears erupting, his stutter and shame from childhood amplified by the PCP-laced joint.

Within moments, hallucinations gripped him. His classmates morphed into devils, their faces twisting, horns sprouting, eyes glowing red. The room erupted in flames, the walls pulsing with fire. He spun back to the hooded man, but his voice warped into his mother’s, echoing with venom. “Seeing you kiss a man disgusts me, Jakob. Don’t come back! I never had a son like you—you’ll die in hell!” A faint door slam reverberated, chilling his spine.
Lloyd staggered, sweat pouring from his hoodie, his heart pounding. He ripped it off, stripping to his pants, his muscular torso glistening in the flickering light. A “devil”—a partygoer—grabbed his arm, and Lloyd, his instincts hijacked by PCP, swung, his fist cracking into their eye. The figure didn’t stop, grappling him to the floor, just before the devil could strangle him, Lloyd scratching his arms raw.

Lloyd broke free, shoving through the crowd, and bolted out, the street a “hell” of distorted lights and shadows. In the distance, a white building gleamed—the New Creation Christian Church. “It’s the church… I’ll be safe there,” he thought, running toward it, his mind a storm of PCP-fueled paranoia.

Lloyd, groggy but lucid, finished recounting his story. Caitlyn catching his remorse, lowered her notepad, her voice gentle but curious. “Just curious, Lloyd, which university did you attend?”
Lloyd shifted, his awkward smile tinged with irony. “Towson University, pre-law prep. Funny, right? We were studying law but still took drugs right under the school’s nose, knowing it was illegal,” he admitted, his voice low, shame mixing with defiance.
Vi’s pen froze, her grey eyes widening as she pressed her forehead, shock rippling across her face. “Hold up, Towson? That was my university! There was an underground drug network inside the school?” Her voice carried disbelief as she was stunned by the revelation….

Chapter Text

Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes flicked to Vi as she noting the connection, her voice steady but probing. “Lloyd, you’re saying drugs were dealt on campus? Details—where, who, how often?” Her notepad was back up, pen poised.
Lloyd hesitated, his gaze drifting. “Parties, mostly off-campus houses like Rosedale ,Bel Air, Woodside and all over the county but some stuff got passed around in dorms, study lounges.”

Vi sighed, her voice drawl heavy with disbelief. “It’s a damn spiderweb of drugs. No way we can send enough people to investigate all that.” Her grey eyes flicked to Caitlyn.
Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes met Vi’s, a spark of strategy igniting. “We don’t need to send a whole team, Boot. Beat the grass, and we’ll startle the snakes—then all our leads vanish. We need someone they trust, someone they find useful.” Her voice was calm and calculated.
Vi’s eyes lit up, a lightbulb moment. “Corporal, you’re saying we use him as our informant? To infiltrate this drug empire?”
“Exactly,” Caitlyn said, turning to Lloyd, her tone firm but empathetic. “Lloyd, you’ve got two choices. One: county jail for drug possession, assaulting officers, and breaking into property—years behind bars. Two: be our informant, with limited freedom, under our surveillance until we take down the cartel behind this. You’ll still serve a sentence, but with a commutation. Jail or our eyes—what’s it gonna be?”

Lloyd stared out the window, the snowy Baltimore skyline a fleeting glimpse of freedom, his face tight with fear. “I don’t have a place to stay. I work part-time as a carpenter, building houses. If those guys find out I’m working with you, they’ll kill me,” he said, his voice cracking with fear.
Caitlyn’s eyes softened, her PTSD resonating with his vulnerability. “Don’t worry, Lloyd. We’ve got you covered. You’ll stay in a Sheriff’s Office safe house, monitored 24/7. You’re safe with us.” Her voice was steady, reassuring.

Lloyd nodded, his shoulders slumping. “Sure.”
Caitlyn grinned faintly, her tone warm. “Good choice, Lloyd.” She scribbled: Informant agreement, safe house, surveillance, her leadership locking in the plan.

Meanwhile In the trashed living room of the Rosedale party house, Corporal Steb and deputy Loris sat on a sagging, stained sofa, their notepads out, pens scratching furiously as the air thick with the sour reek of marijuana, spilled liquor, and sweat, a cracked lava lamp oozing dim light. Tom slumped across from them, his black eye twitching, fresh scars on his arm raw, hand pressed to his face, voice heavy with guilt and fear.

Tom exhaled shakily, his eyes darting to the window. “After I followed Lloyd downstairs, he started yelling, ‘Get the fuck away, you devils!’ I thought he was just drunk, acting weird. But then he swung his fists at people. I went to check if he was okay, and he clocked me in the eye.” He touched his bruise, wincing. “We ended up fighting on the floor. His strength—it was unreal, like he was possessed. He never does that to me, he was always so gentle to me when we were together.”

Steb scribbled: Lloyd, PCP-fueled aggression, punched Tom. He looked up, voice calm but firm. “Sir, why didn’t you call us when he started acting like that?”

Tom’s gaze flicked around the room, paranoid. “Because of them,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

“Who?” Steb and Loris leaned closer, their eyes narrowing.

Tom inhaled deeply, steeling himself. “I… I shouldn’t say this. They’ll kill me if they know I’m talking to cops.” He paused, then plunged forward. “The people who give me marijuana to sell. I’m such an idiot—needed quick cash for rent after dropping a grand on new gadgets to keep up with my rich friends. Lloyd warned me I was a moth in a spiderweb, but I didn’t listen.” His voice cracked, guilt heavy.
Steb and Loris exchanged a glance, their breath catching at the revelation. “Where and how do you sell these drugs? How do you get them?” Steb pressed, his tone steady but urgent, pen poised.

Tom sighed, defeated. “I get orders through an online phone service—fake number, VPN, rotates every two minutes so you can’t track it. I leave the stuff in campus lockers with a secret code. Transactions are bitcoin or cash at parties, so no trace.” He rubbed his scarred arm, eyes downcast. “Deputies, am I going to jail for years?”
Steb sighed, his voice measured. “You’re in deep, Tom, but your honesty might help. You’ve got a chance to make this right.”
Tom reached for a cigarette from a pack on the coffee table, lighting it with a shaky hand. “How? I’m doomed anyway,” he muttered, smoke curling.
Steb adjusted his posture, lowering his notepad, voice firm. “Be our informant, Tom. Your role as a dealer gives you access to the cartel behind this. Do you want to see more people ended up like your ex boyfriend Lloyd—or worse, see him dead from an overdose?”
Tom’s eyes widened, his cigarette trembling. “No, absolutely not! I’ve been trying to get out, but those gangsters—they beat the shit out of me when I didn’t sell enough meth or marijuana or return their profits.” He clutched his stomach, pain flashing as he recalled a brutal encounter.

In a grimy hut somewhere in Baltimore’s suburbs, Tom, blindfolded, stood trembling, the air thick with cigarette smoke and menace. A gangster, his voice gravelly, loomed over him, counting cash. “What? I told you to bring 10k, and you’re 2k short!” he barked, slamming a fist on a table.
Tom stammered, “I just need more time. People complained about the quality—they stopped buying—” His words cut off as a henchman’s boot slammed into his stomach, then his crotch, pain exploding. Tom crumpled, thighs clenched, gasping. The leader flicked open a pocket knife, pressing its blade to Tom’s neck. “Listen, dipshit, you’ve got one week to get my 10k, or you’re castrated and dead on the county streets.” He nodded to his henchmen to throw Tom who was bruised and terrified into a van, dropping him at his house.

Loris then leaned forward, voice low. “Tom, give us names, locations—anything on these gangsters. You’re in too deep to stay quiet.” He caught Tom’s fear.
Tom shook his head, exhaling smoke. “I don’t know names, they always blindfold me from behind when they grabbed me to their van then meet drops at god-knows-where. They’re careful. I’m scared, man,” he admitted.

Steb scribbled: Cartel, anonymous drops, threats. “We’ll protect you, Tom. Work with us, and we’ll get you to a safe house,” he said with a hint of security in his voice.

Meanwhile, at 2:00 p.m. in the sterile ward of St. Joseph Medical Center. As Caitlyn finalized the details, her phone buzzed in her pocket, a relentless vibration that knotted her stomach. She stepped away, her heart sinking as she saw 20 voice messages from Sergeant Wang. Bracing herself, she pressed the first to her ear, Wang’s voice booming:

Message 1 (2:01 p.m.): “Kiramman, Bretschneider! Did you two just leave your Interceptor at the church while you two went to the hospital?!”
Message 2 (2:02 p.m.): “What if someone stole it or the radio? That’s a danger to the whole unit!”
Message 3 (2:03 p.m.): “And did Bretschneider hit the suspect twice with her fists? Corporal, you’re her supervisor—you’re supposed to stop that! Did it happen again?!”

Message 20 (2:10 p.m.): “Lucky we had deputies secure the church, or you’d be done! Get back to the Sheriff’s Office and meet me in my office, now!”

Caitlyn’s face paled, green with dread. She typed a quick reply:

Caitlyn (2:10 p.m.): “Sir, I don’t have an Interceptor—”
Wang’s response was instant:
Wang (2:10 p.m.): “Corporal, guess who forgot to drive her Interceptor to the hospital, leaving her stranded? Get moving!”

Caitlyn typed, her fingers trembling:
Caitlyn (2:11p.m.): “Sorry, sir, my mistake. It is my responsibility to keep the Interceptor with me. I’ll be on my way ASAP.”

She pocketed her phone, her stomach churning. Lloyd, eavesdropping, caught Wang’s angry tone, a sly smile breaking through his guilt. “Sounds like you two are in for a real lecture from your sergeant,” he said, chuckling weakly. “Watched enough cop shows to know—you’re drowning in paperwork now, huh?”
Caitlyn and Vi exchanged a quiet nod, their faces tight. “Good luck with that,” Lloyd said, slumping into his pillows, his voice laced with irony.
Caitlyn pressed her PTT , her voice steady despite her nerves. “Central, Unit 37. Request additional patrol car to St. Joseph Medical Center for transport to Sheriff’s Office. Anti-narcotics investigator to monitor suspect, over.” An investigator arrived to watch Lloyd, ensuring his safety as an informant. They then slide into the investigator’s sleek, unmarked vehicle as they hurriedly make their way back to the sheriff’s office, the engine roaring softly beneath them.

At 2:15 p.m.

In the stark, fluorescent-lit office of Sergeant Wang at the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office in Towson, Caitlyn and Vi stood rigid before his desk, the air thick with tension. The 20°F midday chill outside, a fading echo of “Winter Storm Hercules,” did nothing to cool the heat of Wang’s fury. Caitlyn, her six-foot frame stiff, eyes locked forward as she braced for the storm while Vi, her muscular frame tense, grey eyes downcast, her swollen nose ,bruised lips and a small cut on from the church brawl throbbing.

Wang, a grizzled veteran with a crew cut and eyes like steel, leaned forward, his voice a low, dangerous growl, each word a blade. “Kiramman, Bretschneider, you two left your Interceptor at the church? Parked like a damn invitation for any thug to steal it? You think we’re playing games out there?” His fist slammed the desk, papers jumping, the sound echoing like a gunshot. “That’s a breach of protocol that could’ve endangered the entire unit!”
Caitlyn swallowed, her throat tight, voice steady but strained. “Sir, it was my oversight. I take full responsibility—”
“Damn right it’s your oversight, Corporal!” Wang cut her off, his voice rising, eyes blazing. “You’re a supervisor, Kiramman! You don’t get to make rookie mistakes like abandoning a vehicle!” He jabbed a finger at Vi. “And you, Bretschneider—punching the suspect twice? Despite aware of the body cams rolling, and you’re still choosing to throw fists like a street brawler? I’ve got your last disciplinary write-up for excessive force right here!” He slapped a file, his glare searing. “You think this is a boxing ring? One more, and you’re on desk duty for weeks—or worse! Deputy, Do you understand?”

Vi’s face flushed, her grey eyes flickering with guilt, her voice barely audible. “Yes Sir, but he was on PCP, grabbing my leg, I—”
“No excuses!” Wang roared, standing, his chair scraping back. “You’re deputy, not vigilantes! And you Kiramman, you’re supposed to rein her in, not watch her play MMA!” He paced, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Lucky we had deputies secure the church, or you’d be explaining this to the Sheriff herself. You’re this close to a formal reprimand.”

Caitlyn’s heart pounded, her PTSD flaring, memories of Henry’s death clawing at her composure. “Sir, it won’t happen again,” she said, her voice firm but laced with fear, her leadership strained.
“It better not,” Wang snapped, slamming his hand on the desk again. “You two got a mountain of reports to write—church incident, Lloyd’s arrest, your informant deal, and an explanation for abandoning the Interceptor. And as for Bretschneider, you will have to write an extra report about your use of excessive force. I want them all on my desk by 0700 tomorrow, or you both are on traffic duty for a month!” He pointed to the door. “Get out, get your Interceptor, and pray you don’t screw up again today.”

Caitlyn and Vi saluted, their boots heavy as they exited, the door’s click a final reprimand. All of the deputies who had been eavesdropping on their conversation immediately turned their attention back to their computer screens. They casually averted their gaze, pretending nothing unusual had just occurred, maintaining an air of nonchalance.

Caitlyn’s eyes met Vi’s, her voice low. “Boot, we’re in deep shit.” Vi nodded, wincing as it’s mirroring Caitlyn’s dread.

At 2:35 p.m.,
As Caitlyn glares at Vi ,she caught her guilt, her voice firm but laced with urgency. “Boot, get to the church and retrieve our Interceptor—now. We can’t leave it there any longer.” Vi nodded, her voice low. “On it, Corporal.” She jogged to a waiting patrol car, dispatched to transport her back to the New Creation Christian Church.

Back at the church, Vi sprinted to the Interceptor, its white and green exterior untouched under the snowy lot’s dim streetlights. Her heart pounded, Wang’s words—“You’re this close to a reprimand”—ringing in her ears. The vehicle’s V8 roared as she drove it back to the Sheriff’s Office, her grey eyes scanning for threats, her bruised leg aching.

After Vi retrieved Cait’s interceptor back to the sheriff’s office, Cait rushed back to hospital as she finalized the informant agreement paper for Lloyd to sign, Lloyd’s agreement a flicker of hope against Towson’s drug trade. But Wang’s lecture loomed, the stack of reports—incident, use-of-force, informant, vehicle oversight—a grueling penance.

Incident Report: New Creation Christian Church Break-In
Report Number: TCSO-2014-0131-007
Date and Time: January 31, 2014, 9:15 a.m.–12:00 p.m.
Location: New Creation Christian Church, Rosedale, Essex, Baltimore County, MD
Reporting Officers: Corporal Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104), Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219), Corporal Stephen Anders (Badge 0092) Deputy Loris Carter (Badge 0081)
Dispatching Officer: Dispatcher Kate Leung
Suspect: Jakob Lloyd-Morre, Male, Age 20 (DOB: 06/15/1993, ID Confirmed via Student ID)
Charges:
1. Drug Possession – Maryland Criminal Law § 5-601
2. Assault on a Law Enforcement Officer – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-203
3. Breaking and Entering – Maryland Criminal Law § 6-202
4. Disorderly Conduct – Maryland Criminal Law § 10-201
Witnesses: Church Staff (Names Withheld), Civilian Callers
Evidence: Body camera footage, recovered chair leg, PCP-laced joint residue
Incident Summary:
On January 31, 2014, at 9:15 a.m., Unit 37 (Kiramman, Bretschneider) responded to a 911 call reporting a violent individual breaking into New Creation Christian Church, Rosedale. Suspect Jakob Lloyd-Morre, under PCP influence, was destroying property, hallucinating “devils.” Units 47 (Anders, Carter) assisted. After forced entry and a physical struggle, Lloyd was detained and transported to St. Joseph Medical Center for evaluation.
Details of Incident:
* Initial Response (9:15–9:20 a.m.): Unit 37 arrived after Dispatcher Kate Leung’s 911 alert, hearing a chair crash and growls about “devils.” Kiramman identified hallucinations, ordering Bretschneider to retrieve a hooligan bar. Bretschneider forced entry, splintering the door, revealing Lloyd, shirtless, destroying pews.
* Engagement (9:20–9:25 a.m.): Lloyd, exhibiting PCP symptoms (hyperthermia, agitation), resisted. Kiramman attempted a neck hold, was pushed into chairs, sustaining minor shoulder bruising. Bretschneider struck Lloyd’s thigh with a baton, then punched his jaw and temple, receiving a nose injury (bleeding, possible fracture). Anders and Carter arrived, Carter’s taser misfire escalating Lloyd’s aggression. Officers pinned Lloyd, Kiramman cuffing him.
* Transport (12:00 p.m.): EMS transported Lloyd to St. Joseph Medical Center, Units 37, 47 escorting.
* Evidence: Body camera footage, chair leg, joint residue bagged for CID.
Use of Force Justification:
Lloyd’s PCP-fueled aggression (assault, property damage) justified baton strikes, physical restraint, and Bretschneider’s punches, per Maryland § 3-203 and MPTC policy. Carter’s taser misfire escalated, requiring immediate action. Body cameras ensured transparency.
Disposition:
Lloyd detained at St. Joseph Medical Center, pending arraignment. Charges filed, informant agreement secured for drug network investigation. Evidence submitted to CID. Debrief scheduled to assess response in high-crime context.
Officer Observations:
Kiramman coordinated with precision, Bretschneider acted decisively, Anders and Carter supported effectively, despite taser error.
Signed:
Corporal Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104)
January 31, 2014

At 2:15 p.m.

In the trashed living room of the Rosedale party house, Steb explaining the agreement’s terms with measured precision. “Mr. Mueller, by signing this, you’re agreeing to cooperate with the Sheriff’s Office as an informant to investigate the drug cartel linked to Towson University,” he said, detailing surveillance, safe house protocols, and potential sentence leniency. He handed Tom a pen, the printed agreement crisp on the table. Tom, exhaling smoke, signed with a shaky hand, his face heavy with resignation.

Steb signaled Tom to follow him to their Interceptor parked outside. Tom, confused, hesitated. “Why? I need my laptop to receive orders,” he asked, his voice tinged with worry.
Steb tucked the agreement in his hand, his tone calm but firm. “We’ll provide a laptop at the safe house. You can set it up there.”
Tom sighed, rubbing his scarred arm. “Can I leave the safe house to hang out with friends or buy groceries?”
Steb shook his head. “No, only for investigation-related meetups. The safe house has everything—food, necessities.” He shrugged, his voice steady. “It’s not freedom, but it’s better than jail.”
Tom slumped, muttering, “That’s basically prison.”

Steb’s eyes flicked to the empty street. “At least you can still attend Towson University. This house is under surveillance now—the gangsters you mentioned might come back, especially if Lloyd tipped them off. Speaking of, do you still have the baggies? We can’t leave evidence they’ll spot.”
Tom forced a smile. “In a black duffel bag under my bed.”
Steb nodded to Loris, who lumbered upstairs, his towering frame navigating the creaking hardwood. In Tom’s bedroom, the air was thick with the musky aftermath of the morning gangbang. Used condoms, fluids still glistening, littered the floor beside a black bra, the sheets stained with white streaks, making Loris grimace at the recklessness of “kids nowadays.” He bent down, reaching under the bed, and pulled out a black duffel bag, its zipper straining. Opening it, his jaw dropped—over 2 kilograms of marijuana and meth, neatly packed in baggies, buried beneath a pile of second-hand burner phones, their screens scratched but functional. “Wow,” he muttered as he noting the scale of the operation. He hauled the bag downstairs, its weight heavy in his hands.
Steb, inspecting the contents, scribbled: Duffel bag, 2+ kg marijuana/meth, burner phones. “Good call, Tom. This stays with us,” he said, his tone firm.

At 3:00 p.m.

in the bustling hallway of the Sheriff’s Office.
Steb and Loris escorted Tom, their newly secured informant, toward a holding area to await Sergeant Wang’s approval for safe house placement. Tom shuffled between them, his wrists cuffed, the weight of his confession hanging heavy. Steb gripped Tom’s arm, while Loris kept a firm hand on Tom’s other side.

They spotted Caitlyn and Vi slumping out of Wang’s office, their faces like balloons losing air, deflated and pale. Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes were shadowed with exhaustion after Wang’s hour-long tirade. Vi’s eyes flickered with guilt.
“What’s going on, Cait?” Steb asked curiously.
Caitlyn rubbed her temple, her voice weary but steady. “Sarge lectured us for half an hour straight on abandoning our Interceptor at the church, me failing to rein in Vi as her supervisor. I’m drowning in reports now.” Her leadership felt strained.
Steb and Loris winced, their faces pouting in sympathy. “Yikes,” Steb said, his voice low. “Lucky I remembered our Interceptor before the ambulance rolled to St. Joseph.”
Vi sighed, her voice thick with exasperation, wincing as she touched her bruised nose. “How great for you two dodging that bullet. Sarge Wang’s as scary as Sarge Holbrook when he’s pissed.”
Tom, cuffed and listening, smirked faintly, his voice dry. “Sounds like you’re in deeper shit than me.” Caitlyn shot him a look, her eyes sharp, but said nothing.

At 4:00 p.m.,
In the cramped break room. Caitlyn and Vi sat hunched over a Formica table, their faces pouting to the maximum, a chilling air matched the frost in their mood as they scarfed down turkey sandwiches, the room’s coffee-stained air heavy with their silence.

Vi broke the silence, her voice soft, hesitant. “Cait, I’m sorry—really. I didn’t mean to screw us with those punches.”
Caitlyn’s gaze was stern, her voice sharp but measured. “Then act like you’re sorry, Boot, and think before you swing. We’re sticking to low-stakes calls now so you can learn to de-escalate, not escalate everything. I’m not getting chewed out by Wang again for your recklessness.”

“Yes, Corporal,” Vi replied, her face etched with visible guilt.

Awhile later, they returned to their Interceptor to resumed patrol, the V8 engine humming as they cruised through Towson’s snowy streets.
At 4:15 p.m., near Harford Mall in Bel Air, Dispatcher Leung’s voice crackled through the PA system, urgent but clipped. “All units, 911 report of attempted sexual harassment at Harford Mall. Units requested, over.”
Caitlyn’s eyes locked onto Vi’s, her face serious as steel. “Boot, time to learn how to talk first. Force is the last resort when words fail.” She grabbed the PA system’s handheld microphone, her voice steady. “10-4, Central, Unit 37 en route, over.” She gunned the Interceptor toward the mall, tires crunching snow

At 4:20 p.m.

Caitlyn and Vi pulled their Interceptor into the dim underground parking lot of Harford Mall in Bel Air, The cold air swirled around the concrete pillars as they stepped out, their boots echoing in the cavernous space. Caitlyn’s eyes sharp unclipped her sheriff’s cap from her duty belt, settling it on her head with a practiced flick and Vi followed suit.

They strode toward a security guard waiting near the mall’s entrance, his black uniform stark under the fluorescent lights. Caitlyn addressed him, her tone professional yet warm. “Good afternoon, sir. We’re here on a 911 report of a man trailing a woman into the female bathroom. Do you know anything about it?”
The guard, a wiry man in his 40s, nodded, his face creased with concern. “Wish I had more, deputies. I only know there was a man trailing behind a woman but when I checked the bathroom after the call, but the guy was gone. The woman said she saw him bolt into the Walmart.” He gestured toward the store’s entrance, its glass doors reflecting the mall’s bustle, and led them forward.

Inside, the Walmart sprawled with countless shelves—groceries, electronics, clothes—a maze of aisles under harsh lights, the air thick with the hum of shoppers and faint Muzak. Vi’s grey eyes scanned the chaos, her voice heavy with frustration. “This’ll take forever to find him, Corporal.”
Caitlyn’s eyes flicked to her, calm but firm. “Not if you know how to identify the potential suspect and call for help, Boot.” She pressed her PTT with her voice steady. “Central, Unit 37 arrived at Harford Mall. Civilian reports suspect fled to Walmart. Repeat suspect details, over.”
Seconds later, Dispatcher Leung’s voice crackled through their earpieces, sharp and clear. “Central to Unit 37, suspect described wearing a black ski jacket, brown winter boots, dark blue jeans, over.”

Caitlyn pressed her PTT. “Central, Unit 37, requesting additional unit to Harford Mall, over.” Moments later, a pursuit car screeched into the underground lot, its blue and red lights flickering. Maddie, a wiry woman with a no-nonsense glare, and Deputy Marcus Hu, an Asian man with black hair and a mustache, stepped out, their sheriff caps crisp, tactical gear—pistols, keys—jingling as they strode toward Caitlyn and Vi. Marcus glanced around, his dark eyes sharp. “What’s going on, Corporal Kiramman?”

Caitlyn briefed them, voice clipped. “… but Security lost him. We must get him back! Maddie, check CCTV with the manager. Marcus, take the clothing aisles. We’ll hit groceries. Stay on PTT. Dismiss” Maddie and Marcus shouted in unison “Roger that” the Maddie heading toward the manager at a kiosk, while Marcus veered toward the clothing section.
Caitlyn led Vi through the grocery aisles, shelves stacked with canned goods and produce, shoppers bustling. “Boot, time to learn how to spot a criminal blending in,” she said, her voice steady, teaching de-escalation. “First, don’t get tunnel vision. What’s the suspect’s description?”
Vi hesitated, “Black ski jacket, brown boots, blue jeans?”
Caitlyn shook her head, eyes locking onto a discarded black ski jacket crumpled on the floor near a cereal display. “Wrong. He was wearing that. Clothes changed.” Her psychology training caught the clue. “Second, watch for avoidance—fight or flight kicks in. Body language doesn’t lie.” Their eyes scanned shoppers, some curious, none dodging their gaze.

At the meat section, Caitlyn continued, “Third, suspects usually rush to crowds to hide and use people as a cover, but their focus betrays them— all you need to do is to spot that one person that does not fit in to the group.” They approached a throng eyeing discounted steaks, Vi’s grey eyes catching a man in a thin long-sleeve T-shirt, his head swiveling nervously, ignoring the meat.

“There,” Caitlyn whispered, pointing. “Got him.”
They shouted in unison, “Sheriff! Hands in the air!” Hands snapped to holsters, Caitlyn’s voice booming via PTT, “Central, Unit 37, suspect spotted, meat section, requesting Maddie, Marcus, now!” The man bolted, weaving through shoppers, his brown boots pounding, dark jeans flashing as he dodged a cart.

The Walmart quickly erupted into chaos, the suspect sprinting toward the back, Caitlyn and Vi in pursuit, their boots hammering the floor. Shoppers scattered, a woman clutching a toddler stumbled aside, a cart of soda cans tipping with a crash, cans rolling like marbles. Caitlyn, her ocean-blue eyes locked on the suspect like a hawk preying on a rabbit, shouted, “Vi, Maddie, Marcus, outflank him! Cut him off!” Vi, a born athlete, surged left, dodging a display of apples that spilled in a red cascade, her bruised leg aching but her athletic reflexes sharp. Marcus, from the clothing aisle, barreled right, weaving through racks of shirts, knocking hangers clattering. Maddie, sprinting from the manager’s office, cut toward the electronics section, her PTT crackling, “I’m on him, north side!”

The suspect, wiry and desperate, vaulted a pile of dog food bags, his T-shirt flapping, boots slipping as he rounded a corner into housewares. Caitlyn, panting, shoved past a shopper, her shoulder brushing a shelf, sending cereal boxes tumbling. “Stay on him, Vi!” she yelled, her voice strained but commanding. Vi, her grey eyes blazing, leapt over a spilled mop bucket, water splashing, her nose throbbing but her focus unbreakable. Marcus, closing in, ducked under a hanging display of pots, his keys jangling, shouting, “Stop right there!”
The suspect darted into a crowded aisle of shoppers, weaving through a knot of teens, their shopping bags swinging. Maddie, nearing from the north, lunged, her fingers grazing his T-shirt. He twisted, ripping the shirt off, leaving it dangling in Maddie’s hands, his bare torso gleaming as he sprinted toward the back door, a glowing “Exit” sign taunting. Caitlyn, heart pounding, shouted, “He’s heading for the exit—move! Don’t let him escape!”

Vi, her athleticism kicking in, powered forward, dodging a stroller and a stack of crates, her legs burning. As the suspect reached the back door, fingers brushing the handle, Vi launched, tackling him like a football player, her shoulder slamming into his spine with a thud. They crashed to the floor, tiles cold, the suspect’s breath whooshing out as Vi pinned his arms, her knee pressing his back. Caitlyn, panting, caught up, her eyes fierce. “Got you,” she gasped, snapping cuffs on his wrists, double-locking them with her key. “Good job, Boot” she muttered to Vi.

Maddie and Marcus arrived, breathless, Maddie tossing the torn T-shirt aside. “Nice tackle, Vi,” she said, her voice tight but approving. Vi, panting, her nose throbbing, grinned faintly.

Caitlyn then barked, “Boot, quick body search—now!” Vi, panting, patted Justin down, her hands swift but careful, finding only a cracked smartphone and a wallet with his ID—Justin T. Reed, DOB 03/22/1992—placed on the ground. No weapons, no drugs, just the bare essentials of a man on the run.

Caitlyn pressed her PTT, voice steady. “Central, Unit 37, suspect detained at Harford Mall Walmart, back door. Request transport, over.” Dispatcher Leung’s voice crackled through their earpieces, sharp and clear. “Central to Unit 37, transport request approved, over.” Caitlyn nodded, her voice firm. “10-4, Central, over.” She signaled Maddie and Marcus, each grabbing one of Justin’s arms, Vi securing the other, as they hauled him to his feet while they marched him through the Walmart, past countless shelves of groceries, under the curious stares and whispers of bystanders—“That’s the creep from last month,” one muttered, eyeing Justin as a known recidivist. Marcus, his dark eyes narrowing, muttered, “Hey, I remember you. I arrested you last time for planting a camera in the women’s bathroom!”

Justin shook his head, his voice shrill with denial. “Wasn’t me, man!” His protests rang hollow, his eyes darting nervously.

In the underground parking lot. Caitlyn opened the rear door to the prisoner cage, but Justin resisted, his long leg kicking out, pressing against the door to block Vi’s attempt to close it. Caitlyn, her patience thinning, circled to the opposite side, forcibly buckling the seatbelt, her voice a low growl. “Stop resisting, Justin, unless you want your criminal record thicker than a dictionary.”

Justin slumped, defeated, as Vi secured the door. Caitlyn slid into the driver’s seat, flipping open the Interceptor’s laptop, her fingers typing Justin’s details—name and DOB, his criminal history lit up with a rap sheet that made her stomach churn: attempted rape (2012), sexual harassment (2011-2013), voyeurism (2011 -2012), loitering (2013). Caitlyn’s narrowed her eyes as she parsing Reed’s recidivism. She turned to Reed, cuffed in the prisoner cage, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Wow, Reed, your record’s beautiful—attempted rape, sexual harassment, loitering. Quite the resume.”

Reed, wiry and sweating, lunged forward, his voice shrill. “That wasn’t me, I swear, I—”
Caitlyn cut him off, her tone flat, unyielding. “Save it, Reed. We’ll talk at the Sheriff’s Office.” She stepped out of the Interceptor, her boots crunching on the concrete, and signaled Vi who was waiting nearby. “Boot, come with me to take the woman’s statement. Maddie, Marcus, stay with Reed.” Maddie and Marcus nodded, standing guard by the Interceptor, their eyes scanning the lot.

Caitlyn and Vi strode back into the Walmart, the fluorescent lights harsh, the air thick with Muzak and shopper chatter. Caitlyn leaned in, her voice a low whisper. “Remember, Boot, friendly approach, guiding vocabulary. Let’s see how you talk to people.” Her psychology training emphasized empathy, critical for Vi’s de-escalation growth after her disciplinary record.
Vi nodded, her voice soft. “Got it, Corporal.” They approached the woman, a shaken 30-something in a blue coat, standing near the bathroom with a security guard. Caitlyn gestured for Vi to lead, stepping back to observe.
VI’s eyes warm, voice gentle, began. “Ma’am, I’m Deputy Bretschneider. Can you tell me what happened?”

The woman, her hands trembling, recounted her story. “Earlier today, around 4:00 p.m., I went to the bathroom. I sat in the stall, and… I saw men’s shoes—brown boots—facing me. I looked up, and there were eyes staring through the gap.” Her voice cracked, her eyes darting. “I bolted out, yelling at him to leave, but he just stood there, smirking. I shoved him, and he stumbled back. The security guard came, and he ran into the Walmart.”
Caitlyn scribbled in her notepad: Victim statement, male suspect, brown boots, peering, resisted verbal command. Her ocean-blue eyes flicked to Vi, approving her calm approach.

“Ma’am, would you mind coming to the Sheriff’s Office later for a detailed statement?” Vi asked, her voice soft. The woman, still trembling, nodded, her hands clutching her coat.
Caitlyn signaled Vi. “Boot, get the security guard to copy the CCTV footage facing the bathroom.” Vi nodded, jogging to the guard, ensuring the footage would capture Reed’s actions.

By 5:00 p.m., Caitlyn and Vi pulled their Interceptor into the Sheriff’s Office lot in Towson, escorting Reed to the detainment cell. Reed, cuffed and sweating, spouted excuses. “It wasn’t me, I didn’t follow her!” Caitlyn, opening the prisoner cage door of her interceptor then walk him to the detainment cell. Vi, sick of his denials, snapped as they stood before the cell. “Reed, the CCTV shows you trailing her to the women’s bathroom. Keep lying, but the DA won’t buy it. Get in there, thank you.” Her tone was sharp. Together, they gripped his arms, gently but firmly pushing him into the cell, the door clanging shut.

In the main office, a cluttered space of humming computers and coffee-stained desks, Vi peeled off her duty vest, draping it over her chair, and glanced at her watch—5:00 p.m. “Fuck me sideways,” she groaned, counting on her fingers, “one hour left, and we’ve got reports piling up, now this creep.” She slumped into her chair, defeated, her grey eyes heavy with the weight of Wang’s lecture.
Caitlyn, removing her own vest, placed it on her chair, a mischievous glint in her ocean-blue eyes. “Been there already, Vi,” she teased, her voice low, playful, dropping her usual “Boot” for a rare intimacy.

Vi’s eyes widened, catching the shift. “Wait, Corporal, what’s that mean?” Her voice held a mix of curiosity and flustered heat.
Caitlyn’s smile turned sly, her eyebrows raised. “You know what I mean, come on. Unless you want a demonstration… in the bedroom.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible, then she turned to her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard as she began the abandoned Interceptor report. “And about all these reports,” she added, her tone shifting to firm, “this is why you should start writing right after Lloyd agreed to be our informant. That case’ll drag on for months, Boot. Learn to stay ahead.”

Vi, blushing turned to Caitlyn, her voice barely above a whisper. “I—Corporal, I’d like that demonstration. Been a long while.” Her grey eyes sparkled with heat as she clicked open the church break-in report, then facepalmed, realizing the stack meant another overtime slog.
Caitlyn’s lips curved into a sly smile, her voice a teasing whisper. “You’ll get it, Vi, when we’re not drowning in reports, half-dead from ten hours’ sleep during our day off, or wrangling Grady.” Her eyes drifted down her own body, a flicker of longing crossing her face. “And when I can feel something again, instead of this… dull nothing, even watching something hot.” Her PTSD-driven anhedonia, a lingering scar, dulled her spark.

Vi nodded, her face softening. “It’s alright to be honest even though I miss doing anything intimate together but Speaking of Grady, I miss him so much. Hope he’s not too lonely at home. Oh! We should get a pet monitor—see our boy even from here.”
Caitlyn’s eyes lit up, her tone hopeful. “Yeah, a pet monitor sounds perfect. Found any good ones?”
Vi grinned, cutting in. “Couple of ‘em—can even interact with pets, toss treats. But the price is just…” She trailed off, wincing.
Caitlyn’s smile widened. “Price isn’t the issue, Vi. Send me the link later.” Her fingers resumed typing, the Interceptor report taking shape.

Incident Report: Harford Mall Attempted Sexual Harassment
Report Number: TCSO-2014-0131-009
Date and Time: January 31, 2014, 4:15 p.m.–5:00 p.m.
Location: Harford Mall Walmart, Bel Air, Baltimore County, MD
Reporting Officers: Corporal Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104), Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219), Corporal Maddie Nolen (Badge 0105), Corporal Marcus Hu (Badge 0110)
Dispatching Officer: Dispatcher Kate Leung
Suspect: Justin T. Reed, Male, Age 21 (DOB: 03/22/1992, ID Confirmed via Wallet)
Charges:
1. Attempted Sexual Harassment – Maryland Criminal Law § 3-802
2. Resisting Arrest – Maryland Criminal Law § 9-408
Witnesses: Female Victim (Name Withheld), Walmart Manager, Security Guard
Evidence: Body camera footage, CCTV footage, smartphone, wallet, discarded ski jacket
Incident Summary:
On January 31, 2014, at 4:15 p.m., Unit 37 (Kiramman, Bretschneider) responded to a 911 call reporting an attempted sexual harassment at Harford Mall Walmart. Suspect Justin T. Reed trailed a female victim into the women’s bathroom, peering into her stall. Unit 42 (Nolen, Hu) provided backup. After a pursuit through the store, Reed was detained and transported to the Sheriff’s Office.
Details:
• Initial Response (4:15–4:20 p.m.): Unit 37 arrived at Harford Mall, meeting a security guard who reported Reed’s flight to Walmart after trailing a female into the bathroom. Kiramman briefed Unit 42, assigning Corporal Nolen to review CCTV footage with the manager and Deputy Hu to search the clothing aisles. Unit 37 searched the grocery aisles.
• Victim Statement (4:40 p.m.): The female victim reported entering the bathroom at approximately 4:00 p.m. While in a stall, she noticed Reed’s brown winter boots facing her and saw his eyes peering through the gap. She confronted him verbally, yelling for him to leave, but he remained, smirking. She pushed him out, and he fled to Walmart as the security guard arrived. A follow-up statement was scheduled at the Sheriff’s Office.
• Pursuit (4:20–4:30 p.m.): Kiramman and Bretschneider identified Reed in the meat section via body language (nervous glances, ignoring sale items). Reed fled, discarding his black ski jacket. Units 37 and 42 outflanked him, dodging shoppers, carts, and spilled items (apples, soda cans). Nolen grabbed Reed’s T-shirt, which he shed. Bretschneider tackled him at the back door, Kiramman cuffing him with double-locked restraints.
• Search and Transport (4:30–5:00 p.m.): Bretschneider conducted a body search, recovering a cracked smartphone and wallet with Reed’s ID (DOB: 03/22/1992). Criminal history check revealed prior charges: attempted rape (2012), sexual harassment (2011 - 2013), voyeurism (2011 - 2012), loitering (2013). Reed resisted, kicking the Interceptor door, denying involvement. Kiramman secured the seatbelt, countering denials with CCTV evidence. Reed was transported to the Sheriff’s Office detainment cell.
• Evidence: Body camera footage, CCTV footage from bathroom entrance, smartphone, wallet, and discarded ski jacket were collected and submitted to CID for analysis.
• Witnesses: The victim’s statement corroborated the security guard’s report. The Walmart manager provided CCTV access, confirming Reed’s presence. Deputy Hu noted a prior arrest of Reed for similar behavior (bathroom camera, 2013).
Use of Force Justification:
Reed’s flight and physical resistance (kicking the Interceptor door) necessitated Bretschneider’s tackle, compliant with Maryland Criminal Law § 9-408 and MPTC policy. No excessive force was used, with body camera footage ensuring transparency. Bretschneider’s actions aligned with Crisis Intervention Training (CIT) principles, avoiding escalation despite her disciplinary history (November 2013, January 31 church brawl).
Disposition:
Reed was detained in the Sheriff’s Office cell, pending arraignment on charges of attempted sexual harassment and resisting arrest. Evidence was submitted to CID for further investigation. A debrief is scheduled to assess the response in the context of Baltimore’s high-crime environment. The victim was scheduled for a detailed statement at the Sheriff’s Office to support prosecution.
Officer Observations:
Kiramman demonstrated leadership, coordinating Units 37 and 42 effectively, leveraging CIT verbal de-escalation with the victim. Bretschneider showed restraint, adhering to CIT principles. Nolen and Hu provided critical backup, with Nolen securing CCTV and Hu identifying Reed’s prior offense.
Signed:
Corporal Caitlyn Kiramman (Badge 0104)
Deputy Violet Bretschneider (Badge 1219)
Corporal Maddie Nolen (Badge 0105)
Corporal Marcus Hu (Badge 0110)
January 31, 2014

At 8:00 p.m.
Caitlyn stretched her legs, groaning, “Finally,” as she hit send on her reports to Sergeant Wang then stood, rubbing her neck. “Boot, I’m hitting the bathroom.” Vi, hunched over her desk, muttered, “Ok,” her fingers flying on the church break-in report and the rest.

At the women’s bathroom door, Caitlyn flicked the light switch, only for it to snap off automatically, plunging the room into dimness. “When are they gonna fix this damn light?” she muttered, annoyance flaring. “Been like this since my first day.” Shaking her head, she entered an empty stall, the door creaking shut. As she sat, she glimpsed a pair of worn boots in the adjacent stall, scuffed and still, their presence odd in the quiet.

A minute later, she stepped to the sink, rubbing soap into her hands, her reflection revealing deepening eye bags, her makeup failing to mask the toll of her job. She sighed, voice low. “Be a police officer, they said—fun, they said. All I got is PTSD, dysautonomia, and a herniated disc. But hey, I’m alive. Keep going, Corporal. You’re keeping the community safe.” Grabbing tissues to dry her hands, but as she left the bathroom she didn’t notice the worn boots had vanished from the stall.

Twenty minutes later, at 8:20 p.m., back at her desk facing the corridor to the women’s bathroom, Caitlyn realized no one had exited after her. Worry knotted her stomach—what if the deputy fainted? Spotting Anne, the K9 handler, passing by, Caitlyn patted her shoulder. “Hey, Anne, can you check the bathroom? Someone was in there before me, but no one came out. I’m worried they fainted.”
Anne’s eyes widened. “Shit, really?” She grabbed a first aid kit from her desk and rushed to the bathroom, Caitlyn trailing behind, her heart racing. Inside, the dim light flickered. Anne yelled, “Deputy, are you injured?” Silence answered, stretching for minutes. They exchanged glances, then began opening stalls, expecting a collapsed colleague. Each door creaked open—empty. At the last stall, Anne turned to Caitlyn, brow furrowed. “Cait, there’s no one here.”
Caitlyn’s face twisted in confusion. “I swear to God, I saw worn boots in that stall. What the fuck?”

Anne’s eyes narrowed, her voice dropping, sending goosebumps up Caitlyn’s spine. “You sure those boots belonged to someone… alive?”
Caitlyn jumped, her voice sharp. “Anne, what do you mean?”

Anne swallowed, her tone thick with unease. “Back in the 1960s, a female deputy shot herself in the temple with her pistol… in this bathroom. Died before the ambulance got here.”
Caitlyn’s blood ran cold. They hurried out, pretending nothing happened. “No wonder the light’s always broken,” Caitlyn muttered, her voice shaky.
Anne shrugged, her face pale. “We’ve fixed it a dozen times. It never stays on.”

“I’m not peeing here anymore,” Caitlyn said, half-laughing, half-serious. “I’ll walk upstairs.”
“Same, sis,” Anne replied, her voice tight.

As Cait slumped back to her chair ,she leaned toward Vi, her voice low, recounting the bathroom scare.
Vi’s eyes widened, her head snapping dramatically to Caitlyn, her voice thick with mock horror. “Well, damn, I’m bringing a holy Bible next time I pee in there!” She pointed at the bathroom corridor, grinning. “Wait, we gotta ask Steb if the men’s room is just as haunted. I love spooky stories, Cait. It’s only January, but I’m already pumped for Halloween!”

Caitlyn facepalmed, a memory flashing—Vi confessing her love in a graveyard, her bold heart shining even then. “You’re so weird, Vi,” she muttered as she catching Vi’s playful spark.
“Come on, you love it,” Vi teased, her grey eyes glinting as she typed the last lines of her report. “Just a couple more sentences, then we’re home to our doggo Grady. Man, I wanna rub his adorable face and belly.”

Caitlyn smiled, her eyes warming. “Yeah, Grady’s waiting. Let’s wrap this up.”

At 9:00 p.m.,

Back in their cozy apartment in Locust Point, Baltimore City. Cait and Vi finally stumbled through the front door, their bodies heavy from a grueling day at the Sheriff’s Office. The cold air followed them inside, but the warmth of home—scented with lavender and faint traces of dog treats—wrapped around them like a blanket. Their golden retriever, Grady, nine months old and fluffy as a cloud, leapt from the door mat, his back legs propelling him upward, tail wagging furiously. His eager tongue slathered Caitlyn’s face, leaving it wet with slobber, his big brown eyes gleaming with joy. “Grady, I missed you too, aww,” Caitlyn cooed, her tiring eyes softening. She glanced at the duct-taped couch, its arm scarred from Grady’s earlier mischief. “Good to know the leg’s still intact,” she muttered, a wry smile breaking through.

Meanwhile, Vi was already on the floor, drowned in Grady’s welcome kisses. Caitlyn kicked off her winter boots, shed her coat, and collapsed onto the couch, her long blue hair cascading over the cushions. “I could sleep right here,” she groaned in exhaustion.

Vi, peeling off her jacket, climbed onto Caitlyn, hugging her tightly, her lips brushing Caitlyn’s in a tender kiss. “Not ‘til we feed Grady, walk him for his business, eat dinner, and wash up,” she teased warmly.
Caitlyn groaned louder, “Ahhh, fine, I’ll feed him. He’s probably starving.” She rose, kneeling to pat Grady, guilt flushing her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, buddy,” she said, ruffling his golden fur. “We could’ve been home by 6:30, but your other mom Violet’s impulsive behavior buried us in reports.” Her ocean-blue eyes shot a playful glare at Vi.

Vi, pouting innocently from the living room, yelled, “I’m so sorry, Cait!” as she rose up to the kitchen and rummaged in the fridge for dinner ingredients—chicken, peppers, rice—her hands moving with practiced ease.
Caitlyn crossed to the kitchen, socks silent on the hardwood. She lifted Vi’s chin, kissing her lips softly, her voice a warm murmur. “I’ll forgive you, Vi. At least you’re cute.” Vi’s hands slid to Caitlyn’s waist, pulling her close, their kiss deepening, a spark cutting through the day’s weight.

Vi whispered against Caitlyn’s ear, her voice husky, “So, will you give me that demonstration later, my Corporal?”

Caitlyn’s lips curved into a sly smile, her whisper teasing. “Maybe, My deputy.”

Chapter Text

At 10:00 p.m., Friday, January 31

Under a silver moonlight bathing Locust Point, Baltimore City, Cait and Vi strolled along Marriott Street with their golden retriever, Grady, tugging gently on the leash in Caitlyn’s hand. The 20°F night air, a crisp remnant of “Winter Storm Hercules,” carried a quiet that soothed the day’s chaos—church rampage, Reed’s arrest, Sergeant Wang’s lecture, and the eerie bathroom scare at the Sheriff’s Office. Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes, softened despite her PTSD gazed at the moon. Vi, her grey eyes glinting despite her bruised nose from the church brawl, walked close.

Caitlyn, holding Grady’s leash as he sniffed the frosty sidewalk, grinned, her voice soft. “Vi, do you ever feel this way? The night’s so calm, no construction noise, no trains, no neighbors bickering over things they’d solve calmly by day. Just… listening to yourself. It reminds me of the time when I’m still living in Pikesville.”
Vi tilted her head, her voice curious. “What way?”
Caitlyn’s grin widened, her eyes on the moon. “The scent of peace, Vi. Hearing your own thoughts without the world screaming.”
Vi shrugged, her sneakers scuffing the pavement. “Dunno, Cait. I’m no city girl. You know ,I was born and raised in the suburbs outside Baltimore City—Pikesville. My parents always warned me and Powder not to go out at night, saying black bears and coyotes were prowling. Sure, I snuck out plenty, but after that one time…” She trailed off, her grey eyes distant. “With Powder digging in the forest behind Druid Ridge Cemetery, playing archaeologists. It was all calm until suddenly her shovel hit something hard—thought it was a rock. Kept going, but my flashlight caught an eye socket. A human skull, Cait. We bolted home, locked ourselves in our room in the boiler room, scared shitless.”

Caitlyn’s eyes widened, her voice a mix of shock and intrigue. “Vi, really?”

“Yeah,” Vi said, chuckling nervously. “Never went out at night after that. So, I don’t get that calm you feel, but I get needing quiet to hear your thoughts, figure out what you want.”
Caitlyn smiled, squeezing Vi’s hand, their bond a refuge in the moonlight. Grady tugged forward, tail wagging, as they strolled toward the LAZ parking lot near the apartment they lived in.

A while later as they arrived at the parking lot, Caitlyn eased onto the frosty ground near the chain-link fence, Grady settling beside her, his golden fur glinting. She patted the ground, signaling Vi to join. The couple sat shoulder-to-shoulder, watching million-dollar yachts sway gently on the Patapsco’s dark waters, their lights dancing like stars.

“Hey, Vi,” Caitlyn said, her voice soft, a grin tugging her lips.

“Yeah?” Vi glanced over, her voice curious.

“My family’s got a yacht like those,” Caitlyn said, nodding toward the boats. “Wanna spend a night with me on the Patapsco? Visit Hart-Miller Island? We can stay a night there, like camping!” Caitlyn asked as she grinned at her. Vi’s grey eyes widened, her jaw dropping. “Your family has a yacht? Your family rich as hell, Cait! Hell yeah, I’m in. You know how to drive it?”
Caitlyn chuckled, her ocean-blue eyes glinting with mischief. “Of course, Vi, or I wouldn’t ask. All you need to do is toss the anchor. And stay out of the steering wheel. Because to be honest despite I trust you with my heart, but not with a million-dollar yacht. One scratch, and my mom’ll lecture me worse than Wang.” She shot Vi a side-eye as she caught Vi’s recklessness.

Vi flashed an awkward smile, her expression mirroring Grady’s goofy grin, tongue lolling in happiness. Caitlyn noticed, laughing as she murmured in Chinese, “虎父無犬子.”
Vi tilted her head, puzzled. “What’s that mean, Cait?”
“It means you look like Grady,” Caitlyn teased, ruffling Grady’s head as he panted joyfully. The couple erupted into laughter, the sound echoing over the river. Caitlyn unclipped Grady’s leash, letting him bound around the empty lot, sniffing tires and patches of frost. They leaned closer, their talk drifting to random stories—Vi and her sister’s little adventure, Caitlyn’s childhood yacht trips—each tale sparking more laughter, a fleeting escape from the day’s grind.

A short while later, their quiet stroll was transformed into playful chaos. Their golden retriever, Grady, tail wagging like a metronome, bounded back with a gnarled stick, his brown eyes gleaming with glee under the night air—the river’s briny scent mingled with the calm, a stark contrast to their day’s grind.

Cait’s eyes sparkled as she swayed the stick before Grady. “Go, fetch!” she called, tossing it across the lot.
Grady bolted, retrieving the stick with joyful leaps, his golden fur glinting. Caitlyn threw it again and again, till her arm tiring after countless tosses. Vi then grabbed the stick and gave way to a baseball player’s swing. With a mighty heave, she yeeted it—straight into the Patapsco River, where it splashed and drifted in the grey, murky water. “Vi…” Caitlyn facepalmed, her voice a mix of exasperation and amusement.

Grady, undeterred, raced to the water’s edge, paws splashing as he reached for the stick, whining sadly as it floated away. Before Caitlyn could react, he leaped in, his golden coat turning a sodden grey. “Grady, no, oh my God!” Caitlyn groaned, facepalming harder, her eyes flashing as she envisioned two more hours scrubbing their now-grey retriever. “Violet, I just wanted to sleep, and now we’ve gotta shower this dirty-ass dog—Jesus fucking Christ!” Her words cut off as Grady, climbing out, shook vigorously beside her, soaking her legs with river muck.

Vi burst into laughter, her voice echoing across the lot. Caitlyn glared, then charged, chasing Vi in circles, Grady trailing with excited barks, his muddy paws leaving prints. “Stop running, Vi, come back!” Caitlyn yelled, her boots pounding the pavement. She grabbed Vi’s jacket, tackling her to the ground with a playful thud. Their eyes locked—Caitlyn’s ocean-blue meeting Vi’s greyish spark—and Caitlyn leaned in, kissing her gently, then passionately, heat stirring in her core, a rare flicker through her PTSD-driven anhedonia till she backed away.

“Why stop here, Cait?” Vi murmured, her hands on Caitlyn’s shoulders.

Caitlyn grinned, her voice husky. “Because I’m not going to violating public indecency laws here.” Her body thrummed, the softness she’d lamented earlier now hard, rubbing against her underwear. In her mind, she was grateful not to be a man—no tent to betray her. She stood, signaling Vi and Grady to head home, her walk slightly off, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks.
Vi, catching the shift, grinned slyly, knowing the “demonstration” they’d teased earlier was now a certainty.

At 12:30 a.m.

Back in the dimly lit parking area of their apartment building. Cait and Vi finished scrubbing their golden retriever, Grady, clean of the Patapsco River’s grey muck. Caitlyn, in casual slippers and a loose ponytail squatted to kiss Grady’s now-fluffy forehead, his fur gleaming under the parking lot’s sodium lights. She signaled Vi and Grady to head back to their flat. The day’s chaos faded into the quiet night.

Inside their cozy apartment, scented with lavender and dog treats, Vi unclipped Grady’s leash, hanging it on a hook by the entrance. Caitlyn slumped onto the duct-taped couch, her long blue hair spilling over the cushions, exhausted but content. Vi slid beside her, wrapping an arm around Caitlyn’s waist, her hand teasingly drifting to Caitlyn’s crotch, lips brushing her ear. “So, Corporal, still up for it?” she whispered, her voice husky, eyes playful.

Caitlyn bit her lip, eyes glinting, meeting Vi’s gaze. “Sure, but not in front of our dog—he’s still a puppy. That ‘thing’ is too early for him,” she teased, glancing at Grady, who lay on the floor, chewing a squeaky plushie, his brown eyes darting. Caitlyn grabbed the TV remote, flipping to Paw Patrol, the cartoon’s bright colors catching Grady’s attention. His head tilted as Chase, the police pup, appeared, his gaze flicking to Caitlyn and Vi as if recognizing his moms’ roles. Caitlyn whispered “Grady’s like a toddler with a teddy bear, clutching that plushie. So adorable.”

Vi grinned “Yeah, he’s a cutie. Hope Paw Patrol keeps him busy for half an hour so we get some time for ourselves.” She gently shut the bedroom door behind her then cupped Caitlyn’s face, kissing her with slow, passionate heat. Their engagement rings glinted in the dim bedroom light, Caitlyn’s need igniting, her lower body throbbing.
Under the soft glow, Caitlyn peeled off Vi’s tank top, revealing her chiseled abs and breasts, her muscular frame a testament to her jiu-jitsu and martial arts training. Primal instinct took over as Caitlyn leaned in, sucking Vi’s nipple gently, her hands swiftly shedding her own pajamas and her currently soaked underwear, a slight tent betraying her arousal. Clothes hit the floor in a heap as they tangled on the bed, bodies pressed close. Vi moaned, kissing Caitlyn’s neck while Cait work her fingers in and out of her soaked entrance. her voice a heated whisper. “Cait, at work, I’ve always wanted to suck you off so bad, make you lose it, then have you give me a rough backshot in the Interceptor’s front seat, kneeling as you cum in my mouth—God, it’s so good, keep going.” Her moans deepened as Caitlyn’s erect length pushed into her, moving rhythmically.

A flashback suddenly hit Caitlyn like a jolt.

A while ago, as their interceptor was parked under a sodium streetlamp, the PA system silent as they waiting for the next 911 call. Caitlyn hunched over her laptop, typing up a report, her uniform fitting snugly. In the passenger seat, Vi watched her with a faint grin, her grey eyes lingering on Caitlyn’s crotch. Caitlyn caught her stare.
"Boot... why are you looking at my crotch?" she asked, narrowing her ocean-blue eyes to catch Vi in the act.
Vi grinned wider, teasing her. "Nothing, Corporal. Just noticed your pants make you look like you’ve got a bulge, haha," she said with a playful tone.

“That’s because these pants don’t fit—when the waistline’s fine, then it will be too short for my legs, therefore I’m stuck in these L-sized pants-“ Caitlyn glanced down, embarrassment flooding as she saw her unzipped fly. “Violet! Why didn’t you tell me I forgot to zip my pants?!” She yanked the zipper up, cheeks burning.
Vi laughed, clutching her head, eyes sparkling. “Sorry, Cait, too funny! 10 minutes passed by and you still didn’t noticed that!”
Caitlyn’s mind clicked—Vi’s lingering stares weren’t just about a wardrobe malfunction. That hunger had been there all along.

Caitlyn’s breath grew ragged, her thrusts harder. “That’s Impossible, Vi. The Interceptor’s got cameras, and our body cams record everything during our 12-hour shift,” she gasped as she noted the thrill. Vi then grabbed Caitlyn’s lean waist, her fingers tracing faint abs, moaning consistently, her voice desperate. “Then fuck me so hard I make you hard again after you cum—fuck yes that’s the spot.” Caitlyn’s hands gripped Vi’s soft breasts, her rhythm steady but rough.
“Careful what you wish for, Deputy,” Caitlyn teased, her voice low. “I can always go for a second round right after, but it’ll take longer to cum.”

Vi, playful, grinned. “Because you need time to ‘reload’?”
Caitlyn broke into a smile at the unexpected metaphor, nodding. “Yeah, Vi.”

Caitlyn, with Vi’s leg draped over her shoulder, gently pulled her erect clitoris from Vi’s soaked entrance, her breath ragged. Holding Vi’s chin, she spat into her mouth, voice husky. “Deputy, you said you wanted to suck me off, right? Come, pleasure me.” Leaning to Vi’s ear, she teased, “I’m not even fully erect yet.”
Vi’s grey eyes flicked down, her thoughts racing—It’s throbbing, dripping, pointing up, and she’s only half erect? What the fuck?—but she grinned softly. “Yes, Corporal.” She leaned down, grasping Caitlyn’s half-erect length, sucking it like a pacifier, her lips tight, tongue swirling. Caitlyn rocked her head back, moaning, “Yes, so fucking good—use your tongue more, lick the tip, oh my God.” Vi’s tongue dipped into Caitlyn’s foreskin, teasing the sensitive head, feeling it swell in her mouth, throbbing intensely. She pulled back, admiring Caitlyn’s now-fully erect clitoris, pointing skyward, and grinned playfully, licking the tip before enveloping it, her lips a suction cup, tongue rubbing relentlessly. Caitlyn nearly screamed, biting her hand to muffle her moans while guiding Vi’s head with her other hand, her pleasure soaring.

Minutes later, Caitlyn’s lower body pulsed uncontrollably, her climax imminent. “Oh God, Vi, I can’t hold it anymore-” she gasped. Thick, transparent fluid filled Vi’s mouth, dripping as Vi pulled back, smirking. “Damn, Cait, you came a lot.”
Caitlyn, panting, grinned. “Haven’t cum in forever, Vi. Now, lie down, face the window—you wanted a sideways fuck, right? Here’s your demonstration.” She strapped on a dildo, spitting on it for lubrication, lifting Vi’s leg, and gently pushed in, her thrusts slow but deep. Vi moaned, her body yielding, the rhythm igniting her core.
Mischief sparked in Caitlyn’s eyes as she quickened her thrusts, rubbing Vi’s clitoris to amplify her pleasure. Vi gripped the bed’s edge, moaning, “Oh my fucking God, Cait, I’m gonna cum!” Her fingers teased her own hardened nipple, chasing maximum pleasure. Caitlyn, breathing into Vi’s ear, whispered, “Yes, cum for me, give me everything.” Vi’s legs shook, her climax spilling as Caitlyn thrust through, then slowed, collapsing beside her. “You look adorable when you cum, Deputy, but I’m not there yet,” Caitlyn teased as she leaned forward to kiss her soft lips deeply while grabbing Vi’s breasts, resuming her thrusts.

Later, Caitlyn signaled Vi to lie face down, positioning for a backshot. The once-cold bedroom now sweltered, Caitlyn lifting a leg onto the bed frame, delivering powerful, deep thrusts that made Vi’s love juices splash, her moans echoing. “Vi, I’m going to come-“ Caitlyn, feeling her clitoris throb, flipped Vi to face her, removed the strap-on, and entered with her fully erect length, thrusting until her waist shook, cumming inside Vi with a moan.
They collapsed, bodies entwined, Vi’s hand patting Caitlyn’s soaked hair. “Don’t pull out yet,” Vi murmured, moaning softly. “I want to feel your heat inside me— ah it’s so thick and it feels so good in my pussy.” Caitlyn, still thrusting mischievously, whispered, “Feel it as long as you want, Vi. I’m not pulling out either.” Their hands clasped, Caitlyn’s length nestled in Vi’s tight, soaked entrance. Vi, her muscular frame glistening, grinned mischievously, whispering, “Next time, we should bring our uniforms back.”

Caitlyn narrowed her brows, catching Vi’s playful hunger. “So you really have a kink for me fucking you while we’re both in sheriff uniforms…” She sighed, a mix of exasperation and amusement. “Fine, I can imagine it’s quite hot to fuck while we are in the uniform. Besides, I’ll have to anyway—I ordered a new plate carrier, drop-down holster, and belt to replace the issued crap. I could tell you which ones, but Vi, let’s sleep. I’m exhausted.”
Vi grinned wider, patting Caitlyn’s soft blue hair as she rested her head on Vi’s bare chest for comfort. “Tell me when you get them, Cait. Goodnight, my forever sheriff.” Vi closed her eyes as they drifted to sleep, their bond—engagement rings glinting—unshakable.

At midnight, in the quiet darkness of their apartment. Caitlyn eased herself from the warmth of Vi’s body, their limbs still tangled from an intense, intimate night. The cold air seeped through the windows, but the lavender-scented bedroom held a lingering heat. Caitlyn’s eyes adjusted to the dim glow of their engagement rings glinting in the moonlight. Careful not to wake Vi, whose grey eyes were closed in sleep. Caitlyn gathered her scattered pajamas from the floor and slipped them on silently.

Caitlyn tiptoed to the bedroom door, her bare feet soft on the hardwood, intending to slip to the bathroom. But as she opened the door, the pitch darkness hid their golden retriever, Grady, sprawled like a furry roadblock. Her foot caught his fluffy bulk, and she stumbled, muttering, “扑你個街!” A Cantonese swear word slips out as she hits the floor with a muffled thud. Her heart raced. She looked back, and Grady’s glowing brown eyes met hers, the nine-month-old pup rising to lick her face, his tail wagging in apology.
“Thanks, Grady, I appreciate that,” Caitlyn whispered, half-laughing, ruffling his fur, her ocean-blue eyes softening. She stood, brushing off her pajamas, and glanced back at Vi, still asleep, undisturbed by the commotion.

At 4:30 a.m., Saturday, February 1
Caitlyn stirred from a light sleep after her midnight bathroom trip, the faint squeak of a toy piercing the silence. Caitlyn’s eyes fluttered open as she stirred at the noise. She tried to ignore the persistent squeak-squeak, hoping to steal more sleep, but its rhythm quickened, relentless.

Sighing, Caitlyn slipped from the bed, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, careful not to wake Vi. Padding into the living room, the source was unmistakable as it was Grady who sprawled on the floor, pressing a squeaky toy with his paw, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief.
Grady looked up, flashing a doggy smile, but froze as Caitlyn planted her hands on her waist, glaring at him like an annoyed mom. “Bad boy, Grady,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “No squeaky toys at night—Mommy needs sleep.” She bent down, confiscating the toy and replacing it with a plushie. Grady pouted, letting out sad whines, his ears drooping, tail still.
Caitlyn’s eyes softened, her voice gentle as she patted his golden head. “Don’t be sad, buddy. Give Mommy 30 more minutes, then I’ll take you for a walk, okay?” Grady’s ears perked at “walk,” his pout vanishing into a beaming smile, tail thumping softly.
Caitlyn grinned, ruffling his fur, then tiptoed back to bed, slipping beside Vi’s warmth. Grady clutched his plushie, content, as Caitlyn drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile in the shadowy outskirts of Rosedale, an unmarked white Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van idled silently in a darkened alley, parked just blocks from the trashed party house where Steb and Loris had secured informant Tom Mueller earlier that day. The van’s interior, a stark contrast to the tactical, anti-riot configurations (TRU) used by Caitlyn, Vi, Steb, Loris, and Maddie’s units, was a mobile command center—six passenger seats ripped out, replaced by desks, two large monitors displaying live feeds from hidden cameras, and banks of surveillance gear humming softly. The cold air seeped through the seals, turning the space into a freezer. Deputy Kent, plainclothes from the Anti-Gang Unit, shivered in a hoodie and jeans, whining to his partner, “Deputy Matthews, I should be in our warm Anti-Gang office, not freezing my ass off for hours waiting for gangsters Tactical Unit 47 mentioned in their report.”
Deputy Matthews, from the Anti-Narcotics Unit, sat beside him, binoculars pressed to his eyes, peering around the corner at the party house. “Kent, I miss my cats too, but focus on the mission so we can go home,” he muttered, his breath fogging. A Toyota sedan crept by, headlights cutting the dark. Matthews patted Kent urgently. “Camera—now.”

Kent snatched a DSLR with a long-range lens, snapping crystal-clear shots of the driver—a hooded figure—and the vehicle’s plates. Matthews jotted the numbers, punching them into the laptop. “Got anything?” Kent asked, lowering the camera and keying his Motorola radio to report to the operation commander.
Matthews sighed. “Nothing. Just another missing car reported by BPD.” The radio crackled, the commander’s voice barking from the rear compartment, where he sat in a tactical jacket monitoring feeds. “Kent, driver’s inside the house. Plant a GPS tracker under his car, over.”
Kent scanned the empty street, replying, “10-4.” He slipped out, the cold biting as he crouched by the Toyota, affixing a magnetic GPS tracker to the undercarriage with a click. Heart pounding, he darted back, sliding into the van.
The commander then shoved open the rear door connecting to the front. “Now we wait. Return to the Sheriff’s Office,” he barked, slamming it shut.
“Yes, sir,” Kent said, firing the engine. The Sprinter rumbled away, its surveillance screens flickering with the party house feed, the GPS dot blinking live on the map—a silent hunter in Baltimore County’s drug war.

At 5:00 a.m.

The pre-dawn frost clung to the sidewalks of Locust Point, the cold air sharp as a blade, as Caitlyn walked Grady, her golden retriever’s tail wagging like a metronome, his paws pattering happily on the empty street. She yawned deeply, sleep deprivation from yesterday’s chaos carving dark circles under her ocean-blue eyes.

Suddenly her phone buzzed sharply in her pocket. Sergeant Wang’s texts lit the screen:

Wang (5:02 a.m.): You and Bretschneider: plainclothes today.
Wang (5:03 a.m.): [Attached: grainy photo of hooded driver]
Wang (5:04 a.m.): Familiar?
Caitlyn tapped the image. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she muttered, heart slamming. She scooped Grady up, bolting back to the apartment.

At 6:30 a.m.

Sergeant Wang’s office reeked of burnt coffee and tension, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Unlike their usual crisp uniforms, Caitlyn and Vi stood in plainclothes flanked by Deputies Kent and Matthews.

Caitlyn slid the photo across Wang’s desk, her voice steel. “This is Zhong’s brother. Visited him in the county jail, bailed him out with $50k cash. Now it clicks—Zhong’s massive Towson narcotics haul? He’s the city-to-county transfer man. That cash? Dirty money.”
Matthews nodded grimly. “Brother works at a Chinatown restaurant, downtown Baltimore. We suspected it is a cartel money laundering front, tied to 14K—the Hong Kong triad owning Baltimore’s Chinatown.”

A sharp knock echoed. Wang waved them in: BPD Anti-Gang Officers González and Kwan, vests bristling. Wang’s gaze locked on Caitlyn. “You two: Chinatown undercover. Kiramman, infiltrate the restaurant—dig how they move narcotics right under BPD’s nose. Your half-Asian Hong Kong roots, fluent Cantonese? They’ll drop their guard. Bretschneider, unmarked van with González and Kwan—tail their load-out, track destination. Questions?”
The couple shook their heads. “No, sir.”
Wang signaled them to follow the BPD officers.

At the door, his voice dropped, raw concern cracking through. “Kiramman—14K’s animals. They’ll slit you open if they smell sheriff. I won’t bury you over my call.”
“Yes, sir,” Caitlyn nodded firmly, shutting the door. Vi’s grey eyes brimmed with worry, squeezing Caitlyn’s hand in the hallway as they walked towards the parking lot outside.

In the parking lot. The unmarked BPD van squatted in the lot like a predator in wait, its tinted windows swallowing the dawn light. Cait and Vi stood before Officers González and Kwan, the air thick with the weight of the razor-edge tension of Chinatown’s 14K shadows.

Officer Kwan leaned from the van, voice clipped. “Before we roll, we need to do a total makeover first. You’re on TV—can’t risk recognition.” He yanked a box from inside, popping it open: temporary black hair dye, dark brown contacts glinting like secrets. “González, handle it.” He shoved the kit at Officer González, nodding to Vi. “Ladies’ room. Now.”

Vi led them upstairs, the second-floor bathroom’s fluorescent buzz harsh. Caitlyn bent awkwardly over the sink in her sports bra, groaning as González and Vi slathered dye into her long blue hair. “My back—oh my God,” Caitlyn whined, spine screaming.
“Girl, cut this mane; it’s getting too long,” González muttered as she squeezed dye like toothpaste onto her blue mane, the viscous liquid glistening under the fluorescent lights. She hesitated for a moment, examining the tangled strands of her hair, which shimmered with streaks of azure and prussian blue. Turning to Cait, she offered a tentative smile, her eyes seeking approval. But Cait only shot her a disdainful glare, crossing her arms firmly. The answer was a clear N-O.

“We just need to wait 20 minutes, then we can rinse it.”
Caitlyn glared at her gasoline-slick reflection. “Looks like drool from an oil rig!”

Vi grinned. “Bet you’ll love it.”

“You’re not helping,” Caitlyn snapped, glaring.

Twenty minutes later, rinsing revealed raven-black strands, shining like polished obsidian. “You look so beautiful,” Vi breathed, admiration thick.
Caitlyn stayed silent, popping in brown contacts with practiced ease. She forced a smile at her stranger’s face. “Great. Now I don’t recognize myself.” She yanked on her shirt, striding back to the van.

Back to the van, Kwan snapped her photo—raven hair, brown eyes—feeding it into a printer. Seconds later, a flawless fake Hong Kong passport emerged: Catherine Leung, as her face stared back, details flawless: birthdate, visa stamps, even microprinting rivaling the real thing. Kwan’s voice dropped low, precise. “You’re now an international student from Hong Kong. Study for a Master’s in business management at Towson University. In loans, desperate for cash to pay your mother’s hospital bills. If they ask how you found them? Classmates sent you.” Kwan then extended his hand. “Kiramman, driver’s license. Sheriff ID. Now.”

Caitlyn handed them over without hesitation.
“Put this on under your clothes,” Kwan added, handing a thin anti-stab vest, its Kevlar weave deceptively light. “Saves your life if they don’t aim at your neck. Change, then back here—we’ll wire you with a hidden camera for infiltration.”

Caitlyn nodded, pocketing the passport, vest tucked under her arm. “Understood.” She glanced at Vi, a silent promise in her eyes, then strode to the locker room, the door clicking shut behind her.
Inside, the fluorescent hum echoed her pulse. She stripped to her sports bra, sliding the vest on—snug, breathable, a second skin against her ribs. The weight grounded her, a reminder of 14K’s machetes, throat-slitting enforcers who turned Baltimore’s Chinatown into a blood-soaked web. Zipping her hoodie over it, she checked the mirror: Catherine Leung stared back, not Caitlyn Kiramman. Her Cantonese fluency, Hong Kong roots—half-Asian heritage—her perfect cover. She straightened, steeling for the dim sum parlor’s shadows, where Zhong’s brother laundered cartel cash through steaming bamboo baskets.

Back at the van, Kwan clipped a button-camera to her collar, testing the feed on his laptop—crisp audio, video. “Crystal. You’re on live. Infiltrate, eavesdrop, record delivery handoff. Vi rides with us—tails their load-out.” González nodded, his anti-gang scars speaking volumes.
Vi gripped Caitlyn’s hand, voice barely a whisper. “Be safe, Cait.” Caitlyn squeezed back, her psychology training masking fear. “Always.” She slid into a BPD van, the engine rumbling to life, Chinatown’s neon waiting—14K’s dragon jaws snapping shut.

At 7:15 a.m.

The unmarked BPD van prowled through the dawn-lit streets of Baltimore’s Chinatown, its engine a low growl as it wove past flickering neon signs and shuttered storefronts on Park Heights Avenue. Inside, the air was thick with tension, the hum of surveillance monitors barely audible over the cold chill seeping through the tinted windows. Caitlyn sat rigid in the back while Vi sat beside her, grey eyes heavy with worry.

Officer Kwan, at the wheel, glanced back, his voice clipped. “Three blocks out. Drop point, Kiramman. Walk to the restaurant—stay safe, Deputy.”
Caitlyn nodded then slid the van door open, the cold biting her face as she stepped onto the frost-dusted sidewalk. Vi’s grey eyes locked on hers, a silent plea—come back to me—lingering in the split second before Caitlyn shut the door with a soft click. The van idled, González and Kwan ready to tail with Vi, tracking the 14K’s narcotics delivery.
Caitlyn adjusted her hoodie, the button-cam humming, and walked toward the dim sum parlor, its neon “Golden Dragon” sign flickering like a warning. Chinatown’s narrow streets buzzed faintly—early vendors, distant clatter of woks—but the weight of 14K’s machete-wielding shadow loomed, Zhong’s brother’s $50k bail tying to this laundering front.

At 7:20 a.m.

Caitlyn strolled to the Golden Dragon dim sum parlor, her heart thudding beneath the anti-stab vest hidden under her hoodie. The neon sign of the Golden Dragon flickered ahead, a dragon’s maw waiting to snap shut.

Inside the van, Vi’s grey eyes stayed glued to the live feed from Caitlyn’s button-cam, but her protective instinct itched to act. González and Kwan monitored the GPS tracker planted on the Toyota sedan from Unit 47’s Rosedale op, its dot blinking near the restaurant.

Caitlyn pushed through the Golden Dragon’s door, the bell jangling. The air was thick with soy sauce and sizzling oil, tables packed with families and lone men in hoodies nursing tea. She slipped into her role, approaching the counter where a friendly-looking woman—mid 30s while Zhong’s brother from Kent’s photo—counted cash. In fluent Cantonese, she said, “Excuse me, my friend said you might have work. I need cash fast for hospital bills.” Her voice trembled just enough, eyes pleading, the button-cam capturing every twitch of his face.
She sized her up, his gaze cold. “Who’s your friend ?”
“Tom… from Towson,” Caitlyn lied smoothly, naming Mueller. “Said you pay quick.”
The woman nodded. “Kitchen. Back. Wait.” She jerked her head toward a curtained door.

Caitlyn followed, her pulse spiking as she passed a group of men with tiger tattoos peeking from their sleeves—14K’s mark. The back room reeked of cigarette smoke, crates stacked high, some labeled “tea” but heavy with the chemical tang of PCP. , a wiry man in a black suit—scar on his face, 14K’s chairman—stood with three others in black. One patted her shoulder, voice oily. “Where are you going, pretty?”
Caitlyn froze, her cover teetering, staying silent. A second man, Chung, bellowed, “Too scared to talk? Answer him now! That’s 14K’s chairman who is talking to you, you disrespectful bi—”
The third, blonde-haired Chang, cut him off. “Chung, stop! You’re scaring her. Kids today don’t cave to threats like dumb cops. Only the county’s Tactical Unit—those ‘blue berets’—match our brutality. Broke our guys’ ribs, bones after they were arrested by them.” Unbeknownst to them, Caitlyn, a blue beret, stood right there, her psychology training keeping her face nervous, rubbing her hands to lower their guard. “Take a seat, pretty. Sorry if my men scared you, they don’t know how to talk to women.” The chairman grinned as he gestured for Caitlyn to sit.

The chairman waved Chung off, his eyes probing. “Amy at the counter told me your situation. Tell me—why should I trust a girl
like you?” He poured oolong tea, sliding the cup. “It’s cold out there. Drink.” His gentle tone masked a predator’s test, searching for flaws.
Caitlyn eyed the tea, pulse spiking—Drugged? The second chairman, Chang, hand on his pocket knife, watched. Refuse, and he slits my face. She sipped, the tea surprisingly crisp, normal. “Tasty,” she said, easing the tension.
The chairman grinned. “Of course, it’s top-tier, from China. Only insiders can get this.”
Caitlyn leaned into her cover, voice trembling. “My mom’s sick—hospital bills. Student loans are killing me already, Tom said You pay fast.” Her button-cam caught every word, every tiger tattoo peeking from their sleeves.

The chairman’s brow furrowed, voice soft but sharp. “American dream, huh? And yet people are dying in it just because they can’t afford this dream. Sad.” He nodded to Chung, to handed Caitlyn a 5kg package—narcotics wrapped tight. “Enough for hospital bills. And the rest.”
Caitlyn’s brows shot up, mock confusion. “The rest?”
“Yeah, and the stuff that you need to take care of her.” the chairman said, standing as Zhong’s brother passed, burner phone buzzing. “Your mom gave you life and raised you so harshly in this terrible American dream so you can have a better future, now it’s time for you to take care of her.”
“What if the police catch me with this?” Caitlyn asked, feigning worry.
The chairman smirked. “Tell the blue you work for Qiang gor. They’ll let you go.”

Meanwhile, inside the Van. Kwan slammed the desk, his voice a growl. “For fuck’s sake! That’s why Zhong’s brother moves drugs so easily—one of ours is bribed! González, call the sergeant—Internal Affairs, now!” Vi and González sat stunned, the feed crackling with 14K and BPD’s corruption bombshell.

Back in the restaurant, a burner phone buzzed on a table; Chang answered in clipped Cantonese, “Load’s ready. Pier 7, midnight.”
Caitlyn’s button-cam caught it all—crates, phone, tattoos. She feigned nervousness, shifting her weight. “Deliver this. Pier 7. Don’t ask questions.” She nodded, pocketing it, her anti-stab vest a thin comfort against the knives glinting in their belts.

As Caitlyn turned to leave, the chairman’s hand clamped her shoulder, his grip iron. “One question, pretty. You look a lot like that blue-haired sheriff deputy from the Timothy Hast livestream. Same height, too. What’s your real name? ” His eyes, sharp as an eagle’s, bored into her, searching for cracks.
Caitlyn’s heart lurched, her cover teetering. She backed up, voice trembling just enough. “My name is Catherine not Caitlyn, you’re mistaken, sir. I’m just a student.” Her right hand—the one scarred from the Hast’s bullet twitched, hidden in her sleeve.
The chairman’s scar twitched, unconvinced. “Let me see your forearm, then.” He grabbed her wrist, yanking up her sleeve, expecting the giant scar from the news. But her arm gleamed clean, no trace of the jagged line.

A flashback hit—6:45 a.m., Sheriff’s Office second-floor bathroom. Caitlyn, bent over the sink in her sports bra waiting before Vi and Officer González dyed her blue hair black. “We need to cover this scar,” Caitlyn said, eyeing her right forearm’s brutal mark. “If 14K sees it, I’m done. Boot, grab my makeup bag from my locker—we need to do a full-coverage foundation.”

Vi darted off, returning with the bag. With González’s help, they slathered concealer and foundation, blending until the scar vanished, her arm smooth as porcelain. Caitlyn smiled, satisfied, checking the mirror. “Perfect.”

Back in the Golden Dragon, the chairman frowned. “Huh. Guess I mistook you. Sorry, Catherine, you look just like her.” He let go, stepping back.
Caitlyn shrugged, voice casual. “Maybe she’s Asian-Italian, like me.”

“Most likely,” he replied, stepping back, then leaned close, whispering, “Italian? No wonder you’re so gorgeous. If I were 20 years younger, I’d make you my wife and give you my Malibu mansion. Too bad I’m old enough to be your father. So long, Catherine. ” He sighed, walking away.
Caitlyn’s mind raced as she headed to the extraction point—He’s into me? That’s why he’s so polite?—her button-cam capturing the exchange.

Back inside the BPD Van. Vi slammed the desk, her grey eyes blazing. “I’ll kill this guy! That’s my wife!”
Kwan patted her shoulder. “Stand down, Deputy. Patience—she’s here.” He pointed at the feed as Caitlyn approached.

Outside, she walked back to the drop point, signaling the van via a subtle hand gesture. Vi, González, and Kwan watched the feed, the GPS dot moving as the Toyota rolled toward the port. Vi’s voice crackled through Caitlyn’s hidden earpiece, “Got you, Cait. We’re tailing. Stay sharp.” The van pulled out, shadowing the sedan, as Caitlyn headed to a safe extraction point, the dragon’s jaws narrowly dodged.

Caitlyn then slipped into a BPD safe car, peeling off the contacts, her ocean-blue eyes returning. She radioed Wang, voice steady. “Package secured, delivery confirmed for Pier 7, midnight. Button-cam’s got faces, tattoos, and crates. 14K’s moving PCP.”
Wang’s reply crackled, “Good work, Kiramman. Get back—debrief at 0900. Stay alive.”
Caitlyn exhaled, the weight of 14K’s machete threat lifting slightly. Vi’s van returned, and their hands clasped as their rings tangled together.

At 8:45 a.m.

The fluorescent lights in Sergeant Wang’s office buzzed like a swarm of angry bees, casting stark shadows over the cluttered desk strewn with reports. The air was thick with coffee dregs and tension. Cait and stood in plainclothes fresh from their undercover op, Caitlyn’s raven-black hair dye still clinging, brown contacts shed to reveal ocean-blue eyes. Vi’s grey eyes, flickered with unease.

Across from them, Steb and Loris stood ramrod-straight in the Tactical Response Unit’s combat uniforms with beret. BPD Anti-Gang Officers González and Kwan flanked them, faces grim from the bombshell of Caitlyn’s button-cam feed: 14K chairman Li Qiang’s bribe to an unknown corrupt BPD officer.
Wang’s voice sliced through, sharp as a machete. “This case is a damn hydra—cut one head, two grow back. We’re holding Operation Hydra until Internal Affairs roots out Qiang’s mole in BPD. Zhong’s brother, those dirty money, Chinatown —it’s all 14K’s city-to-county pipeline.” He jabbed a finger at Caitlyn and Vi. “Kiramman, Bretschneider, change into TRU combat gear. Edgemere’s got a carnival today—we’re on crowd control. Kiramman, after you suit up, take Bretschneider to the armory. Teach her to load anti-riot gear into the Mercedes-Benz Sprinter. Move.”
“Yes, sir!” the deputies barked in unison, saluting sharply. They turned, boots echoing, heading for the locker room.

In the sterile glow of the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office locker room, Cait and Vi shed jeans and hoodies from the black op and donned the Tactical Response Unit’s combat uniforms. Caitlyn clipped on her duty vest and belt, her experience steadying her nerves after infiltrating 14K’s Golden Dragon.

Cait then grabbed her blue beret, the TRU’s silver trident pin glinting above Maryland’s yellow-and-black banner patch, but paused, her face heavy with thought.
Vi noticed, tilting her head. “What’s going on, Corporal?”
Caitlyn’s fingers traced the beret’s edge. “This beret’s more than TRU. It’s deep. We wear it for carnivals, riots… or funerals. If a deputy dies in service, we hold M1 Garands, do the three-volley salute. This carries duty, loss.” Her voice softened, eyes distant.

“Funerals?” Vi asked, casually plopping her beret on, oblivious to protocol, the patch misaligned.

Caitlyn sighed. “Yeah, Boot. Ceremonial uniform—honor and grief.”

She glanced at Vi’s sloppy beret, shaking her head. “You’re wearing it wrong.” She stepped close, lifting Vi’s beret, demonstrating. “Edge of the banner patch above your right eyebrow, TRU pin should always be on your right eyebrow. So people can see this trident in front.” She adjusted it slowly, her hands steady, Vi watching intently. “Voila, Boot. You look handsome.” Caitlyn patted Vi’s shoulder, their eyes locking, a spark cutting through the locker room’s chill.
Vi glanced around ,noticed no one near them then leaned in, kissing Caitlyn deeply, her lips warm. Caitlyn kissed back, their bond flaring.

They pulled back, Vi pouting, voice low. “Cait, watching your feed in the van… I was terrified. What if they drugged you? What if they found out you’re a sheriff and killed you? I can’t lose you. My heart can’t bare losing you again.” Her grey eyes shimmered.
Caitlyn leaned in for another kiss, whispering, “I’m here, fighting with you. You’re my worry, Violet.” She glanced at the wall clock—9:25 a.m. “Time to hit the armory. Force Armorer Captain Sarah Fortune’s gotta clear our gear. Come.” They clipped body cams to their vests and marched to the armory.

At 9:30 a.m.

The armory, a steel-walled vault, bristled with weaponry, the air heavy with metal and polish. Captain Sarah Fortune, a no-nonsense armorer with a sharp gaze and red hair, stood at a counter, logging gear on a clipboard. “Kiramman, Bretschneider, gear up for Edgemere carnival. Anti-riot loadout. Let’s move.”
Caitlyn nodded, guiding Vi through the racks. “Boot, listen up. Anti-riot gear’s precise—lives depend on it.” She pulled the gas mask thigh bag her voice steady. Caitlyn grabbed two black thigh bags, each holding a CBRN gas mask with clear visor and filter. “Strap these to your right thigh, Tear gas is for crowds, not us.” Then she hefted a single-shot 40mm launcher, its black barrel cold. “Rubber rounds or gas canisters. Aim low—legs, not heads. Load like this.” She snapped a foam round in, showing Vi the breach, then handed her one.

Caitlyn then walked to where the riot shield was and pulled two round riot shields, transparent with reinforced edges. “You always need a shield deflect bottles or fists. Stack ‘em in the Sprinter’s side compartment.” Vi tested the grip, nodding, her strength steady.

Caitlyn then walked towards the stacked crates and opened a crate of 12-gauge beanbag rounds and rubber bullets for shotguns. “These bruise, don’t kill. Load five per mag, check for jams.” She demonstrated, sliding rounds into a magazine, passing it to Vi for practice. Caitlyn then lifted two helmets, visors clear, unit numbers stenciled in white. “Visor down for debris, up for talk. Clip to your vest ‘til we deploy.” She showed Vi how to adjust the chinstrap, ensuring a snug fit.
Fortune checked each item, signing off. “Good, Kiramman. Bretschneider, don’t drop this shit.” Vi grinned, hauling a heavy duffel bag stuffed with gear, plus separate bags for their AR-15 rifles.

Outside, Caitlyn opened their white-and-green Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van, “Sheriff’s Office” emblazoned on the hood and sides. Vi loaded the gear in the trunk, launchers and rounds in locked crates, helmets clipped to seats. Steb, Loris, Maddie arrived in TRU uniforms, blue berets crisp, hellhound pins glinting. They loaded their own gear—same loadout, AR-15s secured.
Caitlyn slid into the driver’s seat, Vi beside her in the passenger seat, helmet clipped to her vest. Steb, Loris, Maddie piled into the back, the van’s interior a fortress of gear. Caitlyn keyed the ignition, the V6 roaring as they rolled toward Edgemere’s carnival, the field’s flashing lights looming in the distance.

At 10 a.m.,

The soccer field ahead buzzed with civilians—families, teens, vendors—swarming for the carnival, its Ferris wheel looming against the chill. Auxiliary Deputies in high-vis vests waved traffic batons, whistles shrilling, megaphones barking, “Stay on the sidewalk!”

“So many people—jeez, it’s not a concert,” Caitlyn muttered easing the van through the throng, her hands steady on the steering wheel.
Vi’s eyes sparkled, fixed on the rides. “Relax, Corporal. Looks fun. Bet it’s easy work. I wanna hit the Ferris wheel with you, Cait—play booth games, see Edgemere from up top.” Her soft voice danced with daydreams, imagining cotton candy and stolen kisses as Cait parked, her voice firm as she killed the engine. “Vi, stop daydreaming. We’re enforcers ,we are here to ensure public safety, not having fun.” She stepped out, circling to the passenger side, opening Vi’s door with a practiced tug. Patting Vi’s shoulder, she said, “Come on, Boot, time to move.” Her leadership was unyielding, but a faint smile tugged her lips.

Steb, Loris, and Maddie disembarked, shaking their heads with amused grins, their boots crunching on frost after they slide the door open. Vi then climbed out with her head down, her grey eyes lingering on the Ferris wheel a moment longer before snapping to duty.
Vi pouted, brows furrowing. Caitlyn sighed, softening. “At least we can watch others have fun, Boot. Unlike them-” She gestured at the entrance, where Marcus and other five TRU deputies searched bags, flashlights glinting into bags. Marcus, hands in tactical gloves, dropped a pocket knife into a box, his voice carrying, “Sir, you can pick it up at the exit. Weapons are not allowed to be carried inside. ” while other deputies stood, hands behind backs, eyeing the queue.

A minute later, another van’s door slid open, revealing Sergeant Wang in a crisp TRU combat uniform, plate carrier snug, blue beret perfect. The deputies snapped salutes; Wang returned it, voice sharp. “Anders, Carter, Maddie—entrance, relieve the search team. Kiramman, Bretschneider—patrol inside. Move.”
“Yes, sir!” they barked, splitting off. Caitlyn and Vi headed for the midway.

At 10:30 a.m.

The Edgemere carnival thrummed with life under a grey sky, carousel music clashing with the sizzle of fried dough and kids’ squeals, the cold air sharp with winter’s bite as they wove through the crowd. Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes, scanned around for threats while Vi’s grey eyes darted between rides and faces.

Caitlyn then casually tugged her neck gaiter up, covering her face to her eyes, shielding her identity post-Chinatown op. Vi noticed, face flushing with confusion. “Cait, why cover your face?”
“Black ops earlier,” Caitlyn side-eyed her, arms crossed. “Can’t risk recognition in uniform. You too, Boot. Heard of Deputy Durand?”
“Uh, no. What happened?” Vi asked, weaving past families with balloons.
Caitlyn’s voice dropped, concern heavy. “Long story short, Corrosive liquid attack by an anti-police radical. 50% of his body corroded, left arm still useless. Just was doing his job. So keep your identity concealed, if these people spot TRU, they attack.”
Vi’s eyes widened, yanking her gaiter up. “Yikes, covering now.” They pressed forward, past booth games—ring toss, balloon darts—street food scents tempting. Caitlyn’s hand brushed Vi’s pistol holster, catching her gaze drifting to a cotton candy stand. Vi snapped her hand back, glaring as Caitlyn mimed a finger gun. “Jeez, scared me, Corporal,” Vi shook her head, relieved. “Thought someone was grabbing my gun.”
Cait sighed as she shake her head “We’ll both be dead if I was a thief who knew how to unlock our level-3 retention holsters, Boot. Keep your eyes on people.” Vi pouted “Yes, Corporal.”

Caitlyn’s eyes softened as they walked past a burger shop. “Boot, Remember how to spot pickpockets or creeps snapping upskirt pics? I taught you earlier.” Vi’s voice gained confidence. “Watch out of those who will avoid us, because their flight response kicks in.” Caitlyn shot her a smile that mirrored her mother Cassandra’s proud piano-lesson grin. “Good, Boot.”

They paused by a crowd applauding a street pianist playing River Flows in You, its melody haunting. Caitlyn sighed. “Beautiful song. Miss piano days—UBalt and work crushed that passion.” Her eyes lingered, music stirring her soul.

Vi patted her shoulder. “You still remember, right?”

“It is a muscle memory now. Could play blindfolded,” Caitlyn said, gaze fixed on the empty piano.
“Then go!” Vi pushed her into the circle. The crowd cheered, phones raised. “Damn, a sheriff playing piano—record this!”

Caitlyn shot Vi a glare, whispering, “Violet! You fucking set me up!” But the crowd’s energy was unstoppable. Vi yelled, “Play Flight of the Bumblebee! I know you can!” The crowd roared, “Bumblebee! Bumblebee!”

Caitlyn glared, whispering, “Pardon me, Violet? That’s Grade 8 song with insane difficulty!” Vi gave two thumbs-up to cheer her up but it only makes her want to give Vi a middle finger as a reply.

Caitlyn sighed, muttering, “Fine, i think I still remember how to play it, not unless I forgot it-” She cracked her knuckles, hunched over the keys, and launched into Rimsky-Korsakov’s whirlwind. Her fingers became a blur, a buzzing bee in flight—right hand darting in staccato sixteenths, left hand anchoring with rapid bass arpeggios, the melody a frenetic dance of precision. Notes cascaded like a storm, her hands crossing in impossible leaps, the piano’s hammers striking in a relentless bzzz-bzzz-bzzz, each key hit with surgical clarity. The crowd gasped, phones capturing the spectacle—a TRU deputy, face masked, beret glinting, conquering the piece’s breakneck tempo without a falter. Her muscle memory, honed from childhood lessons under Cassandra’s strict eye, shone, the final trill exploding into a triumphant chord.

The crowd, now tripled by her expert skill in piano performance, erupted. “Bravo!” “Sick!” “That deputy has to be a part-time piano teacher, no way!” A man muttered, “Expert!” Caitlyn stood to bow stiffly in crowd’s applause. She rejoined Vi, smiling. Vi patted her shoulder. “Knew you could, Cait. Need more confidence. Brings back kid days—us playing music together…”
Caitlyn grinned, their childhood flashbacks—Vi’s off-key flute, Caitlyn’s piano—warming the moment. They resumed patrol, weaving through families.

At 11:45 a.m.

Suddenly Vi’s gaze darted to an Asian cuisine stall, oyster omelettes sizzling, Chinese omelettes crisping, fried siu mai steaming, salty chicken glistening. Her stomach growled audibly. “Cait, those look so tasty. I’m starving. We don’t have time for breakfast today. Can we eat lunch now?” Her grey eyes widened into hungry puppy pleading.

Caitlyn glanced at Vi’s adorable pout, her eyes softening despite the mission. “Fine, looks good to me too. I’ll check with Wang.” She pressed her PTT on her duty vest, voice crisp. “Unit 37 to Commander Wang, requesting lunch break for Unit 37, over.”

A beat. Wang’s voice crackled through her earpiece, gruff but approving. “Approved, Kiramman. 60 minutes. Stay sharp, over.”
Caitlyn nodded, striding to the stall, the vendor’s wok flames dancing. She ordered in fluent Chinese —oyster omelette, Chinese omelette, a pile of fried siu mai, and salty chicken. The food came hot, fragrant, piled on paper plates. She carried them to a nearby table, Vi trailing like an eager pup, her grey eyes gleaming.

They sat, neck gaiters pulled down, berets still crisp. Vi dove into the oyster omelette, moaning at the crispy edges and briny burst. “God, Cait, this is heaven.” Caitlyn bit into salty chicken, the savory crunch cutting through her stress as she noting Vi’s joy as a balm, The carnival’s chaos—kids’ squeals, ride whirs—faded as they ate, a fleeting pause before the storm.

They then casually unclipped their blue berets and hooked them to their shoulder loops, a brief respite from protocol. Caitlyn’s eyes, softened as she savored a piece of salty chicken, Vi, mouth full, swallowed and grinned, her voice teasing. “So—you really is part-Italian? Heard you mention it during the black ops.”
Caitlyn shrugged, her voice casual. “Why would lie, Vi? Mom’s side’s all Italian—well, except Grandma Matilda, live in Switzerland, but still the Italian side. I’m the only mixed one in my family —Dad’s from Hong Kong.” She popped a fried siu mai, savoring the pork and shrimp burst while pointing at the Hong Kong cuisine stall behind her.
Vi’s grin widened, voice dropping to a whisper. “My girlfriend’s Italian—goddamn, no wonder she’s so hot, tall, romantic, and—” her eyes glinted, “—so good at fucking.”

Caitlyn’s eyes widened, spotting kids nearby with balloons. She leaned in, covering Vi’s mouth, whispering sharply, “Violet! Kids around—watch it!” Her cheeks flushed, but a smile crept through. “But I’m glad you enjoyed it. It’s called making love for a reason, Viola,” she purred, deliberately using the Italian form of Vi’s name.
Vi’s face lit up, pleading. “That’s my name in Italian? Say more, Cait—please.”
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, sighing at Vi’s big grey eyes, resting her chin on her palm.

“Viola bella come il sole,
guerriera dal cuore zelante,
capelli come rose rosse.
Viola, sei un’idiota, ma ti amo,
quindi non mi interessa,”

(Violet, bright as the sun’s own flame,
Warrior with a heart ablaze,
Hair like crimson roses in full bloom.
Violet, you’re a fool, but I love you—
so it doesn’t matter at all.)

she said, her Cantonese fluency matched by now more fluid Italian, wiping a smudge of food from Vi’s mouth with her finger and licking it clean.
Vi tilted her head, confused but charmed. “Cait, that’s like a poem—what’s it mean?”
Caitlyn’s grin turned mischievous. “Im not gonna telling. So I can see your ‘thinking hard’ face all day. You’re adorable when you furrow your brows—like a puppy. My puppy with fiery red hair.” She ruffled Vi’s gelled into all back hair, echoing Grady’s antics.
Vi pouted, her grey eyes narrowing playfully, the food court’s chaos—kids’ squeals, ride whirs—fading as they laughed.

The carnival’s roar muffled behind the thin walls of a portable bathroom near the food court.
“Vi ,you sure this is a good idea ?” Caitlyn noting the risk despite burned with desire. Vi yanked Caitlyn into the bathroom, locking the door with a click. “Come on, Cait, no one cares—quick, 10 minutes. You want it too, right?” she whispered, signaling Caitlyn to switch off her bodycam, stashing it in her vest’s bag. Caitlyn complied, Vi following with hers.

Vi’s lips crashed into Caitlyn’s, a sloppy French kiss—tongues tangling, saliva slick, the taste of salty chicken and oyster omelette lingering. Her hand tore at Caitlyn’s zipper, metal teeth rasping, stroking the hardening length beneath, hot and pulsing. “Fuck, a French kiss gets you this hard,” Vi growled, her breath scorching Caitlyn’s ear, fingers tightening.
Caitlyn’s lip bled under her bite, voice a ragged whisper. “All your damn fault, Boot.” She shoved Vi to her knees, the plastic floor creaking. Vi’s fingers fumbled with Caitlyn’s duty belt, buckles clinking as she struggled to unlock it. Caitlyn’s grin was predatory, helping unlock it. “You really is un’idiota. Come on, let me help you, Vi. I don’t want you to waste ten minutes on the belt—I need your mouth now.”

Vi ripped Caitlyn’s soaked underwear down, the fabric snapping, her throbbing clitoris springing free, dripping, pointing skyward. Vi’s tongue lashed the tip, salty and transparent fluid coating her lips, dipping into the foreskin with a wet slurp. Her mouth formed a suction cup, head bobbing fast, cheeks hollowing, the shluck-shluck echoing. Caitlyn’s head slammed the mirror, glass shuddering, her hand clamped over her mouth to choke screams. “God, Vi—suck the tip, fuck, so good,” she gasped, hips bucking, the mirror fogging with her breath.

Vi pulled back, panting, lips glistening. “Don’t drag it—my jaw’ll kill me.” She unzipped her own pants, the zipper’s rasp loud, fingers plunging into her soaked entrance, slick sounds mixing with her moans, masturbating furiously.
Caitlyn’s eyes slitted, seizing Vi’s beret, yanking her head. “You make me wanna fuck your throat raw.” She thrust forward, face-fucking Vi, the gluck-gluck of her length hitting Vi’s mouth while VI’s free hand gripping Caitlyn’s thigh, nails digging through fabric.
Vi gasped, pulling off, saliva stringing. “Fuck my pussy, Cait—now.” She scrambled up, unbuckle her duty belt, pants pooling at her ankles, leaning over the sink, the porcelain cold against her palms. She licked her fingers, slurp, teasing her dripping entrance, spreading herself for Caitlyn. “Cum inside—hard.”
Caitlyn’s control snapped. She lifted Vi’s right leg, boot scraping the wall, and bent down to drove her thick, throbbing length in, the schlick of entry deafening. Vi’s moan was a guttural “yes, Harder!” Caitlyn’s thrusts were brutal, hips slapping Vi’s ass, the sink rattling, mirror trembling. Their reflection was pure erotic chaos—Caitlyn grabbing Vi’s chin, forcing her to watch her own face contort, mouth open, drool slipping. “Let me show you my Italian amore—but can you handle this, ‘cause I’ve got too much,” Caitlyn snarled, smacking Vi’s ass, the crack echoing, a sloppy French kiss sealing it, tongues battling.

Vi’s eyes rolled back, barely handling Caitlyn’s erected size. So fucking big—fills me, God, she thought, her walls clenching. Caitlyn’s hand snaked to Vi’s clitoris, rubbing fast, slick circles. “Love when I work your bean while I fuck you? Grip me—I’m gonna cum soon,” Caitlyn growled, her waist shaking. Vi’s hips bucked, matching the rhythm, her moans stifled to whimpers.
Caitlyn’s climax hit like a freight train, waist convulsing, cumming deep inside Vi, who shattered with her, love juices splashing the floor, their gasps mingling. Caitlyn collapsed on Vi’s back, kissing her sweat-slick neck, panting, “Fuck, Vi. It feels so good.”
The wristwatch alarm screamed. Caitlyn groaned, yanking up her pants, her erection stubborn. “Time’s up.” She smacked Vi’s perfect ass, the slap sharp. “Dress, Vi. Time to go back to work.” Vi zipped up, grinning, body cams reactivated.

Caitlyn and Vi then buckled their duty belts, zippers rasping as they yanked up their pants, the lingering heat of their encounter making the air stifling. Vi splashed water on her face, wiping Caitlyn’s fluid from her chin, the sink’s drip echoing. Caitlyn cracked the door, peering through a sliver—carnival chaos, no eyes on them. Safe. She tugged her neck gaiter up, masking her face to her eyes, shielding her identity. “Clear,” she whispered, slipping out. Vi followed, gaiter up, body cams reactivated.

They then split to patrol another lane, weaving through families with balloons, Vi, face still glistening with a post-sex glow, her skin dewy from their bathroom tryst, glanced at Caitlyn, voice curious. “Cait, since you’re Italian, you still go back to Italy with your family?”
Caitlyn’s lips curved, Italian pride flaring as they passed a ring-toss stall, bells clanging. “Every Christmas, Vi. We fly back to Rome—we got a house there. I’d love to take you there for a week: Colosseum at sunrise, cobbled streets, then Sicily’s cliffs. Italy’s stunning, but pickpockets swarm tourists like flies. just sadly except last Christmas, for I can’t get myself a week off to spend Christmas with my extended family.” Her voice mixed awe with caution, the memory of Rome’s golden light vivid ,and pouted as she mentioned about last year.

Vi’s brows furrowed, boots crunching sticky gravel. “That’s sad, but have you ever get your stuff stolen?”
Caitlyn broke into a grin, eyes glinting. “Nope. I glare and shout, ‘Non osare rubare il mio telefono o ti schiaffeggio e poi ti trascino alla stazione di polizia con il tuo orecchio contorto da me!’—they bolt ,they don’t target local. So when we are back in Rome, stay close to me, don’t dress like an American tourist, you’ll be fine.” She adjusted her neck gaiter, hands settling on her duty vest.
Her gaze drifted to Vi’s muscular frame, broad shoulders straining her uniform. “With those shoulders, you’d kill in a finest tailored Italian suit with your shirt undone underneath it, we walk under Sicily’s moonlight and fuck you under its moonlight…”Her voice dropped, lingering on Vi’s frame.

Vi grinned, checking her body cam. off, safe. She leaned close, whispering, “Knew you wanted that ten minutes ago. Still want it?” Her grey eyes flicked to Caitlyn’s crotch, imagining a hard rod hidden under her underwear.
Caitlyn blushed, the memory of Vi’s tight grip flashing—her length throbbing inside. “Better not say,” she muttered, pointing up discreetly, “let’s just say it’s… uncomfortable when it’s still hard down there. I don’t want it pinch up for the rest of the day.”

Vi’s mischievous eyes flicked to Caitlyn’s crotch ,her voice a sultry taunt. “For the rest of the day?… Bet the head’s flushed to purple from delicious red—I wanna see it, lick it, suck it ‘til you’re throbbing in my mouth again.”
Caitlyn blushed, the memory of Vi’s walls gripping her flashing—her length swelling painfully. She yanked her beret on, wiping sweat from her forehead, trying to relax, but the thought of Vi sucking her off only hardened her more, the fabric straining. “Violet, stop,” she hissed, voice cracking, her ocean-blue eyes darting nervously. “I’m gonna work seven more hours with this hard-as-fuck tent—fuck, it’s painful to have it strained in my underwear.”
Vi’s grin widened, one eyebrow raised, her whisper dripping with tease. “Sensitive, huh? Bet I could make you cum just talking, Corporal. Imagine my tongue swirling inside your foreskin again, sucking ‘til you explode—”
“Violet!” Caitlyn snapped, her face crimson, hand clamping Vi’s mouth, kids nearby oblivious. “You’re killing me.” Her length throbbed.
Vi pulled Caitlyn’s hand away, laughing softly. “Hahaha, you’re so easy, Cait. Love seeing you squirm.”
Caitlyn glared, but her smile broke through, their banter a live wire in the carnival’s chaos…

Chapter Text

2:15 p.m., Saturday, February 1, 2014

The Edgemere carnival’s midway thrummed with chaotic energy—carousel pipes wheezing, kids’ shrieks piercing the air, the sizzle of funnel cake grease and grilled sausages clashing with cotton candy’s cloying sweetness, the ground sticky with spilled soda under their boots.

Vi’s teasing had left Caitlyn red-faced, her “hard-as-fuck tent” comment still ringing, when Vi’s gaze snapped to a small child with long dark brown hair and brown eyes—about three years old—standing alone in the crowd, tears streaming down her cheeks, her tiny hands clutching a stuffed bunny as she wailed for her parents. Vi’s brows furrowed, voice low. “This kid seems lost her parents. We gotta check it out.”
Caitlyn nodded, concern flooding her face. “Yeah, let’s go, Boot.”
They approached, neck gaiters up, masking their faces. The child’s cries grew louder, her eyes wide with fear at the two masked deputies looming. Caitlyn knelt, gently lowering her gaiter to reveal a friendly smile, her ocean-blue eyes soft and kind. “Hey, kid, I’m Corporal Kiramman, this is Deputy Bretschneider from the county sheriff’s office. Where are your parents? Lost?” Her voice was warm, soothing.
The child blinked, tilting her head, then wailed harder, words unintelligible. Caitlyn scratched her head, glancing at Vi. “Foreigner? Doesn’t understand English, Boot.”
Vi squatted, pulling her gaiter down, her broken Spanish tumbling out. “¿Dónde están tus padres, pequeña?” The child’s brows knitted in confusion, cries escalating.
Caitlyn teased, smirking. “Boot, could it be your Spanish is so broken she can’t even understand?”
Vi side-eyed her, standing. “Oh, come on, I’m not that bad in Spanish.” She scanned the crowd—no frantic parents. Sighing, she pressed her PTT. “Unit 37 to Central, lost child, approximately three years old, midway. Bringing to van for dispatch to locate parents, over.” Central acknowledged.

Vi scooped the child with the tenderness of a mother cradling her own, the girjl nestling into her chest, clinging to her stuffed bunny, sobs softening into hiccups. Caitlyn led the way to the TRU Sprinter van parked outside, her steps careful, heart swelling at Vi’s care. They then passed a can-throwing booth, the clatter of metal ringing. Caitlyn’s eyes lit on the prize—a plush rocket, bright and starry. She turned to Vi, voice bright.“Boot, let’s get her the rocket. Kids love astronauts—might cheer her up while we wait in the van.”
Vi shot a skeptical look, shifting the child. “Really? A rocket? I feel the Grand prize suits her more” she said as she pointed at that giant bunny plushie sitting on top of a shelf.
Caitlyn glanced at that giant bunny plushie then side-eyed her. “Violet, are you kidding me? That giant bunny looks bigger than this kiddo, how can she cling to it?” Her grin reappeared “Besides every kid dreams of space. It’ll make her happy.” She fished dollars from her pocket, handing them to the stall worker for balls.

Vi shrugged, “Fine, you got a point,” but the child, fiddling with Vi’s PTT on her duty vest, unclipped it, letting it drop. Vi noticed, reclipping it gently. “Huh? It’s not a toy, kiddo—don’t play with this. Here, hold my pen instead.” She offered a pen from her vest, the child grasping it with tiny fingers, her bunny tucked under her arm.

In the game booth, Caitlyn grabbed a ball, tossing it—clank, miss. Another—clank, miss. She sighed, ready to quit. Vi patted her shoulder. “Come on, Corporal, let me handle this.” She handed Caitlyn the child, who clung to her bunny. Vi took the ball, her jiu-jitsu precision guiding a perfect toss—CRASH—cans toppling. The worker rang the bell and handed over the rocket toy.
Caitlyn swung the child’s tiny arms, cheering as she smiled, “Yay, she won!” The girl’s gaze fixed on the balls, muttering, “Palla… palla… voglio.” Caitlyn’s eyes widened, realizing. “Boot, she’s Italian—that’s why she doesn’t understand English or Spanish!” She spoke gently in Italian, “Non possiamo dartelo, non è nostro, ma puoi avere questo—un razzo! (You can’t have it, it’s not ours. But you can have this—a rocket!)” Vi handed the rocket, the child’s face blooming with a shy smile, clutching it with her bunny while Caitlyn grinned.

As they walked past game stalls, Caitlyn asked in Italian, “Come ti chiami?” The child replied, “Victorie DaVid.” Caitlyn signaled Vi to jot it in her notepad. Suddenly, the child snatched Caitlyn’s beret, clutching it tight. Caitlyn pleaded, “Posso riavere?” but the girl shook her head as she clutched her beret tightly to her chest. Caitlyn sighed, placing the beret on the child’s head, the silver trident pin glinting as they headed to the van.

The carnival’s entrance buzzed with a lively hum—families streaming in, the clatter of ticket booths, and the faint sizzle of food stalls carried on the cold midday air. The ground crunched with frost and scattered confetti, the crowd’s warmth a soft contrast to the chill. Cait and Vi approached the checkpoint with a lost child named Victorie DaVid carried by Cait. Her tiny arms wrapped around Caitlyn’s neck, clutching a plush rocket toy, her bunny, and Caitlyn’s beret on her messy hair. Caitlyn’s eyes radiated maternal care, while Vi’s eyes glowed with warmth.

At the entrance, Steb, Loris, and Maddie took a break to eat lunch from working in the security searches, their TRU uniforms crisp, body cams rolling. Loris, towering and broad, spotted Caitlyn with Victorie and strode over, his smile friendly. “Hello, kiddo, I’m Deputy Carter—what’s your name?” He gently took her tiny hand in his massive one, his voice warm, his smile warm as Clawhauser from Zootopia.
Victorie’s eyes widened, frightened by his giant presence, and she clung tighter to Caitlyn, burying her face in her vest, the rocket toy squished between them. Caitlyn patted her head, whispering in Italian, “Victorie, sono qui, non devi avere paura.” She shooed Loris with a soft grin, “Your size is scaring her, big guy.” Her motherly instinct shone, cradling the child like her own. And Vi in the back ,grinning as she tease Loris’s giant presence. “Come on ,we know you are gentle as Clawhauser but jeez you’re scaring her ,Loris.”

Loris pouted, stepping back. “Why?”

Suddenly, Victorie peeked out, giggling and pointing at Loris as Cait put her in the front passenger seat to sit. “Faccia buffa! Hahaha!” Loris shot Cait a confused look “What does that mean?”
Caitlyn laughed, her ocean-blue eyes sparkling. “Means your face is funny to her—she’s Italian.” Loris, grinning, pulled exaggerated faces—crossed eyes, puffed cheeks—making Victorie dissolve into giggles, her bunny and rocket bouncing.

Steb approached Vi, nodding at the child. “This is the kid from the radio call?” Their earpieces had caught Vi’s report to Central about the lost girl.
Vi nodded, joining Caitlyn. “Yeah, Victorie DaVid. No parent reports yet.” She knelt by the child, her voice soft, playing with the rocket toy.
Victorie, emboldened, slipped from Caitlyn’s arms, toddling out of the TRU Sprinter van’s open door, her tiny boots pattering. Caitlyn and Vi trailed like concerned parents, their duty vests creaking. A stray tabby cat darted through the parking lot, and Victorie pointed, squealing, “Gattino! (kitty!)”
Caitlyn grinned, replying in Italian, “Sì, quello è un gattino. (Yes, that’s a kitty)” She gently pulled Victorie back, her voice tender. “Ma non giocheremo con lui, lasciamo stare il gattino. (But we’re not going to play with him, so let’s leave this kitty alone) ” Victorie pouted but clutched her rocket, staying close.

A while later as the child slept peacefully in the front passenger seat, her tiny mouth working a pacifier, clutching her stuffed bunny and plush rocket toy, Caitlyn’s blue beret perched adorably on her head. Caitlyn leaned close as they stood just outside the open van doors. Whispering, her voice a soft caress. “Vi, look at her little mouth moving under that pacifier—so adorable. Makes me wanna have a kid after we’re married. Wonder what our firstborn’s eyes would be—blue like mine, grey like yours, or mixed like a diamond?” Her smile was dreamy, heart swelling.

Vi’s eyes widened, blinking rapidly. “Wait—that's why we keep fucking without protection? You deadass wanna put a baby in me???!” Her voice mixed shock and playful heat. Caitlyn gasped, clapping a hand over Vi’s mouth, cheeks flaming. “Jesus Christ, Violet!” she hissed, glancing at the sleeping child, her ocean-blue eyes darting nervously. “Kid’s here! Don’t say that word! She doesn’t need to know this stuff that early!”

Vi ,brows furrowed in confusion “it doesn’t matter, Cait, she doesn’t understand English anyway-“ but only received another glare from her.

Suddenly Commander Wang’s voice crackled through their earpieces, sharp. “All units, Italian couple at reception looking for their child, proximity three years old, female, brown eyed and dark brown haired over.”
Caitlyn pressed her PTT, voice steady. “Unit 37, confirm last name, over.”

Wang’s reply was curt. “DaVid.”

Caitlyn’s heart leaped. She gently scooped her up, the child stirring but not waking, her head nestling on Caitlyn’s shoulder, pacifier bobbing. Vi gathered the bear and rocket, her touch tender, and radioed, “Unit 37, en route to reception with Victorie DaVid, over.” They strode to the carnival’s reception area, Caitlyn cradling Victorie like her own, Vi trailing with toys.

At 2:50 p.m.

Victorie’s mother, a woman in her late 20s with tear-streaked cheeks and a trembling lip, stood near a table, clutching a photo of her daughter, her husband beside her, rocking a nine-month-old baby. The moment Caitlyn crossed the threshold, the mother’s eyes locked on Victorie, a choked sob escaping as she stumbled forward, hands reaching. “Victorie! Dio mio, la mia bambina!” she cried, voice breaking with raw relief, tears spilling anew. Caitlyn’s heart clenched, her arms aching to hold the child longer, but she knelt, gently easing Victorie into her stroller, the girl stirring but not waking, pacifier steady. The mother collapsed to her knees, fingers brushing Victorie’s cheek, whispering in Italian, “Tesoro, sei al sicuro, mamma è qui.” Her sobs mingled with breathless thanks, her hands trembling as she removed Cait’s beret from her daughter’s head then returned to the deputies.
The father, eyes red-rimmed, shifted the baby to one arm, stepping forward to grip Caitlyn’s hand, then Vi’s, his voice thick with gratitude in accented English. “Grazie, grazie mille—you save our hearts.” He pressed a hand to his chest, the baby cooing softly, oblivious. Vi’s grey eyes glistened, her empathy a quiet flood as she handed over the rocket and bunny tucking them beside Victorie, her fingers lingering on the child’s tiny hand.

Caitlyn, eavesdropping, caught the mother’s gentle scolding in Italian: “Victorie, non uscire mai da sola, troppe persone qui.” (Don’t wander off alone, too many people). Her ocean-blue eyes stung, the words echoing her own protective instincts. Before they left, the mother nudged Victorie, who stirred, rubbing sleepy eyes. She guided her daughter’s tiny hand to wave, her voice piping in a drowsy, adorable lilt, “Arrivederci!” The mother smiled through tears, waving Victorie’s arm. Caitlyn’s heart melted, tears pricking as she waved back, voice soft, “Arrivederci, piccola.” Vi grinned, her hand brushing Caitlyn’s, their bond a warm anchor amidst the reunion’s joy.

At 4:30 p.m,
After Cait and Vi returned the lost child to their parents, they returned to stand guard near a game stall.
Vi watched Caitlyn chug a second water bottle, smirking. “What, Corporal, you’re a fish needing this much water daily?”
Caitlyn capped the bottle, leaning close, her breath scalding Vi’s ear, voice a husky whisper. “Trying to drown out the urge to touch myself, Boot. It’s aching—can’t stop thinking about you. I need to use the bathroom, now. Guard the door.” Her ocean-blue eyes flashed, her clitoris pulsing painfully.
Vi’s grin widened, her grey eyes gleaming. They strolled to a mobile bathroom, the plastic door creaking as Caitlyn slipped inside, Vi standing guard.

Four minutes later, Vi teased, knocking lightly. “Corporal, have you fallen in the toilet? Need firefighters to fish you out?” Her voice dripped with playfulness. Inside, Caitlyn sat on the toilet, pants down, facepalmed as her throbbing clitoris fully erect, flushed purple, dripping. She’d tried to pee, but the hardness blocked it. Spitting into her palm, she stroked slowly, each touch a lightning bolt, her fingers circling the hypersensitive head, moans spilling in heavy, ragged pants, the mirror fogging with her breath.

Vi heard the faint panting, her grin shifting to hunger. Noticing the door wasn’t fully locked, she glanced around—no eyes—pocketed her body cam, and slipped inside, locking the door with a click. Caitlyn’s eyes snapped open, her hand frozen mid-stroke, length glistening. Vi bit her lip, voice a sultry purr. “So, my Italian stallion, this is what you’re doing without me sucking this gorgeous, hard clitoris?” She knelt, her tongue lashing the purple head, then enveloping it, lips a tight suction cup, head bobbing with erotic sounds.

Caitlyn’s head slammed the wall, plastic shuddering, her hand muffling screams. “Can’t pee when I’m hard as fuck—thank God you’re here. God, it feels so good-” Her hips bucked, guiding Vi’s head.

Vi pulled off her pants, panting, lips glistening, saliva stringing. “Let me ride you, Cait—fill me up, please.” She stood, pants dropping to her ankles, straddling Caitlyn on the toilet seat, the porcelain creaking. She licked her fingers, slurping, teasing her dripping entrance, guiding Caitlyn’s thick, pulsing length in, the schlick of entry deafening. Vi’s moan was a guttural “please fuck me harder!” She rode up and down, walls clenching like a vice, the seat groaning under their rhythm.

Caitlyn’s thrusts surged upward, hips slamming, the bathroom rattling. “Request approved—God, so tight, been craving this,” she growled, cupping Vi’s face for a sloppy French kiss, tongues battling, saliva dripping as Caitlyn noticed Vi shuddered as her own peak teetered. Caitlyn playfully pulled out, grabbing her hardened length, slick with their juices, rubbing Vi’s swollen clitoris and dripping entrance without entering, teasing with slow, torturous circles. Vi’s eyes rolled back, begging, “Please, put it back—stop teasing, I’m so close—fuck me hard!”
Caitlyn leaned in, lips crashing into Vi’s for a sloppy French kiss, tongues battling, saliva dripping. “How can I say no to that face?” she purred, sliding her pulsing length back in, the schlick deafening as she thrust fiercely, hips pistoning, the toilet rattling. Vi purred, “Yes, so fucking good,” her waist shaking, walls clamping tighter, her moans stifled to whimpers to avoid the crowd outside.

Vi’s climax hit like a tidal wave, her waist convulsing, love juices splashing, gasping, “Worth making you fuck me twice.” Caitlyn’s waist started to shake uncontrollably. She growled, a primal sound, a climax that she had been wanting to release, all came out as its throbbing intensified till this transparent fluid dripped onto the toilet. She then kissed her cheeks, then lips, voice soft but teasing. “Just ask, Vi. When have I said no?” She hugged Vi’s waist tightly, their sweat-slick bodies pressed, panting in the sweltering bathroom, the carnival’s din a distant hum.

At 5:56 p.m.

Cait and Vi continue to stand guard near a game stall, Caitlyn’s eyes, sharp despite fatigue. As she scanned for threats, her gaze suddenly drifted to a parent cradling a baby, the infant’s tiny hand clutching a finger, and her heart swelled, imagining their own firstborn daughter held in a hospital room. “Vi, what name for our firstborn? I’m thinking Lavender,” she said softly, her voice drifting to the lavender vase on their kitchen counter, its scent filling their apartment.
Vi raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “Still on that kiddo from earlier?” She shot Caitlyn a playful look.

“Vi, she was adorable as hell,” Caitlyn replied, eyes serious. “Holding her with one arm, her tiny weight—pure joy. Makes me want that. To bring my daughter to see a carnival like this. I bet she will be so excited to see all these toys and amusement rides.” Cait said as she grinned.
Vi’s smile faded, concern deepening. “She’s cute, but after maternity leave, who’s going to care for her? We’re at the Sheriff’s Office half the day, plus Grady. I know marriage isn’t required to have a child, but think it through. I’d hate our kid feeling distant ‘cause we’re always working. It’d break my heart, knowing that I failed as a mom.” Her voice cracked, empathy raw.
Caitlyn sighed heavily, childhood memories flooding back—always spending her summers at Grandma’s in Maine, her father Tobias’s busy surgeon life, and her mother Cassandra’s overtime at the police station mirroring her own current life. “You’re right, Vi. No time for that responsibility—yet.”
Vi cut in, grinning despite the weight. “At least for now. But someday, our firstborn daughter Lavender might sneak into our lives when the time’s right, Cait.”

Caitlyn’s eyes sparkled. “Vi, how’re you so sure it’s a girl?”

“My sixth sense,” Vi said, glancing at Sprinter vans gathering in the parking lot, signaling shift change. “Night shift’s here! Thanks god, we can finally ditch this 15kg+ gear. Wearing this heavy duty vest plus a soft shell vest inside is ridiculously painful.” She tugged off her beret, shaking out her gelled hair.
Caitlyn removed hers, the silver pin catching the light. Night shift Deputies Romanski and Lang approached, signaling the end of their day shift. “My legs are burning from standing 11 hours straight and only got one hour lunchtime to sit,” Vi groaned, walking with Caitlyn to their van.
Caitlyn grinned. “You’ll get used to it, Boot.” They loaded gear, the carnival’s lights fading behind

At 6:15 p.m.

The armory door clanged shut behind them, the metallic echo swallowed by the corridor’s hum. Caitlyn and Vi, still in sweat-damp TRU’s combat uniform, had just surrendered every pound of riot gear—shields, launchers, helmets, AR-15s racked with a final clack. Miss Fortune’s clipboard bore their signatures like a quiet benediction.

In the locker room, the air smelled of gun oil and sweat. Caitlyn peeled off her vests, the Velcro ripping like a sigh. She lifted her blue beret one last time and set it beneath her everyday deputy cap like a crown she could never truly remove. Duty wasn’t a hat; it was a heartbeat. She shut the locker with a soft clunk, and turned. Only to find Vi lingered at her own locker, thumb tracing the laminated photo taped inside: Caitlyn at the Inner Harbor, hair a wind-tossed blue storm, Vi kissing her mid-laugh. The memory of their first date hit like warm whiskey, harbor wind turning Caitlyn into a furious Medusa with tangled hair, claw clip bought in panic, both of them laughing so hard they nearly fell off the pier.

“Oh God, Vi,” Caitlyn groaned, cheeks flaming. “Throw that. I look like I lost a fight with a leaf-blower.”
Vi’s smile was soft, reverent. “It’s the happiest photo I own. Even your claw-clip couldn’t save you from the wind, and you were still the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.”
Caitlyn’s laugh cracked, memories flooding as Vi’s shy hand on her waist, the salt spray, the moment she realized this was forever. Vi stepped closer and rest her head on her shoulder, voice barely above the hum of the vents. “So can we go ride that Ferris wheel now?”

“Vi, you really are obsessed over that Ferris wheel. Fine ,but we have to return quickly before Grady turns into a hellhound in hunger. But anyway it has been a long time since we ride bike together, wanna go for a ride?” Cait said as she grinned.

Vi’s grin could’ve lit the room. “Hellyeah, race you to the bike.”
They walked out side by side, berets left behind, the weight of the crown shared between two hearts that refused to break.

At 6:45 p.m.

Caitlyn’s Triumph Tiger 900 Rally Pro snarled to a stop in the gravel lot, the 888 cc triple’s dying growl swallowed by the midway’s neon heartbeat. The carnival lights painted the bike’s matte khaki in shifting reds and blues. She killed the engine, swung a leg over, and tugged off her helmet—raven-black hair tumbling loose, the Chinatown dye job holding strong. Vi followed, yanking her own lid free, grey eyes sparkling under the floodlights.
They strode toward the TRU checkpoint, boots crunching. Deputy Harbour who had her hair scraped into a regulation bun so tight it looked painful—lowered her flashlight the instant she clocked them.
“Good evening, Corporal Kiramman, Deputy Bretschneider. Back to enjoy the carnival off-duty?”
Caitlyn’s grin was tired but genuine. “Yeah. My varicose veins filed a formal complaint after twelve hours on concrete. Figured we’d give them a night off before four more days of torture.”
Harbour laughed, the sound bright against the evening chill. “Lucky us night-shifters, we only need to work five hours in here till 10 p.m. close, then we’re ghosts in the office. You day-walkers drew the short straw.”
Vi bent, kneading her calves. “Jealous doesn’t cover it.”
Deputy Morrison, Harbour’s partner, waved them through with a lazy salute. “No bag search for Blue Berets. Go have fun.”

Vi paused mid-step. “Wait, We can just… through?”

Harbour leaned in, mock-whisper. “Not unless you two are trying to smuggle an entire armory in those winter jackets and hoodies or else it’s not needed. And that’s the perk of being Blue Berets. We look after our brothers and sisters.”

Caitlyn laughed, the sound lighter than it had been all week. “Don’t let Holbrok catch you bending protocol—he’ll lecture you into next fiscal quarter.”
The deputies chuckled, eyes darting for the commander’s silhouette. “Holbrok’s busy yelling at the funnel-cake guy for blocking Lane 3. You’ve got a 10-minute head start.”
Caitlyn mock-saluted with two fingers. “Debt noted. Beers on us after Pier 7.”
“Got ya ,Have fun” Harbour said to them then returned to her work.

They slipped past the metal detectors, the midway swallowing them—strings of bulbs flickering like low stars, the Ferris wheel’s silhouette looming against the indigo sky. Vi tugged Caitlyn’s sleeve, voice soft. “Feels weird to walking in as civilians.” climbed the swaying gondola, and the wheel lifted them above the county—lights twinkling like spilled diamonds, the Patapsco a black ribbon below.
Vi leaned over the rail, wind teasing her hair. “Look—our apartment’s that tiny glow past the bridge.”

Caitlyn swallowed, eyes not on the view but on Vi’s profile, the way the carnival lights painted gold across her cheekbones. “Vi… Victorie’s tiny ‘arrivederci’ cracked me open. I keep seeing her—Lavender—ten years from now. Lavender hair ties, Grady sulking beside a crib, us teaching her to say ‘sheriff’ before ‘mama’.” Her voice fractured, ocean-blue eyes glistening. “And I’m terrified we’ll miss it all.”
Vi turned, forehead pressing to Caitlyn’s, breath fogging the glass. “We’ll miss some,” she whispered, thumb tracing Caitlyn’s jaw. “But we’ll be there for the parts that matter. First steps in the hallway—me filming, you crying in happiness. First kindergarten drop-off in a tiny dress, both of us in dress blues because we’re late from a call. First time she asks why Mommy has scars and tattoos.” Vi’s voice cracked, grey eyes wet. “We’ll trade raids for midnight feedings, Cait. I’ll learn italian lullabies between range drills.”
Caitlyn’s laugh was wet, trembling. “You in a rocking chair with a bottle and a Glock on the nightstand?”
“Priorities,” Vi deadpanned, then softer, “Lavender Francesca Kiramman. Has a ring to it.”
Caitlyn’s smile broke wide, tears shining. “One day, Violet. When the county lets us breathe.”
Vi leaned in, kissing Caitlyn slow and deep, tasting salt and cotton-candy hope. “Until then, we’ve got each other—and a very jealous golden retriever waiting at home.”
“Jesus Christ, Vi—don’t stand up, you’re rocking the cart!” Caitlyn yelped, grabbing the rail.
Vi laughed, wind whipping her hair. “Caitlyn Kiramman, fearless against bullets and machetes, and yet scared of heights and ghosts—really?”
Caitlyn pulled her down, kissing her again, the wheel pausing them at the very top, the world theirs for one perfect, breathless minute before the city called them back to war.

At 7:30 p.m.

The midway had mellowed into a velvet dusk, strings of Edison bulbs glowing like low stars, the air thick with kettle-corn steam and the distant pop-pop-pop of the balloon gallery. Caitlyn and Vi strolled hand in hand, boots crunching over spilled popcorn, the last of the day-shift ache melting from their legs. Vi’s gaze snagged on the shooting stall: a row of cork-guns, moving duck targets, and a hand-painted sign that made her stop dead.
SHOOT ALL 20 BALLOONS IN 60 SECONDS
GRAND PRIZE: FAST-FOOD DOG TOY SET
Every dollar feeds a shelter pup!
Below the sign, a cartoon corgi and tabby waved tiny paws. Vi’s grey eyes went full puppy. “Cait—Grady. We have to.”
Caitlyn’s grin flashed white in the neon. “On it.” She slapped a crisp dollar on the counter, the stall owner—a wiry woman with a shelter-volunteer lanyard—ringing a cowbell. “Clock starts… NOW!”
Caitlyn rolled her shoulders, lifted the air rifle like it was her AR-15 and hunting rifle, cheek weld perfect. Ten years of range days, CQB drills, and hunting with her mother Cassandra in the Maine woods compressed into sixty seconds of pure flow.

Pop. Pop. Pop-pop-pop.
Balloons burst in a crimson storm—left row, right row, the sneaky one that dipped behind the clown face. The rifle’s pfft-pfft became a metronome; brass casings pinged off the counter like hail. The final balloon exploded on 00:58.7.
The owner’s jaw dropped. “Holy—ma’am, are you a veteran?”
Caitlyn lowered the rifle, casual as breathing. “Just a sheriff’s deputy who grew up with a .22 in her hands.” She flashed her badge wallet, the gold star catching the light. “Grand prize, please.”
The owner handed over the plush fast-food set—burger, fries, milkshake, all squeaky—and Caitlyn tucked it under one arm. Then she peeled a folded hundred from her pocket, pressing it into the owner’s palm. “For the shelter dogs. Make sure they get extra treats.”
The woman’s eyes welled. “Thank you, Deputy. Really.”
Vi bounced on her toes, clutching the toy bag like contraband. “Grady’s gonna lose his mind.”
They turned to leave, but the owner called after them. “Wait—you’re Blue Berets! Saw you two earlier with the little girl. You’re the ones who found her!”
Caitlyn’s smile turned soft, the memory of Victorie’s tiny “arrivederci” still warm in her chest. “Just doing the job.”

The midway had slipped into full neon twilight: strings of bulbs pulsing like heartbeats, the air thick with kettle-corn steam and the metallic clank of rides slowing down. Caitlyn and Vi strolled shoulder-to-shoulder, paper bags of fried Oreos for Grady, a greasy funnel-cake slab for themselves swinging, the carnival’s roar now a lazy murmur. Caitlyn’s cheeks still hurt from laughing on the Ferris wheel; Vi’s grey eyes danced with leftover mischief.
They rounded the corner to the arcade alley, and there it stood: the ancient boxing machine, red vinyl pad cracked, digital scoreboard flickering “HIGH SCORE 987.” Vi froze like a bloodhound on scent.

“Stop. Watch this.”

She rolled her sleeve to reveal her tattoos hidden in cold, bicep flexing under the neon, knuckles popping. Caitlyn, arms full of take-out, deadpanned:
“Vi, it’d be hilarious if you wound up for ten seconds and completely whiffed, smashing the screen instead.”
Vi snorted. “Pfft. Won’t happen, Cait.”
She planted her boots, drew her fist back like a coiled spring, eyes narrowed, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in cartoon concentration.

THWACK—

The punch slid clean past the pad as her knuckles kissed the plastic scoreboard with a sickening CRUNCH.
The screen spider-webbed; the machine let out a wounded beep-beeeeeeeeeeep.
Vi doubled over, cradling her hand. “Fucking hell! My hand!” She shook it like it was on fire, hopping in tiny circles, voice climbing an octave. “Ow-ow-ow—goddamn it!”
Caitlyn’s laugh detonated—head thrown back, water bottles nearly tumbling from the bags. Tears streamed. “Oh my God, Vi—how do you MISS a target the size of a truck?!” She wheezed, knees buckling, one hand clutching her stomach. “I manifested that!”
Vi squatted, cradling her swelling knuckles, shooting Caitlyn the most betrayed puppy glare in history. “Yeah, Caitlyn, real funny. Laugh it up while I ice my ego.”
Caitlyn wiped her eyes, still giggling, and crouched beside her. “But next time you wanna look cool, maybe aim at the bag.”

Vi flipped her off with the good hand.

The carnival’s neon pulse had softened to a lazy heartbeat, strings of bulbs flickering like tired fireflies. The boxing machine’s cracked screen blinked “ERROR” in wounded red, the scoreboard spider-webbed from Vi’s heroic miss. Caitlyn and Vi stood frozen, bags of take-out swinging, the plush fast-food dog toys peeking from Vi’s jacket like guilty accomplices.
A worker in a grease-stained carnival polo jogged up, clipboard in hand, eyes widening at the carnage.
“Five-hundred bucks to replace the panel,” he said, already slapping an OUT OF ORDER sign on the machine with duct tape. “Cash or card?”
Caitlyn sighed the sigh of a woman who had budgeted for churros, not felony-level arcade repair. She fished her credit card from her wallet, the magnetic strip glinting under the bulbs. “Sorry ,My fault,” she told the worker, swiping without hesitation. “Add it to the Kiramman tab of chaos.”
Vi’s cheeks burned hotter than the funnel-cake fryer. She leaned close, voice a grateful whisper against Caitlyn’s ear. “Thank you. I… can’t swing five hundred right now.”
Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes flicked to her, soft despite the dent in her bank account. “It’s fine, Vi. I’ve already accepted I’m the designated mess-cleaner in this relationship.” A teasing smirk tugged her lips. “Part of the girlfriend job description.”
Vi’s awkward smile bloomed, equal parts sheepish and smitten. “I’ll pay you back in foot rubs and midnight pancakes.”
“Deal,” Caitlyn said, pocketing the receipt. She side-eyed Vi as they strolled toward the exit, two churros steaming in paper sleeves. “Violet, this is officially the most expensive carnival that I’ve ever been—all thanks to you.”
Vi pouted, churro halfway to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Cait.”

Caitlyn bumped her shoulder, voice warm. “Worth every penny to see you try to punch a screen and lose. Frame it next to Lavender’s future ultrasound.”
Vi’s pout melted into a laugh, sugar dusting her lips. “You’re evil.”
“And you’re broke,” Caitlyn shot back, stealing a bite of Vi’s churro. “Let’s go feed the real hellhound before he eats the couch.”
They walked into the parking lot hand in hand, the carnival lights shrinking behind them, the Triumph Tiger 900 waiting like a loyal steed. Vi tucked the dog-toy bag under her jacket, already rehearsing her apology squeaker symphony for Grady.
One expensive, perfect night—paid in full.

The Tiger 900 roared to life under them, Grady’s new toys squeaking in the top-case, the carnival lights shrinking in the rear-view. Two churros, one bruised hand, five hundred bucks lighter—and still the best date night Baltimore County had ever seen.

At 8:10 p.m.

Caitlyn’s key scraped the lock, the deadbolt thunked open, and the door swung into… silence.

No golden blur.
No frantic tap-dance of claws.
No 70-pound torpedo of fur and joy.

Caitlyn’s stomach dropped. “Vi, I have a bad feeling.” She dropped the carnival bags on the coffee table, the plush rocket rolling out like a guilty witness. Vi’s grey eyes widened; she kicked the door shut behind them.
They split without a word, Vi diving behind the couch, Caitlyn stalking toward the kitchen. A faint crunch-crunch-crunch floated from the darkness.

Caitlyn flicked the light. And saw Grady sat in the middle of a kibble crime scene, face buried in a shredded 20-pound bag like a furry vacuum cleaner. His cheeks bulged, tail helicopter-wagging, eyes shining with pure bliss. A single kibble clung to his nose like a badge of honor.
Caitlyn face-palmed so hard it echoed. “OH MY GOD, VI—GRADY’S HAVING A BUFFET!”
Vi skidded in, took one look, and clutched her forehead. “He’s gonna be a sphere by morning!”
Caitlyn lunged, grabbing the scruff of Grady’s neck. “Bad boy! Bad! You’ll bloat! You’ll barf! You’ll—” She froze mid-scold, both paws lifted like a tiny criminal. Grady’s ears flattened, his “I-regret-nothing-but-I’ll-act-sorry” face in full effect.
Vi knelt, scooping kibbles into a plastic tub. “Guess the churros are ours now, buddy.”

Five minutes of maternal fury later. Grady sat with his head bowed, tail thumping out a slow, mournful thump… thump… as Cait lashed out her angry mom mode while Vi knelt to swept the last kibble avalanche into the container, then stood on tiptoe to shove it onto the only shelf Grady couldn’t raid—the one only Caitlyn’s 6” reach could access without a step-stool.
Caitlyn hoisted the tub like a trophy. “New rule: kibble lives in Fort Knox.”
Grady let out the saddest huff, then flopped dramatically on his side, belly comically round, one paw over his eyes in Oscar-worthy remorse.
Vi snorted. “He’s auditioning for a dog-food commercial: ‘Before: starving. After: regret.’”

Awhile later, the living-room lamp painted everything in honey-gold: the lavender vase on the counter, the half-eaten carnival churros on the coffee table, and Grady’s golden fur as he sat on the carpet like a scolded schoolboy.
Reality TV show of some housewife yelling about salad tongs flickered on the screen, but Caitlyn’s full attention was on the dog who had just inhaled three cups of kibble and was now performing Oscar-level remorse.
Grady’s big brown eyes tracked every crumb that fell from Caitlyn’s churro. Licking his muzzle with a slow, hopeful lick and his ears pinned flat in maximum “I’m a good boy, I swear” mode.

Caitlyn crossed her long legs on the sofa, cinnamon sugar dusting her fingertips.
“No, Grady. These are mine now. This is the consequence of your actions, buddy.”
Grady’s eyes went full Puss-in-Boots, glistening like polished chestnuts.
Caitlyn narrowed her ocean-blues. “Don’t you weaponize those eyes at me, sir. I’ve stared down machetes and guns”
She popped the last bite into her mouth, chewing with theatrical smugness.
Grady’s whole body deflated. Tail drooped. He padded to his orthopedic bed beside the TV, circled three times, and flopped with the heaviest huff a sixty-five-pound dog could produce—one paw dramatically draped over his eyes.
Vi, curled on the opposite couch cushion, snorted into her sleeve. “He just activated airplane-mode guilt.”

Caitlyn lasted exactly four minutes.
She slid off the sofa, bare feet whispering across hardwood, and crouched beside the bed.
“Hey, Captain Drama.”
She ruffled the velvet ears that smelled faintly of kibble dust. Grady peeked one eye open, tail giving a single, traitorous wag.
“I’m not mad, okay?” Her voice dropped to the gentle register she saved for frightened kids and Vi after nightmares. “You scared us, tearing into that bag. Dogs bloat, buddy. I need you around for a long, long time.”
She scratched under his chin until the tail thumped a forgiving rhythm. “We’ll walk in twenty—burn off that kibble belly. Then Mommy’s gotta get back to work in the midnight, but I promise I’ll come home and we’ll split a pup-cup. Deal?”
Grady rolled onto his back, paws in the air, belly comically round—like a furry beach ball with legs. Caitlyn laughed, pressing a kiss between his eyes. “Attaboy.”
Vi leaned over the couch arm, phone flashlight glowing. “Photo evidence for the group chat: ‘Corporal Kiramman, terror of triads, defeated by puppy eyes.’”
Caitlyn flipped her off with a sugar-dusted finger, then scooped Grady’s leash from the hook. “Come on, Hellhound. Let’s walk before you photosynthesize into a kibble balloon.”
Grady sprang up, tail helicoptering, the earlier remorse already a distant memory.
Vi watched them head for the door—Caitlyn 6’0” of exhausted grace, Grady prancing like he hadn’t just committed grand theft kibble—and felt her chest tighten with the kind of love that didn’t need words.
One midnight raid loomed, but right now, under the lavender-scented glow of home, everything was exactly enough.

At 10:45 p.m.

The harbor wind carried the briny bite of the Patapsco, sharp enough to sting the back of Caitlyn’s throat. She had swapped the TRU combat uniform for an old UBalt hoodie and black leggings, the fabric soft against the day’s bruises. Grady’s leash clicked in rhythm with his nails on the sidewalk, the golden retriever sniffing every lamppost like it held state secrets.
Under the sodium glow of a streetlight, Caitlyn stopped, hands buried in her hoodie pocket. Grady squatted, tail wagging in slow, satisfied arcs. She glanced east—past the dark silhouettes of cranes and stacked containers—toward Piers 1 through 8. Her wristwatch caught the light: 10:47.
“Quick power-nap, then back to the office,” she murmured. “Midnight’s coming fast.”
A wet crunch snapped her attention downward. Grady, mid-poop, had twisted to investigate his own masterpiece.
“STOP—BAD BOY, DISGUSTING!”
She lunged, yanking the leash. Grady froze, one paw lifted, looking betrayed. Caitlyn snatched yesterday’s Baltimore Sun from her back pocket, scooped the evidence with a grimace, and marched to the corner trash can. The lid clanged shut like a judge’s gavel.

Across the black water, Pier 6 was supposed to be empty at this hour.
But It wasn’t.

From the shadows of an open forty-foot container, three figures worked in silence. Headlamps bobbed. A heavy splash—then another. Not trash bags. Bricks. Vacuum-sealed, duct-taped bricks the size of cinder blocks, each one sinking with a muted thoomp that rippled the harbor’s skin.
One man paused, scanning the opposite shore with night-vision binoculars. Caitlyn’s silhouette—tall, hoodie up, dog at heel—was nothing more than another late-night walker under the lamp. He resumed tossing.
Splash.
Splash.
Splash.
Fourteen kilos per brick.
Forty bricks per container.
Tonight’s “disposal” was 560 kilos of 14K’s purest China-white, rerouted from a busted Vancouver pipeline and now vanishing into the Patapsco’s silt. By dawn, divers in unmarked Zodiacs would retrieve every package, ferry them up the Jones Falls, and cut them into Towson dorms and Essex corners.
But Caitlyn never saw them, instead she tugged Grady’s leash. “Let’s go, stinker. Mama’s got a date with destiny—and you’ve got a date with mouthwash.”
Grady trotted happily, soda toy squeaking in his jaws, blissfully unaware that the river he’d peed beside ten minutes ago was swallowing an empire’s worth of poison.
The midnight bell was tolling.
And the Blue Berets were already suiting up.

At 11:20 p.m.

Back in the Sheriff’s office in Towson, the briefing room smelled of burnt coffee and gun oil. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead like angry hornets. The overhead fluorescents hummed like angry hornets. Every seat was taken; BPD officers Kwan and Gonzales rubbed shoulders with Steb and Loris who volunteered to stay for their commando/friends— Cait and Vi—and the rest of the TRU night-shifters with AR-15s slung, tactical helmets clipped to vests now dressed head-to-toe in midnight-blue fire-resistant combat uniform, the exact shade of the French CRS (Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité).

The change had dropped two weeks ago, straight from Sheriff Greyson’s desk:

“Green blends into the woods and Dark blue disappears against Baltimore’s night sky and brick row-houses.
We own the shadows now.” With their faces masked as usual, the room looked like a Paris riot squad had teleported into Towson.

In front of them, a whiteboard dominated the front wall, red marker scrawled across a satellite photo of Pier 7:
• HYDRA – PHASE 2
23:59 – Container 40-FT “TEA”
560 kg China-white
Divers on standby
NO ARRESTS – FOLLOW THE BRICKS
Commander Wang stood in plainclothes for the first time anyone could remember—black hoodie, no beret. His voice cut through the static.
“This is the head, not the tail. We let the bricks swim tonight. We learn the route. We burn the river later.” He said as he tapped the board then pointed at the TRU members.
“Harbour, Morrison ,Steb and Loris—white panel vans ,south gate. Lock Pier 7 like a vault. Make sure no one gets in or out. Balzac, Basson—patrol boat, 200 yards off the pier. If the plan gone wrong, you pursuit them don’t let them get away. And finally Kwan, González, Bretschneider ,stay in the Command Sprinter, rooftop overwatch. Vi, you’re Kiramman’s guard dog. Anything smells wrong, you’re going in to protect her first.”
Vi’s grey eyes flicked to Caitlyn, who was already sliding brown contacts over ocean-blue irises, the soft Kevlar vest flexing under her hoodie like a second heartbeat. Catherine Leung was reassembling herself, piece by piece.
Wang’s gaze swept the room. “Questions?”
Twenty throats answered in perfect unison:
“NO, SIR.” The room exploded into motion—boots thundering, rifles clacking, radios chirping alive. Caitlyn caught Vi’s hand for one heartbeat, squeezing once.
“See you on the other side, Boot.”
Vi’s grin was all teeth. “I’ll always be on your side.”
They vanished into the corridor—plainclothes ghost and green-armored avalanche—toward the midnight that would either break the 14K or swallow them whole.

At 12:27 p.m.

In the parking lot, the Sprinter vans fired up in sequence, headlights carving white tunnels through the frost. Caitlyn slipped into the back of the Command van, hood up, earpiece hot. Vi took shotgun, AR-15 across her lap, thumb tracing the safety like a worry stone.
Kwan keyed the mic. “All units, Hydra is green. Roll quiet.”
Engines growled. Tires hissed on ice.
Baltimore held its breath.
And somewhere across the black water, fourteen kilos sank toward the silt, waiting for the divers who would never see the net closing above them.
Midnight was coming.
And the Blue Berets were already moving.

At 00:30 – Pier 7 Container Field, Patapsco River
The air at Pier 7 was a living thing: thick, diesel-sour, and cold enough to bite the lungs. Floodlights on the cranes threw long, skeletal shadows between the stacked containers—forty-foot steel monoliths rising like the walls of a drowned city. Every footstep echoed, metal on metal, heartbeat on heartbeat.
Harbour and Morrison had sealed the south gate three minutes ago; their white panel vans sat dark and silent, a cork in the bottle. Inside the Command Sprinter, Vi’s AR-15 lay across her thighs like a sleeping predator, her knuckles white on the handguard. Caitlyn slid the side door open with a hiss of hydraulics.
Vi’s grey eyes locked on her, wide and glassy.
Caitlyn reached in, ruffled Vi’s fluffy, off-duty hair—Grady-style.
“Don’t worry, Boot,” she whispered, the words barely louder than the wind. Then she was gone, swallowed by the container maze.

Inside the labyrinth, Caitlyn’s flashlight carved a thin white tunnel through the gloom. Each breath tasted of rust and river rot. The stacks rose three high, turning the pier into a canyon of corrugated steel. Every corner was a potential kill-box:
Left turn — rifle muzzle waiting.
Right turn — knife in the dark.

Her pulse hammered in her ears, louder than the gulls overhead. The soft Kevlar vest under her hoodie felt suddenly paper-thin. She pictured Hector Hernandez—body shredded by her ,Vi and Steb’s AR, the smell of cordite and copper—and her stomach lurched.

Fifty yards to the pickup point.
Forty.
Thirty.
The panic hit like a flash-bang behind her eyes. Her chest clamped as lungs seized.
Vision tunneled to a pinhole.
She slammed her back against a container wall, the cold steel biting through her hoodie. Slides to the ground, knees to chest, arms locked around her skull.
Henry’s body tuned cold on the hospital bed despite she tries to save him. Harland’s heartless wrench swing that aims his head. “Am I going to die?” Henry’s voice echoed through her skull like a ghost that haunts her forever.
Vi’s voice, phantom-soft:
“The hole never closes, Cait. You just learn to live around it. When the beast rattles the cage, you breathe it back to sleep.”
She forced air in—four counts—held—four counts—out.
The world steadied, edges sharpening.

Back in the Command Sprinter, Wang’s eyes narrowed on the monitor. Caitlyn’s feed showed her crumpled, flashlight rolling in a slow circle.
“TRU A 0104 Kiramman, Command—talk to me. You’re on the deck. We can scrub to surveillance. Say the word.”
Vi was already half out of her seat, AR slung, nails digging bloody crescents into her palms.
Kwan’s hand clamped her shoulder—steady.
Caitlyn’s voice crackled back, a threadbare whisper:
“Negative, sir. I’m green. Continuing. Over.”

Wang exhaled through his teeth, the memory of Harrison—his academy brother, rope in a Towson apartment—flashing like a muzzle flare. “Copy. Earpiece hot. One wrong breath, you call it. Stay sharp, Cait. Over.”

At 00:40

Caitlyn rose, legs trembling but moving. She wiped the sweat from her brow, the salt stinging her eyes. Hand brushed the hidden Glock 43 on her waist—still there.
She rounded the final corner.

The sodium lamp sputtered overhead, vomiting a jaundiced glow that bled across the steel canyon. Caitlyn rose from the concrete like a ghost reanimating, migraine a spike behind her eyes, the world still tilting from the panic attack. She pressed a palm to her forehead, sweat slicking her skin, and hissed through clenched teeth:
“You can’t win the war if the white flag’s out before the first shot, Caitlyn. You swore to protect lives. You break first, you protect nothing. No mustn’t show weakness.”
She forced one foot forward, then another, boots scraping frost and grit. The containers closed in—five forty-footers stacked in a serpentine nest, a dragon’s lair of corrugated steel. The air thickened with diesel rot and the river’s black breath. Every shadow pulsed. Every corner screamed ambush.
She stepped into the nest.
CRACK.
An AK-47 buttstock exploded into her temple.

The sodium lamp flickered once, twice—like a dying heartbeat—then steadied, vomiting its sickly orange glow over the killing floor. Caitlyn’s vision swam in white-hot shards, the buttstock’s impact still ringing in her skull. Blood trickled warm down her temple, mixing with sweat. She was on one knee, the world tilting, when Glasses Guy’s voice cut through the haze: She noticed this man was the same quiet face from the carnival food court in the afternoon—no tattoos, no flags, just a bland smile while she and Vi savoring over Asian foods.

He was Invisible.
Now lethal.

“A TRU dog without the toys is nothing,” he snarled, racking the AK with a sound like tearing metal.
The barrel kissed her temple—cold, final.
“Next round’s for your red-haired wife, Caitlyn Kiramman.”
Her real name, a curse carved in the air.
She closed her eyes.
Vi. Lavender. Grady.
The trigger finger whitened. Then—the sky split open.

WEE-OO-WEE-OO-WEE-OO

The first siren was a banshee’s scream, tearing through the container maze from the south gate.
A second joined—higher, sharper—from the east access road.
A third, a fourth, a fifth—a full symphony of red-and-blue fury, Wang’s entire orchestra unleashed.
Every patrol unit, every Sprinter, every Zodiac on the river—all sirens, all lights, all at once.
The strobes hit like artillery:

Glasses flinched, muzzle dipping a hair’s breadth.
That hair’s breadth was all Caitlyn needed.
Her fist—forged on the punching bags in the TRU training center—snapped upward.

CRUNCH.
Jawbone shattered like porcelain.
The AK spun away, clattering.
Glasses folded, a puppet with cut strings. Caitlyn lunged, scooping the rifle, rolling behind an overturned table as the night exploded.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.

Bullets shredded steel, sparks spitting like angry stars.
She pressed the PTT, voice raw but steady:
“WANG—CONTACT! SEND EVERYTHING! THEY’RE FUCKING EVERYWHERE!”
Three 14K shooters burst from the shadows—tiger tattoos flashing under muzzle flare.
Caitlyn exhaled, sighted, squeezed.
One.
Two.
Three.
Bodies dropped like marionettes, her AR-15 work a blur of surgical precision.
Vi’s voice detonated in her earpiece:
“CAIT, I’M COMING—HOLD ON!”
Wang’s roar followed:
“ALL UNITS—BREACH! BREACH! BREACH!”
The containers shook with boots and sirens.
Caitlyn chambered another round, blood dripping from her temple, ocean-blue eyes locked on the dark.
The beast was out of its cage.
And it was hungry.

At 00:45

The sirens were a living storm now, a wall of red-and-blue lightning that painted the container maze in strobing war colors. Inside the Command Sprinter, Vi was already half out the door, AR-15 slung, boots hitting gravel before the van fully stopped.
Wang’s hand clamped her shoulder like a vice.
“Boot—gear first.”
He threw the midnight-navy bundle at her, Vi caught it mid-stride, the fabric heavy with purpose. Wang was already moving—helmet down, NVGs flipped, plate carrier snapping into place over his belt like it had never left. The man was a machine, 12 years of muscle memory.
“Steb, Loris—south gate, double-time!” he barked into the PTT.
“Alpha-Bravo, rescue package. Rest hold perimeter.”
Thirty seconds later, Steb and Loris sprinted up—Loris with the bulletproof shield angled like a battering ram, Steb’s rifle already shouldered. Wang tossed them NVGs and gas-mask bags. “Mount up.”

He strode to the pier’s control shack, shoulder-checked the door, and flipped the master breaker.
Every light on Pier 7 died.
Floodlights, cranes, sodium lamps—gone.
The container field plunged into absolute, velvet black.
Wang’s voice cut through the sudden silence, calm as a scalpel:
“Now we own the night.”
He glanced at Vi—her face a mask of terror under the helmet’s shadow.
“Mask on, Boot. CS is our cloak.”
He patted the 40mm launcher slung across his chest, the belt of CS rounds glinting like a promise, a promise to every Blue Beret who’d ever bled under his command.
Vi yanked the gas mask over her face, the seal hissing. Steb and Loris followed, NVGs dropping with a soft clack.
Four green eyes glowed in the dark like wolves on the hunt.

Wang voice low and lethal as he does his final brief “Alpha-Bravo, we are going dark. Moving on Kiramman’s last known. Vi—you’re on point. Loris—shield up. Steb—cover high. No one touches our wolf.”
The four shadows melted into the container maze, boots silent on frost, NVGs painting the world in ghost-green.
CS canisters clinked softly at Wang’s hip.
The river held its breath.
Hydra had bitten. But the wolves were coming.

At 01:30

The midnight-navy ghosts glided as one lethal organism down the claustrophobic steel corridor, boots whispering over frost-slick concrete like the breath of predators, each step a muted crunch that reverberated off the corrugated walls. The river’s black exhalation curled around their ankles, thick with diesel rot, the metallic tang of blood yet to be spilled, and the briny sting of the Patapsco’s icy breath. Commander Wang led the stack, AR-15 suppressor kissing the darkness, the PEQ-15 laser a razor-thin green filament slicing corners with surgical menace, its faint hum barely audible over the low thump-thump of their synchronized heartbeats. Loris front, bulletproof shield angled like a battering ram forged in hell, its polycarbonate surface glinting faintly under NVG green, Glock steady in his off-hand, knuckles bone-white, the grip’s textured polymer biting into his skin. Steb and Vi flanked, rifles up, eyes scanning high-low in a synchronized dance of death, the weight of their 39.5-pound kits pressing into shoulders and hips, sweat already beading under Kevlar despite the 20°F chill.
The containers loomed—forty-foot walls of corrugated steel rising three high, transforming the pier into a labyrinthine canyon where every shadow pulsed with ambush, the air a vise heavy with rust, salt, and the faint chemical bite of lingering CS residue. They flowed in slice-the-pie rhythm, a deadly ballet of shoulder grazing steel, cold and unyielding, sending a shiver through their arms as their muzzle clearing the corner with predatory precision, the suppressor’s matte finish drinking the dark.

Laser painting threats in crimson judgment, a silent promise of death. Repeat, faster, tighter, deadlier, the click of safeties and creak of vests a heartbeat in the void.

At 01:53

Steb’s veteran instinct—honed in a decade of raids—snapped like a tripwire. A rifle barrel glinted, barely protruding from shadow at 11 o’clock high, the suppressor’s dull sheen a betrayal in the NVG green.
No hesitation.
Phut.
The suppressor coughed, a venomous whisper softer than a lover’s sigh.
The barrel jerked skyward; a body plummeted from the catwalk, crashing with a wet, bone-crunching thud that reverberated like a gunshot in the steel canyon, the scent of fresh blood mingling with diesel.
Steb’s voice crackled through the PTT, a surgeon’s calm over a killing field:
“Shot fired. Threat neutralized. Over.”
They peeled around the corner, rifles tracking in perfect, lethal arcs, muzzles hungry, the air thick with the copper reek of death and the faint sizzle of sparks from a stray round grazing steel.
Clear.
But the darkness screamed more as the fortress of five containers stacked in a predatory coil, the air choking with CS residue, the acrid burn of tear gas stinging nostrils even through sealed masks, and the copper tang of fresh blood. Vi’s laser danced across a tiger tattoo flashing on a wrist—
Phut-phut.
Two rounds, center mass, the gangster’s chest exploding in a crimson mist, the wet slap of his body hitting concrete drowned by the thoomp of Wang’s 40mm launcher. A CS round arced high, bursting in a white inferno that rolled like a tidal wave of dry ice, the chemical sting searing eyes and throats, 14K voices cursing in Cantonese as they gagged, hands clawing at faces in futile agony.

At 02:30

In the heart of the hydra’s lair ,Gunfire continues erupted ahead—CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—Caitlyn’s AK, a surgeon’s scalpel carving through the chaos, each round a precise, lethal incision, the ping of spent casings bouncing off steel, hot brass grazing her knuckles. As the muzzle flares was the only light source of darkness to identify the enemy’s location.
Suddenly a bullet tore through her thigh as she tries to dodge the rapid fire of a heavily modified rifle that shoot a hundred of 5.56 rounds in 10 seconds, a searing white-hot spike that buckled her leg, blood gushing warm and sticky, soaking her pants in seconds. She dove back behind an overturned table behind fallen furnitures, the wood splintering under a hail of rounds, sparks spitting like angry stars.
Fuck—leg’s hit.

She yanked her belt off, the leather biting her fingers, and cinched it above the wound, the buckle clacking tight, pain lancing through her as she twisted it into a makeshift tourniquet, blood slowing to a trickle. Her AK magazine clattered empty; she slammed a fresh one home from a dead gangster nearby with one blood-slick hand, Glock half-drawn, her eyes wild with defiance.

Meanwhile In the dark alley not too far behind Caitlyn, Vi’s boots pounded the concrete, heart slamming against her ribs, a war drum for Caitlyn, the weight of her kit dragging at her shoulders.
“CAIT—HOLD ON!” Vi whispered to herself as they breached the nest, a storm of midnight-navy and vengeance.

As Caitlyn headshot a few more gangsters as they move to next cover, Vi kicked a gas mask thigh bag across the floor, the pouch skidding to Caitlyn’s boots with a desperate scrape.
“DON’T BREATHE!” VI’s voice crackled through her earpiece, tone urgent as Wang’s launcher thoomped in a relentless triad—
THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.
CS bloomed, a white-hot inferno devouring the nest, tendrils curling like the river’s vengeful breath, the chemical burn searing lungs even through anticipation.
Caitlyn snatched the mask, fingers trembling but forged in academy gas chambers—filter click, seal hiss.
Tears and saliva fogged the lens in a heartbeat, the plastic tasting of rubber and fear, but she breathed, the training a lifeline in the burning dark.

Wang’s voice, muffled but a beacon “Move! Move! Move!”

CS choked the air like a living demon, searing lungs, blinding eyes, turning screams to rasping gasps, the chemical sting a fire in every breath.
Gangsters dropped rifles, knives clattering in surrender, the clang of metal on concrete sharp, hands clawing at faces as they gagged and retched, tears streaming in futile rivers.
their rifle mounted flashlight stabbed through the haze, a white-hot blade pinning each face in merciless clarity, the beam cutting through CS like a scalpel. “SHERIFF—HANDS UP! UNDER ARREST FOR ASSAULT ON OFFICER, ATTEMPTED MURDER!”

Twenty-plus 14K knelt as the rescue team approached and yanked their shirts over heads in humiliated defeat, the fabric damp with sweat and tears, zip-ties snapping like breaking bones under Vi, Steb, Loris, and Caitlyn’s hands, the plastic biting into wrists.
No weapons missed—pockets emptied with a rustle, ankles searched with rough tugs, scalps patted with ruthless precision, the air thick with the scent of fear and chemical burn.
No mercy given.
The nest was theirs.

03:30

Caitlyn crusting her brow, stood at the end of the line, her flashlight beam cutting through the haze to light Vi’s path. Her ocean-blue eyes, glazed with pain, tracked every movement, the beam trembling in her grip. Her thigh throbbed, the makeshift belt-tourniquet slowly loosening, the leather slick with blood and sweat, slipping unnoticed down her leg. Each heartbeat sent a warm pulse of blood soaking her pants, the fabric clinging cold and heavy. Her face paled, a sickly green creeping in, the world tilting like a ship in a storm, but she stood, jaw clenched, flashlight steady.

Vi, hands deft despite trembling, patted down the final gangster, her gloves slick with CS residue and sweat. “Clear,” she called, voice muffled but sharp, zip-tying the last wrist with a snap. Caitlyn’s beam wavered, her vision tunneling, the container walls spinning. She leaned against a container, mask fogged with tears and breath, blood crusting her brow like a warrior’s crown, the metallic taste lingering on her tongue, eyes glistening with relief and exhaustion whirl blood slowly completely soaked her pants.
Vi’s hand found hers, fingers intertwining through Kevlar gloves, the rough texture grounding them, a silent vow etched in sweat and blood.
Wang clapped Caitlyn’s shoulder, his muffled voice a rare softness through the mask:
“Welcome back to the pack, Kiramman.”
Cait smiled back as her vision eventually blurred, the world fading to grey. She slumped, unconscious, the AK clattering from her grip.

Wang’s eyes snapped to her, his heart lurching. “SHIT! Kiramman’s down!” His tone urgent as he press his ptt to request emergency medical assistance “Central, Wang, 11-99 code 30 asap, over” he then knelt and spot her pants drenched in blood under the light of his helmet, as her makeshift tourniquet barely holding. “Anders—trauma kit, now!”

One rip-cord pull, Steb’s black drop leg IFAK tore open, red cross facing the sky as he commands Vi and Loris to turn on the flashlight mounted on their helmet while they tore at Caitlyn’s pants with combat scissors, the fabric ripping to reveal a gaping thigh wound, blood pulsing weakly. Steb’s gloved hand snapped the CAT-7 tourniquet free. Velcro rasp, windlass rod clack.
He looped it three inches above the wound, yanked until the Velcro screamed, then spun the rod six full turns until the radial pulse vanished and the bleeding dropped to a trickle as Vi’s trembling, blood-smeared hands cupping Cait’s pale face, her whisper a prayer: “Stay with me, Cait. Stay.”
He then rip her gas mask off and use his sharpie to scrawled “TQ 00:06” across her forehead in block letters. Trauma shears snip-snip-snip — the fabric parted like paper.
Steb looked deep into the wound: 11 mm entry, posterior thigh, no exit, muscle shredded, femoral artery dancing a hair’s breadth away. 
Steb’s fingers — still steady from packing a Belgian Malinois in 2010 — plunged into the channel.
First pack, second pack, third pack.
He buried all twelve feet of Z-fold gauze, knuckles disappearing to the second joint, the metallic scent of blood thick enough to taste. Steb stuffed gauze deep, the fabric soaking crimson instantly, his hands slick as he packed more, pressure firm. “Hold on, Corporal—stay with us!”
Vi’s muffled voice cracked, talking fast to keep Caitlyn conscious, her hands trembling as she gripped Caitlyn’s. “Cait, you’re okay, you’re here, keep those eyes open, don’t sleep—” but no response given except the faint breathing noises from underneath Cait’s gas mask as she struggled to keep herself conscious.
“Pack it deep, Anders—DEEP!” Wang barked as pressure pad slammed over the packed gauze, elastic wrap cinched until Caitlyn’s leg blanched white above the tourniquet.
Steb’s muffled voice, low and calm: “Bleeding controlled. Hypothermia protocol.” He then ripped his Mylar blanket from the pouch, crinkling like foil as he cocooned her from shoulders to boots, tucking edges under the soft shell ballistic vest.
Wang keyed the PTT, iron in his muffled voice:
“All units—Pier 7 secure. 22 detainees. arterial bleed controlled. Request medevac and CID carpet sweep the entire pier 7. over.”
Steb rocked back on his heels, beard streaked with Caitlyn’s blood, eyes never leaving her chest rise-and-fall.
“Wolf’s still breathing, Commander.”

The ambulance screamed in ninety seconds later.
The Emts lifted her onto the stretcher, tourniquet bright orange against pale skin — and the doors slammed like a coffin lid.
Vi climbed in after, fingers still tangled with Caitlyn’s, refusing to let go.
Steb followed, IFAK pouch empty, hands steady as the doors slamming shut.

The ambulance rocked, sirens screaming, red-blue lights strobing through the windows. Caitlyn lay on the stretcher, breathing mask fogging with each shallow breath, IV lines snaking into her arm, blood bags dripping fast. Vi sat beside her, mask gone, grey eyes red-rimmed, her hands shaking horribly as she clutched Caitlyn’s, the skin cold and slick with sweat. Steb, opposite, monitored vitals, his own hands steady but eyes haunted.
Caitlyn’s eyes finally fluttered open to meet Vi’s. A weak smile curved her lips under the mask. “Don’t worry, Vi… I’ll be okay,” she rasped, voice faint but fierce, squeezing Vi’s trembling hand.
Vi’s tears spilled, her voice breaking. “You better, Cait. Lavender needs her mom.”
Steb’s grin was shaky. “This wolf’s too stubborn to quit.”
The ambulance roared toward Shock Trauma, Caitlyn’s pulse steadying under the medics’ hands, Vi’s grip her anchor, the city’s lights blurring into a promise of survival.
Hydra’s first head was severed by the ghostly dark wolves…

At 03:35

The ambulance doors exploded open, the freezing harbor wind whipping through the bay as the EMTs shoved Caitlyn’s stretcher out, wheels clattering onto the asphalt. The hospital’s floodlights bathed her in harsh white, her face ashen, oxygen mask fogging with shallow breaths.
Two A&E nurses in navy scrubs sprinted out, slamming the hospital gurney down beside the ambulance.
“Transfer—on three! One, two, THREE!”
They lifted her in one practiced heave, the gurney’s wheels screeching as they bolted for the trauma bay, monitors beeping frantic warnings. Steb jogged behind, beard streaked with Caitlyn’s blood, voice cutting through the chaos like a field radio:
“GSW right posterior thigh, 11-mike-mike entry, no exit. Femoral spared by centimetres. CAT-7 applied 00:06, three full turns, radial pulse absent. QuickClot packed deep—three rolls. Israeli bandage pressure dressing. Hypothermia blanket. Bullet still in situ.”
The lead nurse, ponytail whipping, didn’t break stride. “Got it. You just bought her thirty minutes she didn’t have. Thank you.”
Steb’s reply was automatic, the same words he’d used in Bagram and Kandahar:
“Just doing my job as a combat medic, ma’am.”
The trauma doors slammed shut behind them, red SURGERY light snapping on like a war beacon.
Vi’s boots skidded to a stop at the threshold, fingers still reaching for Caitlyn’s hand as the gurney disappeared.
Steb placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
“She’s in the best hands now, Boot. Let them work.” The A&E doors slammed shut, the surgery room light flicking on with a sterile snap, fluorescent glare spilling into the hall.

Awhile later, outside the OR. Vi sat hunched in a plastic chair, her TRU blouse unbuttoned at the collar, the midnight-navy fabric clinging to her sweat-damp skin, Kevlar vest discarded in a heap beside her. Her gas mask hung from her belt, the rubber seal leaving red indents on her cheeks. Tears carved clean tracks through the grime on her face, her grey eyes red-rimmed, hands twisting the hem of her blouse until the seams groaned. Steb stood beside her, his own uniform rumpled, plate carrier slung over the chair’s back, the weight of the night etched in the lines around his eyes. His thick beard shadowed a clenched jaw, but his hand rested on Vi’s shoulder, steady, rubbing slow circles through the fabric.
“Don’t worry, Vi,” Steb murmured, voice low and calm, like a lullaby over a storm. “She’s a warrior. She’ll pull through.”
Vi’s sob hitched, and she buried her face in his shoulder, the coarse weave of his blouse scratching her cheek, his warmth a fragile anchor. “I can’t lose her, Steb,” she whispered, voice breaking, tears soaking the fabric.
The OR doors swung open. The surgeon emerged, surgical mask dangling, scrubs spattered with Caitlyn’s blood, the sterile blue fabric stark against the hall’s white. “Which of you is Miss Kiramman’s partner?”

Vi shot up, wiping tears with trembling hands, her blouse creased and clinging. “Me—her fiancé. Is she okay?” Her voice cracked, heavy with dread, grey eyes pleading.
The surgeon’s grin broke through the tension, his scrubs rustling as he pulled off his cap. “She’s stable. Bullet’s out of her thigh—missed the aorta by a hair. You guys got her here just in time; a few minutes later, blood loss would’ve taken her.” His voice softened, concern lingering. “We’re moving her to the women’s ward upstairs. You can stay with her soon.”
Vi’s eyes drifted through the OR window to Caitlyn, asleep under Valium, her face pale but peaceful, IV lines snaking into her arm, the hospital gown a stark white against her bloodied skin.

At 04:45 a.m.

Caitlyn lay in the hospital bed, pulse steady on the monitor’s beep-beep, her thigh swathed in gauze, the gown’s thin cotton cool against her fevered skin. Vi followed the nurses to transfer Caitlyn to the ward upstairs as she held her hand—cold from winter, always cold—and warmed it between her own, calluses rough from the AR-15’s grip. She pressed a kiss to Caitlyn’s forehead, the skin clammy but alive, her lips lingering on the faint taste of salt and hospital antiseptic.

In the ward, Vi slumped into a chair, fingers still tangled with Caitlyn’s, and fell asleep, her head dipping, blouse creased into wrinkles. Steb sprawled on a sofa nearby, his TRU uniform jacket draped over the armrest, beard shadowing a tired grin as he dozed, one boot still on, the other kicked off.

The women’s ward hummed with fluorescent light, sun slicing through blinds in golden slats, dust motes dancing in the beams as “07:35” flickers in VI’s wristwatch. Caitlyn’s eyes fluttered open, the world sharp with antiseptic sting and the soft whirr of the monitor. She saw Vi, her fluffy hair spilling over her face, and Steb’s snores rumbling. A weak smile curved her lips. “Hey, Violet,” she rasped, voice hoarse from the breathing tube, “ever told you how adorable you look when you’re asleep?”
Vi jolted awake, grey eyes wide, cupping Caitlyn’s face with trembling hands, the gown’s cotton rough under her fingers. She kissed her gently, lips soft but desperate, tasting of tears and relief. “You’re awake!” she choked, tears spilling. “You scared me, Cait—I thought I’d lose you forever.”
Caitlyn’s grin was faint but fierce, her finger wiping Vi’s tears, the IV line tugging at her skin. “Violet, I’m the dirt on your fingernails—you’re not getting rid of me. I’m waiting for our marriage certificate, Lavender’s birth, all of it. My forever with you.” she gently cupped Vi’s face, leaning in for another tender kiss. The hospital bed creaked softly beneath them, but in her eagerness, Cait accidentally tore her stitched wound. She groaned softly in pain, and Vi laughed softly, reassuring her as she gently guided Cait to lie back on the bed to rest and recover.

Steb coughed, awake, his beard scratching as he grinned. “Glad you’re alive, Cait, but I’m giving you lovebirds some privacy.” He stood, jacket slung over his shoulder, boots heavy on the floor. “I’ll grab breakfast—you’re a patient, I’m paying. Rest up.”
Vi’s tears slowed, her hand still in Caitlyn’s, the ward’s light wrapping them in a fragile dawn….

The Blue Berets’ heart beat on.
Hydra’s war waited, but love held the line.

Chapter Text

4:00 p.m., Sunday, February 2, 2014

The women’s ward of MedStar Harbor Hospital was a cocoon of fluorescent hum
and sun-dappled blinds, the air heavy with antiseptic and the faint, greasy promise of fried chicken. Caitlyn lay propped in the hospital bed, her pants replaced by a pale blue gown, her thigh swathed in gauze, the stitches a dull throb under the morphine haze. A laptop balanced precariously on her stomach, The Rookie flickering on the screen—her first attempt at the show she’d never had time for, the drama of sirens and heroics a pale echo of last night’s chaos. Her ocean-blue eyes, still sharp despite the pain, flicked from the screen to Vi, who sat cross-legged in a plastic chair, her combat shirt zipped casually , sleeves rolled to reveal jiu-jitsu-sculpted forearms glistening with chicken grease.

Vi tore into a piece of fried chicken, the crispy skin crackling, the scent of salt and spice flooding the room like a siren’s call. Caitlyn’s stomach growled, betraying her. “Violet,” she side-eyed, voice laced with mock outrage, “you’re torturing me. Forcing a dieter to watch you devour fast food while I’m stuck with this—” She jabbed a finger at the tray of flavorless hospital slop: a sad apple, limp broccoli, and a puddle of mashed potatoes that looked like regret. “This is cruel.”
Vi’s grin was pure mischief, grease shining on her lips. “Want some? I’m generous with tasty food.” She dangled a drumstick, the golden crust glinting under the lights.
Caitlyn rubbed her stitched temple, the skin tender under her fingers, a dull ache pulsing in time with her heartbeat. “If the nurses catch me eating this junk, they’ll scold me worse than when they found me sneaking out in the wheelchair to smoke.” Her gaze lingered on the chicken, then flicked to the UC tube snaking from under the gown, its plastic cold against her skin. “God, it smells divine. Gimme a piece.” She groaned, louder, eyeing the apple with disdain. “This is hell. Four more days till I can even crutch out of here. I can’t walk now—fall every time I try. Can’t shower without you lifting my damn leg so I can get into the tub. And this—” she tugged the urinate catheter, wincing, “—this thing’s a torture device. I’m useless.”
Vi’s grey eyes softened, her greasy hand finding Caitlyn’s, warm and grounding. “Hey, no groaning. Think positive—you’ll heal faster, and we’ll be home with Grady. How ‘bout cartoons to lighten the mood?” She grabbed the remote and flicked the TV on.
The screen didn’t land on cartoons.
It landed on WBAL News at 4.

WBAL News Report – “Midnight Raid at Pier 7: Sheriff’s TRU Thwarts 14K Ambush”
“Good afternoon, Baltimore. Last night, a daring operation at Pier 7 unfolded in the Patapsco River’s shadow, where the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Tactical Response Unit—known as the Blue Berets—neutralized a 14K triad ambush with BPD. Bodycam footage, redacted for officer safety, shows a midnight-navy team breaching a container nest, deploying CS gas, and apprehending 22 suspects. Names are withheld for privacy.”
The screen cut to grainy NVG footage:
• A shield wall advancing, Loris’s towering frame unmistakable.
• CS clouds blooming, gangsters choking.
• Zip-ties snapping, Vi’s muscular silhouette cuffing a kneeling figure.
• A bloodied deputy—Caitlyn, face obscured—firing an AK with surgical precision.
“We spoke with BPD CID Chief [REDACTED], mother of a TRU officer involved.”
Cassassandra Kiramman, in a crisp blazer, faced the camera, her voice steel:
“The operation disrupted a 14K trap, but the targeted narcotics—estimated at 560 kilograms—were not recovered. Only illegally modified firearms were found. The investigation continues.”

Caitlyn’s fist slammed the bed, the monitor beeping in protest. “Fucking hell! They made a giant trap just for me? I ate a bullet, and there’s not one brick of drugs?!”
Vi’s greasy fingers touched Caitlyn’s chin, turning her face, her grey eyes sharp. “I believe the drugs were there… until they weren’t.”
Caitlyn clicked her tongue, the sound sharp as a round chambering. “I never should’ve agreed to Wang’s undercover play. We cut Hydra’s head, but we lost the damn trail.” Her sigh was a storm, heavy with the weight of Pier 7’s blood and the hospital’s sterile cage.
Vi squeezed her hand, the chicken forgotten. “We’ll find it, Cait. Together.”

Hydra’s trap had sprung.
But the war was far from over.

At 4:30 p.m.

Vi glanced at her watch, grey eyes widening. “Oh my, 4:30 already. Gotta get home to feed Grady and—” She lifted her combat shirt to sniff, and grimaced. “God, my shirt has a strong reek of CS gas. It gave me a flashback to the gas chamber—panicking, fumbling the filter…” Her voice trailed, a sheepish grin creeping across her face.
Caitlyn’s eyes widened, a memory surging: the academy gas chamber, some cadet’s panic forcing her to don and doff her mask repeatedly, CS burning her lungs as she choked through burpees. She rubbed her stitched temple, the skin tender. “I swear, Vi, if we’d been in the academy together, I’d have slapped you. Last time someone did that, I ate maskless punishments—burpees and push-ups in a CS cloud.” She glared, but her lips twitched at Vi’s embarrassed, puppy-like smile.
Vi knelt, taking Caitlyn’s hand, her calluses rough from the AR-15. “Please don’t. Look how adorable I am.” She pouted playfully, grey eyes sparkling like a scolded golden retriever.
Caitlyn’s glare softened, a laugh escaping. “With that face? Never. But you smell like a skunk. Go change, Vi.” She leaned in, kissing Vi despite the CS tang, her lips warm. “Give Grady extra rubs for me. I’ll miss you in this sterile cage.”
Vi grinned, grease shining. “When did you get so clingy, Cait?”
Caitlyn’s voice dropped, raw. “Since Pier 7, unconscious on the floor, vision gone. Your voice—your gentle voice—was all I had. I followed it because I can’t live without it. And Steb’s field medic skills… I’d be gone without him. He and Loris could’ve stayed home, but they came for us. We owe them a drink, Vi.”
Vi stood, slipping on her duty vest, jacket draped over her arm. “For sure.” She kissed Caitlyn’s forehead, the tiny cuts rough under her lips. “I’ll miss you, but you’re not alone. Called an old friend to watch you—”
Caitlyn’s brows furrowed, muttering. “Old friend? Your sister? No, she’s in Massachusetts. Mylo’s in France for a dance tour with an old dance crew. Ekko? Claggor? Who—”
Vi’s smile was mischief. “Detective Kiramman, you’ll see. Speak of the devil—”
The ward door creaked open. Not Ekko or Mylo, but Jayce Talis, the gentle giant, 6’4” of lab-coat warmth, clutching a bouquet of daisies. Behind him, a shorter man with long dark hair—Viktor—hovered, concern etching his sharp features.
Jayce rushed forward, eyes wet. “Spout! I saw the news—the moment Vi messaged me to come over ,I knew it had to be you. I’m so sorry I missed your academy graduation, lab work…” His voice cracked, the flowers trembling in his grip.
Caitlyn’s smile was soft. “It’s fine, Jayce. Taking risks like this was just part of our job.” Her gaze flicked to Viktor. “That's the partner you crushed on?” Jayce blushed, brushing his hair. “Yeah, my partner—lab and life.” He spotted their matching rings, teasing, “Little sis, engaged? No invite? I’m crashing that wedding—when is it?”
Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, glancing at Vi. “Ask her. I don’t know the date or place.”

Vi’s grin turned sheepish, a flash of mischief in her grey eyes. “Imma keep the wedding date a secret for now,” she teased, backing toward the door with her duty vest slung over one shoulder. She blew Caitlyn a kiss, then vanished down the corridor, boots echoing like a promise.

Jayce waited until the door clicked shut. He set the bouquet of daisies in the vase beside Caitlyn’s bed, the white petals bright against the sterile wall, then gently waved Viktor out. Viktor gave Caitlyn a soft, understanding nod and slipped away, closing the door with a quiet snick.
Jayce pulled the chair closer, the plastic legs scraping the floor. His broad frame seemed to fill half the room, but his voice was low, the same gentle baritone that used to guide her and her friends during DND sessions in UBalt.
“Spout… I asked Viktor for a minute. You’ve been dodging me for weeks. Texting ‘I’m fine’ with those eyes that scream the opposite.” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her bandaged forehead. “Talk to me.”
Caitlyn tried the practiced smile, the one that worked on sergeants and suspects.
“It’s just overtime, Jayce. Reports. You know how it is—”
He cut her off with a look that had seen through her lies since she was still in the university with him.
“Buddy, I watched you pull all-nighters for finals and still smile. This is different. Those circles under your eyes… they’re not from paperwork.”
The smile cracked as Caitlyn turned her face to the window, the late-afternoon sun slicing through the blinds in gold bars across her blanket. Her voice came out small, almost foreign.

“I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
A tear slipped, then another. “I never told Vi. I didn’t want her to worry. But some nights… when I stand on the balcony, the city lights look like a thousand eyes watching me fall. The voices start. You can’t save anyone. Not Henry. Not even the people you love the most. And for one second… giving up feels like the only way to make those ghosts stop screaming.”
Her breath hitched. “When the episodes hit, my chest feels like it’s being crushed, my back and head burn like they’re on fire. I take the antidepressants so the pain quiets, but then everything goes… grey. I can’t feel Vi’s love when she kissed me. I can’t feel anything when she holds my hands. I can’t even feel happy when I go out to date her. I’m just… hollow.” A tear slipped, tracing the bandage on her temple.

“So I stopped taking the pills a week ago. I wanted to feel again. I felt Vi’s love, felt my dog Grady’s tail thumping, felt the sun on my face… but—”
Her gaze drifted to the TV, frozen on a WBAL still of Pier 7’s container maze, the narrow alley where she’d nearly died.
“When I walked between those containers last night… the walls crushed in on me. The dark closed like a coffin lid. And I broke.”
She pressed her palms to her eyes, shoulders shaking.
The tears came freely now, soaking the hospital blanket in dark patches.
“It’s torture, Jayce. And I’m terrified one day the hollow wins.”
Jayce didn’t speak for a long moment. He leaned forward, wrapped his giant arms around her—careful of the IV, mindful of the stitches—and let her cry into his shoulder like she was ten again and the world was too big. When her sobs quieted to shudders, he pulled back just far enough to meet her eyes.
“Listen to me, Spout.
You are not broken.
You are carrying a war most people will never understand.
And you don’t have to carry it alone.”
He brushed her tears with his thumb, voice steady.
“Vi loves you enough to storm hell for you—she deserves to know what hell looks like from the inside. Let her carry some of this with you. And if the pills turn you grey, we find different pills, different therapy, different anything. But you do not fight this war solo.”
Caitlyn’s lip trembled. “I’m scared if I drag her down with me.”
Jayce’s smile was fierce.
“She’s already in the trench with you, Cait. She doesn’t have the map yet. Give it to her.”
He squeezed her hand, the same way he did when she was terrified of rats during a summer camp trip with her university classmates.
“You’re going to be okay. Because you’ve got an army that refuses to let you fall. And I’m calling in every favor I have to make sure of it. When the world throws you into the pit, Spout… you don’t give up. You crawl.
You claw. Even if both legs are broken, you drag yourself up by the fingernails, because you are not alone in that hole.” He cupped her face, thumbs wiping the tears that refused to stop.
“You have us. You have Vi—who would burn the whole damn city down to keep you safe. You have your mother Cassandra, who would move mountains with a single phone call.
You have Tobias, who still keeps your childhood drawings on his office wall.
And you have me—always me.” Caitlyn’s breath hitched as he shot her a smile. The same warm smile.

A sob broke loose, raw and ragged, and she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around Jayce’s back like she was drowning and he was the only solid thing left in the world. The IV line tugged, the heart monitor beeped in protest, but she didn’t care. She buried her face in his shoulder, the cotton of his shirt soaking through in seconds.
For the first time in weeks, she felt it. That she wasn’t alone after all.

She had been the idiot pushing everyone away, building walls out of “I’m fine” and “don’t worry,” thinking she was sparing them.
When all she’d done was sentence herself to solitary confinement inside her own head.
Jayce held her tighter, one huge hand cradling the back of her skull like she was still that little girl afraid of storms.
“I’ve got you, Spout, we’ve all got you. Let us carry some of the war.”

Caitlyn cried until there was nothing left but shaky breaths and the steady beep-beep-beep of the monitor counting her heart—one that suddenly made the crown she wore feel a little less heavy.

Outside the window, the sun dipped lower, painting the room gold.
Inside, for the first time in weeks, Caitlyn let herself believe the light might reach her after all.

At 2:00 p.m., Tuesday February 4, 2014

The ward was quiet except for the drone of the wall-mounted TV which Caitlyn didn’t care about. The sertraline they’d restarted yesterday had turned the world into a flat, grey painting. She scrolled her phone with the enthusiasm of someone reading the phone book, every video dull, every meme pointless. The bouquet from Jayce drooped slightly on the side table; even the daisies looked tired.
“When can I get the fuck out of this place?” she muttered, tossing the phone onto the blanket.
She shoved the duvet aside, hospital gown riding up, and stared at her thigh. The bandage was smaller today, the angry red ring around the stitches already fading to pink.
“It’s healing so much better, Miss Kiramman. I think you can go home tomorrow,” the nurse had said this morning, voice chipper.
Caitlyn bent her knee. A sharp twinge, but manageable.
She sucked air through her teeth, swung her legs over the edge, and let her bare feet hit the freezing tile. The cold snapped up her spine like a slap — instant clarity.
First step: her leg buckled as she caught the bed rail, knuckles white, pride flaring hotter than the pain.
Second step: limp, but forward then third, fourth — slower than a ninety-year-old, but moving.
A crooked, defiant grin split her face.
“I’m getting the fuck out of here.”
She shuffled toward the duffel bag of clean clothes, the toothbrush Vi had brought.
Three more steps.
Then suddenly — a vicious, ripping yank from down there.

The catheter.
She’d completely forgotten the damn tube was still in.
“Fucking hell!” She muttered as Instinct took over and dropped into a half-squat, one hand braced on the bed, the other already reaching.
Deep breath.
One brutal tug.

The catheter slid free with a wet, burning pop.
Caitlyn hit the floor on her knees, both hands clamped between her legs, a strangled scream caught in her throat.
“Jesus—fucking—Christ—”
Her vision whited out for three full seconds, tears leaking sideways into her dyed hair. The pain was a red-hot wire twisting from the urethra to the spine. She stayed there, curled on the cold tile, breathing as she’d just sprinted a mile, until the fire ebbed to a dull throb.
Then she laughed — a cracked, delirious sound. “Note to self,” she rasped to the empty room, “never yank your own catheter.”
With trembling fingers, she ripped off the hospital gown as it had personally insulted her bloodline. The fabric fluttered to the floor, revealing the square analgesic patch stuck to her lower back, still warm from the slow-release fentanyl. She peeled it off with a grimace, the adhesive tugging skin, then tossed it into the bin like yesterday’s news.
From the duffle bag she pulled a pants to wear then Vi’s old Pikesville High hoodie, grey, frayed at the cuffs, and unmistakably two sizes too small.
She yanked it over her head. The sleeves stopped halfway down her forearms.
“Of course,” she muttered, shaking her head with fond exasperation. “My reckless girlfriend grabbed her own hoodie again.”
She rolled the sleeves to her elbows, exposing the faint scars on her forearms. Then she lowered herself to the cold tile, legs sliding apart with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who’d once spent hours in dance studios. Palms flat on the floor between her feet with zero wobble.
“Still got it,” she whispered, a flicker of pride cutting through the grey fog of the meds.
She folded forward, chest to the ground, forehead kissing tile.
Toe touches next: standing, she bent at the waist, palms flat, fingers splayed, spine long, dancer posture perfect.
Then the finale. Caitlyn placed her hands on the floor, kicked up into a perfect handstand, long legs arrow-straight, toes pointed like she was still on stage at sixteen.

Gravity + tiny hoodie = instant crop-top malfunction.

The hem slid up and bunched under her sports bra, exposing a set of etched, dancer-carved abs that looked like they’d been chiseled by Michelangelo after a strict diet of mountain treks and deadlifting stags.
Every line sharp, every muscle popping under the fluorescent light, the faint white scar from an old appendectomy only making the whole package look more badass. Caitlyn bent both legs backward, knees folding until her toes touched the floor behind her head while still perfectly balanced on her hands.
Thirty seconds.
One minute.
She shifted her weight, lifted her left hand, and balanced on one palm, right arm floating out like a bird’s wing.
Ninety seconds passed, slow, steady, breath calm. She split her legs horizontally, one forward, one back, toes still pointed, forming a perfect 180° line in mid-air.
Then the door creaked open behind her as nurse Ramirez walked in with fresh gauze and froze.
The chart slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. Her eyes went wide, pupils dilating as she’d just seen the second coming of Cross-fitness Jesus.
Mouth actually opened. Her eyes went full anime-heart for exactly 1.8 seconds as a tiny, involuntary “holy—” escaped.

Caitlyn, upside-down, hoodie now a sports bra with delusions of grandeur, abs on full parade:
“Sup, doc.”
Nurse Ramirez’s brain short-circuited.
She visibly swallowed while a flush crept up her neck. Then her shoulders sagged a fraction as her gaze snagged on the engagement ring glinting on Caitlyn’s left hand, with a sound of her heart shattered echoes in her mind. 💔
Ramirez’s lesbian heart eyes look dimmed into a soft, wistful smile. “Bravo. I guess you’re very ready to leave here and if the whole police thing doesn’t work out, Cirque du Soleil is hiring.”

Caitlyn rolled down with liquid elegance, landing in a crouch, then straightened, grinning despite the ache in her thigh.
“Thanks. I’m very ready to get out of here. But yeah… stage fright’s real.”
The nurse laughed, shaking her head.
“Girl, you just did a one-handed handstand with a bullet hole in your leg. I think the stage should be scared of you.” She added, quieter, “Your fiancée’s a lucky woman.”
Caitlyn’s grin turned soft, proud, a little wicked.
“Yeah. She knows.”
Nurse Ramirez sighed (half laugh, half tragedy), handed over the discharge papers, and muttered under her breath as Caitlyn grabbed her crutches, slung the duffel, and limped out toward freedom. “Of course she’s taken. The hot ones always are.” 🥲😭😭😭

At 3:45 p.m.

In front of her apartment building in Locust Point, the taxi dropped her at the curb with a cheery “Take care!” Caitlyn muttered a thanks, slung the duffle over one shoulder, and hobbled out on crutches like a very pissed-off flamingo in Vi’s “crop-top” hoodie.

But she stopped dead in front of the building entrance that has six stories with no elevator and she happens to be living on the fifth floor.
Only the narrow staircase that now looked like Mount Everest’s evil twin.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

She stared at the steps the way normal people stare at tax forms. “Of course the one day I discharge myself early, I remember we live in a pre-war walk-up with stairs designed by a sadist.”

She walks up, one step at a time.
Crutch.
Hop.
Crutch.
Hop.

First floor was manageable and on the second floor, her thighs were already whispering threats as the hoodie was already a lost cause. She was using it as a hand fan, flapping the tiny grey rag like a Victorian lady in a heatwave. Sweat beaded down her neck, the fabric clinging to her like wet paper. Then on the third floor. She stopped dead on the landing, balanced on one crutch, and ripped the hoodie off in one violent motion as she muttered “fuck this hoodie and this staircase! I’m taking this off, I’m so hot!”
The grey scrap sailed over the railing and fluttered down six stories like a defeated flag of surrender. Underneath it was just a black sports bra and a torso that looked like it belonged on the cover of a fitness magazine nobody had warned her about.
Faint, perfect eight-pack etched into her skin, glistening with sweat, every breath making the ridges pop under the stairwell’s flickering fluorescent light as her old dance scars and the fresh bullet graze on her thigh only added to the “don’t mess with me” aesthetic.
She kept climbing, sports bra only, abs flexing with every painful hop, crutches clacking like war drums.

And on the fourth floor, she was full-on cursing in three languages “我去你媽的樓梯— 我到底為什麼要住五樓那麼高？？？ 住一樓不好嗎？？？一年前的我到底是在想什麼？？？是覺得每天走樓梯才能回家很好玩嗎— 媽的我白痴沒有想過瘸跤了要如何回家— 請問是要爬上去嗎？？？ 到底有着快185的長腿有什麼屁用？?(why do I choose to live in fifth floor??? Why not first floor??? Walking up stairs to go home every day is not fun. Fucking idiot like me didn’t think about how the heck am I supposed to go home when I only have one leg that’s working, did I expect myself to crawl up??? These long legs are useless)” Her crutches clacked like angry castanets as she continued to question her own life choices. “Why the hell didn’t I pick the apartment with the elevator a year ago???? Oh right, because the view was pretty and I can see my parents’ house across the river and the rent was cheap and I was twenty-one and immortal and my legs fucking worked!” She muttered as she paused on the fourth-floor landing, panting, forehead against the cool wall. “This is too much fucking cardio for a gunshot victim. Forcing someone with a broken leg to do cardio should be illegal.”Not too far away from her, a random neighbor poked his head out at the muttering noise, took one look at the nearly 6-foot one, half-naked, jacked like a CrossFit coach, bandaged and ascending like an angry goddess, and quietly closed his door again.

A few minutes later, Caitlyn finally reached the fifth floor, dripping sweat, sports bra soaked, eight-pack glistening like she’d been oiled for a photoshoot. She leaned one crutch against the wall, wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist, then caught her breath. But because Caitlyn refuses to suffer in silence, she delivered her victory monologue to the empty hallway “Seriously, guys… When your leg doesn’t work like it used to before… your cardio session isn’t cardio anymore…. It’s cardi-NO.”
She wheezed out a laugh so hard she almost dropped the other crutch. “Ba-dum-tss…Somebody get me a damn elevator installed before I come back with the other leg shot.” She complained more as she fished the key from her pocket, still giggling at her own terrible joke, and crutched back to Apartment 5C.

The door creaks open, and Grady’s golden blur launches like a heat-seeking missile, tail helicoptering and barking loudly enough to wake the dead.
He hops up to lick her sweaty face but stops short at the sight of the crutches, head tilted, then gently boops her good leg with his nose as if to say, "Mom, why are you hurt?"
Caitlyn drops the duffle, collapses against the doorframe, and laughs—breathless, sweaty, and utterly herself for the first time in weeks.
“I’m home, you big idiot. Now help me to the couch before I add ‘collapsed in hallway’ to today’s résumé.”
Freedom tastes like dog fur, lavender candles, and the promise of never seeing another catheter again. Grady then gently tugs her to the couch with his snort until she lies flat on the couch with her long leg draped over the arm. A minute later, as she finally catches her breath, she looks around to find Vi, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

"Where did Vi go? Didn’t her work schedule for today change to night shift?” she mutters, as she continues to ruffle Grady’s fluffy hair until he walks to the entrance again with a gentle bark. The door opens again, revealing Vi, who’s in Cait’s hoodie (which is obviously too big for her), squatting down to kiss Grady.
"I miss you so much too, Grady—" Cait, on the couch, grins softly as she welcomes her home.
"Welcome back, Vi. Where have you been?"
Vi stands in the doorframe, furrowing her brow as she recognizes Cait’s voice. She stands up with visible confusion.
"Huh? Cait, you discharged early by yourself?” She drops her backpack and approaches the couch to kiss her, cupping her sweaty face.
"Yeah, I did. I can’t stand staying in that damn hospital and eating those horrible diets anymore. I’d rather stay at home so I can see you every day," Cait replies as she unties her ponytail to release her soaked hair.
"I wish I could come up to welcome you, but walking up that damn staircase with one leg that’s working properly, I can’t," Cait sighs.
Vi laughs. "You walked all the way up here? Sick," she replies, secretly touching Cait’s faintly visible eight-pack and appreciating her abs, with Cait watching her.
She teases, "I can see what you’re doing there, Violet. Come get me some ice from the fridge. My damn urethra is burning."
Vi walks to the kitchen and grabs an ice pack for herself. "I feel like you need an ice bath more, Cait, for being this sweaty. How come doing cardio can make your urethra burn?" she asks as she sits on the other side of the couch.
Cait rolls her eyes. "It wasn’t because of the cardio. It was because I was stupid enough to pull the catheter out of my private part while I was desperately trying to get out of the hospital... Vi, if you ever get into a hospital, really don’t try to pull that thing out yourself. It’s painful to get it out without lubricants," Cait says as she places the ice pack on her crotch to relieve the pain.

Caitlyn winced dramatically. “Now get me real food before I start eating Grady.”
Vi laughed, the sound bright and healing, and kissed her forehead (salty, warm, alive).
“Pizza’s on me, Welcome home.”
Grady wedged his head between them, claiming his spot.
The apartment smelled of dog, lavender, and the promise of tomorrow.
For the first time in weeks, the ghosts stayed outside the door.
Caitlyn was finally, truly, home. And Vi was exactly where she belonged.

Awhile later, the living room carpet had become a battlefield of empty pizza boxes.
One extra-large pepperoni and one margherita lay in ruins, grease-stained cardboard open like fallen flags. Grady snoozed in the sunbeam, belly round as a drum.
Caitlyn and Vi sat cross-legged in the middle of the chaos, both in oversized T-shirts and nothing else.
Caitlyn’s ancient Pikesville Dance Team shirt barely reached mid-thigh on her 6’1” frame.
Vi’s old police academy fit her like a glove.
Caitlyn, legs stretched out, was lazily swaying one bare foot back and forth like a cat’s tail, toes flexing in pure contentment. Her thigh bandage peeked beneath the shirt hem, but the swelling had gone down enough that she could finally bend the knee without wincing.
Vi, mouth still half-full of crust, stared at Caitlyn’s stomach that was still impossibly flat, zero bloat, abs faintly visible even after demolishing an entire large pizza by herself.
“Bruh.” Vi poked the offending eight-pack with a greasy finger. “How the hell do you inhale a whole pizza and still look like a fitness model? I ate four slices and I already feel pregnant.”

Smack.

She playfully slapped Caitlyn’s stomach. It answered with a hollow thump, not even a jiggle. Caitlyn side-eyed her, foot still swaying like a metronome of smug. “When you’re basically 6’1”, your metabolism runs like a jet engine. I have to eat like a linebacker just to maintain weight.” She then stretched her long legs out further, toes pointing like a dancer.
“Back in high school dance crew, I was the designated do contortion tricks, lifts, throws; if the flyer was over one-ten, the bases cried. So I lived on lettuce and willpower. I was starving 24/7. Senior year I could eat a whole sheet of pizza after practice and still be underweight.”

Vi’s eyes went full anime sparkle at the word contortion. “Wait, wait, wait, contortion? Like Cirque du Soleil, fold-yourself-into-a-suitcase contortion?!” She clapped like an overexcited seal, face turning into the same sheepish, tail-wagging grin Grady wore when he wanted treats. “Show me, dude! The last time I saw you do anything bendy was talent-show practice when we were fifteen and you did that mid-air split spin thing!” Caitlyn, mid-bite of pepperoni, let the slice drop dramatically back into the box. “Give me, like, four minutes to digest, or I’m power-vomiting pizza on your face.”

Four minutes, one glass of water, and a lot of theatrical groaning later…

Caitlyn limped back from the kitchen, shoved the entire hem of her oversized T-shirt into the waistband of her shorts like a makeshift crop top. “I’m not wearing anything underneath after that shower,” she announced, matter-of-fact. “Zero interest in accidental boob flash.”
Vi, sprawled on the carpet, wiggled her eyebrows. “I’ve seen the goods a thousand times, babe. I don’t mind the free show—”
Caitlyn shot her the most theatrical glare in human history. “But I mind, woman!”
SMACK.
She snapped the elastic waistband of her shorts so hard it echoed like a gunshot.
Vi yelped, laughing.
Caitlyn tied her hair back, the black dye at the ends giving way to the natural blue underneath, Caitlyn planted her palms on the living-room floor, fingers splayed wide, and kicked up into a perfect handstand like she was born upside-down. And the second her full 155 lbs settled onto her arms, every thick, ropey vein their way from wrist to elbow popped as her triceps horseshoed, hard and defined. Biceps peaks rose sharply enough to cast shadows.

The long, elegant lines of a dancer’s arms suddenly turned steely, the muscle bellies swelling with blood, skin stretching tight over the cords of power that once dragged stags through snow and now casually held her entire body weight like it was nothing.
Vi, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, forgot how to blink. Legs scissored into a flawless straddle split.
Then Cait folded one knee, foot drifting toward the back of her head, while the other leg shot arrow-straight. She held it for one minute, then slowly bent forward, torso curling until her stomach nearly kissed the floor, back arched like a drawn bow, before unfolding again with liquid grace.

Grady in his bed, tilted his head then trotted over and licked her upside-down face with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who’d just discovered gravy. “Grady—oh my GOD—my face is a saliva crime scene! Stop, you disgusting creature!” Caitlyn squeaked, face scrunching, but somehow stayed balanced while Vi was on the floor howling.

Caitlyn, still upside-down, smirked through the dog slobber, lifted one hand, and transitioned into a one-armed handstand. The supporting arm exploded with definition. Every tiny adjustment of her biceps and triceps to keep balance made the muscles dance under the skin. She even flexed a little on purpose and the peak of her bicep jumped like it was waving hello.
Vi’s mouth went dry as she stared hard while secretly cataloguing every ridge and valley of that arm like it was fine art. she knocked out five perfect one-arm push-ups, triceps trembling but refusing to quit and at the sixth, her arm finally buckled.
She rolled out of it with dancer precision, landing in a crouch, hair wild, cheeks flushed, abs flexing like they were personally offended by gravity. Vi sat there, jaw on the carpet, and let out a low whistle. “Nearly two minutes upside-down? With dog tongue assault? I’m impressed, babe. And mildly terrified.”

Caitlyn flopped onto the carpet beside her, breathless and grinning.
“Told you. Retired, but never forgotten.”

Vi narrowed her eyes, wiping pizza grease from her lip with the back of her hand. “…but I bet I can beat you in a handstand match.”
The apartment went dead quiet.
Even Grady stopped chewing his squeaky burger toy as a phantom MMA announcer echoed in their heads:
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN… IN THIS CORNER… FOUR-TIME BJJ CHAMPION, THE HUMAN FREIGHT TRAIN… VIOLET BRETSCHNEIDER… AND IN THIS CORNER… FORMER PIKESVILLE CONTORTIONIST, THE 6’1” GYMNASTICS WEAPON… CAITLYN KIRAMMAN!”

Cait lifted one eyebrow so high it nearly vanished into her hairline. “Really? You’ve never done a day of gymnastics in your life besides doing front flips and backflips, four-time Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu lightweight champion.”
Vi was already on her feet, marching to her gym backpack like a boxer entering the cage.
She yanked out her hand wraps and wrapped her wrists and knuckles with ritual precision.
Snap-crack went her knuckles. “Beat me. Longest handstand wins the ultimate prize.”
Cait’s grin turned feral. “Oh, it’s on.”
Cait grabbed her phone, set the timer, and placed it on the coffee table like an official judge. “Three… two… one… GO!”

BAM.
Both kicked up into perfect handstands, side by side on the living-room carpet as the lavender-scented room became a silent battlefield.

First 20 seconds, Vi was rock-solid, bodybuilder lats flared, six-pack tight, veins popping while Cait was relaxed as a cat, legs in a lazy straddle, toes pointed like she was on stage. But 40 seconds in, Vi started sweating buckets. Droplets rolled off her abs, down her chest, and dripped straight onto her own face. “This is hor—how the fuck do you do it without breaking a damn sweat?!” Cait, upside-down, casual as hell. “Ten years of practice, babe. Breathe through your nose.”

At 90 seconds, Vi’s arms started shaking like a malfunctioning jackhammer.
She collapsed with a dramatic THUD, sprawling flat on her back, chest heaving, entire upper body glazed in sweat like she’d been dipped in oil. “I yield! Uncle! Mercy!”
Caitlyn, still upside-down, lifted one hand to stop the timer that was stopped at 1:58.
She rolled forward with dancer elegance, landing in a crouch, hair barely mussed, breathing steady.

Vi, still flat on her back, chest heaving, sweat pooling under her shoulder blades, raised one defiant finger. “Nah uh. Best of three. That first one didn’t count. Your T-shirt was clearly aerodynamic. I was wearing cotton prison.”
Caitlyn, sitting cross-legged like a smug sensei, lifted an eyebrow so high it nearly left her forehead. “I beg your pardon? Didn’t you literally just say ‘a handstand match, ultimate prize’?” But Vi was already peeling off her T-shirt, revealing the full-bodybuilder physique underneath:
A thick, blocky six-pack that looked carved from oak and arms that made the veins on Cait’s look like polite little streams next to Vi’s Amazon River vascularity.

She tossed the shirt at Grady, who caught it like a victory flag. Cait’s eyes did a very obvious, very appreciative sweep as she secretly cataloguing every ridge and valley.
“Okay, fine,” she said, voice a little huskier than before. “But I’m keeping my shirt on. Some of us have dignity.”

Round 2
They kicked up. But Vi’s heavier upper body immediately became the enemy as her center of gravity was higher, her muscle mass denser.
At 42 seconds her arms started the tell-tale tremor of a powerlifter trying to balance on a tightrope while Cait, long, lean, dancer lines, and hunter core, looked like she was casually reading a book upside-down.
Vi collapsed at 58 seconds, sprawling dramatically like a barbarian. “Your turn to suffer, tall person! Ahhhh!” Cait shakes her head.

A moment later, they both chugged water in the kitchen and Vi flexed in the doorway like a peacock, trying to psych Cait out. But Cait just rolled her eyes and cracked her neck.
Then they kicked up again in the living room.

Round 3 — This time Vi went full beast-mode as veins on her forearms looked like they were about to pop and Cait’s arms finally started trembling at 1 minute 12 seconds; her long frame made every micro-adjustment cost more energy.
But Vi’s heavier muscle mass betrayed her again as at 1 minute 29 seconds, Vi’s elbows buckled then crashed to the carpet with a defeated thud, sprawling like a starfish while Caitlyn held for another 12 seconds just to be petty, then rolled down gracefully and landed straddling Vi’s waist.

She leaned down, nose to nose, grinning like a cat who’d eaten the canary, the cream, and the entire bakery. “Buddy… I won three matches.” She poked Vi’s very sweaty, very defeated six-pack. “just accept your defeat with dignity, lightweight champion.”
Vi pouted, full bottom lip, puppy eyes, the whole theatrical production. “…You have stupid long arms and a stupid light skeleton.”
Caitlyn kissed the pout away. “And you have stupid big muscles that look stupidly hot when they fail at handstands.”
Grady, sensing the war was over, flopped across both of them like a golden referee calling the match.
Final score:
Caitlyn – 3
Vi – 0 (plus one crushed ego and a very happy fiancée)
Grady – undisputed cuddle champion
Vi stared at the ceiling, defeated. “You really are a master in gymnastics. You beat me on the floor.”

At 5:05 p.m.
“Told you so. Now… what’s my ultimate prize, champion?” Cait purred as she cups VI’s sweaty face that groaned into the carpet, dramatically defeated. “I’ll do anything you ask. No vetoes.” She reached up, lacing her fingers with Cait’s. “Normally I’d say ‘take me to the bedroom,’ but the meds have turned my libido into a desert. Can’t feel a damn thing downstairs. It’d just be embarrassing. So… new request.” Cait flashed the most angelic, evil smile. “Carry me down to the ice-cream place across the street. Buy me whatever I want. Then carry me back up five flights. Princess-style.”

Vi shot upright so fast she almost headbutted Cait. “WHAT? Who the fuck eats ice cream in February?! That shop is, like, five hundred metres away! I’d rather you rail me senseless than do cardio with a 6-foot-1 sniper on my back!” Caitlyn raised one perfect eyebrow. “You lost, babe. Rules are rules, although I like your sexy muscular chest but it is socially unacceptable to go out bare-chested so get dressed.”
Vi opened her mouth then closed it as she realised she was absolutely going to do it.

A few minutes later, Vi in a hoodie squatted, and hoisted Caitlyn onto her back in a piggyback at the apartment stairwell then started her painful punishment.

While Caitlyn wrapped her long arms around Vi’s neck, legs dangling as Vi descended, she groaned “Jesus, woman, do you have bricks in your pockets?” Caitlyn then deadpanned to her, her gaze as sharp as a hawk. “Are you calling me fat?”
Vi’s heart performed an Olympic-level stop-drop-and-roll. “NO MA’AM. Absolutely not. You’re light as a feather. A very tall, sniper-shaped feather.” Inside her head, a tiny voice breathed a sigh of pure relief ‘Phew. Thank goodness she didn’t tell me to sleep on the couch. I’ve still got a bed tonight.’

On the Third-floor landing, Vi’s thighs were already screaming, she turned her head to ask Cait “Remind me why we didn’t move to a building with an elevator again?” Cait grinned “I asked the same thing a while ago, Vi”

Then on the Second-floor corner, Vi muttered to herself as she calculated the stairs ‘Two more flights. If I drop her now, I’m definitely on the couch until 2025.’ But she turned too sharply.
CLANG.
Caitlyn’s good ankle smacked the metal railing with a sound like a gong. “OW—MY FUCKING ANKLE! WHAT WAS THAT FOR, VI?!”
Vi entire life flashed before her eyes: the couch, the cold, lonely couch, the dog taking her pillow. She froze mid-step, Caitlyn still piggy-backed, voice climbing into pure panic. “SORRY SORRY SORRY—corner came out of nowhere! PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME SLEEP ON THE COUCH!”

Caitlyn’s pained hiss melted into the smuggest, most mischievous grin known to mankind.
She leaned forward, lips brushing Vi’s ear, voice syrupy sweet and absolutely evil. “I’m considering it… but if you tell me how beautiful I am—right now—I might change my mind.”
Vi rolled her eyes internally as she thought to herself ‘She’s 100 % fucking with me. But I am not risking that couch.’

Vi then straightened, soldiering on down the stairs like she was storming Normandy with compliments. “Caitlyn, you are the hottest, most stunning, jaw-droppingly gorgeous woman on this planet and your legs go on for centuries, your abs could shred cheese, and that little evil grin you’re wearing right now? Illegal in at least twelve countries. I would fight gods and win just to carry you down stupid stairs every day. Cait, you are perfection incarnate and I am but a humble peasant blessed to breathe your air—”
Caitlyn’s smug grin widened to demonic levels.
She reached forward and patted Vi’s head like a golden retriever who’d just performed a perfect trick. “That’s my good boy. Keep going.” She planted a soft kiss on Vi’s sweaty cheek while Vi was still descending, muttered through gritted teeth. “You’re the devil. A six-foot, gorgeous, evil devil.”

“But you love this devil, don’t you ?”
“Can’t live without her”

Finally, on the Ground floor, Vi staggered through the entrance door, pushed it open with her shoulder, and gently deposited Caitlyn onto the cold pavement like a knight lowering a rescued princess as she panted. Caitlyn then leaned on VI’s broad shoulders, smile radiant, eyes sparkling with victory.
“Your princess wants Pistachio with sprinkles, my noble steed. You earned your pillow tonight.” Vi groaned, slung Caitlyn’s arm over her shoulder, and started the trudge across the street while already dreading the trip back up, but she’d carry Caitlyn to the moon and back before she risked that couch again.

“Worth it,” she panted.
“Totally worth it.”

At 5:22 p.m.
The little bell above the door jingled as Vi carried Caitlyn over the threshold like a victorious knight returning with treasure.
She carefully deposited her girlfriend into the corner booth, the one with the good light and the least sticky table.

Two minutes later, Caitlyn gets a triple-scoop cup of pistachio + stracciatella, topped with rainbow sprinkles (because she’s an adult, damn it). And Vi gets a boring-but-safe chocolate-peanut-butter in a waffle cone.

They sat across from each other, the shop’s neon “OPEN” sign buzzing overhead.
Caitlyn leaned forward, eyes gleaming with criminal intent. Before Vi could even raise the cone to her lips, Caitlyn’s spoon swooped in like a hawk and stole a massive bite of chocolate-peanut-butter perfection. “Mmmh. Yours looks way more delicious. Couldn’t help it,” Caitlyn announced, licking the spoon with theatrical satisfaction.

Vi stared at her now half-demolished cone, sighed the sigh of the long-suffering, and muttered, “You absolute ice-cream thief.”

Caitlyn cupped her ear, leaning in with mock innocence. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that. What did you just call me, Violet?”

Vi rolled her eyes so hard the whole shop probably felt it, then switched to the sweetest, most exaggerated tone she could muster.
“I said… you’re beautiful, my perfect, tall, ice-cream-stealing goddess.”
Caitlyn’s smug grin could have powered the city grid. “Pretty sure that’s not what you said, but I’ll take the compliment anyway, my handsome, beautiful, ridiculously muscular knight.”
She leaned across the tiny table and kissed Vi softly, slowly, tasting chocolate, peanut butter, and victory.
Vi’s heart melted faster than the ice cream.

At 05:45 p.m. Thursday, February 6, 2014

The overhead lights of the locker room within the Sheriff’s office flickered and cast long shadows across rows of dented metal lockers.
The air reeked of gun oil, stale coffee, and the faint scent of someone’s gym bag that had given up on life.
Caitlyn stood in front of her open locker, the faint scar on her right thigh now just a thin pink line under the green uniform pants. At home, Grady had spent the last forty-eight hours giving her judgmental side-eye every time she sat on the couch longer than five minutes (Mom, you’re home, Why don’t you go hunt for us?)

But today the hunt was back on.

As she slid into the new black plate carrier as it settled over her shoulders and ribs like it had been waiting its whole life to meet her.
The velcro cinched perfectly while the drop-leg holster sat exactly where her hand fell naturally.
Everything fit like a damn glove.

She tied her hair back, tight and high and the black dye at the ends now mostly grown out, revealing the blue roots she’d hidden since the undercover mission.
No beret and heavy combat gear. Just green, black, and the quiet promise of teeth. Caitlyn clipped the Axon bodycam to the center of her carrier, adjusted the drop-leg holster so it rode perfectly on her long thigh, and gave the rig one final tug then ran her fingers along the perfectly tailored shoulder seam of her sheriff-green shirt.

Meanwhile, behind Cait, Vi was struggling with her department-issued duty vest: a bulky, Velcro-covered nightmare that seemed designed by a committee that hated pockets, women, and joy altogether. She tugged at a flap that refused to close, with her Taser dangling like a sad Christmas ornament. "This thing’s a piece of junk," she growled, trying to cram pepper spray, a radio, and two spare magazines into tiny pouches that looked barely big enough to hold postage stamps. After a few failed attempts, she gives up as she place some of her gears to her duty belt instead. "I swear, the only way I’ll get a decent rig is if I keep giving you massages until you finally buy me that sweet JPC plate carrier of yours." Caitlyn didn’t bother to look up from adjusting her own perfectly fitted black plate carrier. “Money’s never been an issue for me, Boot. Sure, massages are accepted as payment. Schedule starts at midnight in the pantry couch. Night shifts are usually pretty quiet anyway." Vi froze, one arm still caught in the Velcro hell, eyes widening in realization. It hit her like a flashbang. Caitlyn tapped the wolf patch on her carrier, her voice dropping into that calm, deadly mentor tone that made even seasoned deputies straighten up. "Listen up, Boot. After the briefing, we’re back on patrol. Stay sharp. Keep your hands ready. Ten-four?" Vi snapped to attention, a wide, fearless grin spreading across her face as the duty vest finally surrendered to her brute force. "Ten-four, Corporal. Ready to roll." Caitlyn gave the locker door one last shove. CLANG. The sound echoed like a round chambering.

At 6:30pm ,Caitlyn dry-swallowed the sertraline with the last mouthful of cold coffee, the pill scraping down like a promise she hated keeping. Briefing had been Holbrok’s usual forty-minute funeral march: Chairman of 14K finally in federal custody, the dirty-cop hunt still a black hole, and a blanket order for every TRU unit to double coastline patrols in case divers went after the 560 kg of bricks now sleeping on the bottom of the Patapsco and blah blah blah that she couldn’t find any interest about.

After the chair scraped, They walked the corridor past the holding cells to armory.
Inside were the twenty Pier 7 survivors, the ones she, Vi, Steb, Loris, and Wang had zip-tied in the CS fog. Now every face was a swollen mess: split lips, black eyes, one kid cradling a clearly dislocated shoulder and rocking.
A low chorus of groans leaked through the bars.
Caitlyn’s gaze slid over them without a flicker as the second chairman’s words still echoed from interrogation.“Your TRU… most violent unit in the whole damn Sheriff’s Office. Cruel enough to rival us.”
She hadn’t answered then.
She didn’t need to now nor later as actions say it all. Vi glanced sideways, read the set of Caitlyn’s jaw, and kept her mouth shut.

In the armory, Caitlyn signed out two Colt AR-15 A4s, four mags each, suppressors, PEQ-15s, EOTechs.
Vi took both rifles like they weighed nothing and slung the heavy duffle over one shoulder.
Outside, the February night bit hard.
Vi ran the full light-bar check, tire pressure, fuel, MDT login, while Caitlyn leaned against the hood, arms folded, green cap with SHERIFF patch casting a shadow over her eyes. They then slid into the Interceptor, Vi shotgun side, rifles muzzles-down between them.
Vi buckled in, eager.
“So Corporal, are we going to patrol around the coastline now?” Caitlyn’s ocean-blue eyes stayed fixed on the laptop screen, fingers flying across the keys as she cleared the inbox.
She shook her head once.
“Not yet, Boot. You noticed why I told you to bring high-vis vests? We will do nighttime roadblock in places where illegal racing activities were for crime prevention. I will teach you how to ask the driver to step out of the vehicle to do basic body searches. Sometimes we catch the big fish that not only did racing but illegal vehicle modifications, drugs, or scam-related equipment.”

She racked the charging handle on her AR-15.
Clack. “Eyes sharp. Hands ready. 10-4?” Vi’s grin could’ve lit the parking lot. “10-4, Corporal.”
Engine growled as the light bar flared red and blue as they roll towards the roadblock.

At 10:07p.m.

The stretch of Eastern Avenue was a river of red brake-lights and flickering strobes.
Caitlyn’s Interceptor sat nose-in at a 45-degree angle, light-bar pulsing red-blue-red-blue like a migraine, takedown LEDs washing the asphalt white. Two portable floodlights on tripods threw harsh cones of light that made every raindrop look like falling glass.
The air smelled of wet pavement and burnt clutch.

Both deputies stood in screaming-yellow high-vis vests over their black plate carriers, sheriff-green caps low, trident patches on their vest barely visible in the dark. Caitlyn on the driver’s side lane, Vi on the passenger’s side as the cones funneled traffic into a single, angry snake. For two hours it had been the same script:
Random driver rolls down window → sees two women in uniform → instantly decides they’re the root of all evil.

Then suddenly the sky cracked open without warning. As one second it was cold and dry; the next, a biblical Maryland spring downpour slammed down like someone flipped a switch labeled “fuck your night shift.”

Caitlyn and Vi barely had time to ran back to their interceptor and yank out the department-issued and supposedly “water-resistant” pieces of garbage rain shells, then thirty seconds later the shells surrendered. As water poured straight through the seams, turning their sheriff-green uniforms a shade darker, almost black, the fabric clinging like wet paper. Caitlyn’s sports bra went fully transparent and Vi’s Blundstone boots turned into portable aquariums; every step made a squelch-squelch like she was stomping fish tanks. 🐟🐠🐡

Caitlyn stood in the lane, soaked to the bone, water streaming off the brim of her green cap, holding some guy’s license between two fingers like it was radioactive. She looked up at the sky and deadpanned. “Oh I just love Maryland spring. Snow this morning so I can eat shit on the ice, torrential rain tonight so I can drown in my own uniform. Variety is the spice of life.”
Vi, looking like a drowned German shepherd, rang out her sleeve as a solid cup of water poured out of it. “My boots are a goddamn koi pond. I’m raising trout in here.”

Then a lifted Silverado with Confederate plates rolls up, exhaust snarling. The window drops.
Vi steps up, high-vis glowing. “Evening, sir. License and registration, please.”
Guy with the backwards MAGA hat, eyes lock on the tiny, half-hidden “Polizei” eagle patch given by Cait as a joke to VI’s German roots on her soaked vest. His face twists. “Get the fuck back to Germany! This is America, belongs to American people only!”
He flings his license out the window. It slaps the puddle at Vi’s feet and floats like a tiny white boat. Vi, drenched, hair plastered to her forehead, water dripping off her eyelashes, just sighs.
Bends down, fishes the license out of the puddle, wipes it on her already-soaked sleeve pointlessly and hands it back through the window. “I was born here too, sir. Baltimore. Sinai Hospital.”

Guy snarls, snatches it, rolls the window up, and spits a fat loogie against the glass right in front of Vi’s face. Then he guns it, tires chirping, middle finger out the sunroof as he peels out, spraying both of them with a fresh wave of puddle water while Vi stands there, dripping, looking like a very angry, very wet dog and Caitlyn, beside her, now looks like she just lost a wet T-shirt contest she never entered.

Vi finally groans, long and theatrical “Corporal… these people are certifiable. I ask nicely for license and registration and suddenly I’m the reason their baby momma left, their credit score’s trash, and I need to swim back to Germany. One dude just told me to go back to the strip club. I’m wearing forty pounds of gear. Where exactly am I hiding the pole?” Caitlyn, two lanes over, doesn’t even look up from the pickup she’s clearing, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Welcome to night-shift, Boot. Same set list every time. Just keep your eyes on their hands. The phone warriors are loud but the quiet ones who reach under the seat are the ones who kill you.”

Vi’s face goes a shade more serious. “Like Reyes?”

“Yeah.” Caitlyn’s voice drops. “Thirty-seven. Wedding invites already mailed. One wrong hand movement on a traffic stop and… gone.”
She exhales, scans the next set of headlights rolling up. “Eyes sharp, hands ready, boot. That’s not a slogan, it’s a survival tip.”

Vi exhales, rolling her shoulders. “10-4, Corporal.” Then, under her breath, “But seriously not unless you’re Lenape or Nanticoke, we’re all immigrants. Dude’s just mad his family got here before mine.”
Caitlyn gives her that quiet, steady look that says I’ve got your back while water cascading off her cap and turns to the next set of headlights rolling in.

Another car slows. Bass thumping. Windows blacked out. Caitlyn steps up, flashlight slicing through the windshield, right hand resting easy on her Glock as rain pouring off the brim of her sheriff-green cap in a steady curtain.
“Evening, driver. License and registration, please.”

Her high-vis vest glowed radioactive yellow, water streaming off it in rivulets. She raised two fingers and tapped the driver’s window—sharp, authoritative. The glass dropped with a soft electric whine.
Inside there was as woman, mid-thirties, heavy contour still perfect despite the weather, gold hoops catching the strobes.
“Evening, ma’am,” Caitlyn said, voice steady, rain drumming on her shoulders. “License and registration, please.”
The woman’s manicured nails flashed as she handed over the documents. Caitlyn angled her flashlight, beam slicing across the Maryland license, the photo, the name, the restrictions.
Clean.
Too clean.

Vi stood passenger-side, water already ankle-deep in her supposedly waterproof boots.
She felt it before she saw it—that spider-crawl up the back of her neck that had saved her life more than once. She clicked her own flashlight on, the beam cutting through the dark interior like a scalpel.
First pass was woman’s face—quick flinch, eyes darting. And the second pass was the hard-shell suitcase in Barbie pink with no luggage tag but has two tiny TSA locks glinting like guilty secrets and lying flat across the backseat like a coffin.

Vi’s beam lingered. Her voice came out lazy, almost bored, but every syllable carried weight. “What’s in the suitcase, ma’am?”
The woman shrugged—too fast, too casual.
“Just got back from a trip. I’m not wanted. Why can’t I travel?” Caitlyn heard the shift in Vi’s tone like a dog hears a whistle.
She leaned down, elbows on the wet sill, rain dripping from her lashes, and let her own flashlight drift across the suitcase.
The strobes painted everything in epileptic flashes, but the case looked… wrong.
Too new and too deliberately placed.
Like it was waiting for this exact moment.

Caitlyn’s voice stayed polite, but the temperature in the car dropped ten degrees.
“We’re not saying you can’t travel, ma’am.
We’re asking what’s inside the suitcase.
Mind telling us?” The woman’s knuckles went white on the steering wheel.
The woman’s smile stayed plastered on, too wide, too bright. She reply “Just clothes and women’s stuff.”
Caitlyn and Vi didn’t even need to look at each other as their sixth sense pinged like a Geiger counter in Chernobyl.
Caitlyn’s voice stayed honey-sweet, the kind that made suspects relax right before the cuffs came out. “No problem at all, ma’am. Mind stepping out and opening it for us? Quick glance and you’re on your way.” The woman then exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for years. “I have intervertebral disc herniation… I can’t lift anything heavy.”

Caitlyn’s smile never wavered. “Don’t worry. My partner will help.” She flicked her eyes to Vi, barely a twitch as she was already snapping on nitrile gloves, the latex snapping loud in the rain.
The woman stepped out, limping theatrically, heels clicking on wet asphalt.
She opened the rear door but the second the seal broke, a smell rolled out, thick, chemical-sweet, bleach trying and failing to cover something far worse.
Vi grabbed the pink suitcase but It didn’t budge. She then adjusted her grip and heaved. Even through gloves, even with her deadlift strength, the weight was wrong.
Way too heavy for “clothes and women’s stuff.”
And the smell of bleach, decay, like a thousand rats had died in a swimming pool punched her in the face. Vi lowered it to the ground with exaggerated care, rain drumming on the plastic shell.
Caitlyn gave the nod.
Zip.
The zipper rasped open like a scream.
Both flashlights snapped on, beams converging inside of the case.

Inside there was a child’s leg (small, pale, barefoot) curled on top and below it, the rest of a baby that was maybe three months old, dismembered, folded, packed in clear plastic like meat from a butcher.
The world narrowed to that pink shell and the tiny, lifeless limbs inside it.
Caitlyn’s flashlight hand didn’t shake and Vi’s didn’t either.
But every drop of blood drained from their faces in the same heartbeat as Vi’s voice came out flat, almost robotic. “Step back from the vehicle, ma’am. Hands where I can see them.”
Caitlyn was already keying her radio, voice like ice over glass as she tries to hold the urge to puke. “Central,37-Adam-12, start me additional units and a supervisor, Eastern at Nottingham. We have a 187… possible infant remains in a plastic bag within the suitcase. Suspect in custody, over.”

Rain kept falling and the strobes kept flashing but the trident had just found something far worse than drugs as their night had only just begun….

Chapter Text

At 10:26p.m. – Eastern Ave roadblock, Nottingham

Dispatch crackled in their earpieces as Caitlyn moved to arrest the woman. “Any available unit, 47-bravo is en route with Sergeant Wang, ETA four minutes.”

“These were just clothes!” The woman keeps exclaiming loudly but Caitlyn quickly cuts her off with “These are not clothes! These are kids’ legs! I’ve worked long enough to tell which are legs and which are clothes! Now keep your hands behind your head, you’re under arrest and don’t you dare try to reach out for anything from your pocket to poke my partner or me!” Caitlyn then spun her against the wet hood of the car, cuffs clack-clack. “You have the right to remain silent…” Miranda rolled out automatically while the smell clawed at her throat. But the woman screamed “I need a lawyer!” the moment she heard the Miranda.
Vi stood frozen three feet away, flashlight dangling, face chalk-white. “Corporal, please tell me there wasn’t a baby dismembered in that plastic bag.” Caitlyn snapped on fresh nitrile gloves, lifted the lid again, the flashlight beam cutting through the dark. “It is, Boot. Oh god.” The stench slammed her; she gagged once, swallowed it, let the lid drop.

Vi’s flashlight hit the asphalt with a clatter as she took one stumbling step back, hand clamped over her mouth, eyes wide and glassy with horror while Cait’s gentle hand clamped her shoulder, hard. “Breathe, Boot. Eyes on me. We’ve got her. Wang’s three minutes out.”
But then suddenly her knees buckled. She dropped to all fours on the wet sidewalk and retched, hard, violent spasms that brought up nothing but bile as the rain kept pouring, washing it into the gutter like the city itself was trying to forget.

Caitlyn was there in an instant, one hand steady on Vi’s back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. “Breathe, Boot. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I’ve got you.” Vi coughed, spit, and wiped her mouth with the back of a shaking glove.
Only then did she collapse to sit on the curb, pulling off her sheriff-green cap and letting the rain mix with the tears already cutting clean lines through the sweat and vomit on her face.

Caitlyn crouched, grabbed her water bottle from her duty belt, and pressed it into Vi’s hands. Her gaze then flicked back to the open pink suitcase under the floodlights.
The tiny limbs.
The plastic.
The deliberate folds.
She waited for the punch in the gut.
For the tears.
For the wave of grief that should have dropped her beside Vi. But nothing came out beside a cold, flat wall of nothing, and behind it, a slow-burning furnace of pure, distilled anger.
The antidepressants are doing their job too well.
Her jaw flexed as her ocean-blue eyes turned winter-cold as she turned her head to look at the cuffed woman leaning against the car, still wearing that fake-confused expression, still playing innocent.

Vi took the bottle with trembling hands, rinsed her mouth, and spat. “How can someone do this to their children? This is beyond cruel.” Caitlyn dropped to a crouch beside her, one hand rubbing slow circles on Vi’s soaked back.
“Vi, we will bring justice to these kids. Don’t drown in it right now. Think about this: if it weren’t you, I wouldn’t have looked twice at that suitcase. You saved them from staying hidden. Hold on to that.”

Headlights swept the scene behind them and Wang’s Interceptor rolled up, light-bar dark but presence loud. He stepped out crisp in full green, sergeant stripes sharp like a walking shield wall rain jacket already dripping.
He clicked on his flashlight, lifted the pink lid with his gloved hand just long enough for one look, let it fall shut, and shook his head once slowly and heavily then walked straight to Caitlyn. “Kiramman. Talk to me.” Caitlyn stood, voice steady even while her stomach still churned.
“Traffic stop, suspicious suitcase in plain view, strong odor of decomp masked with bleach. Opened it—dismembered infant, approximately three months, and partial remains of an older child, maybe four or five. The driver’s in cuffs, claiming no knowledge….”

Wang nodded once. “I’ll get CID rolling. After Bretschneider’s steady, take her to do the full statement with the suspect, I’m calling more units for traffic control and a search warrant on the driver’s residence. Move.”

A few minutes later, the unmarked CID sedans slid in quietly as the detectives climbed out, pulled on white Tyvek jumpsuits, bodycams rolling, evidence bags ready.
Flash bulbs popped in the rain, lighting the suitcase like a horror diorama.
One detective lifted the older child’s leg, turned it gently under the light. “Bruises, old and new. Defensive wounds on the arms. These kids were beaten long before they were suffocated.” He looked at his partner in the eye. “Call Child Protective. And get me the suspect’s name.”
Detective Tells flipped his notebook. “The Driver’s name was Nicole M. Johnson, and as the deputies were taking statements from her, she kept saying ‘I don’t know how they got there’ and ‘I didn’t kill them.’ Kiramman tried; woman lawyered up the second she heard Miranda.”
The lead detective exhaled through his teeth.
“Then we take her back to Towson. Let’s see how long ‘I don’t know’ holds up in an interview room.” He glanced back at Caitlyn and Vi. “Good eyes, deputies. We’ll take it from here.” Caitlyn gave the CID detective a single, sharp nod, then turned to Vi. “Up, Boot. We’re transporting the suspect to Towson. Let’s move.”

They hauled the cuffed suspect— Nicole Johnson to the prisoner’s seat of their interceptor. But she immediately went full dead-weight, dragging her feet, whining in that fake-innocent voice every cop has heard a thousand times. “I didn’t do anything! Why are you arresting me? I want a lawyer!” Blah blah blah.

Caitlyn’s patience snapped like a brittle twig under pressure. She forcefully shoved Johnson against the rear door of the patrol car, yanked the seatbelt across the trembling woman’s chest, and struggled to click it into place while Vi swiftly folded the woman’s legs in a compact, lawn chair-like position. “Miss Johnson,” Caitlyn’s voice cut through the tense air like a razor, sharp and commanding, “keep resisting and I’ll add resisting arrest and obstruction to the two counts of first-degree murder we’re already booking you on. Do you understand me?” Johnson maintained her act, blinking teary, frightened eyes.
“I didn’t—” Caitlyn’s pepper-spray canister was out and leveled at her face in less than half a second. “Do you want this?” Johnson locked eyes with Caitlyn and screamed desperately, “DO IT!”

Caitlyn didn’t hesitate. FSSSSSSSSSSST. A precise three-second burst of the acrid, bitter OC spray directly across Johnson’s eyes and nose. Johnson shrieked, thrashing violently, snot and spit flying in all directions. Caitlyn keyed her shoulder microphone, her tone calm as if ordering coffee. “Central, unit 37, Kiramman, one use of OC spray on prisoner Johnson for active resistance during transport. Subject is now compliant. Over.” The seatbelt clicked shut. The door slammed shut with a loud bang. Vi then slid into the passenger seat, still wiping rain and tears from her face as Caitlyn dropped into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and smoothly pulled away from the chaotic scene filled with flashing police lights and sirens.

For thirty seconds, only the muffled wails of Johnson and the rhythmic whooshing of the windshield wipers filled the air. Then came the sudden, jarring impact—THUD. THUD. THUD.—Johnson’s frantic kicking at the back of their seats like a trapped toddler in a tantrum. Vi turned around abruptly, her voice flat and unwavering. “Johnson. Stop kicking our seats.” THUD. Without hesitation, Vi twisted around in her seat and fixed Johnson with the most intimidating, icy stare she could muster—cold, unwavering, and utterly terrifying. “Next kick, and I’m zip-tying your ankles to the headrest. Backwards. Go ahead, try me.” Silence fell thick and heavy. Caitlyn didn’t even glance in the rearview mirror. Instead, she reached over, gently squeezed Vi’s knee once—an unspoken show of reassurance—then kept her eyes on the road, driving steadily away from the chaos of flashing lights and sirens.

Twenty-five minutes to Towson.
The rain kept falling.
And in the back seat, Nicole Johnson finally shut up and cried.
And the night wasn’t done with her yet.

At 12 a.m
The main office of the sheriff’s office was half-lit, humming with the low drone of computers and the occasional clack of a keyboard and Johnson was already in Interrogation 2 with Detective Montgomery.

Caitlyn and Vi had dumped their rifles into the cage, peeled off their soaked rain shells, and collapsed at their side-by-side desks, waiting for approval of the search warrant. Caitlyn then slipped on her blue-light-filter glasses that Vi never stopped calling “grandma readers”. She smacked her every time, because yeah, it really does and she deserves it for calling her old.

Vi sat beside her, staring at a blank report screen, eyes red-rimmed, jaw tight as the suitcase was still playing on loop behind them.
Caitlyn noticed like always, without a word being spoken she stood, walked to the pantry, and came back two minutes later with a steaming mug of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, just the way Vi liked it when the world felt too heavy.

She set it gently in front of Vi, then moved behind her chair and started working the knots out of Vi’s shoulders with practiced thumbs.
Vi closed her eyes, let her head drop forward, and placed a hand over Cait’s. “Corporal… it should be me doing this for you.”

“Don’t be silly, Vi.” Caitlyn kept kneading, voice soft. “You should know I’d buy you that plate carriers and battle belt even if you never touched my shoulders again.” She paused as her thumbs pressed into a particularly brutal knot when Vi let out a long, dramatic sigh. “You know what we need at the apartment?” She tilted her head back, eyes half-closed under Cait’s thumbs.
“A massage chair. A big one. With heat. And those zero-gravity settings. I’m buying it tomorrow.”

Caitlyn’s hands froze mid-knead and stared down at Vi as she’d just suggested installing a rocket launcher in the living room. “Dude. We live in a fifth-floor apartment with no elevator.” Her voice then went flat. “Don’t tell me you forgot the day I discharged myself early and you had to carry my crippled ass down five flights for ice cream.”
Vi’s eyes snapped open as the memory of piggybacking shame hit her like a slap.

“Right.” A slow grin spread across her face. She then reached up and patted Cait’s hand still resting on her shoulder. “Delivery guys can earn their tip.” Caitlyn snorted, resumed the massage with renewed violence. “They better be Olympic powerlifters or that chair’s living in the lobby forever.” Caitlyn’s mouth twitched, then cracked into a full, tired grin.

The sound of Vi laughing again, after the suitcase, the rain, and everything, felt like the first sunrise in weeks. “Glad to see you laugh again, Boot.” Wang then suddenly stepped out from his office, crisp uniform untouched by the night’s chaos, search warrant in hand like a golden ticket.

“Kiramman. Bretschneider. Warrant’s signed.
Time to roll to Johnson’s residence. Let’s go.”
Caitlyn and Vi immediately yanked off their duty vests from the back of their chair, Velcro ripping loudly in the quiet bullpen, slung on, and buckled tight.
Thirty seconds later. With their trustworthy rifles in their hands, the bullpen door slammed behind them to signal the duo back in action again.

At 12:30 a.m

The rain had finally backed off from monsoon to a cold, miserable drizzle as Caitlyn killed the Interceptor’s engine directly in front of the small single-story house, light-bar dark, takedowns still washing the porch in white.
Both deputies stepped out, plate carriers slick, caps dripping.

Caitlyn flicked two fingers at Vi. “Bodycams hot, Boot. Eyes sharp. She might have a boyfriend, cousin, or some armed baby-daddy inside.” Vi nodded once, reached to her chest, thumbed the Axon on, red light blinking alive.
Cait followed as they moved up the cracked concrete path, boots crunching on wet leaves.
Caitlyn took point, warrant folded in her gloved hand. She posted up left of the door, Vi’s left hand ready on her holster. 
Cait knocks three times which was loud enough to wake the dead.

“Sheriff’s Office! Search warrant! Open the door!”

They waited but nothing happened as there were no lights or movements that could be heard besides the low hum of a refrigerator inside and the drip of water off the gutters.
Caitlyn motioned Vi to cover, then bent her long legs over and duck-walked to the nearest window. She flipped her sheriff-green cap backwards out of habit, pressed her flashlight against the glass, and cupped a hand to cut the glare, but she could only notice that the kitchen had only had dirty dishes in the sink and a lonely high chair was tipped on its side.
“No one here,” she muttered then rose and walked back to Vi. “I’m calling it in. Not getting shot a second time because we trusted an empty house.” She stepped a few paces away, keyed her shoulder mic. “Unit 37 to Central, show us on scene at Johnson’s residence, no answer at the door. Any additional occupants on file? Over”
Dispatcher’s voice crackled back almost instantly. “Negative, Unit 37. Johnson is a single mother of two. No other known residents. Over.” Caitlyn’s jaw flexed then she looked at Vi.
Vi looked back, Glock already in her low-ready grip, nod steady as Caitlyn exhaled once, slow and cold. “Alright, Boot. Time to meet the rest of the story.”
Vi glanced up, rain dripping off her cap. “But Corporal… only Unit 47 has the ram tonight.”
Caitlyn’s grin turned positively feral. “Boot, who said we need a battering ram to force entry anyway? Watch this.” She took one deliberate step back, squared her hips like she was about to punt a football into next week, and then unleashed a single, perfect front kick straight into the doorknob. Then BOOM. The door slammed open against the wall with a bang that probably woke half the block.

Vi stood there with her Glock in her hands, mouth half open, taking one glance at the cheap deadbolt that didn’t stand a chance as the entire lock assembly exploded inward, and metal parts ricocheted off the hardwood like shrapnel. She let out a low, stunned gasp. “Well… that’ll do the job too.”

Caitlyn didn’t even look winded instead she just drew her Glock 17 from the drop-leg holster in one smooth motion, racked the slide with a sharp clack, and flicked on her weapon light. “After you, Boot. Age before beauty.”
Vi shook her head, laughing despite everything, and stepped over the corpse of the doorknob, pistol up, flashlight cutting the dark.
“Remind me never to piss you off when you’re wearing boots, Corporal.”
“Too late for that,” Caitlyn muttered, following her in, Glock steady, beam sweeping the hallway that feels like walking into a throat. Cheap beige paneling lines the walls, but whole sections are splattered—dark, rust-brown handprints dragging downward, some still glossy, others flaking like old scabs. The fake-wood floor is warped and stained in long, dragging streaks.
A single child’s pink sock lies in the middle of it all, tiny and soaked through with something that definitely isn’t water.
Overhead, the drop ceiling sags; a couple of tiles are missing entirely, insulation hanging down in wet, grey ropes and a lone bulb at the far end flickers like it’s trying to die, throwing strobe shadows that make the crayon drawings taped to the wall twitch and jerk—bright suns and stick-figure families that end in sudden, violent scribbles of black and red.
A plastic tricycle lies on its side, one wheel still spinning lazily from the draft of the open door.
A deflated “Happy Birthday” balloon drifts at ankle height, brushing their boots like a ghost asking to be remembered. But the air is thick with chemicals like someone power-washed a slaughterhouse with lemon disinfectant and only managed to marinate the horror.
Caitlyn’s jaw is stone as Vi’s breathing is shallow, measured, but her knuckles on the Glock are bone-white.
They moved in perfect silence now, lights overlapping, beams crawling over the walls, the floor till they walked into the living room.

Under the deputies’ flashlight beam, the living room looked like a bomb made of laundry and toys had gone off as stuffed animals, sippy cups, tiny sneakers, and half-eaten bowls of cereal littered every surface. Nothing immediately screamed “crime scene,” just the chaos of a mother who’d stopped caring.

Caitlyn’s flashlight then swept the coffee table and stopped on a teetering stack of envelopes, all red-stamped FINAL NOTICE.
She picked one up: a credit-card bill, $18,347 overdue, and on the corner of the page, dried tear tracks had warped the paper into little ridges, like someone had cried rivers over it.
Her beam moved again to another open envelope with the Maryland Department of Human Services letterhead.
Caitlyn crouched, read it aloud, voice low and flat.

“‘…due to exceeding the asset limit for Temporary Cash Assistance, your benefits will be terminated effective February 10th.
A caseworker will conduct a home visit within seven days to begin removal proceedings for Joshlyn Johnson, age 7, and Larry Johnson, age 4…’” She then picked up the next letter (rent, three months behind).
Landlord’s warning: pay within ten days or eviction papers will be filed with the Sheriff’s Office.
Caitlyn exhaled through her teeth, slow and heavy. “I think we just found the straw that crushed the camel.” She handed both letters to Vi. “Now we need the first crime scene.”

Vi read them under the flashlight beam, face hardening line by line. Then her voice came out raw. “She’s about to lose her kids and her home. The system basically told her ‘You’re too poor to keep them, so we’re taking them.’ So she eventually snapped as she didn’t want the government to have them, so she made sure no one would.”
Vi’s knuckles went white on the papers. “God… what the hell is wrong with our country?”
Caitlyn didn’t answer right away instead she just stared at the tiny, muddy footprints on the carpet leading toward the hallway, then at the overturned high chair in the kitchen.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet steel.
“Doesn’t matter why tonight, Boot. Tonight we document. Tomorrow we make sure the why never excuses the what.” She then clicked her radio. “Unit 37 to Central we’ve located probable motive correspondence. Beginning full scene processing, over.” Vi folded the letters, slid them into an evidence envelope, and sealed it with shaking hands then followed Cait to the bathroom next to it.

When the bathroom door creaked open, Cait immediately noticed that everything was too clean. The porcelain gleaming, mirror spotless, towels folded with military precision; an insane contrast to the chaos of the living room and kitchen.
Caitlyn’s flashlight swept the tiles. “Boot,” she muttered, voice low, “this is the primary. Look how scrubbed it is. Somebody went full CSI-binge clean-up.” She then crouched beside the bathtub, long legs folding, and leaned in with her flashlight out, and it immediately caught one tiny, rust-brown dot near the drain, almost missed, and a sliver of something pale pink stuck in the grout.

It was unmistakably dried flesh. Caitlyn then rose slowly, hand steady on her PTT. “Central, unit 37, Bathroom is the primary scene. Request CID roll back with a full forensics kit and lock this house down. We’re holding the perimeter. Over” the Dispatcher acknowledged that while Vi was on the move to bring the tape.

At 01:29 am

The CID detectives arrived in their unmarked vans, Tyvek suits rustling like ghosts, cameras flashing before they even crossed the threshold while Caitlyn and Vi stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the door, arms crossed, steam curling from their breath in the sudden cold.

Snow had started falling again, thick, silent flakes that stuck to their caps and shoulders like the city itself was trying to bury the night.
Vi watched the flakes melt on her glove.
“So what now, Corporal?” But Caitlyn’s gaze stayed fixed on the house. “Nothing. We freeze our asses off here and guard the door till CID’s done. That’s the job.” Vi groaned, kicking at a pile of slush. “Man, I’d kill for a boring midnight again. Gimme some dumb kid with no license and a loud exhaust. Anything but… this.”
She glanced at the snow piling on the welcome mat.

“And now it’s snowing. Perfect. Can’t wait to slip and eat shit in the parking lot later.”
Caitlyn huffed a humourless laugh, arms still crossed, snowflakes catching in her lashes.
“Huh. Great. Maryland weather is mourning the family for us.”
They stood there, two silhouettes in sheriff green, watching white cover the blood and the sorrow that rain couldn’t wash away.

At 03:58 a.m.

The snow had turned the lot of the sheriff’s office into a skating rink as Cait’s Interceptor rolled in slow, headlights carving tunnels through the fat, lazy flakes.

Vi stepped out of the passenger side first, boot hitting a patch of black ice she never saw coming.
Then WHOOP—CRASH. She fell flat on her back after performing a perfect cartoon slip, her duty vest thudding against the ground, arms spread like she was making a tactical snow angel. “Fuck. I hate snow so much,” she groaned at the sky.

Meanwhile, Caitlyn rounded the hood, evidence bags swinging from one hand, and stopped dead for one heartbeat she just stared at Vi sprawled like a toppled statue. Then she lost it, wheezing laughter that clouded in the freezing air. “What are those muscles even for, Boot? Looking pretty while eating pavement?”
She offered her free hand, still laughing.
Vi glared up through snowflakes melting on her lashes, grabbed the hand, and let Caitlyn haul her upright like she weighed nothing. “I trained for looking hot and sexy, okay? Nobody warned me I’d need Olympic figure-skating skills too.” She brushed snow off her back, duty vest now wearing a white cape. “Thanks, Corporal. Real heroic.”

Caitlyn, grin wide and evil, shifted the evidence bags. “Anytime, Snow deputy.” They then trudged side-by-side toward the evidence room, boots crunching, snowflakes catching in their hair like cheap confetti as Vi muttered the whole way. “Next winter I’m transferring to Miami.” Caitlyn bumped her shoulder. “Shut up and walk, Boot. We’ve still got paperwork to do.” Vi groaned louder, but her gloved hand found Cait’s for a quick squeeze anyway.

04:28 a.m.

Caitlyn and Vi, still soaked from the rain and shivering visibly, had just stepped off the elevator after booking a suspect when they noticed Detective Montgomery emerging from his office.

His tie was finally loosened, and his face looked drawn, as if he had aged five years overnight. He shook his head at the duty sergeant with a weary sigh. “She’s gone completely nonverbal. Keeps rocking back and forth and reciting nursery rhymes like she’s lost in her own world. I think she’s having a psychotic episode. We need a mental health professional here.” Another detective hurried past them, voice urgent. “On it. Calling the on-call psychiatrist now.” Caitlyn and Vi moved cautiously up the staircase, trying to stay hidden, like two teenagers sneaking past their parents’ bedroom late at night.

As two very sneaky deputies approached the CID bullpen office door unnoticed, Vi leaned closer to Caitlyn, speaking in a hushed whisper. “Any progress yet?” Caitlyn’s eyes remained fixed on the frosted glass window of the bullpen, which was obscured by swirls of condensation. “Dunno. Want to check?” They tiptoed forward, pretending to be guilty teenagers caught sneaking into the kitchen.

But as they tried to advance, the door of the Tech Crimes Unit they didn’t realize was swung open behind them. A detective dressed in a dark hoodie, with her badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck, appeared like an alert ghost.
She fake-coughed loudly to draw attention. “Deputies. Badge numbers! And what exactly are you doing loitering outside a restricted office at this hour?” Both Caitlyn and Vi snapped to attention so abruptly that their duty belts jingled loudly. Vi blurted out, “1219, ma’am!” and Caitlyn, with her cheeks flushing pink, added, “0104, ma’am!”
Then, in perfect unison, like two teenagers caught sneaking cookies, they apologized: “We were just… curious about the Johnson case progress… so we can finish our report… ma’am.” The tech detective’s stern expression softened into a tired but amused grin. “Ah. The roadblock heroes. Lucky for you, we just cracked Johnson’s laptop after four hours of battling password security. Come on in. You’re going to want to see this.” She held the door open wide. Caitlyn and Vi exchanged wide-eyed looks, half filled with awe, half with nervous excitement—like children handed the keys to a candy store. Inside, the night shift team had one more surprise in store. It was waiting on a glowing monitor, illuminating the dark room with critical new evidence.

At 04:35 a.m.

The detective spun the battered Dell laptop around so Caitlyn and Vi could see the Chrome history stretched across three monitors.
Page after page after page.
• “Am I bipolar quiz”
• “How to stop crying all the time”
• “Free mental health clinic in Baltimore no insurance”
• “Can the sheriff evict you if you have kids”
• “How to disappear with children”
• “How to make someone fall asleep forever”
• “Will God forgive me if I kill my children to save them”
The timestamps were a descending spiral:
some searches at 2 a.m., some at 4 a.m., some at 6 a.m.—every single day for the past three weeks.

Caitlyn’s stomach turned to lead as Vi looked at her with a concerned look and between them, the detective’s voice was flat, tired, but not unkind. “Put it together with the DHS letter and the eviction notice you found. She wasn’t trying to hurt them. She was convinced that foster care and the streets would hurt them worse. Bipolar paranoia, untreated, full manic-depressive crash, told her the only way to keep them safe was to take them with her. It is a classic tragic spiral. She was planning to follow them once she finished hiding the bodies.”

Caitlyn swallowed hard, her throat tight with nerves. “What will happen to her eventually?” she asked, voice trembling slightly. The detective shrugged nonchalantly, closing the laptop lid with a heavy thud as if it weighed a thousand pounds.
“DA will decide,” he replied, “but with this history and a psych eval? She’ll probably serve her time in Perkins or Spring Grove, not Jessup. At least there she’ll finally get proper medication and therapy.” He glanced at his own computer screen, confirming the autopsy report had just arrived, before signaling them to return to their office downstairs.

At 04:37 a.m

They sat side by side in the half-dark bullpen main office, monitors glowing, fingers flying across their keyboards.

Vi, slouched in the next chair, took one look at Caitlyn wearing those grandma glasses as she squinted at the screen while hammering the keyboard and lost it.

“Bro… you look exactly like my grandma when she tries to read the Sunday paper. All you’re missing is the little chain and a cup of tea.”
Caitlyn froze mid-sentence, turned slowly, and gave Vi the most murderous side-eye in recorded history.
😡
But Vi’s grin only widened like a red fox with a sly smile.
😝

A serious side-eye moment later, Caitlyn decided to reach over and smacked Vi’s shoulder hard with the thick Maryland Criminal Law book she’d been using for reference while muttering quietly in Cantonese then she switched back to English “I do not have presbyopia, goddamn it, Violet. I’m twenty-two!” Vi then threw her head back and cackled, hands up in mock surrender.
“Okay, okay, sorry, Grandma— I mean, Corporal!”

Caitlyn kicked her chair leg for good measure.“Keep it up and you’re writing both reports, Boot.”
Vi wiped tears of laughter, still wheezing “Worth it. You’re adorable when you’re violently beautiful.” Caitlyn then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “I will end you, Violet” but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. Vi leaned over to her and whispered, “Love you, Specs.” Caitlyn rolled her eyes so hard the glasses nearly flew off but they didn’t as she continued to type.

BALTIMORE COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE – SUPPLEMENTAL REPORT
Case # 14-037-0216
Incident: Discovery of Deceased Juveniles
Reporting Deputies: Cpl. C. Kiramman #0104 | Dep. V. Bretschneider #1219
Date/Time: 06 Feb 2014 / 2234 hrs

On the above date/time, while conducting proactive traffic enforcement on Eastern Ave, Nottingham, Deputies initiated a lawful stop on a 2012 Infiniti G37 (MD Reg. 7KM-P92) for improper window tint.
During plain-view observation, Dep. Bretschneider noted a strong odor of bleach and an unusually heavy suitcase in the rear seat.
Driver (Nicole M. Johnson, DOB 09/14/1980) provided evasive answers regarding contents.
Consent refused → probable cause established → suitcase opened on scene.
Contents:
• Dismembered remains of a Black female infant, approx. 3 months (later identified as Joshlyn Johnson)
• Partial remains of a Black male juvenile, approx. 4–5 years (later identified as Larry Johnson)

Charges (pending DA review):
• Murder 1st Degree ×2 (§2-201)
• Child abuse 1st Degree resulting in death ×2 (§3-601)
• Concealment of human remains
• Resisting arrest / OC deployment

Suspect taken into custody without further incident.
Residence searched pursuant to warrant.
Additional evidence recovered:
• Multiple overdue rent and utility notices
• Termination letter from DHS dated 02 Feb 2014 citing asset-limit violation and scheduled child removal
• Internet history consistent with untreated bipolar disorder, severe depression, and active planning of filicide/suicide
Autopsy findings (preliminary):
Cause of death – asphyxiation (both victims)
Manner – homicide
Post-mortem dismemberment with a kitchen knife
Suspect is currently non-communicative, displaying acute psychotic features.
Psychiatric evaluation pending.
No further suspect activity at this time.
Respectfully submitted,
Cpl. C. Kiramman #0104
Dep. V. Bretschneider #1219

They hit submit at the same second, and the two reports gone forever into the system.
Caitlyn leaned back in her chair, take her glasses off and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands until she saw stars.
Vi stared at the screen one extra beat, then shoved her chair away with both boots as it had personally offended her.
Silence hung between them for three full seconds till Vi broke it first, voice hoarse. “I can’t stare at this screen anymore. My eyes are literally on fire.” She yawned so wide her jaw cracked, then glanced mournfully at the mug of hot chocolate that had gone stone-cold two hours ago. “I’m just gonna microwave this sad little cup.” She stood, stretched until her back popped, and shuffled toward the pantry while Caitlyn following her back. “I need more caffeine or I’m gonna face-plant on the keyboard. Mind if I tag along?” Vi shot her a tired, lopsided grin over her shoulder, the same one that still made Caitlyn’s chest do stupid things even after all these years. “Why the hell would I mind?” They then walked side by side down the empty hallway, boots scuffing softly, duty belts creaking as the overhead lights felt too bright, the air too warm after the freezing crime scene.

Inside the tiny pantry, Vi popped her mug in the microwave and punched 1:30 like it owed her money and Caitlyn leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the cup spin under the yellow light. Vi then rubbed the back of her neck. “One more hour. Then we can die in peace.” Caitlyn’s voice was soft, almost lost under the microwave’s hum. “We did well tonight, Vi.” Vi looked at her, eyes red-rimmed but steady. “Yeah… Doesn’t feel like it… But yeah.” The microwave between them beeped.
Vi pulled out the steaming mug, handed it to Caitlyn first without even thinking. Cait took it, wrapped both cold hands around it, then passed it back so they could share.
They stood there in the quiet, passing one mug of lukewarm hot chocolate back and forth with their shoulders touching, two very tired wolves keeping each other upright for the last hour of the longest shift of their lives.

At 06:30 a.m.

The Interceptor’s doors slammed shut in the parking lot of their apartment building, duffel bags of their personal duty gears slung over tired shoulders. Both women looked like they’d been dragged through a war zone and then asked to smile about it.

Caitlyn leaned her forehead against the steering wheel for a solid three seconds.
“Those five flights are personal now.” Vi, half-dead in the passenger seat, mumbled, “Five more years on this lease and then go find ourselves a single-story house in the suburb with a backyard and a swimming pool for Grady to play.” Caitlyn managed an exhausted grin. “Absolutely. He deserves to swim instead of just staring at the harbor like a disappointed golden lifeguard.” After a long sigh, they began the death march up the stairs, each step a fresh betrayal by gravity.

Walked many stairs moment later, their apartment door barely cracked then BOOM, their seventy pounds of golden missile launched down the hallway as Grady hit Caitlyn like a furry freight train the second she squatted with open arms. She went down hard on her back in the entryway, laughing through the onslaught of sloppy kisses, tail thwacking the walls like a war drum then Vi got the second wave as Grady spun, slammed into her legs, and buried his head in her stomach for the sacred head-pat ritual. “Have you been a good boy?” Vi cooed, already losing the battle against the slobber tsunami. “Oh yes you were, yes you were—”
Caitlyn, still flat on the floor, wheezed through laughter. “He’s been alone twelve hours and still has energy to tackle two armed deputies.
We created a weapon.”

When they finally staggered inside with their plate carriers and duty belt placed carefully back into their duffel bags, Caitlyn put her hands on her hips, staring at the crime scene of plush toys in the living room where stuffing snowdrifts, one squeaker squirrel lying dramatically in the middle as it had died heroically, a single Kong standing as the lone survivor. And Grady trotted in proudly with a toy squirrel in mouth, tail wagging hard enough to generate wind, and dropped his prize at Caitlyn’s feet like a knight presenting a dragon’s head.
“Grady… what in the actual hell happened here?” The couple said in unison as they looked at Grady who tilted his head and gave them the most innocent, big-brown-eyed, “Who, me?” look in golden retriever history. Vi snorted, dropping the duffel bags. “He’s saying ‘Welcome home, moms. I redecorated.’” Caitlyn sighed, but the smile was already winning. She dropped to her knees, let him knock her over again, and buried her face in his neck.

A few moments later in the bedroom, after they had finally finished organized Grady’s toys back into a toy chest. They collapsed into bed without even changing like someone had flicked a switch, they were out with their legs tangled, the exhaustion of the 12-hour night shift finally winning.

Caitlyn’s dream came soft and bright.
She woke on an unfamiliar couch, the sunlight pouring through wide windows, the living room bigger, open, a sliding glass door leading to a backyard she didn’t recognise but the warmness ,airiness and peacefulness was exactly what she wished to have in their single story house in the future. She whistled the same two-note call she’d used since Grady was a puppy.
But no answer came through, so she whistled again with sharper note but still nothing.

Suddenly a cold knot formed in her chest as she stood, barefoot on cool hardwood, and started searching through the kitchen ,hallway then to their bedroom. “Grady?” Her voice cracked as it echoed through rooms.

Eventually she found Vi in the garage, lying on a creeper under their SUV, wrench in hand. “Vi… where’s Grady? I can’t find him—” her tears were already falling before she can finish her sentence. Vi then rolled out from under the car, oil smudged across her cheek. She set the wrench down on the workbench with deliberate care, walked over, and pulled Caitlyn into her arms. “Grady’s gone, Cait.” Her voice was gentle, broken. “I’m sorry. It was so fast… the cancer. We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.” Caitlyn’s knees buckled as she sank to the garage floor, sobbing into Vi’s comforting embrace.
“Why?” she whispered as Vi held her closer, tears falling into Caitlyn’s hair.
Then—a small paw rested softly on her thigh, accompanied by a gentle, rumbling purr.
Caitlyn looked down to see a tiny tabby cat, standing on hind legs, pressing her forehead to Caitlyn’s cheek, as if she understood and wanted to comfort her, gently wiping away a tear till she woke up….

At 11a.m.,

Caitlyn jolted awake on her bed, cheeks wet, her heart pounding like it was about to escape her chest.
Around them, their bedroom was dim, early morning light filtering softly through the blinds, unlike the vividness of her dream. She whistled instinctively in a surge of panic till she heard the soft padding of paws that signaled her love — Grady (beside Vi) was still alive unlike her nightmare as Grady trotted in with his favorite squeaky squirrel in his mouth, tail wagging slowly and sleepily.
He paused when he saw her tear-streaked face, tilting his head in that adorable, golden way. Dropping his toy, he padded over and gently licked her tears with warm, sloppy concern.
Don’t cry, Mom. I’m right here.

Caitlyn opened her arms as Grady climbed halfway into her lap, resting his big, golden head on her shoulder with a sigh. She buried her face in his neck, voice trembling. “I dreamt you were gone, buddy. Please promise you’ll stay. I’ll even let you lick my face forever.”
Grady huffed, warm breath against her ear, settling more heavily, as if he understood every word.
Outside the window, the first light of morning crept in.
Inside, a Corporal, a rookie, and one very good boy faced another day together, holding the darkness at bay.
She then smudging the faint eyeliner she hadn’t bothered to remove before they fell asleep earlier and reached out to gently patted Vi’s cheek who was sprawled beside her with one arm flung over her head, one leg off the bed, snoring softly with her mouth open.
“Vi…” Vi jolted awake, hair a wild red halo, eyes blinking in confusion. “Wha—what’s going on?”
She focused, saw the tears, the ruined makeup, and her face softened instantly.
“Hey… hey, don’t cry, Cait.” She sat up, grabbed a tissue from the nightstand, and started dabbing at Caitlyn’s cheeks with careful thumbs. “Bad dream?”

Caitlyn’s lip trembled. “I dreamt Grady was gone. Cancer. Just… gone.” Her voice cracked.
“I’m so scared, Vi.”

Vi didn’t say anything at first instead she just pulled Caitlyn into her arms, tight and warm, one hand stroking her back in slow circles.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “He’s right here. Breathing like a freight train on the floor.
Feel my heartbeat. We’re okay. He’s okay.”
They stayed like that until Caitlyn’s breathing evened out, the dream fading under Vi’s steady hold. Caitlyn pulled back a little then wiped her eyes, and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. She typed quickly:

Cait: Dad, do you mind if we come over today with Grady?

The reply came in under two minutes.

Daddy ❤️: Always, Caity. Home always welcomes you back.
Besides, I bet Bandit and Katrina would love to meet a new friend :) also your uncle— Billy is coming over later to celebrate your mother’s birthday, we are going to have a grill party at night

Cait : Oh my god I forgot about that 🤦‍♀️
But Dad… they were identical twins
Isn’t today technically their birthday ? 🤣

Daddy ❤️: That’s the joke, Caity 🤣
I’ll tell Billy to prepare more meat for you guys.
Stay safe and see you later. ☺️

Cait : see ya Dad ☺️

Caitlyn let out a watery laugh, the first real one since waking up, and tilted the phone so Vi could read the thread. Vi’s tired eyes lit up.
“Identical twins but opposite gender? That’s sick.” She rolled out of bed with renewed energy, stretching until her back popped then whistled to get Grady’s attention to her “Time for a road trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s. And to make new friends with their Dobermans.” She then turned her attention back to Caitlyn’s “Let’s get out of these uniforms before they fuse to our skin.”

They stripped out of the green shirts and trousers, tossed everything into the washing machine with the tired efficiency of people who’d done it a thousand times. Grady padded in, tail wagging, sensing adventure.
Caitlyn crouched, scratched his ears. “You’re coming to see the big dogs today, buddy.” Grady licked her chin, big dumb smile firmly in place.

At 12:30p.m

Caitlyn stood in the driveway, Grady’s leash loose in her hand, the golden boy sitting politely at her feet with his classic big, dumb smile. She then eyed her Sheriff Ford Explorer Interceptor parked in the garage: standard prisoner cage in the back, solid partition, zero ventilation holes and fans unlike the K-9 unit interceptor does.
She sighed. “Guess we can only use the bikes instead.” Vi, leaning against the entrance’s doorframe, shook her head at the memory of last week’s gas-station sticker shock.
“But the gas price, bruh… my soul left my body when I saw that total.”

So they decided: one bike, two deputies, one golden retriever to save money and maybe the planet.
Caitlyn rolled the motorcycle out with helmet under one arm. “I can’t believe I’m listening to your stupid idea, Violet. The Maryland Transportation Article §21-1303.1 specifically prohibits motorcycles from carrying more than two persons or a passenger plus an animal. And here we are—law enforcers breaking the law.”
Vi raised an eyebrow, racking her brain for the exact code while Grady, now snug in his doggy backpack carrier strapped to Vi’s chest, looked thrilled—tongue lolling, tail wagging like a helicopter, ears flapping in the breeze.

Caitlyn, helmet already on, shot her a skeptical look through the visor. “Okay, dude, I bet you don’t remember, but that ticket’s three hundred bucks. You better pray we don’t run into a BPD bike cop on the way to my parents’ house.” She hopped on, kick-started the engine, revved once. “Hold on tight. And don’t squish the dog.”
They rolled out smooth.

Then three blocks in, Vi decided the seating position wasn’t “optimal.” So she shifted her weight to get more comfortable.
But it was a Big mistake. As her knee pushed forward to shoving Caitlyn’s entire body—and more importantly, her crotch—straight into the gas tank with the force of a small car crash.

CLANG.

The bike wobbled dangerously as Caitlyn’s helmeted head dropped forward onto the handlebars with a soft thunk.
Vi, oblivious at first “What’s wrong?” Caitlyn’s voice came out a strangled, high-pitched whisper. “Fucking hell my crotch… oh god… it’s so painful.”
Vi’s eyes widened and looked down at where Caitlyn was now folded forward like a broken lawn chair. “Oh shit—OH SHIT—I’m sorry! I was just trying to—” Caitlyn still draped over the handlebars, voice muffled by her helmet “Stop. Talking. Moving. Breathing. Just—freeze.”
Grady, snug against Vi’s chest, tilted his head and licked Caitlyn’s arm as if to say, Mom, you okay? While Vi bit her lip so hard trying not to laugh she nearly drew blood.

Caitlyn finally straightened (very, very slowly), voice trembling with pain and the promise of revenge. “You are never sitting behind me again.”
Vi, voice small “…Yes, Corporal.”
They limped the bike to the curb while Vi whispered “On the bright side… we definitely saved gas.”
Caitlyn’s glare could’ve melted steel.

Then— WHOOP-WHOOP.
Red and blue lights flared in the mirror as a BPD motorcycle officer rolled up behind them, siren giving one short courtesy blip, hand signaling them to stay put.
Caitlyn closed her eyes, exhaled through her teeth. “Fuck me. There’s a cop behind us.”
Vi went pale. “Karma’s really fast today.”
Grady wagged harder, completely unbothered.

The officer dismounted, walking up with his helmet’s visor up while Caitlyn took off her helmet, ran a hand through her hair, and prepared the most professional “yes sir and sorry sir” smile she could manage while her crotch felt like being kicked in the nut.

Someone jinxed themselves to get a ticket.
And Caitlyn will make sure Vi will never going to live it down…

Chapter Text

At 12:30pm — Three blocks away from their apartment in Locust Point

“Good afternoon, ma’am. This is Officer Henderson. License and registration, please.”
His eyes flicked to the dog backpack, then to the obvious wobble still echoing in his memory.
“And… what was up with that wobble back there? You know it’s pretty dangerous to have two people and a big dog on a bike, right?”
Caitlyn, helmet off now, hair sticking up from static, sighed the sigh of the defeated as she handed over her license and the bike’s registration to him. “I know. I’m sorry, sir. We were… trying to save gas.” Henderson took the documents and keyed his radio mic, clipped to his plate carrier. “Dispatch 412, 10-27, 10-28, 10-29 on Maryland driver’s license…”
He read Caitlyn’s info to central without realizing there were two county sheriffs in front of him, only two idiots in his eyes.

A moment later, the dispatcher came back crisp and authoritative: “Central calling 412, All clear, no wants, no warrants, over.”
Henderson nodded casually, a relaxed expression on his face. “Just out of curiosity—where do you ladies work?”
Caitlyn’s voice suddenly dropped about two octaves, becoming more subdued and serious. “...Sheriff’s Office.”

Henderson’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You two were Sheriff deputies?” He looked them over again—Jeans with duty boots and Caitlyn’s hair that looked obviously tied in a bun held too long, giving off that off-duty-but-still-obvious vibe that was strong and unmistakable. “Let me see your ID cards.” Caitlyn and Vi handed them over without a word as he keyed the mic again. “Dispatch, 412, verify two Baltimore County Sheriff credentials… Caitlyn Kiramman and Violet Bretschneider, over”
Dispatcher’s voice crackled through his earpiece “Confirmed valid, currently off duty till 0700, over.” Henderson then handed the cards back, while pulling out his ticket book. “Since it’s your first time doing… whatever this is… and we’re all on the same team, I’ll lump it into one citation. But that wobble? Way too dangerous for me to ignore.” He scribbled quickly, tore off the ticket from his notebook, and handed it to Caitlyn with a smile that was 50% friendly and 50% pure sarcasm. “Here you go. $580 with court costs. Remember to pay on time, or talk to the judge if you need. Anyway, have a good one… Corporal Kiramman and Deputy Bretschneider.” He then flipped his visor down, gave a casual two-finger salute that looked very sarcastic to them, hopped back on his bike while stopped the record of his bodycam, and rolled off like he hadn’t just ruined their house-moving budget while leaving Caitlyn staring at the traffic ticket in a solid minute in silence.

MARYLAND UNIFORM TRAFFIC CITATION
Citation No.: BPD-14-027841
Date of Violation: 02/07/2014
Time of Violation: 12:35 PM
Location: Eastern Avenue near Locust Point, Baltimore, MD
Issuing Agency: Baltimore Police Department
Issuing Officer: Officer J. Henderson #412
Defendant:
Caitlyn M. Kiramman
DOB: [12/09/1991]
Address: [redacted] Locust Point, Baltimore, MD
Driver License #: MD-XXXX-XXXX-XXXX
Vehicle:
Make/Model: Triumph Tiger 900 Rally Pro
Year: 2013
Color: blue
Tag: MD [redacted]
VIN: [redacted]
Violation(s):
1. Reckless Driving
Maryland Transportation Article § 21-901.1(a)
Description: Operated motorcycle in wanton disregard for the safety of persons/property by causing the vehicle to wobble dangerously while carrying two passengers and one large dog.
Fine: $510.00
Points: 6
Total Fine Including Court Costs: $580.00
Court Appearance: Required ☐ Not Required ☒
Payment Due By: 03/09/2014
Payable To: District Court of Maryland – Traffic Division
Officer Comments:
Driver admitted to carrying a second passenger and a large dog on the motorcycle to “save gas.” Vehicle observed wobbling severely before stopping. Professional courtesy extended due to defendant’s status as an active Baltimore County Sheriff’s Deputy; multiple violations consolidated into a single reckless driving charge. Safety emphasized.
Signature of Officer: J. Henderson #412
Date: 02/07/2014
Defendant Signature: _________________________
(I promise to appear or pay fine as directed)

Caitlyn then folded it with deliberate care and tucked it into her jacket pocket while Vi, still holding Grady’s carrier, winced. “…That’s gonna hurt the savings account.”
Caitlyn’s voice was flat. “You’re paying half, all thanks to you, Violet.”
Vi didn’t argue and groaned. “I bet it would be worth it for the story for Lavender?” Caitlyn then put her helmet back on, started the bike again, and began driving very carefully. “No, Violet. We can save this $580 for moving and blah blah blah if we’d just drive our interceptor…” Vi stays in silence as she knows she fucked up again.

At 12:40 p.m.

The tiger’s engine gave one last throaty growl before Caitlyn cut it, the sudden silence broken only by the distant lap of harbor water and the excited whines of two Dobermans already losing their minds at the gate.
Bandit and Katrina paced the wrought-iron fence like black-and-tan sentinels, tails whipping so hard their whole bodies swayed.
Before Caitlyn could swing her leg fully off the bike, Tobias was off the wide porch and striding down the flagstone path.
He reached her in four long steps and enveloped her in a hug that lifted her boots an inch off the ground—the kind only a father who’d watched helpless news footage of his daughter taking a bullet could give.
“Caity…” His voice cracked against her ear, arms tight around her shoulders.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t at the hospital. Surgeries stacked back-to-back… but that’s no excuse. Your mother told me everything. I should’ve been there.”
Caitlyn hugged him back just as fiercely, face pressed into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of hospital soap and old books.
“It’s okay, Dad. You save lives. I get it.”
They walked up the steps together, his arm still draped protectively around her.
Cassandra waited at the open French doors, posture ramrod straight as always, linen slacks and crisp blouse impeccable.
But her eyes were softer than Caitlyn had seen in years.
When Caitlyn reached her, Cassandra placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezed once, firm and steady.
“I’m sorry too, sweetheart. The second I heard Pier 7 went sideways, I pulled every string I had. SWAT raids, Marshals, tracking every brick—anything to make sure the people who put you in that bed paid for it.”
Caitlyn’s hand rose to cover her mother’s, fingers curling around it.
For a quiet heartbeat , the three of them stood connected—father, mother, daughter—bound by touch and the unspoken weight of what almost was.
In that stillness, Caitlyn felt it settle deep in her chest: she wasn’t fighting alone.
Not the hydra.
Not the nightmares.
Not any of it.

And standing just behind Cassandra was Billy Kiramman.

Billy had the same razor-sharp cheekbones, same piercing blue eyes, same straight Kiramman nose.
Same half-smile that silently declared I’ve already won this conversation.
Just with a neatly trimmed beard, broader shoulders, and Caitlyn’s exact 6’1” height.

Billy stepped forward, that half-smile deepening into something warm.
He pulled Caitlyn into a hug first, lifting her an inch off the ground despite her height.
“Caity. Good to see you safe and sound, kid.
Last time we met you were still shoulder-height to me. Now look at you—my height. Feels like yesterday you were sitting on my lap, tiny hands on the keys while I taught you your first chords.”
He then pulled back, thumb gently brushing under her eye. “And those dark circles? Oh boy. I remember those from my deputy days in the ’90s. Night shift’s a killer… assisting my sister’s work in BPD was no joke.”
He rested a hand on her other shoulder.
Then he turned to Vi, offered a hand.
“You must be the one keeping my niece out of too much trouble. Nice to meet you. What should I call you?”
Vi shook it, still staring a little too hard.
“Uh… more like the opposite. I’m Vi.”
She glanced at Cassandra (hand still on Caitlyn’s shoulder, posture identical), then back to Billy.
“You two are… literally the same person.”
Billy chuckled, voice deeper but the cadence exactly Cassandra’s.
“We get that a lot. Mom always said we shared a brain and just split the height.”
Cassandra, arms crossed in mirror posture, smirked.
“He got the beard. I got the better haircut.”
Tobias laughed from nearby.
“And I got the sanity.”
Vi looked between the twins, then at Caitlyn, who was already grinning like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact reaction.
Vi muttered under her breath.“I need a minute. This family is too powerful.”
Caitlyn bumped her shoulder. “Wait till you see us all smile at the same time. It’s terrifying.”
Billy clapped Vi on the back, gentle but firm.
“Come on in, Vi. We’ve got steak on the grill, birthday cake, and stories that’ll make you question reality.”
Vi followed, still blinking, completely outgunned by Kiramman genetics.
The Dobermans led the charge up the steps,
Grady trotting proudly between them like he owned the place.

At 12:45 p.m.,

They stepped through the front door into the grand foyer, the scent of fresh pine and grilled steak drifting in from the backyard.
Grady’s nails clicked excitedly on the marble as he strained toward the familiar smells.
Caitlyn’s eyes immediately darted to the wide oak staircase on the left—the one that led up to the second-floor landing overlooking the garage entrance below.
Her stomach dropped.
Last year, when she invite Vi to “check out” her bike in the garage then one thing led to another that was involved with bodies tangling together very loudly and Cassandra had come home early.
Caitlyn’s face heated at the memory.
She quickened her pace past the staircase like it might bite her, praying no one noticed.
Vi, oblivious, was too busy gawking at the living room ahead: vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and every surface exploding with birthday decorations—gold and navy balloons, streamers, a massive “HAPPY 60TH” banner draped over the fireplace.
Vi let out a low whistle.
“Someone was definitely excited about this party…”
Cassandra, walking just ahead, caught every word.
She shot that trademark Kiramman half-smile over her shoulder—identical to Billy’s, down to the little crinkle at the corner of her eye.
“It really was nothing to celebrate,” she said dryly.
“What’s the point? Celebrate that I finally hit sixty and in seven more years I can retire?”
She gestured at the glittering chaos with mild disdain.
“I told Billy to keep it low-key and This— is the opposite of low-key.” She pulled her phone from her pocket, screen lighting up with an avalanche of Happy Birthday notifications—texts from her four adoptive siblings, her blood-related oldest sister Haley Eleanor, and her mother Matilda.
She typed quick thank you replies with the efficiency of someone who’d rather be briefing SWAT than receiving well-wishes.
Billy, strolling beside her, leaned down and bumped her shoulder with his. “Every birthday matters, sister.” Cassandra rolled her eyes, but the half-smile softened. “Easy for you to say. You’re still in your ‘young and free’ phase despite you are old as heck as I do with that motorcycle and your endless studio nights.”
Billy grinned. “Jealous?”

Cassandra, arms crossed in mirror posture, gave him a calm, deadpan look. “Not really, Billy, ’m not jealous of being nagged by Mom for twenty years straight to ‘settle down, get married, give me grandchildren.’ That honor’s all yours.” Billy facepalmed dramatically, groaning. “It won’t happen, Cassy. When will Mom finally realize her only son is gay? The thought of sex with a woman literally makes me—” He mock-shuddered, whole body shaking like he’d touched a live wire. “—ugh. No.” Cassandra side-eyed him, voice dry. “My little bro, of course she won’t know if you don’t tell her. Why are you still so afraid of coming out? If Dad were here he’d have plenty to say, but he’s been gone a long time and Mom’s more open-minded than you think. She accepted Caitlyn without blinking when she figured out her granddaughter was gay. She’ll accept you too.” Billy’s smile faltered, just for a second. “But what if she doesn’t, Casey? You know how traditional Mom can be…”

Vi, watching the exchange, whispered to Caitlyn, “Your mom and uncle are literally the same person arguing with themselves.”
Caitlyn, still recovering from staircase trauma, managed a weak laugh. “You have no idea.”
Cassandra led them through the decorated living room toward the glass doors opening onto the backyard patio, where the grill smoke was already rising.
Caitlyn breathed a silent sigh of relief.
The staircase was behind her.
For now.
Grady trotted ahead, tail wagging and strolling forward with his new friends completely unaware he was the only one not carrying any baggage.

Few minutes later, in the backyard, the long teak table was crowded with plates, laughter, and the smell of perfectly grilled steak and sausages.
Tobias stood at the massive built-in grill like a proud general, flipping steaks with surgeon precision, basting them with his secret herb butter.
Vi, seated next to Caitlyn, was in full golden-retriever mode: mouth half-full, cheeks bulging, giving Tobias an enthusiastic double thumbs-up.
“Mmmph— this is insane, Mr. K! What’s the seasoning? I need this recipe for home,” she managed, bits of sausage threatening to escape.
Caitlyn, sitting with perfect posture beside her, cut her steak into neat, precise pieces, fork and knife moving with Kiramman elegance.
She lifted a bite to her mouth, savoring as Billy stood up from across the table, plate in hand.
“Caity, you’re looking a little skinny, kid. Let me get you more—”
He noticed Vi coughing on a too-big bite.
“And here, buddy, tissue. Slow down, don’t choke.”
Vi took the tissue gratefully, still chewing.

Caitlyn smiled at the gesture, turning back to her plate.

But it was too late.

Behind her, two furry thieves had executed a perfectly synchronized heist.
Grady whose tail wagging like a helicopter, eyes shining with pure triumph lunged first—snatched the entire untouched steak right off Caitlyn’s plate in one smooth motion.
Bandit who was toothless already a year ago due to old age but still a pro swooped in for the half-eaten sausage that had fallen during the confusion, chewing it slowly and smugly on the patio stones.
Billy’s eyes went wide.
“Oh my gosh, Cait—your dog and Bandit just stole your food!”
Caitlyn whipped around and noticed her perfectly grilled, herb-butter-basted steak was gone.

Grady was already ten yards away, prancing like he’d just pulled off the heist of the century, tail whipping, steak dangling triumphantly from his grinning jaws.
Caitlyn shot to her feet.
“GRADY. BAD BOY. FREEZE RIGHT THERE—NOW!”
The command cracked across the yard with full Corporal authority—same tone she used on fleeing suspects at 2 a.m.
Grady, of course, took it as an invitation to full sprint.
He tore across the grass in joyful golden loops, steak flapping like a victory flag, tongue lolling, eyes shining with pure, unfiltered dog joy.
Caitlyn gave chase, arms pumping, yelling between breaths:
“Drop it! That’s too salty—you’ll end up at the vet again!”
Vi, mouth full, started laughing so hard she nearly choked.

On the patio, Cassandra was already in motion.
She lunged for Bandit’s collar as the old Doberman smugly gummed the last of the stolen sausage.
“Bad boy, Bandit! Drop it—you can’t have that, it’s way too salty!”
Bandit, toothless and proud, just chewed faster.
Cassandra stuck two fingers into his mouth, fishing for remnants, but most of it was already down the hatch.
She straightened, hands on hips, and turned her glare on Katrina—who was sitting a safe distance away, ears perked, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
“Katrina! Why didn’t you stop your brother?”
Katrina blinked once, slow and regal, then sat even straighter—picture of innocence.
Tobias, spatula in hand, started laughing from the grill.
“Looks like the kids learned from the best, Cass.”
Billy raised his glass.
“To the great steak heist of 2014.
May it live in infamy.”

Meanwhile, Caitlyn finally cornered Grady near the old oak tree, lungs burning from the sprint.
He skidded to a stop, steak still proudly clamped in his jaws, tail wagging like he’d just won the Olympics.
She dropped to her knees, tackled him in a gentle rugby hug, and pinned the wiggling golden mass to the grass.
“Bad doggo,” she muttered, giving his head a light, affectionate smack.
Grady responded by licking her entire face in sloppy apology, eyes shining with zero remorse.
Caitlyn pried the mangled, drool-soaked steak from his teeth (what was left of it, anyway), held it between two fingers like hazardous waste, and marched to the trash can by the patio.
She dropped it in, wiped her hand on with a hand towel on the table, and returned to her seat, new plate in hand, and started eating again—carefully this time.as she stepped on his leash, shortening it so he was forced to sit neatly between her long legs like a suspect in temporary detainment.
“Stay.”

A minute later she glanced under the table.
Cassandra, posture perfect, had done the exact same thing to Bandit.
The old Doberman sat pinned between her feet, leash under her designer sandal, looking up at her with the same faux-innocent expression Grady wore.
Caitlyn caught her mother’s eye.
Cassandra’s half-smile flickered—just a corner of the mouth.
Caitlyn’s matched it.
Some things never change.
Mother and daughter,
same move,
same dogs,
same quiet understanding.
Vi, mouth full of steak, whispered:
“You two are terrifying.”

Tobias emerged from the house carrying the birthday cake—three tiers, chocolate ganache, candles already lit—singing off-key but loud.
“Happy birthday to you…”
The table erupted in song.
Bandit and Grady, still “detained,” wagged in perfect rhythm.
Billy raised his glass.
“To Cassandra and to these who keep us humble.” The twins then blew out the candles together like a mirror, eyes soft. Cassandra raised her glass “and to my brother as well”

At 3 p.m

As the birthday party comes to the end. Cait’s parents and her uncle told them to go home soon before it gets too late to avoid them getting late at work, Billy noticed Cait was still remains in the couch seemingly unwanted to go home, he approached to her ,voice soft “hey Caity, what’s going on? Don’t want to go home just yet ? We do wish to have you two to stick around for the night but aren’t you two have to work tomorrow ? Or… was it something else?” Cait nodded, she took a deep breath and let out all of her frustrations to him “…. Uncle Billy, I always felt so lonely, you know. I have Vi, Grady and friends like Steb and Loris but my heart… it hurts when I rest… not too mention the last case, the kids’s leg and their dismembered bodies, everything become so traumatic…” she started to sob quietly. Billy who was sitting next to her, he pouted as he feeling sad for her as well, he offered her a hug “stop it kid, you’re making me cry. I… to be honest, during that six years as a sheriff deputy, I’ve seen so many things that was fuel for traumas, having my colleagues almost got shot during a simple traffic stop, decomposed body in the refrigerator and bathtub etc each of them makes me wants to quit the job immediately but I keep going because I know we are the only people who can bring justice to those who can’t speak for themselves anymore until…. The one thing that change my entire life…. Seeing my buddy in the traffic department” he glance at Vi as he continues “Aiden, the man that I love died in a motorcycle accident as he was pursuing a car…. It broke my heart completely as I saw him lay on the ground with half of his helmet cracked, blood covered his face, breathless like a broken doll… I couldn’t even say goodbye to him as when I drove my police motorcycle from behind and seeing him gone like this” Cait furrowed her brows in understanding “oh my god, I’m so sorry about this”

“It’s fine, it was 12 years ago and I already moved on from it. A lot of things happened later on including disappointing my mom and follow my instinct to send the songs that I composed to multiple records company and then look at me now, even though I’m old as fuck but with I still doing the job that I don’t like, will I have any chances to work with many famous artists and the great composer — Hans Zimmer if I was still working in the sheriff’s office?” Cait smiled at Billy “but when it comes to work you’re more like my sister Cassandra unlike me, Caity, being a police was still your dream job right and your goal was to be like your grandmother Matilda does ,to be a Sheriff right ? Keep working on it, life is tough but we always have you covered, no matter what happens, you will always be the little niece that I love the most, thinking about that tiny hand of yours when you’re still 12 months old and I hold your hand to teach you how to play piano because those little doe eyes are always glowing when you watch me playing piano…” Cait smiled softly “Grandpa Billy is talking about the old time again…”

“Some stories are worth repeating,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. “Especially the ones about you.”

At 3:38 PM,
The late-winter sun hung low over the rowhouses, casting long shadows across the sidewalk as Caitlyn and Vi finally prepared to leave Cait’s parents home. The birthday party had officially ended nearly forty minutes ago, but goodbyes with this family always stretched.

Caitlyn hugged her father first. Tobias folded his daughter into a bear hug that lifted her boots an inch off the ground. Next came her mother, Cassandra who pressed a kiss to Caitlyn’s temple and murmured something too quiet for anyone else to hear. Finally Caitlyn turned to Uncle Billy, who squeezed her tight and slipped one last slice of leftover cake into a Tupperware “for the road.”
Vi followed right behind, accepting her own quick hugs and thanking everyone for the day. Billy pressed two heavy grocery bags into her arms, stuffed with homemade lasagna, fresh bread, and enough produce to feed a small precinct for a week. “You make sure my niece eats, Violet,” he said with mock sternness. “She’s six-one and still looks like a stiff breeze could carry her off.”

Vi grinned, flexing subtly under the weight. “Yes, sir. I’ve got her.”

At the doorstep, Caitlyn paused. Her gaze drifted across the scene: her sleek motorcycle parked at the curb, Grady sitting patiently beside her with his tongue lolling, Vi balancing grocery bags like a champion, and then, unbidden, the memory of the motorcycle officer who’d written her up with a $580 ticket as she drove Vi and Grady here flashed across her mind. She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt.

Wealthy Kirammans or not, she was not paying $1160 for two traffic tickets in one week.

She turned back to the porch with an awkward smile. “Hey, Mom… any chance we could borrow your unmarked car to get home? Because of, uh… this.” She fished the folded citation out of her jacket pocket and held it up like evidence.
Tobias barked a laugh. Billy snorted. Cassandra stepped forward, already reaching for her long wool coat on the rack inside the door.
“You silly girl,” Cassandra said fondly, sliding on her glasses, the ones she’d started needing more and more these days. “I’ll drive you both myself. I have to head downtown to BPD headquarters anyway for the late briefing. Uncle Billy can ride your bike back to Locust Point for you.”
Caitlyn opened her mouth to protest, feeling a twinge of guilt for the inconvenience. Cassandra cut her off with a look that needed no words.
“No arguments. You’re my daughter. I’ll take care of you as long as I’m able.”
She strode down the steps toward the discreet black BMW 5-series parked out front, unmarked, but anyone in Baltimore law enforcement would recognize that antenna array, a handheld microphone for the PA system below the radio and the hidden police light bars in the front in a heartbeat.
Caitlyn started toward the car, Grady’s leash loosely looped in her hand.

But Grady did not move and his reason was simple because Tobias kept feeding him unseasoned meat and treats as Cait, Vi, Cassandra and Billy was talking in the living room.

He planted his golden retriever butt firmly on the welcome mat and stared up at her with the most dramatic expression of betrayal a dog could muster.
“Come on, Grady,” Caitlyn coaxed softly, giving the leash a gentle tug. “Time to go home, buddy.”
Grady flopped onto his side and began chewing the leash. Then one minute passed, he rolled fully onto his back, paws in the air, chewing with renewed dedication as he woofed “I don’t want to go home, I want to stay with grandpa 🥺😭”
“Oh my God, Grady, not again,” Caitlyn muttered, facepalming.

Five minutes later, Vi finished loading the grocery bags into the BMW’s backseat and glanced over. She sauntered back, hands on hips, surveying the standoff with amusement.
Caitlyn sighed, dropped the leash entirely, bent down, and in one smooth motion deadlifted her heavy dramatic golden retriever into her arms like he weighed nothing. Grady’s tail thumped happily against her side now that he’d won the battle but somehow still gotten carried.
Vi whistled low. “Still never gonna get over you deadlifting a dog that half of your weight , Kiramman.”
“Oh, shut up, Boot,” Caitlyn huffed, cheeks pink from effort and cold, “and open the damn back door for me.”
Vi laughed, pulled the rear door wide, and helped maneuver the happily wriggling Grady onto the seat beside the groceries. Cassandra watched from the driver’s seat, fondness softening the sharp lines of her detective’s face.
Billy revved Caitlyn’s motorcycle to life at the curb, threw them a salute, and rumbled off toward Locust Point.
As the BMW pulled away from the curb, Grady finally settled, head resting contentedly on a bag of Billy’s homemade marinara, Caitlyn leaned her head against Vi’s shoulder in the backseat and let out a long, slow breath.
Home soon. With her future wife beside her, her ridiculous dog in the back, and her mother at the wheel.
For the first time all day, the ache in her chest felt a little smaller with the family warmth.

At 3:00 PM, February 14, 2014

The bullpen smelled like old coffee and printer toner. For the past four days, Caitlyn and Vi had been buried under an avalanche of paperwork—subpoenas, property seizures, eviction notices, and protective-order filings stacked so high they’d formed a cardboard skyline across their shared desk.
Now, finally, only one document remained that required actual boots on the ground: a freshly issued civil injunction prohibiting one Daniel R. Hawthorne from contacting, approaching, or harassing his ex-wife. Standard service. Easy.
Until the radio on Caitlyn’s desk crackled with a new call.

“Dispatch to any unit in the Reisterstown area—911 caller reports a suspicious male matching the description of Daniel Hawthorne loitering near the 1200 block of Bond Avenue. Caller believes he may be attempting contact with a protected party. Requesting wellness check and possible enforcement of active injunction.”
Caitlyn’s dark-blue eyes flicked up from the order in her hand. Vi, still in her probationary “Boot” phase perked up immediately from her side of the desk.
Caitlyn stood, smoothing the front of her own perfectly pressed green uniform shirt, duty belt creaking softly. At twenty-four, Corporal Kiramman already carried herself like she’d been wearing the stripes for years.
“Boot,” she said, voice calm and clipped, “it’s time to roll out.”
Vi was on her feet in an instant, grabbing her clipboard and the fresh copy of the injunction. “Yes, Corporal.”
Caitlyn snatched the keys to her marked Ford Interceptor from the hook board, gave the desk sergeant a quick nod, and headed for the back door that led to the vehicle bay. Vi followed two steps behind, exactly as trained—close enough to hear orders, far enough to show respect.

The February air hit them cold and sharp as they stepped outside. Valentine’s Day decorations—red foil hearts and cheap carnations—still lingered in the lobby window, but out here it was just gray sky and salt-streaked pavement.
Caitlyn slid behind the wheel of Unit 37, Vi taking shotgun without needing to be told. The engine rumbled to life. Caitlyn glanced sideways as she backed out. “You’ve got the order?”
Vi held up the sealed envelope. “Right here. And the caller’s address for the wellness check.”
“Good. Eyes open. If it’s Hawthorne and he’s within five hundred feet of that residence, we take him into custody for violation. No hesitation.”
Vi nodded, adrenaline already brightening her eyes. “Copy, Corporal.”
Caitlyn shifted into drive, flicked on the lights—no siren yet—and pulled out of the sally port toward Reisterstown Road.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Boot,” she said dryly, corner of her mouth twitching. “Nothing says romance like serving a restraining order.”
Vi grinned. “Beats more paperwork.”
Caitlyn didn’t reply, but her small smile stayed as they merged into traffic, heading toward whatever waited on Bond Avenue.

At 3:42 PM
The small brick rancher in Bond Avenue, Reisterstown sat quiet under the gray February sky, curtains drawn, no car in the short driveway. A faded Valentine’s heart wreath still hung on the front door—probably left over from last year.
Caitlyn stepped onto the narrow concrete stoop, Vi a respectful step behind and to her right. Caitlyn knocked firmly—three sharp raps—then announced in a clear, carrying voice:
“Sheriff’s Office!”

They waited. Wind rustled the bare trees along the street. A distant dog barked once.
Thirty seconds. A full minute. Two minutes.
Nothing. No footsteps, no flicker of curtains, no sound from inside.
Caitlyn glanced sideways at Vi. Vi raised her eyebrows in a silent question.
“Umm…” Caitlyn said under her breath, “did the owner go out to buy stuff?”
Vi shrugged. “Maybe. Or at work. We could ask the neighbors?” Caitlyn nodded once. “Let’s do that.”

They crossed the quiet residential street to the matching rancher directly opposite. A minivan with child seats sat in that driveway, and toys were scattered across the small front yard.
Caitlyn knocked polite but firmly again.
The door opened a few inches, safety chain still on. A tired-looking woman in her mid-thirties appeared, a toddler peeking around her legs. “Yes? What’s going on, deputies?”
Caitlyn offered a small, professional smile. “Ma’am, sorry to bother you while you’re taking care of your kids. We’re doing a wellness check on the resident across the street— her name was Sarah Hendrick. Have you by any chance seen her head out today?”
The woman thought for a second, then nodded. “Oh, yeah—Sarah? She’s usually gone around this time on weekdays. Picks up her two little ones from Reisterstown Elementary. She’s probably at the school right now. Car pool line gets crazy around three-thirty.”
Vi relaxed slightly beside Caitlyn.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Caitlyn said, dipping her head politely. “That’s helpful. We’ll try again later. Have a good afternoon.”
The woman smiled, unhooked the chain to close the door fully. “You too, officers.”

Back across the street, Caitlyn unvelcroed a pocket on her plate carrier and pulled out her small field notepad. She scribbled quickly in neat block letters:

Wellness check conducted at 1545 hrs, 02/14/2014.
No answer at door. Neighbor advises resident typically away 1500–1600 for school pickup.
No signs of distress observed.
Please contact Sheriff’s Office Civil Process at 410-887-3151 when you return.

She tore the sheet free, folded her official business card—CORPORAL C. KIRAMMAN, Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office—inside it, and slipped both through the mail slot in the front door. For good measure, she tucked a second card under the welcome mat where it would be visible upon approach.
Vi watched, hands clasped behind her back in classic parade-rest. “Think Hawthorne’s actually around, or was the caller just jumpy?” Caitlyn then glanced up and down the street—no suspicious males, no loitering vehicles. Just quiet suburbia.
“We’ll swing back through the area after we clear this injunction,” she said, heading back toward the interceptor. “If he shows, we’ll spot him. For now, wellness check complete—no exigent circumstances.”
Vi fell into step beside her. “10-4, Corporal.”
Caitlyn allowed herself the faintest smile as she slid behind the wheel.
“Next stop, Mr. Hawthorne’s last known. Let’s ruin his Valentine’s Day properly.”
The Interceptor rumbled to life, and they pulled away from the curb—another routine call closed, another box checked in a very long rookie day for Vi.

4:12 PM, February 14, 2014
The small rental house in Reisterstown on the edge of the subdivision looked like it hadn’t seen a lawn mower since fall—brown grass, overflowing trash cans by the side gate, and a faded Ravens flag drooping from the porch. Caitlyn parked the Interceptor at the curb, lights off, and led the way up the cracked walkway with Vi at her six.
Caitlyn positioned herself squarely in front of the storm door, Vi a step to the side and slightly behind—standard two-officer approach. She knocked three authoritative raps hardly then announced clearly:
“Sheriff’s Office!”
A long pause. Muffled movement inside. Then the interior wooden door cracked open, revealing a man in his late thirties wearing a gray hoodie pulled up and a black baseball cap tugged low. He didn’t open the metal storm door; the deadbolt on the gate stayed firmly locked.
Daniel Hawthorne squinted through the glass, annoyance plain on his face.
“What’s going on?”
Both deputies folded their arms in unison, feet planted. Caitlyn’s voice dropped into the cool, flat tone she used when someone was already testing her patience.
“Mr. Hawthorne, why are we talking through the gate? Open it. That way we can speak face-to-face like adults.”
Hawthorne gave a short, bitter laugh. “Nah. I ain’t falling for that trap, deputies. One of your ‘amazing’ colleagues gave me a black eye last time on some bullshit ‘obstruction’ charge. We’re just fine like this. Keeps your hands off me. Dirty cops.”
Caitlyn’s expression didn’t change. She kept her hands visibly resting on the front of her plate carrier, palms open—non-threatening posture, but ready.
“If an officer used excessive force, you have every right to file a complaint with Internal Affairs. Give us badge numbers, dates, and we’ll make sure it’s investigated. We don’t condone violence against suspects.”
She delivered the line smoothly, professionally. Inside, she knew how these things usually went: the complaint form got filled out, the sergeant yelled for an hour, maybe a day or two on desk duty with pay docked if the brass wanted to look busy. Most civilians never followed through past the initial report. Most of the officers get to keep their job in the office unless it was something extremely serious such as sexual harassment, shoplifting, corruption or committed homicide.

Hawthorne wasn’t buying it anyway. He rolled his eyes.
“Stop the bullshit and spit it out already. What blew you here?”
Caitlyn’s tone sharpened, but stayed controlled.
“Sir, you know exactly why we’re here. You really aren’t worried about going back to lockup? We took a call—citizen saw a male matching your description loitering outside Sarah Hendrick’s residence on Bond Avenue. There’s an active civil injunction out of district court prohibiting you from being within five hundred feet of her or her home. Care to explain?”
Hawthorne’s jaw tightened. He shifted his weight, but the gate stayed locked.
Vi remained silent beside Caitlyn, eyes scanning—hands, waistband, windows—watching for any sudden moves, learning by watching her FTO handle the escalation.
The cold February air hung between them, tension thick.
Caitlyn waited, patient and unblinking, giving him just enough rope.

Hawthorne leaned closer to the storm door, eyes narrow. “You’re mistaken. It wasn’t me. I was fixing my motorcycle all day. If you don’t believe me, I’ve got footage on my phone to prove it—timestamped. Don’t even try to cook up some excuse to arrest me. I’m a lawful citizen.” He said as he shows his phone screen to them, timestamp match exactly as he claims. He then rolled his eyes dramatically, the disrespect practically dripping off him.

Caitlyn crossed her arms, one dark eyebrow lifting in slow, deliberate skepticism.
“Sir, last time I checked, a ‘lawful citizen’ doesn’t beat and insult his wife daily until she ends up with three broken ribs and a concussion. That’s not what any real man does to his wife.”
Hawthorne’s face flushed red. He slammed his palm against the metal gate so hard the whole frame rattled. “Badge number 0104 and 1219!” he barked. “I dare you to come inside and fight me! Don’t think I won’t take on cops!”
Caitlyn’s lips curved into a thin, cold half-smile. She didn’t flinch.
“You want to fight me, yet you won’t even open the gate. How pathetic.” Her voice stayed calm, almost bored. “You should know I can arrest you right now for attempted assault on a police officer and terroristic threats. And me and my partner have body cameras rolling—everything you just said is recorded. Consider yourself lucky I’m giving you a second chance to think before you threaten anyone.”
Hawthorne glared one last time, then slammed the interior door shut with a loud bang that echoed down the quiet street.

The two deputies stood in the cold February air for a beat, the sound of the slam still ringing in their ears.
Vi leaned in slightly, voice low. “Now what, Corporal?”
Caitlyn shrugged, already turning back toward the interceptor. “Nothing. We report the contact to dispatch, note the refusal to accept service, and wait for Sarah Hendrick to call us back about her safety. But—” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I’m starving. I’m going to ask dispatch if we can take a 10-6 for lunch. You hungry too, Boot?”
Vi nodded quickly. “Hell yes.”
Caitlyn pressed the PTT button on her plate carrier. “Unit 37 to Central. Requesting 10-6 for one-hour lunch break, any pending priority calls? over.”

A few seconds of silence, then the dispatcher’s voice crackled through their earpieces.
“Central to Unit 37, 10-4, no pending calls, request approved. Enjoy your meal, over.”
“Unit 37, 10-4. Out.”
Caitlyn keyed the radio off, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine. Vi climbed into the passenger seat, already pulling out her phone to scroll through nearby food options.
Caitlyn eased the Interceptor away from the curb, lights off, heading back toward the main road.
“So,” she said casually, “what are you feeling? Pizza? Subs? That new pho place on York Road?”
Vi grinned. “Pho sounds perfect. Extra spicy.”
Caitlyn nodded. “Deal. And maybe some spring rolls to share.”
The tension from the confrontation melted away as they drove, the promise of hot food and twenty minutes of peace settling in. For now, the day’s paperwork and drama could wait.
Lunch was calling.

At 4:00 PM, February 15, 2014
The strip-mall bench outside the Dollar General in Lutherville-Timonium was occupied by Mr. Gerald O’Donnell—seventy-three years old, smelling strongly of cheap bourbon and yesterday’s clothes—who had been parked there for the last hour complaining loudly to anyone who passed. Customers had started going into the store the long way around just to avoid him.
Caitlyn and Vi had been on scene for twenty minutes already, standing in the cold with tired feet and heavier eyes. Thirteen-hour shifts had become the norm this week, and both of them were running on coffee, monster energy drinks, redbull and stubbornness.
The store manager hovered nearby, grateful but anxious to get back inside. Caitlyn kept her posture straight, hands clasped behind her back in parade rest, nodding politely every few minutes while Mr. O’Donnell rambled on about property taxes, “kids these days,” the county executive, immigrants, the price of gas, and how everything had been better in 1976.
Vi stood beside her, occasionally glancing at her watch, trying not to yawn.
“…and another thing,” O’Donnell was saying, gesturing with a half-empty plastic bottle in a brown paper bag, “this country’s goin’ straight to—”

And suddenly, the radio in both deputies’ earpiece crackled to life, cutting through the monologue like a knife.
“Central to all units in the northern district—priority call. Manager of Sarah Hendrick’s workplace reports her missing. No contact for over twenty-four hours. Phone goes straight to voicemail, text messages unread. Last seen leaving work yesterday afternoon. All available units return to station ASAP for briefing and assignment. Code 2 traffic authorized.” The urgency in the dispatcher’s voice was unmistakable.

Caitlyn’s eyes snapped wide. “Shit—Hendrick went missing?”
She didn’t wait for confirmation. Her hand flicked up in a sharp “wrap it up” signal to Vi.
Vi stepped forward immediately, placing a gentle but firm hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“Sir, we’d love to keep listening, truly, but we’ve got an emergency call. We have to go right now.”
O’Donnell blinked up at her, confused.
Vi kept her tone kind but final. “Next time you want someone to talk to, try your neighbors—or maybe the senior center on Padonia Road. They’ve got coffee and folks who’d love to hear your stories. But you can’t stay here blocking the entrance, especially not drinking in public. Please keep at least fifty yards away from this store for the rest of the day, all right?”
Caitlyn was already moving toward the Interceptor parked at the edge of the lot, keys in hand.
O’Donnell grumbled something about “cops never listening,” but he gathered his bag and shuffled off down the sidewalk without further argument—whether from the badge, the cold, or the sudden urgency in the deputies’ posture, it worked.
Vi jogged to catch up as Caitlyn slid behind the wheel and fired up the engine.
“Code 2 authorized,” Caitlyn said, flicking on the lights and woofer siren as they pulled out. “We’re ten minutes out if we push it.”
Vi buckled in, adrenaline finally overriding the exhaustion. “You think Hawthorne grabbed her?”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened as she merged onto York Road, traffic parting for the flashing reds and blues.
“I think yesterday he was dumb enough to threaten two deputies through a locked door. Today his ex hasn’t been heard from in twenty-four hours. That’s not a coincidence I’m willing to ignore.”
The Interceptor surged north, tires humming against wet pavement, both deputies suddenly wide awake.
The rambling old man and the cold bench were already forgotten.
Sarah Hendrick was missing—and every second counted.

At 4:28 PM
The briefing room of the county sheriff’s office was packed wall-to-wall with green uniforms. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, reflecting off polished duty boots and the gleaming badges of thirty Tactical Response Unit deputies lined up in neat rows. K9 handlers stood along the back wall, their partners—alert Belgian Malinois, eager Labradors, and stoic German Shepherds—sitting perfectly at heel, ears pricked forward.

At the front, Sergeant Wang—TRU Commander and the watch supervisor—stood beside a projected map of Reisterstown marked with Sarah Hendrick’s home, workplace, and last known locations. His voice cut through the low murmur like a blade.
“Listen up. Sarah Hendrick, age thirty-four, mother of two, has been out of contact for over twenty-four hours. Phone dead, texts unread, no show at work today. Her manager filed the official missing-person report thirty minutes ago. We are treating this as high-risk due to the active protective order against her ex-husband, Daniel Hawthorne—who, as some of you know, had direct contact with deputies yesterday and issued threats.”
Wang’s eyes swept the room, pausing briefly on Caitlyn and Vi near the middle row.
“Our goal: get Hendrick back in one piece. No delays, no excuses.”
He pointed to the map as assignments flashed on the screen.
“Unit 47—Anders and Carter,” he barked. Steb who’d only just returned from three days off snapped to attention beside Loris, fresh from his part-time Coast Guard reserve weekend. “Proceed to Reisterstown Elementary. Pull all exterior and parking-lot CCTV from yesterday afternoon through this morning. Look for Hendrick’s vehicle, Hawthorne, or anything out of place.”
“Yes, sir,” Steb and Loris answered in unison.
Wang’s gaze shifted. “Unit 37—Kiramman and Bretschneider. Return to Hawthorne’s last known address. Bring him in for questioning. If he resists, cuff and stuff. Probable cause is stacking up.”
Caitlyn felt Vi tense beside her, but both answered crisply, “Yes, sir.”
“Maddie, Marcus—link up with K9 teams Alpha through Echo. Deploy to Hendrick’s residence on Bond Avenue. Full exterior and interior search if we get exigent entry. Scent articles from the home, track anywhere the dogs hit.”
Maddie nodded sharply beside her partner Marcus. The K9 handlers gave silent thumbs-up, dogs shifting eagerly.
Wang straightened, voice rising. “The rest of you—sector canvass, workplace interviews, phone pings with comms section. We move now. Time’s ticking. Chop chop—let’s go!”

The room erupted in a single, thunderous response:
“YES, SIR!”
Boots pounded in perfect chaos as deputies surged toward the door—gear bags slung, radios crackling, K9s rising to follow their handlers. Steb clapped Loris on the shoulder as they headed out. Maddie jogged past Caitlyn with a quick “Stay safe, Corp” under her breath.
Caitlyn and Vi fell into the flow, adrenaline finally burning away the last of the shift fatigue.
Vi muttered as they fast-walked toward the vehicle bay, “Round two with Hawthorne. Think he’ll open the gate this time?”
Caitlyn’s jaw set. “Doesn’t matter. This time we’re not leaving without him.”
The briefing room emptied in seconds, lights still buzzing over empty chairs.
The hunt was on.

Meanwhile in the pitch-black, airless void six feet under a desolate patch of Reisterstown soil, Sarah Hendrick’s world had shrunk to the splintering wood scraping her raw fingertips, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth from shredded screams for the sheriffs to save her, the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears, and the searing, clawing burn in her chest as each shallow, desperate gasp pulled in less oxygen than the last; sweat and tears soaked her face, her legs trembled from futile kicks that barely rattled the coffin lid, and with every weakening thrash she felt the heavy, suffocating weight of earth pressing down, knowing the final darkness was only moments away. “I can’t just die here ,my sons Nathan and Noah need me, please help!!!”

Chapter Text

At 5:02 PM, February 15, 2014
In the quiet suburban streets of Reisterstown that already faded into winter dusk, suddenly came alive with strobing blue and red lights and the urgent wail of sirens as sheriff’s units converged on Bond Avenue.

Inside Sarah Hendrick’s small rancher, K9 handler Deputy Ramirez and his yellow Labrador, Bobo, moved methodically through the dim rooms. Ramirez’s flashlight cut sharp beams across tidy furniture, children’s toys scattered on the living-room floor, and an untouched coffee mug on the kitchen counter. Bobo sniffed intently along baseboards and doorframes while Ramirez collected scent articles—a pillowcase from the unmade bed, one of Sarah’s running shoes from the hall closet.

While Outside, the rest of the K9 teams fanned across the backyard with their dogs, lights sweeping the frost-tipped grass. Inside The Unit 37’s interceptor, which was on its way to the other side of the town. Caitlyn and Vi sat in tense silence listening to the radio traffic.

“K9 Unit Alpha-1 to Central,” Ramirez’s calm voice crackled through their earpieces. “We’re inside the residence—no signs of forced entry, no evidence of a struggle. But the garage door opener is damaged—the door can’t be secured from the inside. Looks like it’s been broken for a while. This had to be someone familiar with the house. Over.”
Vi’s arms were folded tight over her duty vest, fingers digging into her own biceps until her knuckles went white as they exchanged glances they knew who might’ve been the one who kidnapped her.

A few seconds later, the radio lit up again.
“Central, K9 Alpha-1. Fresh tire tracks behind the residence, leading from the garage into the woods. Wide tread pattern—consistent with a full-size pickup truck. Sending photos to comms now. Over.”
Vi’s head snapped toward Caitlyn. “Corporal—we need to check Hawthorne’s garage to see if he has a truck that matches the tire tracks.”
Caitlyn kept both hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the darkening street ahead. She glanced sideways at her rookie, voice low and measured. “Boot, don’t get tunnel vision. A broken garage door means anyone who’s ever been invited inside could’ve noticed it—repair guy, neighbor, delivery driver, ex-boyfriend from two relationships ago. We go back to Hawthorne, yes. But we go smart. Eyes open for anything that doesn’t fit.” Her tone was skeptical, but with a hint of knowing who the culprit was.
Vi exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing her grip to loosen.
“Yes, Corporal.”
Caitlyn keyed the mic. “Unit 37 to Central—en route back to Hawthorne’s last known. Will advise on vehicle status. Over.”
She shifted into drive, flicked on the light bar, and pulled away from the curb.
The sirens behind them faded as they headed toward Hawthorne’s address, the weight of a mother’s life—and her two children waiting somewhere for news—pressing heavier with every passing minute.

And somewhere in the woods, Sarah’s chest heaved in the pitch-black coffin, but she forced herself to stop the frantic gulps of air. Panicking would only burn through what little oxygen remained. The cramped wooden box pressed against her shoulders, her knees, her face—no room to sit up, barely enough to turn.

She knows she has to stay calm. Think as it was her only shot.

She then fumbled toward her jeans pocket with her trembling fingers. The space was so tight her elbow scraped the lid, sending a shower of dirt onto her cheek. She ignored it, digging past crumpled receipts and a cheap plastic lighter until a miracle appeared as she reached her phone. The screen was spider-webbed from whatever struggle had put her here, but it still lit when she pressed the button. 2 % battery—a red sliver.
No time.
She angled the faint glow around the coffin, hoping for signal bars. No SIM card. Whoever did this had taken it.
But emergency calls didn’t need a SIM so she dial 911 as her hands almost dropped her phone.

At 5:17 p.m
In the meantime, at the County Sheriff’s Office Dispatch Center, Dispatcher Kate Leung’s monitor flashed an incoming emergency call—cell tower ping placing it somewhere in the Reisterstown grid. She thought “must be another hiker who got lost in the woods” She clicked ACCEPT and slipped into her practiced, steady tone.
“911, what’s your emergency? Police, fire, or medical?”
A woman’s voice heavy with raw, terrified, gasping burst through her headphones. “Police!! Please help me—I’m stuck in some sort of coffin underground! Every time I kick the lid, dirt falls in my face!”
Leung’s fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the call tracing map.
“Ma’am, stay with me and keep calm. What’s your name?”

“Sarah Hendrick!” The name came out almost as a scream. Leung’s eyes widened. The missing-person alert with that exact name was still blinking priority on every screen in the room.
“Are you Sarah Hendrick from the 1200 block of Bond Avenue in Reisterstown?”

“Yes! Hurry—my phone’s dying!” Sarah’s voice grew more urgent as Leung snatched the direct line to the watch supervisor with her free hand. “Ma’am, deputies are on the way right now. Stay on the line as long as you can, keep the phone close to your mouth, and try to breathe slowly—” Then a long, flat beep cut her off.
The call dropped. Battery dead.

“Shit,” Leung whispered, then louder into the supervisor’s line: “Sergeant Wang, get to dispatch now. Sarah Hendrick just called 911. She said she’s buried alive.”
On the map in front of Leung, the last cell-tower ping glowed—a rural triangle of woods less than two miles from Bond Avenue.
The clock was ticking again, faster than ever.

The door at the end of the room burst open almost immediately. Wang strode in, still in his TRU vest from the earlier briefing, face already set in grim lines.
“What’ve we got, Kate?”
Leung didn’t look away from the map. Her fingers flew across the keys, pulling up the tower data, the missing-person file, the recorded 911 snippet.
“Sarah Hendrick just called 911. Said she’s in a coffin, dirt falling in when she kicks the lid. Phone died mid-sentence. Last ping came from this sector—” she tapped the screen, zooming in on the rural triangle of forest behind Bond Avenue “—less than three minutes ago.”
Wang leaned over her shoulder, eyes narrowing at the coordinates.
“Air?” he asked quietly.
Leung swallowed. “She was already panicking. Voice hoarse, gasping between words. If she’s really six feet down in a sealed box…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
Wang straightened, voice like steel. “Get every unit in Reisterstown en route to that grid—Code 3. Wake up Search and Rescue, call out the K9 cadaver teams—no, scratch that, keep the live-find dogs on scent. Alert Maryland State Police aviation for FLIR. And patch me through to TRU command channel now.”
He turned to the room, raising his voice so every dispatcher could hear.
“This is no longer a missing person. This is a recovery against the clock. Hendrick has maybe minutes of air left. Move!”
Keyboards clattered in a frantic rhythm. Radios exploded with traffic.
Leung’s hands shook as she broadcast the alert, the coordinates burning into her screen like a death timer.

5:19 PM — in front of Daniel Hawthorne’s residence

Caitlyn pounded on the front door of Daniel Hawthorne’s Residence again—hard, rhythmic knocks that echoed down the darkening street.
“Sheriff’s Office! Daniel Hawthorne, open the door!”
Vi stood a step behind, hand resting near her Glock, eyes scanning the windows for any twitch of curtains.
Nothing.
Then both earpieces crackled at once, the dispatcher’s voice tight and urgent.

“Central to all units—AMBER Alert activation. Reisterstown Elementary reports two students failed to board afternoon buses: Noah Hendrick and Nathan Hendrick, both age eleven. Last seen on school grounds at 1500 hours. Suspected familial abduction. Suspect believed to be the biological father Daniel R. Hawthorne. All units respond, over.”

Their duty phones vibrated simultaneously with the statewide AMBER Alert push—photos of two frightened-looking boys flashing on the screens.
Neighbors were already spilling out of nearby houses, flashlights flicking on, calling the boys’ names into the cold.
Caitlyn whipped around to Vi, eyes wide with fury and fear.
“What the fuck—her sons are missing too? He won’t answer the damn door!”
She didn’t wait.
“We don’t have any time to wait! Boot, go get the electric saw and the hooligan bar. Now. We’re forcing entry.”
Vi sprinted to the Interceptor, popped the trunk, and hauled out the battery-powered reciprocating saw and the heavy pry bar.

And haul back in seconds, saw already screaming to life in her gloved hands as she pulled the string to turn it on. Sparks flew as the blade bit into the thick metal security gate. The high-pitched whine filled the night air, metal shavings raining onto the porch. It took almost a full minute to cut through the reinforced bars—longer than either of them wanted.
Finally, the gate clattered to the concrete in pieces as Caitlyn dropped the saw, snatched the hooligan, and jammed the forked end into the narrow gap between the wooden door and frame. Vi wedged her end beside it.
“On three,” Caitlyn barked. “One—two—three!”
Both deputies kicked hard. Wood splintered, the deadbolt tore free, and the door swung inward with a violent crash.
They immediately drew their Glock, weapon-mounted lights slicing through the gloom, they cleared the house fast—living room cluttered with beer cans and pizza boxes, kitchen empty, bedrooms stripped of anything personal.

But in the bedroom, Caitlyn’s light landed on muddy work boots by the bed—fresh dirt still clinging to the treads that screams Suspicious. Then move onto the nightstand: torn divorce papers, photos of Noah and Nathan crumpled in rage, and a scrawled note in angry block letters on the back of one page.
Caitlyn lifted it carefully.
bitch! You’re not taking my sons away!

Vi met her eyes over the beam of her flashlight. In unison, low and grim: “He must’ve taken the kids too.”
Caitlyn keyed her mic, mid-stride, already backing toward the door. “Unit 37—forced entry at Hawthorne’s. No suspects on scene. Evidence of—”
Suddenly the radio cut her off like a slap.

“Central to all units—Sarah Hendrick just called 911. She’s buried alive. Last ping from rural woods north of Bond Avenue. Coordinates broadcasting now. All units Code 3—move!" Caitlyn’s blood turned ice-cold. They bolted as Cait’s personal iPhone vibrated with a call from her supervisor—Sergeant Wang. “Kiramman, go meet up with the alpha team on the east side of the location I sent you in the group chat with Bretschneider. I already have Anders, Carter, and Nolen assigned to the Bravo team to search for the kids.”

Vi vaulted the ruined gate first, Caitlyn half a step behind. Boots slammed concrete, doors yanked open, Interceptor rocking as they dropped inside.
Caitlyn slammed it into drive before Vi’s door even shut. Tires screamed. Lights and sirens exploded to life.
“Give me a fucking break already,” Caitlyn snarled, foot flooring it as the cruiser fishtailed onto the road, engine roaring, red-and-blue strobing wildly against darkening houses.
Vi braced one hand on the dash, the other on her vest. “Three missing now. Mom was buried, kids were with a psycho. How much time does she have left?”

“Not enough.” Caitlyn whipped around a corner, siren wailing. Headlights carved through the dusk toward the wooded grid.
Every second burned.

At 5:47 PM
The rural grid north of Bond Avenue to the Reisterstown Woods had turned hostile. Dusk bled into full night, temperatures dropping fast, the dense woods swallowing flashlight beams and turning every shadow into a threat. Branches clawed at uniforms, frozen ground crunched under boots, and the wind carried an eerie whistle through bare trees.
But no one slowed as the entire Sheriff’s Office had split into two massive search groups:
• Group Alpha (TRU’s primary element, half the K9 teams, aviation overhead): focused on Sarah Hendrick—buried, running out of air.
• Group Bravo (Steb, Loris, Maddie, Marcus, the rest of TRU): hunting Noah and Nathan Hendrick and their armed father.

The woods had swallowed the last of the daylight. Overhead, Maryland State Police Trooper 1 thrummed in slow, low circles, its FLIR pod glowing like a cold white eye, spotlight slashing down in harsh white arcs that turned bare trees into stark silhouettes and threw long, jumping shadows across the frozen ground. The pilot’s voice crackled intermittently over the radio, calm and clipped: “Ground units, negative heat signature in sector three. Moving to four.”
On the forest floor, Caitlyn and Vi moved side by side, boots crunching through frost-crusted leaves. Their flashlights cut narrow tunnels of light ahead; the helicopter’s spotlight was the only other source, sweeping over them like a judgmental god every few minutes before swinging away again.
Vi swept her beam through a thick clump of bushes, the light bouncing off ice-rimmed branches.
“How the hell are we supposed to find her, bruh?” she whispered, breath fogging in the cold. “This forest is at least two acres. Nearly two-thirds of it are just… nothing. Empty. We could walk right over her and never know.”

Caitlyn exhaled slowly, the white plume of her breath curling in the flashlight glow.
“At least her phone still had battery when she called 911. A lot of this area is a dead zone—no bars at all. If she didn’t have that phone on her when he put her down here… then only God could save her.”
She furrowed her brows, jaw tight, eyes scanning the ground for any unnatural mound, any disturbed earth.
Vi nodded grimly, sweeping her light again. “Yeah. But who do you think the culprit is?”
Caitlyn turned her head just enough to meet Vi’s eyes in the dim.
“Despite it could be anyone but her ex-husband is highly suspicious, Boot.” Her tone was flat, certain. “You know this isn’t the first time he’s been arrested? A year ago—back when I was still a rookie like you—Sarah Hendrick called 911 almost every night. Domestic violence, abuse, the works. Daniel would break wine bottles, swing at officers, scream about how she was ‘his property.’ Me and my mentor got called out there so many times I lost count.”
She paused, tugged off her right glove with her teeth, and held her hand up to the flashlight beam. A thin, pale scar curved across the back of her knuckles, just below their matched engagement ring.
“This scar?” Caitlyn said quietly. “Was his gift to me. He smashed a bottle across my hand the night he finally got cuffed and taken in. I still remember the way the glass glittered under the porch light when it cut me.”
Vi’s eyes darkened. She reached out, brushing her gloved thumb gently over the scar, then squeezed Caitlyn’s hand once before letting go.
“Fucker,” she muttered. “If he’s the one who did this to her… to the boys…”
Caitlyn pulled her glove back on, flexing her fingers.
“Then we find him. And we end this tonight.” They then continue to walk forward as above them, the helicopter banked again, spotlight sweeping past them once more—brief, blinding light, then darkness as the woods stay silent.

Not too far away from the duo, the Labrador retrievers of K9 Unit Alpha-2 continued their patient sweep above, noses skimming the frost-hardened earth, tails low and sweeping in slow, methodical arcs. Every few seconds one would pause, huff a cloud of breath into the night, then press forward again—soft whuffs and the occasional sharp, hopeful yip filtering down like ghosts through the soil.

While six feet below them, Sarah no longer heard them. As the coffin had become a cradle and a tomb at once. The thinning air tasted like rust and regret, each inhale shallower than the last. Her mind, starved and desperate, had built one final sanctuary.
In the hallucination, the wooden walls softened into familiar cotton sheets. Strawberry shampoo and the faint citrus of laundry detergent wrapped around her like a warm quilt. Noah and Nathan were there—real enough to feel their small, warm bodies pressed to her sides, heads resting on her shoulders, breaths slow and trusting.

The storybook in her lap glowed softly, pages turning under fingers that no longer felt the cold.
“Once upon a time, in the Runeterra….” Sarah whispered, voice thin but loving, “There was a young girl with bright blue hair named Jinx. Everyone said this mischievous girl would never amount to anything—too small, too strange, too wild. But she was raised by a rough crew of pirates from Bilgewater who taught her how to fight, how to sail, how to never back down…”
Noah nestled closer, cheek warm against her shoulder. Nathan mirrored him, thumb tucked in his mouth the way he still did when sleep tugged at him.
Sarah kept reading, the words flowing like the gentlest lullaby.

“The girl grew stronger. She proved herself over and over that she was just like her little sister Vi, who became an enforcer in the City of Progress, never backing down, always pushing the bad guys to the ground. Jinx won duels, outsmarted storms, earned the respect of her crew until one day she became captain of her own ship—”
Nathan’s sleepy voice interrupted, curious even in a dream. “How come her sister became a policewoman while she was a pirate? Were they taken separately when they were born?”
Sarah’s hallucinated smile trembled. “Oh, you’ll know eventually, baby… but let me continue.”
She turned the page as her voice grew softer, thinner, the words drifting like smoke in the shrinking air.
“…But during the greatest raid of her life in the city named Piltover during Progress Day… they were betrayed. As the Sheriff of Piltover with her iconic top hat—sharp-eyed, never-missing-a-shot Caitlyn Kiramman —ambushed them with her 90 caliber net and locked the whole crew in chains in the lowest, darkest level of the Stillwater prison…”
Nathan yawned again, lashes fluttering like tiny moth wings. “Mom… is the blue-hair girl gonna be okay? Will the sheriff hurt them?”
Sarah brushed dark curls from his forehead with dream-tender fingers, the motion slow and heavy. “Sheriff Caitlyn wasn’t one of those who hurt citizens like the rest of the enforcers and as for Jinx… she always is, baby. She always finds a way with her brain.”
Noah’s eyes were drifting shut completely now. Sarah continued, voice barely above a breath.
“The Piltover enforcer—Vi with her iconic Atlas gauntlets—strolled in… but what she saw shook her. She dropped her gloves to reveal her wrapped arms as she found her missing sister in the same cell she’d spent seven years in…”
He pressed his cheek tighter against her shoulder, voice a barely-there murmur. “Mom… did she do bad things? That’s why she spent seven years in prison?”
“It probably wasn’t her responsibility, sweetie,” Sarah said gently. “She just took the blame to protect the one she wanted to protect the most.”
Nathan glanced back at her, eyes glassy with sleep. “Was it her sister Jinx’s fault?”
“Maybe,” Sarah whispered, the word fragile as frost.
Nathan yawned once more, deep and slow. “I really wanna listen to the rest of the ‘Arcane’ story… but I’m so tired… let’s just sleep together, okay?”
Sarah’s heart shattered quietly inside the vision. She closed the storybook with infinite care, set it aside on the phantom nightstand, and wrapped both arms around her sons, pulling them impossibly closer.
“Sure, sweetie,” she breathed, voice cracking on the edge of nothing. “We can continue this story tomorrow. But until then… Goodnight, my brave boys.”
She pressed soft kisses to each warm forehead—one for Noah, one for Nathan. “Mommy loves you. Sleep tight.”

Sarah’s head lolled to the side against the rough pine. Her breathing slowed to faint, uneven sips—then stopped as her body went still.
Above, the Labradors kept circling with their noses pressed to the frozen ground, oblivious to the lullaby that had just ended in the dark below.

Time had run out and the Sheriffs had no more time to waste….

But suddenly the lab dogs alerted in a wide, frustrating circle—strong scent, but no pinpoint. Six feet of frozen earth defeated even the best air-scent dogs.
Sergeant Keery stood in the middle of the search line, shook his head once, and made the call.
“Bring up the bloodhounds.”
Deputy Munro nodded sharply, jogged to his K9 Interceptor, popped the rear hatch, and unlocked the cages. Two long-eared, droopy-faced bloodhounds—Dixie and Boone—bounded out, leashes clipped on in seconds.
Minutes later they were led forward. Handlers pressed Sarah’s pillowcase and running shoe to their wet noses. Deep inhales. Heads dropped. Then both dogs shot forward like arrows, dragging their handlers fifty yards deeper into the pine thicket.
Suddenly they slammed down, noses buried in frost, barking frantically—deep, urgent bays that rolled through the woods like thunder. Paws tore at the dirt, flinging frozen clods.
“Mark! Mark!” Keery roared as deputies converged in a rush. Shovels flew from packs—Caitlyn and Vi among them. Blades bit into the hard ground in desperate rhythm, clods flying under the sweeping floodlights from Trooper 1 overhead.

Thunks. Hollow knocks. Wood.
“Coffin lid!” someone shouted as Caitlyn dropped her shovel immediately, snatched the hooligan bar from the loop on the back of Vi’s duty vest, and jammed the forked end under the edge. Vi and two others threw their weight in. Nails screeched. The lid cracked open with a groan.
Inside, Sarah Hendrick lay pale and motionless, lips blue, dirt streaked across her face like war paint.
Caitlyn vaulted down without hesitation, knees slamming the coffin floor. Fingers to neck—pulse thready, almost gone. Breathing absent.
“She’s in cardiac arrest!” She yelled loudly.

Inside Sarah’s fading mind, the hallucinated bedroom held on by threads. She kept reading, voice a whisper of wind.
“…as Caitlyn and Vi chase down the infamous swindler—Twisted Fate—in the undercity of Zaun. A giant man with purple skin charges through the shadows, swinging a massive blade that chops down the side of Caitlyn’s long blue hair as she aims her sniper rifle at him. Vi, shoved hard into the wall, sees her partner on the ground. She stands, wipes sweat and dust from her face with steaming gauntlets, eyes blazing. ‘Don’t you dare touch my partner!’ She runs, kicks off the wall, launches herself up, and lands a sucker punch with relentless force—”
Noah sat up beside her, eyes curious even in sleep. “Were she and Sheriff Caitlyn a couple? Why do they sound so intimidating?”

“Oh sweetie, I do think so, they probably kept it in a secret to separate their personal life from work” she then continue reading out loud. “…Till Sheriff Caitlyn found the perfect moment. She aimed her rifle at his forehead, finger steady on the trigger, and muttered, ‘I never miss—’”
And VI’s gentle hand closed over the barrel to pushing it down. Caitlyn turned and shot her a glare. “What, Vi?”
Vi didn’t speak. She only pointed.
Caitlyn raised the rifle again, peering through the scope and through the scope, in the shadowed alley, the purple-skinned giant called Dr. Mundo had dropped to one knee, massive arms curled protectively around a small wooden box. Inside, a litter of tiny kittens mewed helplessly, pressing against his thick fingers as he muttered in a low, rumbling voice:
“Don’t worry, kitties… Dr. Mundo is here to protect you…”

Her expression softened. Beside her, Vi’s big blue eyes had gone wide and pleading—hungry puppy eyes, the kind that could melt steel and her heart. Caitlyn then sighed, long and defeated. “Fine,” she said, lowering the weapon. “We’ll leave him alone… for now.”
Sarah smiled faintly, the expression tugging at cracked lips that no longer moved in the real world.
“The sheriff always shows mercy to those who deserve it,” she whispered, “especially in front of Vi.”

But in the real world, Caitlyn was already compressing—hard, fast, precise chest compressions, head tilted back for rescue breaths. After thirty compressions and two breaths, no response.
“Vi—AED! Now!”

Vi sprinted on command, boots pounding frozen earth, yanked the defibrillator from the nearest unit’s trunk, and raced back. Caitlyn cut Sarah’s hoodie open with trauma shears and slapped the pads onto bare skin.
“Analyzing—shock advised. Clear!”
First shock. Sarah’s body jerked.
Nothing.
Caitlyn froze for half a heartbeat. Henry Sutherland’s pale face flashed in her mind—hospital bed, flatline, her own hands shaking a month ago. The doubt crept in:

Can I save anyone?

Then Uncle Billy’s voice, soft and steady, rose through the memory, the image of him always tugging his semi-long hair behind his ear before talking vividly to her mind:
“Each case makes me want to quit this job as a sheriff deputy asap… but if I quit, then who will come to save those who can’t save themselves?”

You can’t win if you white flag out when the war begins

Sarah’s body arched violently under the second shock. A ragged, choking gasp tore from her throat—raw, desperate, like air ripping through a collapsed tunnel. Her eyes fluttered open, wild and glassy, pupils struggling to focus against the blinding circle of flashlight beams and the harsh white sweep of Trooper 1’s spotlight overhead. Cold night air rushed into her lungs like icy salvation, burning as much as it healed.
Caitlyn exhaled hard, one gloved hand still steady on Sarah’s shoulder, anchoring her to the world.
“You’re safe. You’re out. Breathe slow.”
Sarah’s cracked lips parted. Her gaze drifted upward, unfocused, then sharpened on the nameplate pinned to Caitlyn’s plate carrier: C. KIRAMMAN then back to her ocean-blue eyes.

A faint, dazed smile touched her blue-tinged mouth.
“Thank you… Sheriff Caitlyn Kiramman…” she rasped, the name slipping out like a secret from her fading hallucination.
Caitlyn shook her head urgently, leaning closer so Sarah could hear her over the helicopter rotors and the wind.
“No, no, ma’am—I’m just a deputy. Not a sheriff… not yet.” She gave a small, tight smile despite the adrenaline still hammering through her veins. “But you should thank them.” She nodded toward the panting bloodhounds, Dixie and Boone, who sat nearby with tongues lolling, tails thumping once against the dirt. “Without those bloodhounds, there’s no way we’d have found you underneath all this frozen ground.”
Sarah’s eyes shifted slowly, taking in the ring of flashlight-lit faces—deputies, K9 handlers, medics pushing through the trees. She managed a weak nod to each of them, cracked lips curving in gratitude.
“Thank… you…”
Her voice cracked again.
“But my… boys…”
Caitlyn’s expression hardened with resolve. She squeezed Sarah’s shoulder once, firm and reassuring.
“We’re getting them,” she promised, voice low and unyielding. “We’re getting them now.”
Above them, the Labradors whined softly, tails wagging once more—as if they understood the victory and the unfinished fight still hanging in the air.

At around 5:52 PM

Medics swarmed the grave site like hornets. Sarah was already on the backboard, thermal blankets crinkling around her, IV lines taped to blue-veined arms. Caitlyn knelt close, voice low and urgent.
“Sarah—who did this? Where are your boys?”
Sarah’s cracked lips moved. “Daniel… he took them… said we’d all be together… forever…”
Before Caitlyn could ask more, every radio on the scene detonated at once.
Marcus’s voice—raw, panicked—sliced through the static. “Urgent backup! Deer Park Road—old hunting cottage! Harold’s down—head shot! Drop your fucking weapon now—! Shots fired!”
A staccato of gunfire cut him off mid-sentence. Then one final, thunderous crack that was too close to the mic along with a hopeless “Hawthorne, please don’t kill me—“ ended the transmission in dead air.
Caitlyn and Vi locked eyes over Sarah’s stretcher. The color drained from both their faces.
They were already moving—boots pounding frozen dirt, shoving past converging deputies, sprinting back toward their interceptor.

Caitlyn slid behind the wheel, slammed the door so hard the vehicle rocked. Vi threw herself into the passenger seat as the engine roared to life.
Caitlyn punched the accelerator. Tires screamed, lights and sirens exploding on. The Interceptor fishtailed onto the access road, headlights carving white tunnels through the dark.
“Fucking hell!” Caitlyn’s voice cracked, raw with grief and fury. “That asshole got Harold and Marcus! They were just doing their job!”
Vi’s hand found her shoulder, squeezing hard. “Calm down, Corporal. We’ll make him pay for it.”
But Caitlyn was shaking. Way too badly with worriness, She yanked her personal phone from her vest, thumbed Steb’s number while steering one-handed at dangerous speed.
“Steb—answer. Please answer—”
The line connected. Steb’s voice came through the speaker—low, barely above a whisper, wind and fear thick in the background.
“Yeah… yeah, I’m here.”
Caitlyn’s breath hitched. “Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.”
“We dropped when Harold got hit. Loris hit the deck. He was… execution-style on Marcus. Head shot while he was calling for help. Shit—he’s still hunting us. Getting closer…”
Caitlyn shook her head violently. “Don’t you dare say goodbye, Stephen. You and Loris are having drinks with us after this damn case. You hear me?”
A long pause. Steb’s voice was calm—too calm. “I don’t know if I can make that promise, Caitlyn. But I’ll try.”

“Where’s Loris? Is he safe?”

“Not sure. We split when the shooting started. He was in the tall brush last I saw. Hawthorne’s circling… I think he’s looking for him.”
Caitlyn’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Steb—”
“I gotta go. I’m gonna do something risky. Wish me luck.”
The line went dead.
Caitlyn and Vi stared at each other for half a heartbeat.
In unison, low and terrified:
“Please tell me he’s not planning to shoot him.”

Steb’s Position – Deer Park Road Cottage Perimeter

Steb ended the call. Squatted low behind a fallen log. Hawthorne was thirty yards away, rifle up, sweeping the brush line.
Steb drew his Glock. Aimed center mass.
Finger tightened.
Crack.
The round punched through Hawthorne’s shoulder. Blood sprayed. The man roared, spun, and raised the rifle one-handed.
Steb was already moving—sprinting flat-out toward his Interceptor parked at the gate.
Hawthorne opened fire. Bullets chewed bark, dirt, and metal.
Steb vaulted the low gate—duty belt, vest, boots, and all—clean, perfect arc despite the weight. Landed hard, rolled, scrambled up.
He yanked the driver’s door open.
A round slammed into his hip. Then another tore through his thigh.
He didn’t scream. Just sucked air through clenched teeth, crawled inside, slammed the door, and threw himself across the seat.
Bullets hammered the driver’s side—glass spiderwebbing, door panels ringing like bells.
Steb ripped the tourniquet from his vest, cinched it high on his thigh, and gritted against the white-hot pain. Blood soaked his pants in seconds.
He twisted the key. Engine caught.
Through the shattered window he glimpsed Hawthorne whose shoulder was bleeding, face twisted as he dumping a can of accelerant onto the thick brush where Loris must be hiding.
A match flared.
Flames leapt up, orange and hungry.
Steb floored it. The Interceptor lurched forward, tires spinning in mud.
He glanced back in the side mirror—fire blooming, smoke rising, Hawthorne’s silhouette black against the glow.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Steb rasped, voice cracking. “But I can’t wait here for you.”
He accelerated into the dark, blood pooling on the seat, radio crackling with backup units screaming toward the scene.

Around 6:01 PM

The entire bush line was ablaze now—orange tongues licking thirty feet high, black smoke boiling into the night sky like an oil fire. The crackle of burning pine drowned out almost everything else. Almost.
A single pickup truck rolled slowly up the dirt access road, headlights cutting weak yellow cones through the smoke. A 52 years old
retired mechanic who lives two properties away named Chris Dare had seen the glow from his back porch. Curiosity and a lifetime of neighborly instinct made him grab his flashlight and drive over. He wasn’t armed. He wasn’t trained. He just wanted to know if someone needed help but little does he know that he should’ve bring his shotgun this time around.
He stopped twenty yards from the gate, engine idling, door open.
“Hey! Everything okay up there? Saw the fire—”
Daniel Hawthorne stepped out from the tree line, rifle slung low across his chest, blood soaking the left shoulder of his jacket from Steb’s earlier shot. He raised his free hand in a casual wave, voice calm, almost friendly.
“Just a campfire got out of hand, Chris. Nothing to worry about. Wind’s picking up, that’s all.”
Chris nodded slowly, flashlight beam drifting across the yard—then froze as Marcus’s body lay face-up near the entrance, eyes wide open, staring blankly at the smoke-choked sky. A neat hole in the center of his forehead. Blood pooled dark under his head.
Chris’s mouth opened. Closed. His flashlight beam trembled.
“You—you killed a deputy,” he whispered, voice cracking. He took one step back toward his truck. “I—I need to call the sheriff—”
Hawthorne’s expression didn’t change.
He bent casually, picked up Marcus’s empty Glock from his hand, thumbed the slide release with a metallic click, and found the spare magazine still on the his duty belt. One smooth motion: magazine in, slide forward.
He raised the pistol.
Chris had just enough time to raise both hands.
The shot was flat, sharp, and final.
Chris dropped like a puppet with cut strings—knees first, then torso folding, flashlight rolling away across the dirt, beam spinning uselessly into the dark.
Hawthorne didn’t even look at the body.
He turned back toward the burning brush, rifle up again, scanning for movement.

Then the night split open with a new sound: the deep growl of three BearCat armored vehicles roaring up the access road, red-and-blue lights strobing wildly through the smoke, spotlights snapping on like white knives.
The lead BearCat skidded to a halt, blocking the gate completely. Doors flew open. TRU swat operators in full tactical gear poured out—rifles up, red-dot lasers dancing across the cottage walls.
Hawthorne retreated fast, disappearing inside the hunting cabin, door slamming behind him.
While at the far edge of the burning brush, near the fence line, a figure crawled out—face blackened with soot, green uniform dusted gray with ash, making him almost invisible against the scorched ground.
It was Loris.
He staggered to his feet, hands already high above his head the second he cleared the smoke.
“Don’t shoot! It’s me—Loris Carter! Deputy Carter—don’t shoot!”
Sergeant Wang—barrel trained on the moving shape—held his fire at the last second. Two operators rushed forward, grabbed Loris by the arms, and dragged him behind the nearest BearCat.
“Friendly! Friendly!” one yelled into his helmet mic.
“Carter’s out—alive. Smoke inhalation, possible burns. Medic!”
The team medic dropped to one knee beside Loris, already pulling an oxygen mask over his soot-streaked face.
Loris coughed violently, chest heaving.
“Hawthorne’s inside… barricaded… I saw the kids in the window as I tried crawl out… he killed Harold… Marcus… tried to burn me out…”
Wang knelt beside him, voice low and hard.
“You did well getting out, Carter. We’ve got him pinned now. Breathe.”

Behind them, the cottage windows glowed orange—not from the bush fire, but from the interior lights.
Hawthorne was inside.
The boys were inside.
And the night had just turned into a hostage barricade as the BearCats’ spotlights stayed locked on the front door.
with rifles stayed up on both sides of the frontline and every radio in the county crackled with the same urgent refrain:
“Suspect barricaded. Possible child hostages. SWAT staging. Stand by.”
The fire roared on.
The smoke rose higher.
And time once again began to bleed out.

And somewhere in the towards the hunting grounds while Caitlyn drives behind lines of interceptors, close enough to stay in the convoy but far enough to avoid eating their dust.
Then she saw it—an Interceptor coming from the woods, headlights flickering weakly, swerving slightly like the driver was fighting to stay conscious.
Caitlyn’s foot eased off the gas.
“Vi—look.”
Vi leaned forward, squinting through the windshield.
“That’s Steb’s unit.”
Caitlyn slowed, matching the oncoming vehicle’s speed until they were rolling side by side. Through the shattered driver’s window she saw him: face ashen-green, eyes glassy, blood soaking the entire left side of his uniform pants and pooling on the seat beneath him. His hands shook on the wheel, knuckles white.
Caitlyn rolled Vi’s window down fast.
“Stephen! It’s me—Cait!”
Steb’s head jerked toward her voice. Recognition flashed across his pale face. He managed a weak, bloody smile—then the adrenaline finally gave out. His foot slipped off the gas. The Interceptor coasted to a stop on the shoulder, engine idling roughly.
The door creaked open. Steb tried to step out but collapsed face-first into the dirt with a dull thud.
Caitlyn then ripped her first aid kit off the velcro to the passenger’s seat’s headrest as she rushed out with Vi followed behind as she holds her Glock while sweeping the tree line for threats.

Caitlyn dropped to her knees beside Steb, rolling him gently onto his back. His breathing was shallow, ragged. Blood pulsed steadily from the ragged hole in his upper thigh and the deeper wound in his hip.
She snapped nitrile gloves on with practiced flicks—sharp, decisive cracks in the cold air.
“Vi—central command, medical support, now!”
Vi keyed her radio while Caitlyn ripped open her first-aid kit.
“Unit 37 to Central—Deputy Anders is critical, multiple GSWs to the hip and thigh, massive hemorrhage. We’re on Deer Park Road, approximately one mile from the cottage. Request immediate medevac! Over”
The dispatcher’s voice came back clipped and urgent.
“Central to Unit 37, negative, nearest trauma center is two hours out. Anders won’t make it that far. State Trooper 1 is already airborne—ETA five minutes to the old fire watch tower one mile north. Get him there. Helo can land in the clearing. Over.”
Caitlyn’s jaw clenched. Not just the boys’ lives ticking now—Steb’s too.

She turned Steb onto his side with careful hands, assessing the damage. His uniform pants were soaked dark from crotch to knee; blood had already puddled beneath him. She grabbed trauma shears as she sliced the front panel of Steb’s pants open the rest of the way—quick, clinical, no hesitation. Fabric parted with a soft ripping sound, revealing the full exit wound gaped on the back of his thigh—jagged, meaty, arterial bleed pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The entry wound on the front was smaller but deeper, tunneling upward toward the hip joint.

But as her gloved forearm swept across to steady the material, she brushed a warm, soft, and unmistakably… not thigh but a rod.
She froze mid-motion as she thought “What the hell did I just touch?”
It took half a second for her brain to catch up.
Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw Steb’s half-lidded gaze snap wide open—pupils dilating like he’d been electrocuted.
He coughed once, weakly, then rasped in the most deadpan, blood-loss-slurred voice imaginable:
“Cait… your hand… is on my dick.”
Caitlyn’s face ignited. She yanked her arm back so fast she almost dropped the shears.

“Oh my God—Steb—I didn’t— I swear I was just trying to—”
Her voice climbed an octave, cheeks flaming despite the freezing night air. “It was an accident! The angle—the wound—the—oh God, I’m so sorry!”

Steb let out a weak, rasping chuckle that turned into a cough.
“It’s fine… if I were in your place, I’d probably accidentally touch yours anyway.”
Caitlyn gave a small, strained laugh despite herself, then refocused. She angled her flashlight into the wound. Metal glinted deep inside—bullet still lodged.
She glanced at Steb.
“This is gonna hurt. Bite down on something.”
He nodded once, jaw set as Caitlyn reached in with her two gloved fingers probing carefully along the wound track until they closed around the deformed slug. Steb’s entire body jerked. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat—cut short when he bit his own tongue to keep from biting through it.
The bullet came free with a wet, sucking pop, trailing a fresh ribbon of blood.
Caitlyn held it up to the beam of her flashlight.
The slug glistened—slick with crimson, but beneath the blood the copper jacket caught the light in a dull, unmistakable red flash.
She wiped it roughly across the sleeve of her own uniform, smearing red across green fabric until the rifling marks and headstamp became clear.
Her eyes narrowed.
“5.56 NATO,” she muttered, voice low and flat. “AR-platform round. Civilian .223 wouldn’t have this much penetration or that jacket color.”
Vi looked up from holding pressure on the exit wound.
“Hawthorne’s rifle?”
Caitlyn nodded once, sharp. She dropped the slug into Vi’s waiting palm. “He has been hoarding these to wait for us… Hold this. Evidence bag later.”
Vi nodded, wrapping it in a glove and pocketing it.
Caitlyn worked fast—packing both wounds with combat gauze, pressing hard to tamponade the bleeding, then wrapping Israeli bandages tight around the thigh and hip. She cinched the tourniquet higher on the leg, checking distal pulse—weak, thready, but present.
“Hey, Steb,” she said softly, leaning close so he could focus on her face. “Think of this as my way of returning the favor for Pier 7. You saved me from applying a tourniquet to my thigh that was shot by a rifle, Now I’m saving you out of this. Deal?”
Steb’s eyes fluttered. He managed a tiny nod.
“Deal…”
Caitlyn looked up at Vi. “Help me get him into the back cage. We’re taking him to the watch tower. Helo’s five minutes out. If this tourniquet slips, he bleeds out in minutes.”
Vi hooked her arms under Steb’s shoulders; Caitlyn took his legs. They lifted his slick with blood dead weight carefully and maneuvered him into the rear cage of the Interceptor. Vi climbed in beside him, pressing fresh gauze to the wounds, talking low to keep him conscious.
Caitlyn slammed the rear door, jumped back behind the wheel, and floored it toward the fire watch tower while Vi called the central to tow Steb’s interceptor with broken window and tires back to the sheriff’s office.

In the back cage, Vi knelt beside Steb, one hand pressing fresh gauze to the bandaged thigh while the other held his clammy hand.
Steb’s breathing was shallow, ragged—each inhale a wet rattle. His face had gone from ashen-green to ghostly gray, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. The tourniquet held, but the blood loss was already catastrophic; the floor of the cage was slick with it.
Caitlyn kept glancing in the rearview mirror, eyes flicking between the road and Steb’s fading form.
“Stay with us, Stephen,” she said, voice tight. “Hello’s almost here. Just a few more minutes.”
Steb’s lips moved—barely a whisper as Cait said “Hey Steb,” quietly, voice cutting through the engine roar. “Do you still remember that one time during the swimming test in the academy… when they called us ‘The Fish Siblings’?”
A faint, pained chuckle rattled out of Steb’s throat.
“Oh yeah… of course.”
His eyelids fluttered, but the memory pulled a ghost of a smile across his lips.

Flashback – Baltimore Police Academy
Late 2012
A few days earlier, Caitlyn had barely slept as UBalt finals and Police Academy Exams of criminal procedure outlines, constitutional law flashcards had left her brain fried but the real dread came when she checked the training schedule and saw the words in bold: Water Rescue Qualification.

She’d spent the night staring at her ceiling, stomach knotted. The thought of changing into regulation swimwear in front of thirty other cadets made her palms sweat cold. Even though she was lean and toned from years of ballet and contortion—baby abs, long dancer’s lines—her body dysphoria screamed louder than any logic. The phallic hypertrophy she’d hidden under layers since puberty felt like a neon sign waiting to be exposed. She’d once been kicked off a public beach for swimming in board shorts and a rash guard; the lifeguard had yelled that she had to wear “proper swim attire.” She’d left humiliated, never went back.
So when she arrived at the academy pool that morning—still in her cadet uniform, hair pulled into a tight bun—she braced for the worst.
The training sergeant blew his whistle. Thirty cadets snapped to attention along the deck, still fully dressed in dark-green fatigues and boots.
“Cadets—gather up!”
He paced in swim trunks and a whistle necklace, voice booming off the tile.
“Today is not about riot control, Miranda, or probable cause. As a Tactical Response Unit material, you will rescue drowning civilians from open water. You’ve noticed we didn’t make you change into trunks or suits. That’s intentional. This test is conducted in full uniform—boots, pants, shirt, everything. You will swim 100 yards clothed, then dive to retrieve a downed ‘civilian’—represented today by a 180-pound sandbag—and bring it to the surface and to the edge. Anyone who fails goes to remedial water training—three extra weeks before graduation. Talking in the back? You just bought yourself a spot in that group. Do you understand?”

“YES, SIR!”
They were split—men on one end of the pool, women on the other.
Caitlyn exhaled slowly as she thought to herself “No changing. Thank God.”

Then the test began as most of the cadets underestimated it. They thrashed through the 100-yard swim, boots dragging like anchors, uniforms ballooning with trapped air. Several sank trying to dive in soaked fatigues—boots too heavy, pants too restrictive. Sandbags were left on the bottom like forgotten luggage.
Caitlyn sat on the edge of the women’s lane, legs dangling, heart hammering. She watched classmate after classmate fail the dive—some panicking underwater, others simply too exhausted to lift the weight and get scolded as they have to drops down to do 20 pushups as punishment.

She muttered under her breath,
“It would be amazing if Vi were here. She was an excellent swimmer. My God—and instead you’re in your university finals, probably drowning in textbooks too.”
She sighed, rubbing her temples.
When her turn came, she slid into the water fully clothed.
The boots were brutal—lead weights on her feet—but years of ballet had given her core strength and breath control. She powered through the 100 yards with long, steady strokes, uniform clinging like a second skin but not slowing her much. At the far end, she dove with boots first to reach the sandbag in one clean glide. She hooked both arms under it, planted her feet on the pool floor, and pushed up hard.
The bag broke the surface with her. She kicked toward the wall, dragging it behind her, and hauled it onto the deck with a wet thud.
The sergeant stared.
“Kiramman—pass. Clean time. Good form.”
She stood dripping, chest heaving, but head high.
Across the pool, the men’s side finished. Steb who was already built like a linebacker had not only retrieved his sandbag but carried it one-handed the last ten yards just to flex. He caught Caitlyn’s eye from the other side and gave her a thumbs-up.
Later, in the locker room hallway, Steb jogged up, still soaked.
“Nice work, Fish Sister.”
Caitlyn blinked.
“Fish… what?”
Steb grinned.
“You and me are the only two who didn’t drown out there. They’re calling us ‘The Fish Siblings’ now. Guess we’re stuck with it.”
Caitlyn laughed—real, surprised laughter—and bumped his shoulder.
“Fine. But you’re the annoying big brother.”

Vi—still kneeling beside Steb, one hand pressing gauze, the other gripping his—let out a sudden, half-hysterical laugh and facepalmed with her free hand.
“Oh yeah—the water rescue qualification test. I remember how nearly my entire class got sentenced to three extra weeks of water training… except Loris. Guy was a Coast Guard frogman before he even joined the county sheriff’s office. Underwater search and rescue expert. He basically treated the sandbag like it owed him money.”
Caitlyn glanced at Vi in the rearview mirror, brows lifting.

“And you too?”

Vi snorted, wincing as Steb coughed again.
“Yeah, me too. I can climb walls, punch faces, suplex suspects, run like hell—but swimming 100 yards in full uniform then hauling 180 pounds of wet sandbag to the surface? That was no joke. Delayed my graduation by three weeks. Along with my… uh… horrible shooting skills.”

Caitlyn shook her head, eyes flicking between the road and the mirror.
“Oh my God. How horrible are we talking?”

Vi’s grin was pure sheepish pain.
“Forgot to zero the scope and fired at my classmate’s target instead of my own kind of horrible.”

“Jesus Christ, Vi.”

Vi shrugged one shoulder, careful not to jostle Steb. “But hey, I passed eventually. Barely. And Loris still teases me about it every time we hit the range.”
Steb managed another faint, bloody chuckle from the back.
“Loris… still owes me… fifty bucks… from that bet…”
Caitlyn’s lips twitched despite everything.
“You two are impossible.”

She downshifted hard as the old fire watch tower loomed ahead—tall silhouette against the smoke-choked sky. A fire lookout staff stood at the base, waving them in frantically. He lifted the rusted gate arm just in time.
Caitlyn slid the Interceptor through, tires crunching gravel, and pulled up to the base of the tower stairs. Trooper 1’s rotors thumped louder overhead—spotlight already sweeping the clearing like a white sword.
Vi and Caitlyn jumped out.
They opened the rear cage doors together—Steb’s head lolled forward, hair plastered to his forehead, trimmed beard matted with sweat and soot; his duty pants—slit from crotch to knee by trauma shears—gaped open on one side, threatening to flash family jewels to the entire Maryland State Police Aviation crew if the duty belt hadn’t cinched everything in place like a desperate last line of defense.
Caitlyn had one arm hooked under his knees, Vi the other under his shoulders. Every step up jarred Steb’s wounds; fresh blood seeped through the Israeli bandage and dripped onto the grated stairs in fat red drops.
“Almost there, big guy,” Vi grunted, sweat rolling down her own temples. “Don’t you dare pass out on us now.”
Steb managed a weak, bloody chuckle.
“Wouldn’t… dream of it…”
They crested the top platform. The Maryland State Trooper 1 helicopter sat like a giant metal dragonfly—rotors idling, downdraft blasting ash and grit into their faces. The pilot who had his dark visor down and flight suit crisp saw them and chopped a sharp hand signal: Hurry the hell up.

Two troopers in flight gear rushed forward, helping lift Steb onto the stretcher already strapped inside the open side door. The engine noise was deafening—thump-thump-thump of blades chewing air.
As they buckled him in white chest harness, leg straps, IV lines reconnected, their earpieces crackled at once.
“Central to all units—Deputy Loris Carter secured at the front gate by SWAT. Alive. Smoke inhalation and minor burns. He’s being extracted now. Over”
Caitlyn and Vi locked eyes. A single, exhausted smile broke across both their faces.
Caitlyn leaned close to Steb’s ear, shouting over the noise.
“Promise me you’ll come back. Drinks on me—me, you, Vi and Loris. You hear me?”
Steb’s lips curved—weak, but real.
“This… gives me flashbacks… Iraq. Took a Black Hawk to save a K9 from an IED… damn dog wouldn’t leave his handler…”
Vi reached in, gently patting his shoulder.
“Tell us the rest in the bar, Corporal and Captain (O-3) Steb Anders.”
Steb lifted his hand—just high enough to give them both a shaky two-finger wave.
The troopers secured the final buckle. The crew chief gave a thumbs-up.
“Clear!”
The rotors spun up to full scream. Dust and ash whipped into a blinding cloud.
Caitlyn and Vi stepped back, shielding their eyes.
Trooper 1 lifted off—nose dipping once, then climbing fast, red anti-collision lights streaking north toward the trauma center.
They stood on the platform until the helo shrank to a distant red dot, swallowed by smoke and night.
Vi exhaled hard.
“Time to go back and help the others.”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened. Her voice came out low, cold, final. “Hawthorne’s going to pay. For burying Sarah alive. For kidnapping those boys. For killing our commandos.”
She turned on her heel, boots ringing on the metal stairs as she ran down and Vi right beside her.
They hit the ground running, sprinted to the Interceptor, doors slamming almost simultaneously.
Engine roared. Tires spun gravel.
The vehicle shot forward—lights off, running dark now—back toward the cottage that had turned from a quiet hunting cabin into a hunting ground to hunt down officers

A hunting ground where the hunters had become the prey.
And tonight, the prey were coming to get their revenge….

Chapter Text

February 15, 2014
Deer Park Road – Front Gate of Hunting Cottage
At 6:18 PM
Caitlyn eased the Interceptor to a stop fifty yards short of the BearCat barricade, killing the lights and engine to avoid drawing attention. The cottage loomed ahead, its windows glowing sickly orange, smoke still curling from the burning brush line like black veins in the night sky.
Loris sat slumped against the rear wheel of the lead BearCat, oxygen mask strapped over his soot-blackened beard, green uniform streaked gray with ash and dirt. His eyes—red-rimmed, exhausted—lit up the moment he spotted them.
He pushed himself to his feet, mask dangling from one ear, and opened his arms wide.
Caitlyn and Vi were out of the vehicle before it fully stopped.
Loris met them halfway—arms wrapping around both of them at once in a crushing bear hug, the kind only a man who’d thought he might never see his friends again could give.
“My friends,” he rasped, voice rough from smoke and shouting, “I missed you guys so damn much.”
Vi buried her face in his shoulder, hugging him back just as tight—then immediately recoiled with a dramatic whine.
“Oh God, Loris—you smell like a bonfire had a baby with an ashtray. You need a shower, man.”
She coughed twice for emphasis, but her arms never let go. The smoky stench was awful, but seeing her best friend alive and breathing made it bearable.
Caitlyn stepped into the hug next—gentler, but no less fierce. Loris squeezed her back, careful of her still-bloodied gloves.
“We got Steb out,” she said against his ear, voice thick. “He’s on his way to the hospital—Trooper 2 medevac. We’ll visit him the second this is over.”
Loris nodded against her hair, beard scratching her cheek.
“For sure. Army veterans don’t go down easy.”
He pulled back just enough to look at them both—eyes glassy, smile shaky but real.

Then Caitlyn’s gaze drifted past him to Marcus’s body, which lay where it had fallen—face-up on the dirt near the front gate with eyes open and staring blankly at the smoke-choked sky—a single neat hole in the center of his forehead. Blood had spread in a dark halo beneath his head, already congealing in the cold.
Caitlyn’s throat closed.
She stepped away from the hug, boots crunching gravel, and stared at him.
“Fucking hell, man,” she whispered. “It hurts more seeing him just… lying there like that.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
Marcus had always been the serious one—quiet, dependable, the guy who’d cover your shift without complaint if you were sick. He’d skip family dinners, birthday parties, and little-league games with his kids to make sure the unit wasn’t short-handed. Caitlyn had lost count of how many times she’d told him:
“Marcus, you’re pushing forty. Slow down. Your kids need you more than we do.”
He’d always just shrugged, given that small, tired smile, and said:
“Someone’s gotta do the job, Kiramman.”
Now he was gone.
Caitlyn’s eyes burned. She didn’t cry but the grief sat heavy in her chest like wet concrete.
“He was a good man,” Cait said quietly. “Friendly. Solid. The kind of deputy you could trust with your life.”
Loris stood beside them, oxygen mask dangling from his neck, staring at the body too.
“He’d hate us standing around moping,” Loris muttered. “He’d tell us to get back to work.”
Caitlyn swallowed hard.
“Yeah. He would.”
Her voice came out low, cold, final.
“Hawthorne’s going to pay. For Sarah. For the boys. For Harold. For Marcus.”
Vi nodded once—sharp, matching the steel in Caitlyn’s eyes.
Loris pulled his mask back on and took one last look at Marcus.

“Let’s finish this.”
The three of them moved behind the swat as Vi glanced at Caitlyn as they walked.
“So, Corporal… what now? Besides listening to the negotiator talk him out for the next 4 hours?”
Caitlyn shrugged, eyes fixed on the cottage.
“We wait for new orders from Wang. SWAT’s got the perimeter locked. Some units will peel off—back to the office for calls, reports, court orders, and standby. Not all of us need to stay. Final mission’s simple: get Harold and Marcus’s bodies out of the entrance so the BearCats can roll in, then arrest or neutralize Hawthorne and save the kids.”
Vi sighed like a balloon losing air.
“I really want to go home. Shower. Kiss Grady. Hit the gym. Sleep.” She pouted. “Instead of being stuck in this forest for another sixteen hours of work—”

The word “Grady” hit Caitlyn like a slap.
She froze mid-step.

Grady.
Last fed at 6 a.m.
It was now past 6 p.m. 😱

And with the siege dragging on, there was no guarantee they’d be home before midnight, which made her anxiety intensify. Her stomach dropped sharply as a wave of worry took hold. She reached for her phone and opened her contacts. At first, she thought, 'Maybe I can call my dad,’ but the “in a meeting” status on his profile made her reconsider. Trusting her instincts, she decided to dial the one person she trusted most in an emergency—someone who would understand immediately and know what to do with Grady.

The call connected after one ring, despite the single bar of service and the roar of Trooper 2 and Fox News helicopters circling overhead. Caitlyn pressed a finger to her free ear to block the noise.
“Good evening, Uncle Billy,” she said, half-shouting, half-polite. “I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”

In Billy’s Apartment in Brooklyn, Baltimore city
≈6:21 PM

Billy with his semi-long brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail stood in his bathroom in nothing but black boxer briefs, the vanity light casting sharp shadows across his still-lean, toned torso.
He wiped his soaked hair dry with a warm towel, then turned his attention to the mirror.
The gray-streaked blonde stubble that always got him teased by Aiden stared back, full, but still not quite connecting the way Tobias’s did. Tobias’s beard was a perfect, dark curtain; Billy’s had stubborn patches of silver and gaps in his cheeks that refused to fill in even after days without shaving.
He sighed heavily, shoulders dropping.
“After all these years,” he muttered to his reflection, “my beard still doesn’t connect as my twin sister’s husband’s does. Figures.”

He hummed softly under his breath, tilting his head side to side, studying the silver threads that had multiplied over the last decade.
“I wonder how young I’d look without the gray stubble creeping in,” he said aloud, almost to himself.
He reached for the can of shave cream as he squeezed a generous dollop into his palm and paused, staring at his own face.

“But wait… what am I even thinking?” He laughed quietly, the sound warm and self-deprecating. “Without the gray stubble, I’ll just look like my sister Cassandra, hahaha.”

The thought made him chuckle harder—imagining the identical twins side by side: same sharp nose, same deep blue eyes, same thin lips, except one had kept the clean-shaven face and semi-long hair for decades while the “older” twin had opted for short hair and a commanding presence. Cassandra would never let him live it down. Not even their mother Matilda would have let it slide; she always furrowed her brows and groaned whenever Billy showed up looking “more feminine” than her daughters—especially since Billy always spoke softly, almost gently. At the same time, Cassandra’s voice was always firm, always carrying that BPD edge even at home. She sat open-legged like she was briefing a SWAT team in the briefing room; Billy sat with his legs crossed as if he were the queen of this house.
He always laughed awkwardly in response.

Matilda’s voice echoed in his head, clear as if she were standing behind him:
“Jesus Christ, Billy… how I wish Haley and Cassandra were half ‘feminine’ as you do.”
Billy snorted, replying out loud to the empty bathroom as she could still hear him.
“Well my name was either Billie Jean or Jamie anyway, what do you expect, Mother????”

Matilda’s imagined voice facepalmed in his mind. “The name Billie Jean was ‘was supposed to be” Jamie!”
Billy sighed, half-amused, half-resigned.
“Mr. William James Kiramman,” the phantom Matilda continued, fond exasperation dripping from every syllable. “But Jamie Kiramman was on the list too as it was also a good name for a daughter—“ Only Matilda ever called him Jamie.
Never Billy. Never William. Because “Jamie” reminds her of the second girl “Billie-Jean” that never arrived, repurposed for the boy who surprised everyone by showing up instead.

His mother continued “Don’t forget that was because I thought I had two daughters when I was carrying you two! But the nurse was staring at Cassandra the whole time without noticing!” “Mr. William James Kiramman,” the phantom Matilda continued, every syllable dripping with that familiar mix of pride and gentle scolding, “but Jamie Kiramman was on the list too. It was a good name for a daughter—” Only Matilda ever called him Jamie. Never Billy. Never William.

She went on, as if reading from an old family story she’d told him a hundred times:
“Don’t forget that was because I thought I had two daughters when I was carrying you two! But the nurse was staring at Cassandra the whole time without noticing!”
Billy rolled his eyes at his reflection, lips twitching.
“Yeah, yeah. I know the story. If you’d really named me Jamie Kiramman, I’d have been called ‘Miss Kiramman’ on every phone call and every piece of mail for the rest of my life. “Dear Miss Kiramman, this is blah blah blah and we have a great deal now that you can’t miss—’

Billy laughed again, genuinely this time, shaking his head as he spread the shaving cream across his jawline in slow, even strokes, then began to shave, till his phone buzzed sharply on the counter, with Caitlyn’s name lit on the screen.

Billy wiped his hands quickly on the towel, answered on speaker, and set the razor down.
Billy answered on speaker, razor still in hand.
“It’s fine, Caity. I was shaving the beard—trying to see how young I’ll look without the gray. What’s going on?”

Caitlyn’s voice crackled through, half-shouting over helicopter noise and distant sirens.
“I was wondering if you could go to my apartment real quick. Feed and walk Grady. We’re in a standoff operation now—I don’t know if we’ll be home before 7, and he needs to eat. If we’re late, he might turn into a wolf and eat us when we get back.”
Billy paused mid-stroke, placed the razor on the counter then stepped out of the bathroom, walked to the living room, and glanced at the TV.

Fox News Live – Baltimore Affiliate
On-Air Broadcast – Deer Park Road Standoff
[Aerial shot from the Fox News helicopter hovers above the chaos: three Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office Lenco BearCats form an impenetrable steel barricade across the narrow dirt driveway, their armored hulls scarred and pockmarked from earlier impacts. Behind them stretches a massive phalanx of at least 100 marked Interceptors parked in staggered rows along the access road, a sea of flashing red-and-blue lights pulsing like a war zone heartbeat. Smoke billows from the charred brush line, and SWAT operators in full tactical gear huddle behind the vehicles, rifles trained on the cottage 100 yards ahead.]
Reporter (Megan Harlow, live from outer perimeter, wind whipping her hair, voice taut with urgency):
“This is Megan Harlow reporting live from Deer Park Road in Reisterstown, Baltimore County, where an active hostage situation has gripped this quiet rural community. Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office confirms two young boys—Noah and Ethan Hendrick, ages 10 and 11—are believed to be inside that hunting cottage ahead, held by their father, Daniel Hawthorne. This began as a routine welfare check on the boys’ mother, Sarah Hendrick, earlier today amid an active Amber Alert issued after she vanished—only for deputies to unearth her buried alive in a coffin six feet underground in nearby woods. Hendrick was miraculously rescued after her desperate 911 call, gasping that dirt rained down every time she kicked the lid.”
[Cut to grainy bodycam stills: deputies frantically digging under floodlights, prying open a wooden lid, pulling a dirt-streaked Hendrick onto a backboard.]
“But the horror escalated fast. Hawthorne, the subject of Hendrick’s protective order, ambushed responding deputies. From this helicopter view, you can see the grim reality: two fallen sheriff’s deputies—Harold Kirk and Marcus Wu—lie motionless in the open driveway, roughly 100 yards from the BearCats, their bodies exposed in what has become a deadly no-man’s-land. That stretch is sniper heaven for Hawthorne—perfect sightlines, zero cover—turning the front yard into a kill zone where SWAT can’t advance without drawing heavy fire.”
[Helicopter zooms: the two sheet-covered bodies stark on the gravel, flanked by brass casings glinting under spotlights. Faint silhouettes flicker behind the cottage windows—small figures, the Hendrick boys, before curtains snap shut.]
“Adding to the tragedy, 53-year-old neighbor Chris Dare arrived moments before the full standoff, drawn by smoke and gunfire from his nearby property. Witnesses say Dare confronted Hawthorne at the gate, spotted one of the dead deputies, and backed away saying he needed to call authorities—only to be shot with the fallen officer’s own pistol. Dare’s body was recovered and transported to the Sheriff’s Office morgue for autopsy.”
[Quick cut: coroner’s van doors closing on a third body bag near the gate.]
“Baltimore County Sheriff’s TRU Commander Sergeant Mathias Wang is likely orchestrating a high-risk rescue op from the Mercedes-Benz command van on-site. Earlier pushes by the front BearCat were repelled by Hawthorne’s heavily modified rifles—including what deputies describe as anti-materiel fire that shattered the windshield and rocked the 9-ton vehicle back, forcing retreat to the gate. SWAT snipers now hold elevated positions, but retrieving Kirk and Wu’s bodies is priority one to clear the path for BearCats to ram the entrance, breach, and extract the boys—dead or alive for Hawthorne.”
[Live ground shot: SWAT teams inching forward under cover, negotiator’s voice booming from a PA speaker—inaudible over chopper noise.]
Reporter:
“The clock is ticking. Sheriff’s Office urges residents to shelter in place. We’ll stay live as Operation Rooks unfolds. Back to you, studio.”
[Anchor in studio, face ashen:]
“Megan, stay safe out there. Horrific developments. Viewers, we’ll have more as this siege continues.”
[Screen holds on aerial: BearCats unmoving, smoke rising, cottage dark and defiant—100 Interceptors a glowing testament to the mobilized fury behind the line.]

“Say no more, kid,” he said, voice warm but steady. “You do know I’m technically your babysitter, right? I’m the only one who used to drive all the way to your mom’s old place in Coldspring to feed you powdered milk, do tummy time with you on the living-room rug, and push you around the block in that stroller while Cassandra was pulling doubles at BPD and Tobias got called back to the clinic for emergency surgery. And oh my god, you are so adorable when you’re still a two-month-old long potato… 🥹 But anyway, the reason I was a babysitter was simple: I was only working part-time as a deputy back then, so I had the time. Apparently, I was the guy with the most free hours to spend with a two-month-old baby.”
He smiled warmly as the memories of him taking care of her when she was still a baby crept in.

He turned, grabbed his pants from the couch arm, pulled on a black T-shirt, then shrugged into his favorite expensive leather jacket—the one that still smelled faintly of old stage lights and motorcycle exhaust. Last, he snatched the old fedora from the coat rack—the same one he’d bought himself on his twenty-first birthday—and dropped it into his messenger bag.
“Grady gets extra treats for being patient,” he added, already moving toward the garage door (technically the living room, since his warehouse loft had no proper separation). “I’m on my way.”
Caitlyn’s voice softened, relief bleeding through the static.
“Thanks, Uncle Billy. I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing, Caity. Just come home safe. Both of you.”
He ended the call, scooped his motorcycle keys and full-face helmet from the hook by the door, and strode out.
The Harley-Davidson waited in the open space that doubled as garage and living area—black and chrome, low and mean. Billy swung a leg over, pulled the helmet on, and fired the engine. The V-twin rumble filled the loft like thunder trapped indoors.
He glanced once at the TV—Fox still showing the standoff—then twisted the throttle.
The garage door rattled up.
The Harley rolled out into the cold Baltimore night, taillight streaking red as Billy leaned into the curve and accelerated toward Locust Point.

Minutes later, Billy parked the Harley in the guest spot outside Caitlyn and Vi’s building, killed the engine, pulled off his helmet, and placed it onto the handlebars. The cold February air bit his cheeks as he shook out his semi-long hair and pulled out his fedora hat to wear. The gray streaks caught the streetlight—more noticeable than he liked to admit.
He stepped up to the main entrance, then froze.
The lobby door was locked.
He patted his pockets—no spare key.
He stood there in silence for a solid minute, staring at the glass.
Then a memory hit him like a boomerang from thirty years ago.
He’d once teased Cassandra mercilessly after she’d lost her key to their old Maine vacation house. He’d leaned against the doorframe, grinning, and said in his best mock-serious voice:
“Now you’re Miss Ramman… because you don’t have the key anymore hahaha 🤣🤣.” To receive the most murderous glare from her as she told him “Shut up, Mr. Ramman, and now come help me find the key.”

And now, here we are: Mr. Ramman himself, locked out of his niece’s building.
He laughed softly, shaking his head.
“Poetic justice.”
So he stood there for a solid minute as he thought about what to do since he couldn’t just ask his niece to give him her apartment key; she’s working in the woods now. Therefore, he turned his head toward the security desk just inside the glass doors as he thought, “Maybe I can ask the security guard to open the entrance for me.”

But before he could even open his mouth to speak, the older man—thick glasses, uniform shirt slightly wrinkled—looked up from his monitor, did a double-take at Billy’s face, noticing aside from the angular chin, muscular jawline, and stubble, he still looked very similar to the resident here named Caitlyn Kiramman. The same wide blue eyes, sharp nose, thin lips —uncanny, almost eerie.
The guard’s eyes widened for a split second. Then he immediately pressed the buzzer without a word.
The door clicked open.

Billy blinked, surprised, then stepped inside.
The guard smiled widely, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Sir, your niece called minutes ago. Told me to open the gate for a tall man who looks exactly like her—brown long hair, that’s her uncle.” He chuckled. “The shorter woman with short brown hair must be your twin sister. You three look the same!”
Billy nodded, smiling back—awkward but genuine.
“Yeah… we’re identical twins. Technically the same person, just different sexes. But thank you anyway.”
The guard’s smile widened.
“Even your smile is the same as Miss Kiramman’s.”
Billy tipped his fedora hat, then headed for the stairs.

At 6:45 p.m.
By the third floor, Billy was regretting every stair.
He paused on the landing, hands on his waist, breathing hard.
“Old people like me should not be suffering from this long staircase,” he groaned, panting. “Elevators are a human right.”
He pushed on, sweat already beading on his forehead by the time he reached the fifth floor. His hair stuck to his temples; his leather jacket felt like a sauna as he walked for a while till he stood in front of the locked apartment door for about three seconds before remembering.

He squatted down with a small grunt—knees creaking like old floorboards—and flipped the welcome mat over with two fingers.
There it was: a small, silver key taped to the underside, exactly where Caitlyn had told him days ago.
“Hey Uncle Billy,” her voice echoed in his memory, bright and conspiratorial, “next time when you come over to visit us, just flip the mat. Our spare key’s underneath it. Don’t tell Vi—she’ll kill me for not using the lockbox.”
Billy chuckled under his breath, peeled the tape, pocketed the key, and straightened up.
He jammed it into the lock, twisted, and the door clicked open.

The moment he stepped inside, a large golden blur launched from the hallway.
Grady—still half-asleep, ears flopping—froze for a heartbeat, furrowed his brows like he was trying to solve a puzzle, then broke into the classic golden retriever welcome grin: tongue lolling, tail wagging so hard his whole back end wiggled.
He trotted one happy circle around Billy’s legs, then jumped up with his front paws on Billy’s chest to lick his face.

But Grady’s aim was off as his broad golden head connected squarely with Billy’s groin with full force.

“Oh my—” Billy wheezed, eyes bulging.
He folded like wet paper, dropping to his knees, then rolling sideways onto the floor with both hands cupped protectively over his crotch. The pain radiated in hot waves—sharp, nauseating, familiar.

A memory flashed: Caitlyn at five months old, bouncing happily in his lap while he held her under the armpits. One over-enthusiastic kick with her chubby little foot, she’d nailed him right in the family jewels. He’d rolled off the couch that day too, gasping like a fish, while Cassandra laughed so hard she nearly dropped the baby bottle.

Grady, oblivious, tilted his head, then licked Billy’s cheek in apology—big, wet, concerned swipes.
Billy groaned through gritted teeth.
“Yeah… yeah, I forgive you, buddy. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
After about thirty seconds of slow breathing and gentle rocking, the sharp agony dulled to a deep, throbbing ache.
Billy pushed himself up to a sitting position—back against the wall, legs splayed—and looked at Grady.
The golden retriever sat in front of him, tail still sweeping the floor like a metronome, head tilted, brown eyes wide and full of innocent love.
Billy’s face cracked into a thousand wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—laugh lines deepening as his heart melted all over again.
“Aww, Grady… you are so damn cute,” he said softly, reaching out to rub the dog’s silky golden fur. “I wish I could bring you to my warehouse loft to visit my miniature Doberman, but I don’t think she’d like having other dogs around her. She’s a territorial little bastard.”
Grady leaned into the scratches, eyes half-closing in bliss, tail thumping harder.
Billy sighed—fond, tired—and pushed himself to his feet.
“Come on, handsome. Let’s get you fed before you stage a coup.”
Grady trotted ahead to the kitchen, stopping at his empty bowl and looking back expectantly.

Billy then stood in the narrow kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, staring at the overhead cabinet that was—unfortunately—exactly at eye level for his 6’1” frame. He reached up, opened the door, and pulled down the large bag of kibble.
Grady sat at his feet, tail sweeping slow arcs across the tile, eyes fixed on the bag with patient golden intensity.
Billy looked down at him, then back at the bag.
He sighed—long, fond, the sigh of someone who’d seen too many sad fridges in his life.
“Buddy,” he said softly, crouching to Grady’s level, “it’s not very healthy for you to eat this every day. Come on, let me make you something real tonight.”
Grady tilted his head, ears flopping, then gave one short, hopeful bark.
Billy straightened, opened the refrigerator, and immediately shook his head.

Frozen pizzas. Microwave burritos. A half-empty carton of milk is pushing its expiration date. A sad bag of wilted carrots. A few takeout containers that had been there long enough to earn squatters’ rights. The only healthy foods were just the ones he had prepped for them days ago when she and Vi visited the Kiramman household in the harbor, but now it was empty as well.

He closed the door with a quiet click.
“Unacceptable,” he muttered.

He grabbed his leather jacket from the chair back, settled the fedora on his head, and clipped Grady’s leash to his collar. Then he picked up the spare house key from the counter.
Grady bounced once with his tail wagging furiously, and he already understood the word “walk.”
Billy smiled faintly, despite the tiredness he had from walking the staircase of Hell for someone who reached their 60s, and opened the door.
“Come on, kid. Let’s get you some proper food. And maybe stock this place so your moms don’t starve when they finally get home.”

As they walked down, Billy talked to Grady the way he used to talk to Caitlyn when she was three—holding his giant hand while she clutched his pinky with her tiny fist.
“You’re getting chicken tonight. Fresh. Pumpkin, sweet potato, and carrots too—real ones, not whatever’s growing fuzz in that crisper. Maybe some steak scraps if the butcher’s feeling generous. Then we’ll grab veggies, pasta, rice, and some good meat for your mom. Cait’s too skinny… always has been. She runs on coffee and adrenaline. And VI’s body is what I call healthy except a bit too bulky, her arms are wow, she must be very strong. But still looking at that fridge gives me a headache…They need real food, not cardboard boxes.”
Grady barked once, shortly and joyfully then leaned his full weight against Billy’s leg, looking up with pure adoration.
Billy scratched behind his ears.
“Hold tight, kid. Uncle Billy’s got dinner covered.”

Many walks later…
Billy walked Grady down the quiet sidewalk, leash loose in his hand, the golden retriever trotting happily beside him with ears flopping and tail sweeping wide arcs. The local market was only three blocks away, but Billy slowed as they passed the small ice cream shop on the corner — the one with the striped awning and the chalkboard menu that always smelled faintly of waffle cones even in winter.
He stopped.
Grady stopped too, looking up at him with that classic golden expression: head tilted, tongue lolling, eyes bright with hope.
Billy glanced at the small white chalk letters on the black menu board then leaned forward slightly, squinting hard. His ocean blue eyes narrowed to slits.
He stood there for a solid minute, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, trying to make the fuzzy text sharpen.

But it didn’t.

A quiet sigh slipped out — not dramatic, just tired and honest.
Part of him still refused to admit he was sixty now. Not the thirty-four-year-old who used to scoop baby Caitlyn up in one arm and bounce her while she giggled then grab his nose and his hair. Not the man who could read fine print under streetlights without a second thought.
Age had crept in slowly, sneakily, and now the small fonts on menus, labels, and phone screens were its favorite battleground.
He reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, pulled out the slim black reading glasses he’d started carrying six years ago (after one too many squinting sessions in grocery aisles), and slid them on.

The world snapped into focus.
Belgian chocolate with cookie crumble.
Vanilla.
Pup cup option: plain vanilla, no toppings.

Billy smiled fondly and stepped up to the window.
“One Belgian chocolate with cookie crumble on top, and a pup cup — plain vanilla, please.”
The teenage girl behind the counter smiled back, recognizing Grady immediately.
“Coming right up! He’s a regular sweetheart.”
Billy paid, took the two cups, and crouched down on the sidewalk beside Grady.
He held the pup cup low.
Grady dove in — tongue lapping frantically, tail wagging so hard it thumped against Billy’s knee.
Billy laughed softly, patting the golden head.
“Don’t eat so quickly, buddy. You’ll get brain freeze.”
Grady ignored him completely — snout buried in the cup, making happy little snuffling noises.
Billy took a slow spoonful of his own — rich chocolate melting on his tongue — then ruffled Grady’s ears again, fingers sinking into the thick, silky fur.
The more he scratched, the wider Grady’s doggy smile became — tongue lolling sideways, eyes half-closed in bliss, as if to say:
Billy is my second-favorite grandpa. Right after Tobias.
Billy’s chest warmed.
“Yeah… you’re spoiled rotten, aren’t you?”
Grady joyfully barked once then went right back to the cup.

At 7:05 PM

Meanwhile, as the “hurry up and wait” phase had stretched into its second hour.
Caitlyn and Vi were crouched behind the rear fender of an Interceptor — high-ready position, AR-15s shouldered, barrels trained on the distant cottage windows through the gaps between BearCat armor. The cold had seeped into their joints; Vi’s left arm was starting to tremble from holding the rifle steady so long.
Vi exhaled sharply through her nose, voice barely above a whisper.
“Give me some damn action already. This is straight-up boring and my arm hurts from staying in this position for so long.”
Caitlyn didn’t take her eyes off the cottage.
“Things can end easily if it wasn’t our SWAT sniper who saw one of the kids holding a rifle at the window and shooting at us. Trust me—if it was just Hawthorne with the anti-materiel rifle, I could shoot a headshot through the scope.”
Vi huffed a quiet laugh.
“Dude, I bet you could promote to sergeant safely like Wang does if you do.”
Caitlyn exhaled sharply through her nose — almost a snort.
“Then I’d have to work alone in the unit sergeant's office. I’d miss hearing you talk about random jokes you come up with… as we were supposed to hurry up to send out our report to the DA.” Cait facepalmed as Vi grinned in the dark, teeth flashing briefly under the faint glow of the Interceptor’s interior light.

Before she could fire back, the low rumble of another vehicle cut through the night.
A Ford Interceptor with no lights, no siren rolled up the access road and stopped just behind the command post.

The driver’s door opened.
Sheriff Grayson stepped out.

Tall, broad-shouldered, cowboy hat low over her eyes, uniform shirt tucked into dark jeans, plate carrier over the top, badge gleaming under the helicopter spotlights. She looked like she’d walked straight out of an 1880s Western and into 2014 law enforcement. Her presence alone shifted the air as all of the deputies straightened unconsciously, radios quieted, and even the wind seemed to pause.

She walked straight to Sergeant Wang, voice low but carrying. “I’ve never seen something this big, Wang. Bring Cat Alpha and Charlie to the side of Hawthorne’s house for a distraction. We’ll ram the gate down once ‘the Rooks’ arrive. Phase 1 of Operation Firecaster starts then. No more waiting.”
Wang then nodded sharply. “Copy, Sheriff. Cat Alpha is moving now.”
Grayson’s eyes swept the line of deputies then she keyed her radio. “All units, stand by. Rooks ETA ten minutes. Prepare for breach on my mark.”

Vi leaned sideways until her lips were almost touching Caitlyn’s ear.
“What’s the Rooks?”
Caitlyn kept her eyes on the cottage, voice barely audible.
“It’s a bulldozer. We only bring it out when someone refuses to come out and surrender.”
Vi’s eyes widened slightly — impressed, a little unnerved.
“Damn. So we’re going in hard.”
Caitlyn nodded once. “Yeah. No more games. Hawthorne had all the chances we had given him, but yet he decided not to, this is what he deserves”
They both went quiet again — rifles steady, breathing slow.
Above them, the news chopper and State Trooper 1 kept circling — spotlights sweeping the woods like searchlights in a prison yard.

Operation Firecaster – 7:15 PM

As Cait’s Uncle—Billy finally returned to the apartment carrying two heavy canvas bags filled with groceries: fresh chicken thighs, crisp carrots, fluffy brown rice, vibrant green beans, ground turkey, a dozen eggs, sweet potatoes, and a small pack of steak scraps from the butcher who recognized Grady, who always dragged Caitlyn to look at raw chicken as he prepares for the day with his classic golden retriever smile. The butcher, recognizing the loyal dog, threw in some extras for free. As Billy climbed the stairs again, he wished he were thirty years younger, watching Grady eagerly run ahead, as if saying, “Why are you so slow? Keep up!” Billy muttered to himself through every pant, “You’ll understand how painful it is to climb so many stairs when you’re old like me, kiddo.”

Minutes later, back in Caitlyn and Vi’s apartment kitchen, Billy moved through the space as if he’d done it a thousand times before. Grady sat patiently by the counter, eyes fixed intently on every move Billy made.

As Billy boiled chicken and rice together, steamed carrots and green beans, and mixed in a little turkey for added protein, the quiet of the apartment made him uncomfortable. To distract himself, he turned on the TV using the remote placed on the counter, tuning into a live broadcast of Fox News, which immediately captured his full attention as he waited for the food to cook.

Inside the television, the standoff had already bled into its third hour of tense stalemate when Sheriff Grayson finally stepped forward under the converging spotlights of two helicopters. Her cowboy hat cast a long shadow across her face as she keyed the command net one last time.
“All units, this is Sheriff Grayson. Operation Firecaster is green. We end this tonight. Execute phases on my mark.”
Caitlyn and Vi who are still crouched high-ready behind their Interceptor, tightened their grips on their AR-15s. The cold had long since seeped into their joints; Vi’s left forearm trembled from holding position. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to.
Phase 1 – Diversion & Repositioning
7:22 PM
“Cat Bravo, Cat Charlie — ram east and west fence lines on my mark. Force the target to reposition. Cat Alpha holds the front gate. Mark.”
Two BearCat armored vehicles surged forward simultaneously from opposite flanks — Bravo accelerating along the treeline toward the east wall, Charlie mirroring on the west.
Engines roared. Tires chewed frozen earth.
At Grayson’s final “Mark!”, both vehicles slammed into the chain-link perimeter fence at 35 mph.
Metal shrieked. Posts bent like straw. Sections of fence collapsed inward in twin explosions of dust, sparks, and twisted wire.
Instantly, muzzle flashes erupted from multiple cottage windows — Hawthorne and at least one of the boys pivoting to engage the new threats.
Cat Alpha remained static at the front gate, drawing no fire.
The diversion succeeded.
Grayson’s voice crackled again:
“Target repositioning confirmed. Phase 1 complete. Stand by Phase 2.”
Phase 2 – Recovery of Fallen Deputies
7:28 PM
“Cat Alpha — advance and recover. Covering fire from Bravo and Charlie. Go.”
Cat Alpha lurched forward with its heavy grille punching through the already-breached front gate with a metallic crunch.
Two deputies rode in the open rear compartment: one on each side, rifles braced, laying down rapid suppressive bursts toward the cottage windows.
The vehicle rolled straight to the fallen bodies of Harold and Marcus — both still lying where they had dropped, 100 yards inside the perimeter.

The recovery team moved like they had practiced it a hundred times with the first deputy dropped to one knee, rifle up, providing cover, Second deputy dismounted, grabbed Harold under the arms, and dragged him to the rear hatch.

Then the first deputy switched to cover; the second went back for Marcus and eventually both bodies were pulled inside in under 25 seconds.

Hatch slammed.
Cat Alpha reversed hard with tires spinning, gravel spraying to retreat behind the BearCat line under continued covering fire from Bravo and Charlie.
Radio crackled through everyone’s earpiece. “Alpha to command — Harold and Marcus recovered. Returning to staging. Both KIA confirmed. Over”
Caitlyn’s jaw clenched as Vi whispered:
“At least they’re not out there anymore.”

And inside the duo’s apartment, Billy moved through Caitlyn and Vi’s small kitchen with quiet efficiency.
Grady sat at his feet, patiently and attentively watching every motion with wide golden eyes.
Billy had just finished portioning the fresh meal he’d cooked: shredded chicken thigh, steamed carrots and green beans, brown rice, and a few steak scraps the butcher had slipped him for free (“for the good boy”).
He added an extra handful of scraps on top as Grady had earned them carrying one of the canvas bags up five flights of stairs without complaint.
He set the bowl down gently.
Grady dove in with his tail wagging so hard it thumped rhythmically against the lower cabinets like a metronome set to maximum joy.
Billy smiled softly and ruffled the golden head.
“Good boy. Eat slow.”
Grady ignored him completely as his snout buried deep, making happy snuffling noises.
Billy turned to plate the rest for the two large glass containers for Caitlyn and Vi.
He labeled them neatly with a black Sharpie he found in the junk drawer:
Chicken & rice + veggies. Reheat gently. Eat. Love you both.
—Uncle B & Grady
He slid them into the fridge, closed the door, and paused.
His eyes drifted to the small TV on the counter — still tuned to Fox News, volume low.
Grainy aerial footage played on loop:
Two sheet-covered bodies are being lifted from the dirt driveway.
Deputies moving carefully, respectfully.
Body bags zipped shut.
Stretchers were carried back to waiting vehicles.
Billy’s throat tightened.
He reached out to turn the volume up just enough to hear the reporter’s voice without hesitation.
“…two Baltimore County deputies, Harold Kirk and Marcus Wu, were killed in the line of duty earlier this evening. Their bodies have now been recovered and are being transported for autopsy and next of kin notification…”

Billy’s vision suddenly blurred as he saw himself at 38 years old, in Baltimore-Washington International Airport’s Cargo Terminal —— Private Viewing Area

Aiden’s casket was simple — polished mahogany, American flag draped across the lid, the small brass plate already engraved:
Aiden Joseph Quinn
June 22, 1959 – August 17, 1996
An honorable Marine and reliable Deputy
who served with courage and loyalty
in the United States Marine Corps
and the Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office

Sheriff Norman M. Pepersack, Jr. had written the note himself in his careful, deliberate hand. A single index card, tucked beneath a spray of white lilies and red roses:
A born Brit with true American spirit, Courage and never back down
— Sheriff Norman M. Pepersack, Jr.
Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office
August 1996

Billy stood alone at the edge of the cargo bay, still in his dress khaki uniform — tie straight, badge polished, gloves immaculate.
The rest of the Motorcycle unit had already paid their respects at the funeral two days earlier: three-volley salute, bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace” and “Flower of Scotland” in quiet succession, the mournful drone of the pipes carrying across the cemetery like a lament from Aiden’s birthplace.

Billy had stood rigid through all of it, jaw locked, eyes dry until the final note faded — then the tears came, silent and unstoppable, soaking the collar of his shirt while no one saw.
Now at the airport where there are only Aiden’s mother —— Bertha Hardy crying as she clutched a folded Union Jack flag to her chest as she muttered “my boy Aiden, you should’ve come back to London with me…. Why…. God has to take my only son away from me…”
Just the low hum of jet engines warming up on the tarmac, the smell of jet fuel and hot asphalt, and the casket waiting to be loaded into the cargo hold of a British Airways freighter bound for London Heathrow.
Billy stepped forward and placed his gloved right hand flat on the polished wood just above the sheriff’s note. His fingers splayed wide as if he could still feel Aiden’s heartbeat through the lid.
His voice came out low, cracked, barely above a whisper.
“Your shift today has ended, my friend. It’s time to clock out.”
A tear slipped free — then another — tracing silent paths down his cheeks.
He didn’t wipe them away.
He glanced at the engraved dates — 1959 to 1996 — and felt something inside him fracture all over again.

Thirty-seven
At thirty-seven his life was ended tragically in a crash.

Billy leaned down slowly until his forehead rested against the cool, unyielding surface.
The chill seeped into his skin, grounding him and breaking him all at once.
He spoke with a voice so low it barely carried over the distant whine of jet engines warming up on the apron.
“You once told me… we’d never be apart. No matter what. You said it in that stupid pub on Pratt Street after our first double shift together. ‘Lad,’ you said, ‘Marines don’t die easy, and neither do we. We’ll always have each other’s six.’”

A tremor ran through his shoulders.
“And now you’re leaving me… back to the place where you were born… lifelessly.”
He pressed his forehead harder against the wood as if he could force the words through the lid, through the flag, through the impossible distance.
“Please tell me it was just a horrible joke. Tell me you’ll stand up right now, brush the dirt off your uniform, look at me with that smug grin of yours, and say, ‘Stop crying so easily, Sheep. Marines don’t die so easily. I’ve been in worse car crashes than this, lad.’”

Silence.

Only the low, mechanical hum of the cargo bay, the occasional clank of distant equipment, and the wind moving across the open apron outside.

No laughter anymore.
No teasing British lilt calling him “Sheep” anymore.
No warm hand ruffling his hair anymore.
Just the echo of Aiden’s bright, alive voice in Billy’s own mind repeating the same line from a memory that refused to fade:
“Marines don’t die easy, lad. Neither do we.”
Billy’s ragged breath hitched wetly.
The tears came harder now sliding down his cheeks, dripping onto the polished mahogany, leaving dark spots on the flag’s white stars.
Then soft footsteps appeared behind him.
He straightened just enough to see the person.

Turn around he saw Aiden’s mother Bertha Hardy whose silver-haired, eyes were red-rimmed but steady.
She wore a simple black coat, a Union Jack folded into a perfect triangle cradled in her arms like something fragile and sacred.
She stopped beside Billy, gaze fixed on the casket for a long moment.
Then she turned to him.
“You must be Billy Jean Kiramman,” she said quietly, voice still carrying traces of Brighton even after all these years in America. “My son always mentioned you on the phone. Thank you… for taking care of my boy Aiden. I hope he didn’t bring you excessive trouble with his unserious attitude.”
Billy swallowed hard as his throat got too tight to speak at first but still he managed a small nod.
“He… he was the best partner I ever had,” he whispered. “The best friend.”
Bertha’s eyes softened while glistening.
She held out the folded Union Jack.
“You should have this with you. You were the only friend he trusted entirely and wholeheartedly.”
Billy took it with shaking hands — the fabric cool and heavy, the colors vivid even in the dim light.
He clutched it to his chest with his fingers curling tight as if he could hug Aiden one last time through the cloth.
“Thank you,” he breathed.
Bertha touched his arm gently and briefly then stepped back.

The cargo crew chief respectfully cleared his throat again but time was pressing.
Billy nodded once and watched as the forklift whirred to life.
The casket rose slowly and carefully and slid into the belly of the British Airways freighter.
Billy stood motionless with Union Jack pressed against his heart as the cargo door closed with a final hydraulic sigh.

The engines spooled up — a low roar building to a scream.
The plane taxied, turned onto the runway, and accelerated.
Wheels lifted.
The silver fuselage climbed into the late-summer sky, banked north, shrank to a glinting speck against the clouds… then vanished completely.
Billy waited until the last possible second until the sky was empty again then whispered to the empty air, voice cracking:
“In a perfect world… we could’ve been together in England. In London or Brighton. Anywhere quiet. Just you and me. No badges. No pursuits. No crashes.” His throat closed.
“But you left me here… in this suffering place… alone in this world instead.”

The tears fell again not only dripping onto the folded Union Jack in his hands but in the reality where he left him for 18 years. He wiped them away with the back of his wrist, careful not to let any fall on the counter.
Grady looked up from his bowl as he sensed the shift and padded over.
He pressed his warm golden head against Billy’s thigh, tail slowing to a gentle sway.
Billy dropped to one knee, wrapped both arms around the dog’s thick neck, and buried his face in soft fur.
“Yeah… I know, buddy,” he whispered. “They’re clocking out too,”
Grady whined softly and licked Billy’s cheek once.
Billy exhaled shakily but steadily and stood again to turn the TV off with Grady to rest his head comfortably on Billy’s thighs.

Phase 3 – Structural Breach with Rooks
7:45 PM
The standoff had stretched into a numb, endless vigil.
Caitlyn and Vi remained crouched behind the Interceptor’s rear fender, rifles shouldered but barrels lowered slightly — the cottage windows still dark, no movement, no sound except the occasional crackle of the burning brush and the distant thump of helicopter rotors overhead.
Caitlyn’s arms ached from holding a position.
She let the AR-15 rest against her thigh for a moment, rolling her shoulders, and glanced sideways at Vi.
The helicopter spotlights swept across them again as the harsh white beams cut through the smoke and for a second Vi’s dark red hair caught the light in a way Caitlyn hadn’t noticed before.
It looked… lighter.
Almost strawberry blonde at the tips and crown, copper highlights glinting like embers.
Caitlyn tilted her head.
“Why does your hair look strawberry blonde right now?” she whispered, voice low enough not to carry past their cover. “Under the spotlight it’s… different.”
Vi didn’t take her eyes off the cottage, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
“Because copper red hair does this all the time,” she murmured back, rifle still strapped across her chest, finger indexed along the frame. “I don’t know why, but in winter it’s dark red — almost brown. In summer, the sun bleaches it out. Turns blonde at the ends. Strawberry blonde if I’m outside a lot.”
She shrugged one shoulder — the motion barely visible under her plate carrier.
“Guess the spotlight’s doing the same thing the sun does. Highlights the lighter bits.”
Caitlyn studied her for another second with the way the harsh white light pulled gold and copper from Vi’s normally deep auburn strands then nodded once.
“Makes sense. You look good either way.”
Vi’s smirk widened, but she kept her gaze forward.
“Flirt later, Corporal. We’ve got a cottage to stare at.”
Caitlyn exhaled a quiet laugh — the first real one in hours — and raised her rifle again.

Then the night shifted.

As a low, mechanical rumble rolled up the access road — deep, guttural, growing louder.
Two matte-black bulldozers “the Rooks” emerged from the darkness like armored beasts, blades lowered, sheriff stars stenciled on the front plates catching the helicopter spotlights in dull glints.

Vi’s eyes narrowed.
“Here we go.”
Caitlyn’s grip tightened on her AR-15.
“Phase 3. Finally— as I was starting to count sheep a minute ago” 🐑💤

Then Grayson’s voice — calm, final crackled their earpieces: “Rooks, commence breach. Collapse the east and west walls. Force immediate surrender and child release. Go.”
The bulldozers advanced in unison — slow, unstoppable.
The first blade bit into the east wall near the living-room corner. Wood splintered. Framing cracked.
The west wall followed seconds later — a second thunderous crunch as the second Rook tore into the structure.
Inside, Hawthorne’s rifle cracked repeatedly — high-velocity rounds pinging harmlessly off the reinforced cabs and blades.
The children’s silhouettes appeared briefly at the shattered front window — small, terrified, waving their arms in panic.
Grayson activated the loudspeaker:
“Daniel Hawthorne. Release the children now. Come out with your hands up. This ends tonight.”
No response except another burst of rifle fire.
The Rooks kept pushing as half the east wall buckled inward.

While the roof groaned ominously the dust and debris rained down like a storm.
Caitlyn and Vi remained crouched behind the Interceptor’s rear fender, rifles lowered but still in hand, barrels pointed toward the dark cottage windows. The cold had settled deep into their bones; Vi’s left arm trembled faintly from holding position for hours.
Vi broke the silence first — voice a low, restless whisper.
“Come on, Cait. It’s only one hour. It’s not gonna take long. I know you want to stay on the sofa and scroll your phone more, but you can scroll it while you ride the gym bike. Besides… gym date seems really fun. We barely have time to date anymore. Remember last time we had a day off? How did we get called back to the office because of a domestic violence case?”
Caitlyn didn’t look away from the half-destroyed cottage.
She exhaled softly through her nose.
“I remember that. I used to still think about where to go for a date… but now I’m grateful if I can at least sit down to finish my lunch within
thirty minutes and go home to Pat Grady.”

A beat of quiet.
Then — quieter:
“You know what? Fine. We’ll go there once this case ends.”
Vi’s eyes lit up — bright, almost childlike in the dark.
“Yes. You’ll love it. I always dream about teaching you boxing and jiu-jitsu in the gym. I really want to see how good you are at calisthenics—”
Caitlyn deadpanned without turning her head.
“It’s not good, buddy. I can do handstands and contortions, but bench press? I can’t press shit.”
Vi laughed delightfully and low-pitched.
“Nah, I don’t believe that. I mean, look at those deltoids—”
She reached over casually — gloved fingers pressing gently against Caitlyn’s left shoulder through the jacket.
Even under layers, the muscle was unmistakable: round, capped, hard as stone from years of handstands and straight-arm loading.
“So muscular,” Vi muttered, voice dropping with genuine awe and a little heart-eyed reverence.
Caitlyn’s ears went faintly pink.
“Compared to you, my muscles are nothing, Vi. Not gonna lie — I actually want to see you wear the summer uniform. I bet your biceps will pop under those sleeves… hot.”
Vi grinned wider, about to reply—
Caitlyn’s phone buzzed softly in her vest pocket.
She fished it out — careful not to break cover — and glanced at the screen.
A photo from Steb: hospital bed, thumb up, goofy grin despite the bandages and IV line.
Loris beside him — soot-streaked face, looking like he’d just crawled out of a mineshaft, but smiling too.
Caitlyn’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“Glad they’re fine,” she whispered. “We need to visit them later.”
Vi nodded — soft, serious for once.
“Yeah. As soon as this is over.”

They both went quiet again — rifles steady, eyes on the cottage.
Then Grayson’s voice cut across the radio net — calm, final, carrying the weight of command:
“SWAT, Phase 4. Breach and clear. Arrest or neutralize. Rescue the children. Move.”

Through the duo’s rifle scope, three six-man SWAT teams advanced under heavy covering fire from the BearCats.
Flashbangs rolled through broken windows.
Simultaneous detonations — white light, deafening cracks.
Teams flowed in through the front door and the collapsed side walls.

Inside, it was chaos.
The cottage had been turned into an arsenal: rifles propped at every window, ammo boxes stacked near doorways, tripwires rigged across hallways.
Hawthorne and at least one boy were barricaded in the master bedroom.
The first team reached the bedroom door.
Flashbang tossed in.
Breach.
The moment the door swung open, immediate gunfire from inside.
Three SWAT deputies staggered back — one clutching a grazed arm, another limping from a leg hit, the third helped by a teammate with a shoulder wound.
Radio:
“Officers down — non-lethal. Hawthorne and the juvenile opened fire from the bedroom. Threat engaged.”
A brief, brutal exchange — suppressed SWAT carbines vs. Hawthorne’s hunting rifle.
Then silence.
Radio crackled:
“Bedroom clear. Suspect deceased. Two juveniles secured.”

Inside the Bedroom – SWAT Bodycam Perspective
Deputy Kelly who was the first through the door after the final burst, froze for half a heartbeat.
Hawthorne lay on his back near the window with his chest torn open by multiple center-mass rounds, rifle still clutched in one stiff hand.
Beside him, the kids were both sobbing, both clinging to their father’s shirt, small hands soaked in blood.
Noah looked up at Kelly through tears, voice cracking:
“Why did you have to kill our dad? He just wanted to protect us…”
Nathan pressed his face harder into Hawthorne’s side, crying harder.
Kelly lowered his carbine slowly with his barrel pointed at the floor and knelt.
His voice came out gentle, steady, despite the blood on his gloves.
“Because he killed our deputies. A neighbor. Tried to kill your mom too. They had families. Children like you. Everything he did was wrong.”
The boys cried harder — confusion, grief, fear all tangled together.
Kelly keyed his radio softly:
“Two juveniles secured. Emotional. Father deceased. Request child services and medical on scene. Over”

Deer Park Road – Front Gate Staging Area
≈8:55 PM
The standoff had ended in violence, but the aftermath stretched on like a slow, heavy exhale.
Caitlyn and Vi remained at their post — rifles now slung low, shoulders aching, eyes still scanning the shattered cottage even though the threat was gone.
An unmarked Interceptor rolled past them slowly, rear doors open, two small figures visible in the back seat: Noah and Nathan Hendrick — handcuffed, heads bowed, faces pale under the helicopter spotlights.
Neither boy looked up.
Vi’s whisper was barely audible over the crunch of tires.
“Why are they in handcuffs? They’re just kids…”
Caitlyn’s jaw tightened so hard the muscle jumped under her skin.
“They were manipulated. Gaslit. Turned into shooters. By their own father.”
Vi exhaled heavily — the sound raw, tired.
The long, painful journey of standing guard had begun: securing the scene, waiting for CID detectives, preserving evidence, writing reports that would take hours.

Crime Scene Processing – 8:55 PM onward
The cottage was now a hive of controlled activity.
Yellow crime-scene tape ringed the entire property.
Portable floodlights on tripods turned night into artificial day, casting long, harsh shadows across splintered wood and broken glass.
Detectives in Tyvek suits moved in and out of the front door like ghosts — each carrying evidence bags sealed with red tape.
Rifles, handguns, ammunition boxes, spent casings — all tagged, photographed, bagged, and carried back to waiting unmarked sedans.
Caitlyn and Vi were tasked with helping move heavier items.
They carried ammo crates — two each — from the collapsed east wall to the evidence van.
Vi hefted hers with ease, muscles flexing under her sleeves; Caitlyn matched her stride for stride, arms steady despite the long night.

As they set the crates down, they noticed two figures standing motionless near a dense clump of bushes 20 yards from the cottage’s rear corner: one detective in plainclothes, one in a ballistic vest marked “TECHNICIAN.”
Both were staring down at something hidden in the undergrowth.
Curiosity tugged as Caitlyn and Vi drifted closer casually, like they were just stretching their legs until they could see a small hunting blind with camouflaged canvas, barely big enough for one child-sized person had been dug into the brush.

Beside it was a narrow tunnel, no wider than a child’s shoulders, leading back toward the cottage foundation.
Freshly disturbed earth.
A few shell casings glint in the floodlight.
The ballistic technician crouched, gloved hands parting branches.

“The size of this spot was small enough for a very small shooter…”
The detective beside him exhaled through his nose.
“So you’re saying it was either one of the kids who killed Harold?”
The technician stood, brushing dirt from his knees.
“Can be. We need to wait for Harold’s autopsy report. If the bullet trajectories and wound channels match the rifle one of the kids was holding… fingerprints, GSR on their hands, residue patterns… it’ll tell us.”
He looked back at the tunnel.
“But this? This was a prepared sniper hide. Adult size wouldn’t fit without widening it. A child could crawl through easily.”

Caitlyn and Vi exchanged a single, grim look.
Vi muttered under her breath as they walked back toward the evidence van, ammo crates now empty in their hands.
“Wow, Cait… not gonna lie, I’d love to see them in a court trial. To see where they’re gonna end up.”
Caitlyn’s voice stayed level — cold, professional — but her eyes were hard.
“If they really killed our deputy and injured three more, they’ll be both treated as adult criminals and go to adult court instead of juvenile court. Either way, our county prison is the only place they’ll have to be. Now it all depends on the DA reading the report we’ll have to write and whether they charge them with the highest felony or not…”
Vi nodded slowly.
They both fell silent again.
In the distance, the Rooks sat idle now with blades caked with wood splinters and drywall dust.
The cottage was half-collapsed, roof sagging like a broken spine.
The boys were gone — cuffed, crying, escorted away.
Hawthorne was zipped in a body bag inside.
And the long paperwork night had only just begun.

Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office – Autopsy Suite
At 9:30 PM
The corridor outside the autopsy room smelled of bleach, cold metal, and something faintly metallic that neither Caitlyn nor Vi wanted to name.
They stood shoulder to shoulder in full uniform, duty belts still clipped with radio and PTT mic on the shoulder, but plate carriers removed and left in their chairs. Surgical masks hung loosely around their necks; nitrile gloves were already on. Both were breathing through their mouths as it would somehow make the air less cold.
Vi rocked once on her heels, arms crossed tight over her chest.
“It should be Steb and Loris standing here right now,” she muttered. “Working on their part of the report while we’re stuck doing this. Goddamn it, they’re both in the hospital and we’re not only writing how Sarah was saved, but we also have to watch this. Oh my fucking—also why is this place so damn cold???”

Caitlyn didn’t answer.
Her jaw was locked, eyes fixed on the frosted glass door.
She could already feel the chill seeping through her boots, up her calves, into her spine.
Then the door swung open as Dr. Brock with green scrubs and face permanently set in the neutral calm of someone who has seen worse, looked at them both over the top of his mask.
“Stop whining and come on in,” he said flatly. “We start with Deputy Harold. Then Marcus.”

They followed him inside.
The room was brighter than expected — surgical lights, stainless steel tables, wall-mounted scales, the low hum of refrigeration units.
Two bodies lay under sheets on parallel tables.
The air smelled of formalin and iron.
Dr. Brock pulled the sheet back from the first table.
Harold Kirk.
The entry wound was small — a neat 5.56 mm hole almost exactly centered in the forehead, just above the bridge of the nose.
No exit wound visible from this angle.
Caitlyn’s stomach gave a warning lurch.
Vi’s gloved hand twitched at her side.
Brock picked up a scalpel and began the Y-incision — calm, practiced, almost classroom-like in his delivery.
“Single high-velocity rifle round, likely 5.56 NATO based on wound diameter and tissue destruction. Entry wound shows typical beveling — inward bevel on the outer table, outward on the inner table — confirming direction of travel front-to-back.”
He switched to the oscillating saw.
The high-pitched whine filled the room.
Caitlyn felt it in her teeth as the saw cut through the skull in a neat circle around the entry wound.
Bone dust drifted down like fine snow.
Brock lifted the calvaria away.
The brain was a ruin — a liquefied crater where the bullet had tumbled through the frontal lobe, crossed midline, shredded the anterior cingulate and corpus callosum, and lodged deep in the left parietal lobe.
“Projectile entered superior frontal gyrus,” Brock continued, voice level, “transected both anterior cerebral arteries, caused massive intracerebral hemorrhage and immediate pressure increase. Death was instantaneous — cerebral ischemia and herniation within seconds. He never felt the impact. Lights out before pain signals could reach consciousness.”
He reached in with forceps, extracted the deformed bullet — copper-jacketed, mushroomed, streaked with gray matter — and dropped it into a metal tray with a soft plink.
Caitlyn’s forehead throbbed in sympathetic pain.
Vi swallowed audibly.
Brock slid Harold’s body back into the cooler — drawer closed with a heavy metallic clunk — then pulled the second drawer open.

Marcus Wu.
The entry wound was identical — a clean 5.56 mm hole, center forehead.
But tear streaks still marked his cheeks — dried, salt-white trails from eyes that had been open when the bullet hit.
Caitlyn’s stomach flipped while Vi’s hands shook as she lifted her phone to take the required scene photos.
Brock turned the head gently to show the exit wound.
A massive, star-shaped exit defect — roughly 8 cm wide — had blown out the back of the skull.
Bone fragments, scalp, hair, brain matter — all ejected backward in a cone of destruction.
“Same round. Close range — muzzle approximately 30–60 cm based on stippling and burn pattern. A bullet entered the frontal bone, fragmented on impact with the inner table, and caused explosive hydrostatic shock through the cranial vault. Brain essentially liquified. Instantaneous death, same as Harold.”

He used the saw again.
The whine returned.
When the calvaria came off, what remained of Marcus’s brain looked like wet gray glue — pulverized, unrecognizable, splattered against the inside of the skull vault like someone had thrown a bucket of oatmeal at a wall.
Vi’s camera hand trembled so badly that the photo came out blurred.
Caitlyn turned sharply, stumbled two steps to the biohazard trash can beside the sink, ripped her mask off, and vomited hard and violently, stomach empty after hours without food.

Vi lowered the phone, eyes glassy.
Brock didn’t react — he’d seen worse.
He simply continued dictating into the overhead recorder.
“…cause of death: penetrating craniocerebral gunshot wound. Manner: homicide.”
He sealed the skull cap back in place with a few sutures, covered Marcus, and slid the drawer shut.
Silence settled — thick, sour
Brock peeled off his gloves dropped them in the bin then walked back to his office as he signalled the deputies to wait for a while. And minutes later. He handed Caitlyn and Vi each a folder of preliminary notes.
“Full tox and ballistics pending. But trajectory and wound ballistics are consistent with 5.56 from an AR-platform rifle — same as the casings recovered at the scene.”
Caitlyn took the folder with shaking fingers.
She wiped her mouth with a paper towel, voice hoarse.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Brock nodded once.
“Get some air. Write your reports. I’ll have the final dictations to you by morning.”
They left the suite without speaking.

In the freezing corridor, Vi leaned against the wall, head back, eyes closed.
Caitlyn stood beside her, arms wrapped around herself, folder pressed against her chest like a shield.
After a long minute, Caitlyn muttered:
“I’m not going to eat oatmeal for the rest of the month.”
Vi let out a tired, broken laugh.
“Yeah… same.”
They patted each other’s shoulders as they walked back toward the main bullpen office to get ready to do their paperwork, but little did they know, on the AC, there was a tiny note written with “malfunction, do not turn on.” Still, it’s not like they cared either.

Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office
Incident Report – Case No. 14-0214-001
Reporting Deputies:
CPL Caitlyn Kiramman #1204
DPT Violet Bretschneider #1219
Date of Report: February 15, 2014 / 21:45 hrs
Incident Date/Time: Initial contact February 14, 2014 / 16:30 hrs; escalated February 15, 2014 / 13:45 hrs – ongoing
Location: 1427 Deer Park Road, Reisterstown, MD
Victim(s): Sarah Hendrick (DOB 05/14/1982) – Buried alive, rescued
Suspect(s): Daniel Hawthorne (DOB 03/22/1975) – Deceased during SWAT entry (see supplemental report #14-0215-002)
Witness(es): Teresa Dare (widow of civilian Chris Dare, DOB 08/11/1962) – provided initial statement at scene
Type: Missing Person → Attempted Homicide / Kidnapping / Assault on Peace Officers / Felony Assault with Deadly Weapon
Narrative – Initial Missing Person Report & Welfare Check (February 14, 2014)
On February 14, 2014, at approximately 16:30 hrs, CPL Kiramman #1204 and DPT Bretschneider #1219 were dispatched to 1427 Deer Park Road, Reisterstown, MD, to conduct a welfare check on Sarah Hendrick after she was reported missing by her employer (name redacted). The manager stated Hendrick had not shown up for her scheduled shift at 08:00 hrs and was not answering calls or texts. The manager also reported Hendrick had recently expressed fear of her ex-husband, Daniel Hawthorne, due to ongoing custody disputes.
Upon arrival, deputies knocked repeatedly on the front door and rang the doorbell — no answer. Windows were dark; no visible movement inside. A neighbor (name redacted for privacy) approached and stated she had seen Hendrick’s vehicle in the driveway the previous evening (February 13) but heard nothing unusual. The neighbor speculated Hendrick might have gone to the local elementary school to pick up her two sons early due to “family issues.”
Deputies Anders and Loris checked the school — staff confirmed the children had been picked up by their father (Hawthorne) at 15:00 hrs the previous day under normal custody arrangement. No report of distress from school personnel.
At 17:15 hrs, the initial call was logged as a missing person (non-emergent) pending further follow-up. Deputies left a business card and a note on the door requesting contact.

Escalation to Full-Scale Rescue Operation – February 15, 2014
At 13:45 hrs on February 15, the same deputies were re-dispatched after the victim herself placed a 911 call from inside a buried coffin, stating she was “running out of air” and believed Hawthorne had buried her alive “to protect” her from taking the children.
Background – Prior Abuse & Danger Assessment
Before this call, BPD and Sheriff’s Office records documented multiple incidents of domestic abuse by Hawthorne against Hendrick, including physical assault, emotional manipulation, and threats related to custody. The most recent protective order was active and unserved. Given Hawthorne’s documented history of escalating violence and control, a full-scale rescue operation was initiated due to imminent danger to life as it escalated to high risk.
Rescue Operation
Deputies located a recently disturbed patch of earth approximately 40 meters from the residence. K-9 unit responded at 14:05 hrs and immediately alerted on the soil patch, confirming human scent and leading directly to the burial site. Using portable shovels and fire/EMS assistance, a wooden coffin was unearthed at 14:12 hrs.
Sarah Hendrick was extracted alive but in critical condition (severe hypoxia, SpO2 78%, dehydration, early rhabdomyolysis). She was placed on high-flow oxygen and transported by ground ambulance to the University of Maryland Shock Trauma Center.
Physical evidence collected from the gravesite:
• Wooden coffin (untreated pine, nailed shut with 8d common nails).
• ½-inch vinyl air hose connected to a concealed battery-powered pump.
• Victim’s cell phone (used to make 911 call), wedding ring, and partial clothing.
Additional evidence inside the residence (post-standoff):
• Photograph of Sarah Hendrick and children found on kitchen counter with handwritten note on reverse:
“Bitch you’re not taking my sons away!”
This incident directly precipitated the armed barricade/hostage situation involving multiple fatalities and injuries (see supplemental report #14-0215-002 for full details of standoff, breach, and resolution).
Reporting Deputies:
CPL Caitlyn Kiramman #1204
DPT Violet Bretschneider #1219
Supervisor Approval: Sgt. Wang (pending final review)

At 9:45 PM — In the bullpen office

The fluorescent lights in the report writing room buzzed like dying insects.
Caitlyn and Vi sat side by side at adjacent desks, duty belts clinking softly every time they shifted, surgical masks long discarded but the smell of formalin still clinging to their hair and skin.
Caitlyn’s fingers flew across the keyboard to finish the Sarah Hendrick report first.
But then she paused to glance at her phone lock screen: a photo of her and Vi kissing, Grady smooshed happily between them, tongue lolling in the middle like a pink flag of victory.
A dumb, tired smile tugged at her mouth despite everything.
She muttered under her breath, eyes still on the screen.

“I hope Grady doesn’t get sad from missing us so much.”
Vi who was still typing her own report with one hand while massaging her aching shoulder with the other didn’t look up.
“I miss him too,” she said softly. “He probably thinks we abandoned him. Poor guy’s gonna be glued to the door all night waiting since your uncle seems to leave early as he hasn’t sent pics of him.”
Caitlyn exhaled fondly and kept typing.

But meanwhile in the Locust Point Apartment

Billy didn't leave as he accidentally dozed off on the couch under the quietness of the apartment with a fedora tipped over his face, long legs stretched out, one arm dangling off the cushion as the night had been long even for him.

As he closed his eyes, he dreamed back to the year 1996, on Route 695 in Baltimore County, Maryland, where it became a boulevard of a broken heart from that day onward…

In the dream, he was 38 again and in his short sleeves Khaki deputy uniform with tie knotted tight despite the heat and leather gloves, boots polished while the old police motorcycle thrummed beneath him with its red lights flashing, siren wailing, wind tearing past his ears.
His heavy full-faced helmet pressed against his skull, muffling the world into a narrow tunnel of road and engine roar.

As he drove forward, Aiden’s urgent, clipped, the same voice that used to tease him over morning coffee and his blonde beard voice crackled through the radio attached to his heavy-duty belt.
“Quinn calling Central, the hellcat is driving at a proximity 220 mph to leave the county. Proceed to pursue further, over.”
Billy’s grip tightened on the throttle as he eavesdrop his conversation with the dispatcher:
“Negative, Quinn, wait until backup arrives. Don’t try to pit him with only a motorcycle. Kiramman is behind you. You two can force him back to the city to pursue instead—”
Aiden cut the dispatcher off with his voice tight with adrenaline.
“Central, the hellcat drives to the opposite lane, passed the fourth spike strip. Vehicle slowed—”
Static.

Then the sound no deputy ever forgets crackled through the radio channel.

First metal screaming then Impact.
A sickening crunch that traveled through the radio like a physical blow.

Billy twisted the throttle harder with his heart slamming against his ribs and flew toward the wreckage.
The stolen Dodge Charger “Hellcat” had T-boned an oncoming semi head-on with its front end obliterated and the engine block pushed back into the cabin.
Glass everywhere and Aiden’s motorcycle lay on its side thirty feet away. Its front wheel bent, forks twisted, tire still spinning uselessly.
Aiden himself was on the asphalt as his helmet cracked open like an eggshell, neck at a wrong angle, blood pooling under his head.
Billy skidded to a stop, threw his own helmet aside with a clatter, let it roll a few feet, and stopped near Aiden’s body.

His short, department-mandated wavy hair, which Aiden always teased him ruffled in the wind as he sprinted the last few steps.
He dropped to his knees beside Aiden, gloved hands shaking as he tore the broken helmet off completely.
Aiden’s eyes were open but glassy, unfocused as blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth.
“Bill—my legs—I—can’t—feel—them—”

Billy looked down.

And noticed Aiden’s legs were mangled as the left femur protruded through torn leather and khaki, right ankle folded backward at 90 degrees inside the boot, bones splintered white against dark blood.
Billy’s voice cracked.
“Stick with me, Aiden. Even if you’re paralyzed for the rest of your life, I’ll still take care of you because you’re my best friend and I—”
He swallowed — throat burning — finally forcing the words up from somewhere deep.
“I love you, Aiden. I’ve always—”

Aiden’s eyes fluttered once.

Then still as his head lolled sideways lifelessly resting in Billy’s gloved hand with blood dripped slowly onto Billy’s wrist, soaking into the khaki cuff, then trickled upward to stain the short, wavy strands of hair that Aiden used to ruffle and tease him about.
“You look like Shaun the Sheep from “Wallace and Gromit”, Billy. Especially with those big eyes hahaha” Aiden would laugh, fingers gentle in the curls. “My little sheep deputy.” Even though he and the entire office have no idea who Shaun the Sheep is since it was only released in the UK.

Now those same curls were matted with Aiden’s blood as the dark red soaked into the light brown waves, dripping onto Billy’s cheekbone, warm and final.
Billy stared.
“No—”

And tears came fast, hot, blurring the edges of everything.
“Aiden, wake up. Don’t sleep now. We still have to drive back to the sheriff’s office—”
His voice broke into a sob.
“Aiden… please don’t leave me. You’re too important to leave me. I love you… Why—”
He rocked forward with his forehead pressed to Aiden’s cooling chest as his shoulders shook with silent, wrenching sobs while the siren on his own motorcycle still wailed behind him — lonely, uselessly.

Backup arrived eventually.
They pulled him away with their gentle hands, quiet voices.
But Billy stayed on his knees in the blood and glass long after they covered Aiden with a sheet. And the dream shifted to the Timeless golden hour…

The air of the dream switched from the smell of blood and motor oil to salt, seaweed, and distant fish & chips.
The waves rolled in slowly and gently, the sun melting into the horizon in streaks of orange and pink.
Billy walked barefoot along the pebbled shore with only faded jeans and a soft linen shirt open at the collar to reveal his skinny chest.
Beside him, stride for stride, was Aiden who was still stuck in his 37 — the age he’d been when the world ended on Route 659.

Same short-cropped blonde hair, same easy grin, same bright blue eyes that always seemed to see straight through Billy’s careful walls.
No blood. No cracked helmet. No twisted legs.
Just Aiden who was alive, whole, laughing softly at something Billy hadn’t even said yet.
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, pebbles crunching underfoot, gulls crying overhead.

Eventually, they reached an old wooden bench facing the water then both sat with their shoulders brushing together and their legs stretched out toward the fading light. Billy reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter.
He tapped one out, placed it between his lips, flicked the lighter, and drew deeply.
Smoke curled from his nostrils in slow, deliberate clouds.
Aiden watched him with eyes narrowing with quiet concern.
“Darling,” he said softly, voice still carrying that faint Brighton lilt, “those can kill you slowly.”
Billy exhaled another plume as he watched it drift toward the sea.
“I know,” he said, voice low and flat. “Very well.”
He took another drag longer this time then let the smoke roll out slowly.

The stress started back in his deputy days. Long shifts, bad calls, the constant weight of it all. Then music, late nights writing, chasing royalties, collaborating with people who didn’t always understand what he was trying to say. And after Aiden’s death, he gave up, he doesn’t care what his mother says about no smoking, he just wants to feel alive again

His voice cracked, just for a second.
“I know but the stress that has been built from my deputy days… got worse after your death. The hole in my chest never closed. Smoking just… makes it feel less empty. Makes me feel alive again, even if it’s killing me. Aiden, this is the only thing that helps me focus.”

Aiden didn’t lecture.
He never had nor wanted either, therefore he reached over, plucked the cigarette from Billy’s fingers with gentle fingers, took a slow drag himself, then handed it back.
Billy deadpanned as smoke curled from the corner of his mouth:
“Says the man who smokes too.”
They both laughed softly, shared, the sound swallowed by the waves.
Aiden leaned back against the bench, shoulder pressed to Billy’s. “You know,” Billy said after a moment, voice quieter now, “despite all the years we worked together… I never really clocked that you were actually British. Not until later. Your way of talking is always so… stuffy. Abstruse words. Proper vowels. I thought it was just you being posh on purpose.”

Aiden laughed—a warm, rough laugh Billy hadn’t heard in years. “Yeah. I was born in Brighton, not in the US. Mum kept telling me to move back with her in London after Dad gambled his life away and left us nothing but debt and a broken family in Baltimore .”
Billy glanced sideways. “Why didn’t you? In my opinion, the UK was way better than the US.”
Aiden shrugged as he kept his eyes on the horizon.
“Indeed, England was of course safer and quieter. But if I went back, I’d have no one. I didn’t want to be alone. Besides i spent half my childhood and all my teenage years in Baltimore. Got friends. Got the job. Got… you.”

He paused then turned his head as Billy’s ocean blue met Aiden’s bright blue with unguarded intensity.
“I adore you, Bill. Gosh… never thought I’d say it out loud, but I’ve grown this stupid attachment to you. I felt sad when you weren’t around. Missed you like hell on your days off. Felt this… joy when you walked into the locker room. And for some reason — I started blushing when you stood next to me. Never felt that with any girl I dated.”

Billy’s breath caught.
Aiden’s voice dropped softer.
“Your countenance was too fetching to me. Everything. Those wide blue eyes, that sharp jawline, that perfect narrow nose, your voice, your height… those damn lips. I want to know how they feel.”
They leaned in at the same moment then their lips met — gentle at first, exploratory.
Aiden sucked softly on Billy’s upper lip; Billy mirrored it, sucking back, tasting salt air and something sweeter underneath.
The kiss deepened — tongues brushing, hands finding waists, Aiden’s fingers threading into Billy’s long and wavy hair while Billy wrapped both arms around Aiden’s back and pulled him closer.
They kissed like they’d been waiting eighteen years to do it.
When they finally parted with foreheads pressed together, breathing hard. Aiden whispered:
“Bill… come with me to England. I want to live with you in London. I don’t want you to be my work partner anymore. I want you to be my partner. For life.”
Billy smiled — slow, real, the kind of smile he hadn’t worn since before the crash.
“Sure. Who wants to live in Baltimore anyway?”
They kissed again, this time it was deeper, hungrier until a small thump-thump-thump interrupted them.

And that was for sure Grady as he had been dozing peacefully against Billy’s thigh for the last half-hour, but the silence eventually registered as too quiet.

He stretched with his back arching, paws sliding forward then shook himself once as the tags on his collar jingled softly. He then looked around the living room: an empty armchair, a dark TV, the kitchen light still on but no one moving.
Mommies still weren’t home.
Grady’s tail gave one slow wag — then stopped.
He needed to play fetch.
Right now.
He padded over to the toy box in the corner — a battered wicker basket overflowing with plush squeakers, rope tugs, and rubber balls.
Nose first, he plunged in, rummaging with happy snorts until he emerged with his favorite: a bright-yellow tennis ball, slightly fuzzy, slightly slobbery, perfect.
He carried it back to the couch and stood directly in front of sleeping beauty with the ball in his mouth.

But still no response, Grady tilted his head while his brows furrowing deeper then turned sideways and deliberately dropped the ball.
Thump.
It bounced once, rolled under the coffee table.
Grady watched it go, waited two seconds, then trotted after it, picked it up with a wet slurp, and came back.
Thump. Thump.
Again — harder this time.
Billy stirred faintly — eyelashes fluttering — but didn’t wake as a tennis ball rolled to a stop against Billy’s foot in his dream.

In his dream, he turned.
A small blonde boy — maybe five or six — stood a few feet away, wide-eyed, bouncing on his toes.
Billy stood, crouched down to the child’s level so his height wouldn’t scare him.
“Hey, kid. Where’s your mommy?”
The boy shrugged.
“They said they’re at work. But I’m bored. Come play with me?”
Before Billy could answer, the ball jabbed into his stomach as he startled and jerked awake.
A tennis ball had just bounced off his stomach.
Grady stood in front of him with his butt up, chest low, front paws stretched forward, tail wagging like helicopter blades on maximum.
The squeaky chicken was clamped in his mouth.
He barked once, voice muffled but demanding as his eyes sparkling with pure “stop sleeping and PLAY WITH ME” energy.
Billy blinked as the dream faded, his heart still hammering from the kiss that never got to finish, and rubbed his face while ruffling his long hair.

Grady dropped the chicken, barked again, and spun in a quick circle.
Billy exhaled — shaky laugh escaping.
“Yeah… yeah, I’m up, you little menace.” and picked up the slobbery tennis ball.
“Alright, alright. You win. You successfully woke up your uncle,”
He tossed it across the living room.
Grady launched after it and skidded on the hardwood then trotted back proudly and…
…immediately mounted Billy’s leg.

Billy froze as he looked down while sitting frozen on the couch for a long second — tennis ball still in one hand, Grady happily humping away at his left pant leg like it was the best thing since sliced steak scraps.
At first, he didn’t register what the warm, sticky wetness spreading across the denim actually was as his miniature Doberman back home was a female — no surprise emissions there — so his brain defaulted to “drool” or “spilled water from the bowl earlier.”

Then Grady shifted the angle slightly — and Billy glanced down.
Grady’s bright-pink penis was fully extruded — erect, throbbing, knotted at the base — and still enthusiastically rubbing against his calf.
Billy’s eyes widened.
He looked at the wet spot on his pants — white, viscous, unmistakable now that he was really looking.
His face went from confused to mortified in 0.8 seconds flat.

He rolled his eyes skyward so hard it hurt.
“Damn it, Grady… you came on my pants.”
Grady — blissfully unaware — gave one last enthusiastic thrust, dismounted with a satisfied shake, then trotted off to grab the squeaky chicken like nothing had happened.
Billy stared at the spreading stain for another beat, then fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed Caitlyn again.

It rang twice before Caitlyn finally picked up — voice still distracted, keyboard clacking faintly in the background.
“Uncle Billy? Everything okay? Grady didn’t eat the couch, did he?”
Billy cleared his throat — twice.
“Hey, Caity. Quick question. Have you… neutered your dog yet?”
There was a long pause on the other end.
Caitlyn’s typing stopped.
“…Not yet,” she said slowly. “He was still too young when I got him from the shelter as my emotional support dog. They said to wait at least six months for the surgery.”
Billy glanced down at Grady — who was now happily chewing the rubber chicken, penis safely retracted again, looking like the picture of innocence.
“And remind me… how old is he exactly?”
Another pause.
“Six months…”
Caitlyn’s voice cracked.
“Oh my fucking GOD I forgot to bring him to the vet to neuter him AHHH—”
Billy held the phone away from his ear as Caitlyn’s scream echoed through the speaker.

Vi’s muffled voice came through in the background:
“What’s wrong? Is Grady okay?”
Caitlyn — now sounding like she was pacing — rushed back on the line.
“I swear I had it on the calendar! I just—between shifts and the case and everything—I completely forgot. Is he… humping things?”
Billy looked at the wet spot on his jeans.
“…Yeah. My leg. Pretty enthusiastically.”
Caitlyn groaned — long, mortified.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll book the vet first thing tomorrow. Like, 8 a.m. appointment. I promise.”
Billy sighed — fond, resigned — and scratched Grady behind the ears.
The dog leaned into it, tail thumping happily.
“Don’t worry. He’s fine. I’m… less fine. But I’ll live. Just… maybe warn Vi before she gets home and sees the crime scene on my pants.”
Caitlyn made a strangled noise.
“I owe you new jeans. And a lifetime supply of apology ice cream.”
Billy chuckled softly.
“Deal. Just get home safe, Caity. Both of you.”
“We will. And… thank you. For everything tonight.”
Billy’s voice softened.
“Anytime, kiddo. Grady says hi. He’s currently trying to murder a squeaky chicken.”
Caitlyn laughed — tired but real.
“Tell him we love him. And tell yourself we love you too.”
Billy smiled — small, warm — even though she couldn’t see it.
“Love you back. See you soon.”
He hung up.
Grady trotted over, dropped the mangled chicken at his feet, and looked up with big, innocent eyes.
Billy stared at him for a long second.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Grady barked happily as Billy facepalmed as he looked at his pants again.

“Goddamn it”

Chapter Text

February 15, 2014
Baltimore County Sheriff’s Office – CID Interrogation Wing
≈9:55 PM
Caitlyn and Vi sat side by side at their shared desk in the bullpen—half-finished reports glowing on their screens, coffee gone cold in styrofoam cups. The room hummed with low voices, keyboard clacks, and the occasional chair squeak, but their attention had drifted to the slightly opened observation room.
As Cait and Vi tilted their heads toward them, they saw two detectives standing in the hallway outside Interrogation Room 3, arms folded, speaking in the hushed, exhausted tones people use when the case has gone from bad to surreal.
“…kids won’t give up a single motive. Nothing. Just keep repeating the same line over and over.”
The second detective rubbed his eyes under his glasses.
“Yeah. ‘Dad was right about the police. You’re cruel. The end was near and you still chose to kill the only saviour who could save us.’ Finger pointed right at us the whole time. Like we’re the villains in their bedtime story.”
Caitlyn’s pen stopped moving. Vi’s chair creaked as she leaned forward slightly.
The first detective flipped open a thin file folder—Hawthorne’s personnel jacket from his former school district.

“Get this: he got fired from being a middle-school principal last year. Not for violence or anything overt. For ‘persistent dissemination of misinformation regarding public health measures’—code for anti-vax rants in parent meetings—and for systematically manipulating kids into distrusting their own families. Told them he ‘knew them better than their parents ever could.’ Had a couple of them running away from home before the school board finally pulled the plug.”
The second detective let out a long breath.
“Hawthorne was basically running a cult out of a middle school. Yikes.”
He snapped the folder shut. Both detectives walked past Cait and Vi’s desk without noticing the two women listening.
Vi waited until their footsteps faded down the hall.
Then she turned to Caitlyn—eyes wide, voice low.
“Okay… this shit is officially too complicated now. Let us clock out and head towards the gym instead.”
Caitlyn stared at her half-written report for another second, then slowly shook her head.
“Not yet.”
She turned off the computer with a soft click.
“We still need to go see Steb and Loris in the trauma center.”
Vi exhaled—half relief, half resignation—and stood.
“Yeah. You’re right.”
They both rose in silence.
Caitlyn grabbed her plate carrier from the back of the chair; Vi slung hers over one shoulder.
They walked to the locker room together, their boots echoing in the corridor, ready to change out of tactical gear and back into civilian clothes.
The weight of the night still clung to them like damp smoke.

A while later, in the parking lot, Caitlyn slid behind the wheel of the Interceptor, wearing her usual dark hoodie, slim black jeans, and hair pulled back in a loose knot. And Vi dropped into the passenger seat, plate carrier stowed in the back, now wearing Cait’s faded band tee (one of Billy’s old album “Ash & Ember” relics to Cait) and cargo pants.
Neither spoke much.
The engine rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the wet February night as they pulled out toward the trauma center.

Back inside the apartment, Billy shuffled into the tiny laundry room with his pants leg still sticking uncomfortably to his skin, the damp patch now cold and clammy against his thigh.
Grady trotted happily behind him, tail sweeping wide arcs, completely oblivious to the earlier humiliation he’d inflicted.
The golden retriever’s tags jingled like tiny bells.
Billy peeled off the ruined jeans with a grimace.
The denim hit the open washing machine drum with a wet thwap.

He stood there in just his black T-shirt and boxer briefs. His lean legs exposed, still-muscular thighs flexing slightly from years of casual runs and endless hours standing on dimly lit stages as a folk singer in 1978 under the name “William J Bower.”

And the reason behind the fake surname was that he didn’t want his mother, Matilda, to find out he was actually performing live music instead of going to law school, which he really didn’t want to do. So, he claimed he was attending school at a nearby pay phone and, to keep his identity secret, changed his last name to Bower.

Even though the tactics of changing his last name don't work so well as his mother found out he only attended law school twice in a semester and deliberately waited until he returned home with a guitar case in hand just to beat the heck out of him with a law textbook his older sister Haley has.

Billy leaned his hip against the vibrating washing machine and watched the ruined jeans tumble over and over behind the little round window.
The cold, clammy patch on his thigh was finally gone, but the memory of Grady’s enthusiastic “welcome home” still lingered in the faint dampness on his skin.

But for Billy, “home” was something different for him, or precisely, “he just doesn’t feel like he ever belongs to The House of Kiramman.” While the older girls were shooting large game, he was there humming to the tunes that came up in his mind; when the family members were hunting white tail with a hunting rifle, he was there thinking, “Why do we have to kill him? He was just chilling.” While Matilda was expecting her kids to be police, lawyers, or district attorneys, he only ever wanted to work as a musician, even if it meant he wouldn’t be rich if none of the songs he wrote went viral — until this wish became a breaking point. A breaking point that broke the thin ice between his passion for music and wearing the crown of expectation, as every Kiramman does.

The low mechanical churn of the washer filled the small room like white noise.
And then, unbidden, the echo came.

WHACK.

The phantom impact of a thick law textbook against the back of his skull—sharp, sudden, ringing even now, thirty-two years later.
Matilda’s voice—furious, cracking with betrayal—rolled through his mind as clearly as if she were standing behind him again in that narrow hallway in 1982.
“Jamie! WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU ONLY WENT TO THE LAW SCHOOL TWICE?!?”
He could still see her—arms crossed, eyes blazing, the letter from the University of Maryland School of Law trembling slightly in her hand.
He had tried to argue. Tried to explain.
But two hours of pacing, raised voices, tears neither of them would admit to.
“You think music can keep you well fed, Jamie? Why can’t you just be like your sister Haley?
Graduate from the law school and become a District Attorney or your grandfather Achilles to take care of his wine brand with his own hands, to make your family proud?”

Billy sighed heavily as he had finally shouted back as he had had enough of all the stress she had given him over the past years. “Because I don’t want to, Mother! This isn’t what I want to do! So what if it’s a steady income? I don’t want to be sixty and look back knowing I gave up everything just to fit the crown of your expectations—”

Then suddenly an open palm, full-strength slap came fast. And a stinging red handprint bloomed across his cheek in seconds.

Matilda’s voice dropped to something cold as steel.
“Get out, Jamie.”
He had stood there with his cheek burning, and ocean blue eyes stinging then asked the only question that still mattered.
“When will you ever stop interfering with my life? This is my life, not yours. I’m your son forever for sure, but I’m also an individual person who has his own wishes for his future and his life. Not a manufactured copy from a single production line.”
She hadn’t answered right away.
Just looked at him—furious, heartbroken, exhausted but not a word can be spoken out loud.

Billy walked out the front door that night with nothing but the clothes in his backpack, his guitar case, and the small savings he’d hidden from her. (Inside the guitar case)
The fall wind bit through his thin jacket as he stepped onto the sidewalk.
He never looked back.
Not even once did he regret dropping the crown of expectation on the floor and letting it shatter before the ocean blue eyes that run through the entire family.

He just accepted his decision to walk a path that would disappoint his family (even more) as he moved in with his friends Damiano Torres and Alec “Jann” Jaczkǒwicz who already shared a cramped rental apartment in Fells Point.
After they knew what had happened, they gave him the couch without hesitation.
For the next three years, he lived lean while attending the music academy full-time during the day and working late-night bar gigs under “William J. Bower” to pay tuition and rent till “Vecna” — the underground heavy punk rock band was officially formed in 1984 out of that same desperation to stay together after graduation.
The four of them—Alec on drums, Damiano on lead guitar, Victoria on bass, Billy on vocals and rhythm—played anywhere that would let them plug in.

They never made real money, but they made something louder: noise that felt like hope.
A hope that he always wished to have.

And hope held those same thighs to carry him not only through the years he kept his promise to Cassandra (after a four-hour conversation in 1990 where she begged him to come home and quietly admitted Matilda regretted the slap), but through standing ovations at London, Paris, and Milan Fashion Week runways in the early 2000s (invited as a model for his striking, ageless appearance), through marathon recording sessions as producer and singer, through decades of piano and guitar pedaling until his calves cramped and his fingers bled.

The apartment was quiet except for the machine and the faint city drone outside the windows.
Billy’s gaze drifted to the small, battered radio on the shelf above the dryer—same model he’d had since he was thirteen as Matilda had bought it for him so he could “listen to something useful while studying.”
He’d used it to discover every song that ever made him want to write.
He reached over, thumbed the power knob.
Static hissed, then cleared.

The familiar voice of the late-night host—Jimmy “Midnight” Callahan—slid into the room like an old friend.
“…and on tonight’s episode of Midnight Melodies, we have a very special guest that everyone loves… anddddd here he is—William J. Bower!”
Billy froze mid-reach.
His own voice answered. “Good evening, everyone. My name is William J. Bower, but you can just call me by my middle name—Jamie—as well. And Jimmy, thanks for inviting me to this show, It’s been a pleasure to be able to speak on this platform… I’ve been a fan of your talk show…”
Billy’s hand hovered over the volume knob.
He turned it up—just enough to hear Jimmy’s laugh crackle through the tiny speaker.
“Jamie, a lot of your fans have been wondering for years… what’s the true meaning behind ‘Boulevard of the Broken Hearts’? There’s a rumor floating around that it’s a secret story about a Danish-American songwriter/bassist of your old band “Vecna” Victoria Petersen—you two were seen getting quite close back in ’85, and then she left before anything official happened. Is that where the heartbreak came from?”
A long pause on the recording.
Billy—listening now—remembered exactly where he’d been sitting when he answered: cross-legged on the studio floor, hands resting on his kneecaps, staring at the microphone as it might bite.
He had inhaled deeply.
“Not really, Jimmy,” his recorded voice said—soft, steady, but carrying the weight of something older than the room. “Victoria was just a very close friend of mine. We were in the process of making “Isolation” of the second album “The Grey Chapter” together along with Damiano and Alec, yeah… but the song isn’t about her.”

Another breath.

“It’s about someone who left before we were finished. And That’s all.”
The host let the silence sit for a respectful beat, then gently: “Powerful stuff, Jamie. Thank you for sharing that.”…and since we’re talking about ‘Boulevard,’ you actually brought your guitar with you tonight. Why not give the stage to you to shine?”
A soft chuckle followed with a “My pleasure.”
Billy turned the volume up just a notch—enough to hear clearly, not enough to wake the dog that eventually fell asleep next to him.
The radio feed shifted.
A single acoustic guitar entered—slow fingerstyle in open D, the same pattern he’d played a thousand times: low strings ringing like footsteps on wet pavement, higher ones ghosted and muted.
Then his voice—raw, lived-in, carrying every year between 1997 and now—began.
“Like a noose around my neck
Snapped when my skull was wrecked
It’s like dying from a broken heart
It’s like dying from a broken heart”
Billy’s chest tightened.
He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, eyes fixed on nothing till the chorus—simple strum joining the fingerstyle, light kick, and brushed snare underneath.
“I’m still here counting headlights
Waiting for a sign that never arrives
You said forever, but forever lied
Now I’m just another ghost on the boulevard of broken hearts”

You told me to leave
Therefore I did
But on those lonely nights
I still miss your voice when you
tell me goodnight”
When Billy closed his eyes, he could still feel the sting on his cheek and Matilda’s cold voice still echoed clear as yesterday.
Never went back until their relationship started to heal—slowly, quietly after he became successful.

But the slap never quite faded.
The harsh words never quite faded.
The feeling of being told his dream was worthless—never quite faded.
The hole in his chest never faded.
He sighed slowly and looked at the clock on the wall.
10:00 PM.
The time of his life was fading fast but deep down his broken self never faded. He was still that 22-year-old young man who blames himself constantly for not being the perfect daughter “Billie” his mother wants the most while sobbing alone.

The hatred he had for himself never faded.

He looked around and noticed Cait did not have a dryer, he sighed heavily. “Umm… think I need to borrow Caity’s pants so I can go home, I can’t just go home like this, I’ll be arrested for exposing myself” he sighed as he muttered to no one in particular and Grady just woke up and tilted his head with a visible “huh?” expression.
He then reached up to the shelf beside the washer where he’d casually set his phone earlier and thumbed open a text to Caitlyn.

Uncle Billy: Hey Caity. Grady… expressed himself on my leg. Pants are in the wash. No dryer here and it’s freezing tonight — clothes will take three days to dry. Mind if I borrow a pair of your jeans to get home?

He hit send, leaned his hip against the vibrating machine, and waited.
The reply came in under two minutes.

Caity: Sure. Since we have the same height now, unlike years ago when you were still an inch taller than me 😅

Billy huffed a small laugh — fond, nostalgic — and texted back while the washer churned behind him.

Uncle Billy: Benefit of not shrinking so horribly from 6’1 to nearly 6’ haha. Thanks anyway Caity.

He grabbed the phone and gave Grady a quick ear scratch as he muttered “Stay here, troublemaker” and padded barefoot down the short hallway to Caitlyn and Vi’s walk-in closet.
The door was already ajar.
He pushed it open and when he walked in, he noticed the closet was… sparse.
Not in a neglected way — just ruthlessly practical. No racks of dresses, no rows of heels, no seasonal color coordination.
Instead:
• A short hanging rod with three lumberjack-style flannel shirts (Caitlyn’s — red-and-black plaid, green-and-grey, navy-and-white).
• Next to them: two sheriff’s office green tactical jackets — one with CPL tape on the chest, the other unmarked but clearly Vi’s from the ripped sleeves and faint bloodstain that never quite came out.
• A few ripped tank tops (Vi’s — black, grey, one olive-drab with a faded eagle) were shoved on the same rod.
• On the floor: two large black tactical duffel bags — unzipped enough to show spare mags, extra holsters, trauma kits, and neatly folded BDUs. Work gear. Ready to go.
Billy shook his head — smiling despite himself.
“Minimalists,” he muttered but as he turned he noticed next to the flannels — hanging with the same understated care — was Caitlyn’s Armani suit jacket.
Charcoal wool-silk blend, single-breasted, notched lapels, subtle pick-stitching along the edges. Tailored sharp enough to cut glass, yet soft enough to drape like water.
Beside it: her winter coat — long, black cashmere-wool blend, single button at the waist, timeless and expensive without screaming for attention.

Classic Kiramman.
Showing off wealth without showing off.
Unlike me, don’t even have any chance to taste the wealthy side of my family for I was an outcast.

The jacket probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent; the coat could have paid for a semester of college.
But they hung there like any other work clothes — no protective plastic covers, no cedar blocks, just waiting for the next formal court appearance, or funeral or promotion ceremony.
Billy ran a fingertip along the Armani sleeve and shook his head with a small, fond smile.
“Still dressing like she’s about to argue in front of the Supreme Court,” he murmured to Grady, who had followed him in and now sat at his feet, head tilted.
He turned to the built-in drawers and pulled open the one labeled “PANTS” (Caitlyn’s handwriting — neat block letters on a small label).
Dark-wash slim jeans.
Black tactical cargos.
A few pairs of straight-leg chinos.
And one pair of ripped black skinny jeans — strategic tears at the knees and thighs, clearly Caitlyn’s off-duty favorites.
He held them up against his waist.
Same inseam.
Same waist (they’d matched for years now — Caitlyn had finally caught up after puberty and training filled her out).
He stepped into them.
The denim was snug — his hips a touch wider than Caitlyn’s, thighs lean but still more muscular from years of casual activity — but they slid on without protest.
He buttoned, zipped, adjusted.
They fit like a glove — hugging his long legs, sitting just right at the natural waist.
Billy turned to the full-length mirror on the inside of the door.
He tilted his head, twisted once — checked the back, and nodded approvingly.
“Holy shit… it does fit.”

He twisted once — checked the back, and nodded approvingly.
Grady trotted in, sniffed the ripped jeans, then sat at Billy’s feet with a soft woof.
Billy crouched down — now eye-level with the dog — and ruffled his ears.
“Guess I’m borrowing Mom’s pants tonight, kid. Don’t tell her I look better in them.” Then he smiled as he patted his head.
Grady barked once joyfully and leaned into the scratches.
Billy stood again, smoothed the front of the borrowed jeans, and glanced at himself one last time in the mirror.
Same sharp jaw with a hint of grey stubble that he was supposed to shave off early, same bright blue eyes, same semi-long hair with silver threads catching the closet light.
He looked… good.

Billy shrugged into his leather jacket and settled the fedora back on his head with a practiced tilt.
He crouched down one last time, rubbing Grady’s golden head with both hands, thumbs scratching behind the ears until the dog’s eyes half-closed in bliss.
“It’s time for me to head home, handsome. Your moms will be back soon. Try not to eat the couch again — it’s about to fall apart now. Don’t miss me so much. I’ll come visit you again shortly after I finish my new single.”
Grady leaned into the scratches, tail thumping the floor like a slow drumbeat, then trotted ahead to the door — sitting right in the entrance, ears perked, eyes fixed on Billy as if he could will him to stay.
Billy locked up behind him — key turning with a soft click — and stepped into the hallway.
Grady stayed pressed against the inside of the door, nose to the gap, giving one last hopeful whine before Billy’s boots echoed down the stairwell.
Outside, the February air bit sharp.
Billy swung a leg over the Harley, pulled on his helmet, and lit a cigarette — the flame flaring briefly in the dark.
He didn’t look back at the window.
Didn’t see Grady standing on his hind legs, paws on the sill, pouting like every man and woman who’d ever been caught staring at Billy’s ageless, fetching face — sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, silver-threaded semi-long hair framing him like a Renaissance painting that refused to age.
Billy exhaled smoke into the cold night, started the engine with a low growl, and pulled away — the Harley’s rumble fading down the street.
He didn’t see Grady sink back down, ears drooping, tail still.

Later – Warehouse Loft
≈10:45 PM
The key turned in the old industrial lock with a familiar rasp.
Billy stepped inside with his helmet under one arm, cigarette still smoldering between his fingers and let the door thud shut behind him.

The loft hadn’t changed much since Vecna's days.

Exposed brick, high ceilings, the same mismatched rugs and thrift-store couches.
The old stage platform still sat in the corner — mic stand leaning like a tired sentinel, cables coiled like snakes.
A faded band flyer from 1984 was taped to the wall: VECNA – LIVE @ THE LOFT – NO COVER – 21+
He flicked on one lamp with warm amber light spilling across the room and looked around.
Fragments hit him all at once.

Victoria doubled over on that very couch, wheezing with laughter, hands shaking so hard she couldn’t hold her bass, tears streaming down her face after Billy smiled smugly to Alec during rehearsal for she knows Bily’s “I’ll be gentle with you, Jann. Promise.” has a double meaning (Billy was nicknamed “001” in the band for he was the first member that join the band while Alec being nicknamed as “000” as the founder of the band.)

Alec red-faced, sticks frozen mid-air had stared at him for two full seconds before the entire band lost it as he threw his drumsticks at him while spitting Polish at him like rapid fire. The gay joke had lasted three weeks before Alec decided to change to “008” to represent infinity.
But still the lore lives on ever since. Every time Billy touched a mic stand or Alec adjusted his drum throne, someone muttered “So Billy was a top and Alec is bottom, got ya”

“001’s taking the lead again — watch out, 000.”
“Billy’s topping the setlist tonight, boys.”
“Alec, you good down there? Need 001 to go gentle?”
Each teasing makes Alec’s face redder.

Billy smiled softly with a hint of ache and walked past the couch.
He remembered them all sitting there after gigs — cigarettes glowing in the dark, passing a bottle of cheap whiskey, arguing over the setlist.
Damiano teasing him about the dyed-blonde streak Vic made him try in ’83:
“Man, your natural blonde stubble matches it. You look like Kurt Cobain but an underweight version—“
Victoria laughed so hard she snorted beer as Billy tried to defend himself with “listen bro, I tried to gain weight but I can’t—“

Alec who was sprawled across the armrest, said in his thick Polish accent. “You should keep it, Billy. Makes you look dangerous. Like a wolf.”
Billy had laughed then as he gently went through a finger through his dense blonde stubble — real, loud, the kind of laugh that hurt his ribs. Then he looked to the other side, and he saw Victoria sitting on the arm of the couch nursing a warm beer, Billy stretched out on the couch itself, boots off, one arm behind his head, cigarette glowing in the dim light.
Victoria took a slow sip, eyes flicking toward Billy with a smirk she couldn’t quite hide.
“So,” she said, voice casual but loaded, “you gonna tell us who the lucky fan was tonight?”
Billy exhaled smoke slowly and deliberately toward the ceiling and didn’t look at her.

“What fan?”
Victoria snorted. “The one who disappeared with you behind the merch table five minutes after the last chord. The one who made suspicious wet sucking noises and the couch started rocking like it was trying to escape the room. The one whose moans were loud enough to make me think we were still playing.”
As Damiano choked on his beer, Alec’s tuning froze mid-twist. Billy finally glanced over with his expression perfectly neutral.
“You were eavesdropping?”

“I was trying to pack up cables,” Victoria shot back, “but the couch was literally creaking like an old ship in a storm. And then the moaning. Very… enthusiastic moaning. And then—”
She leaned forward, eyes glittering with mischief.
“—I opened the door because I thought someone was hurt.
But then I saw your pants around your ankles while her legs were wrapped around your waist and you’re thrusting forward like you were trying to win an Olympic medal in fucking.”

Damiano wheezed — “Jesus Christ, Vic—”
Billy took another drag — long, slow — then blew the smoke upward in a perfect ring.
“She was enthusiastic,” he said dryly. “I was being polite.”
Victoria barked a laugh — loud, wheezing, almost painful.
“Polite. Right. That’s why her nails were leaving welts on your back. Polite.”
Billy shrugged — a small, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“She wanted it. I gave it to her. End of story.”
Victoria studied him for a long second — laughter fading, something sharper taking its place.
“You didn’t even enjoy it, did you?”
The room went quiet.
Billy’s cigarette paused halfway to his mouth.
He didn’t answer till Victoria leaned closer as her voice grew softer now, almost gentle.
“I saw your face when you came out from behind that couch.
You looked… sick.
Like you’d just done something you hated.
But you did it anyway.” Billy stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette.

After a long silence, he said — voice low, almost to himself:

“I thought if I fuck enough women, I’d finally feel normal. But it never did.”
Victoria didn’t laugh this time as Alec and Damian were both looking anywhere but at Billy.
Victoria reached over gently and took the cigarette from his finger and stubbed it out in the ashtray.
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Billy. Not to us nor to some random fan who wanted a piece of the guy on stage. You always have a choice to say no ”
Billy looked at her — ocean-blue eyes suddenly very tired.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I just… didn’t know how to stop trying.”
Victoria squeezed his shoulder once firmly.
“You stop when you’re ready. Not when the crowd wants an encore.”
Billy nodded — small, almost imperceptible.
The room stayed quiet for a while.
Then Damiano muttered to him. “Next time some chick tries to climb you after a show, I’m throwing her off the stage myself.”
Alec snorted. “I’ll help.”
Victoria raised her beer in mock toast.
“To 001 finally figuring out he doesn’t have to top every situation.”
Billy huffed a laugh — real this time, small and broken but real.
“Fuck all of you.”
They clinked bottles of beer, water, whatever was left, and let the silence settle again.

But Billy never forgot that night.
He never forgot the way Victoria had seen straight through him not with judgment, just with tired, steady love.
He never forgot the way he’d fucked that fan anyway while ignoring the sick twist in his stomach, ignoring the way his body recoiled even as it performed because he was still trying to outrun the feeling that he was broken.

Then years later he still carried the regret.
Not because he hurt the fan (they’d both been consenting adults, both a little drunk, both using each other).
Because he’d hurt himself by forcing himself through something his body and soul were screaming against — just to prove he could be “normal.”
He never told anyone the full truth. Every time he heard a rumor that the same fan had a five-year-old kid, people whispered “001/Bower’s the father”
His stomach would twist the same way it had that night.
He wishes it weren’t true.
He’d pulled out.
He hadn’t come inside her.

But the math never lied.
Three months of celibacy before that night with no morning wood, no desire, no time for anything but the album then one frantic, unwanted encounter and nine months later, a five years old boy named Jesse Bower with his eyes, his nose, his cheekbones appeared before his very eyes when he decided to go to her address in UK she gave him that night.

Billy had done the calculations of the boy’s birthday a thousand times in sleepless nights.
The dates lined up too perfectly.
The condom must have failed.
Something had leaked inside.
A terrible mistake.
The exact kind of mistake Matilda had warned him for ages about using protection and told him music would never feed him, never keep him safe, never make him a man who could take responsibility.
And he’d proven her right in the worst possible way.

He allowed the lich to do what it always did to keep him alive by any means necessary, even if it meant destroying the gentle, soft soul named Billy Kiramman in the process. He only paid her a grand as an apology for five years straight (to keep her quiet before his mother heard it too), and then received a single word from Jesse that eventually crushed him entirely.

“I don’t have a father who was as irresponsible as you. Get out, Bower — just like that same night when you had your fun with her and left her pregnant while she was only 19,” with a tone as loud as when Matilda kicks him out of the house.

It crushed Billy Kiramman, who swore to himself that he would never let “accidentally make a girl pregnant” happen in his life because he knew how wrong it was.
But he did, and he would rather run away from this huge responsibility, he would rather die than be forced to marry a girl that he has no interest in just because she carries his bloodline.

It also crushed Billy Kiramman, who would seek justice for those who can’t stand up for themselves.
Why even bother to stand up like what he claims to Cait
When he can’t stand up for himself anyway since no one stands up for him when he gets swats constantly from his mother, leaving red marks on his thighs/waist/arms just because he didn’t do homework/housework, talking back etc.

He can only swallow it until the fear, the hatred he had for his mother who being abusive towards him out of stress, hatred he had for himself for not being the perfect son becomes The Lich.

He eventually sat on the same couch and let his head fall back against the cushion with his Fedora off and placed carefully on the coffee table.
Semi-long hair spilling over the armrest like liquid moonlight.
He stared at the ceiling with exposed beams, cobwebs in the corners, and the faint stain from that time Alec knocked over a beer during a particularly rowdy toast.
“Home is upside down and so is my life” he muttered.
But when his eyes traced the familiar cracks in the plaster, he saw a ghost with blonde hair, stubble, and bright blue eyes appear from behind the couch and smiled softly as he leaned down, his lips brushing Billy’s ear. “Welcome home, my handsome blondie.”
Billy closed his eyes.
The cigarette trembled between his fingers.
“I still fucking miss you so much, Aiden,” he whispered — voice cracking, low, raspy from years of smoke and screams. Then almost unconsciously a low hum rose in his throat.

A new melody. Rough. Unfinished.
Born somewhere between grief and exhaustion and unspoken anger.

He let the first line slip out — soft at first, almost whispered:
“God save me from pain I suffered…”
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Then the next line came — voice dropping into something darker, throatier, the rasp that decades of cigarettes and screams had carved into him:
“So step inside…”
He growled it — low, guttural, the sound scraping the bottom of his register like broken glass under boots.
“And see the rage I’ve hidden—”
The last three words exploded.
Not shouted.
Not screamed.
Just released — raw, ragged, full-chested — the kind of vocal fracture that made sound engineers wince and fans lean forward in their seats.
The loft swallowed the echo.
Billy’s chest heaved once and twice as the line had physically torn something loose.
He sat up slowly as he stared at the faded 1984 Vecna flyer still taped crookedly beside the door on the far wall and continued to write.

But through his ocean-blue eyes, there was sadness mixed with something darker, something that looked almost like hatred if you didn’t know him well enough to recognize it as self-directed fury and everything made him a monster.
He was more than just Billy.
More than “001,” the first member to join after Alec founded the band.
More than the silver-haired singer-songwriter the world now knew as William J. Bower.
He was Vecna.
Not the D&D villain they’d jokingly named the band after a failed attempt to kill him during their own D&D session after school.

The real thing: an ancient, hollowed-out, parasitic lich that had rooted itself so deep in his heart it had become the engine of everything he’d built.
Without that lich, there would be no “Boulevard of the Broken Hearts.”
No Sanremo guest spot.
No London Fashion Week walkways where designers begged for his ageless, androgynous face.
No taking lead roles in films and television.
The lich had possessed him at 23.
It still hadn’t let go.

Just the distant city hum, the smell of old beer and older dreams, and the soft creak of the couch under a man who had become his own monster to survive in his own world that has turned upside down.

“Even if the world decided to abandon you, I’m always here, William. I am you.” A monster with a distorted skeletal left hand and a pair of irisless eyes appears behind him. Its distorted voice eerily identical to Billy’s…

Vecna never truly dies.
He was just waiting inside, waiting for “Billy” to truly die inside when he lost every trust, hope in humans, and stopped seeking human connection so that he would take over him with only rage and hatred inside….

Meanwhile in the University of Maryland Shock Trauma Center – Ward 4B
≈11:15 PM
Caitlyn and Vi pushed through the double doors of the trauma ward.
The antiseptic smell hit them immediately, sharp and familiar.
Loris was sitting in a plastic chair beside Steb’s bed while still in his tac pants and a borrowed hospital gown over his shirt, one arm in a sling, the other clutching a styrofoam cup of ice chips.

Steb lay propped up on the bed — IV in one arm, bandages across his thigh where the GSW had torn through — writing his incident report on his second-hand laptop with the slow, stubborn focus of a man who refused to let paperwork wait until he could breathe without wincing.

The second the door opened, Caitlyn crossed the room in three strides and wrapped both arms around Loris so tightly he let out a startled huff.
“Cait—”
“I’m so scared of losing my friend, you know,” Caitlyn said with her voice muffled against Loris’s shoulder, arms locked like she was afraid letting go would make this moment disappear. Loris then exhaled with a shaky laugh and patted Caitlyn’s back with her good hand.
“I’m okay, boss. Just a through-and-through. They’re keeping me overnight for observation, but I’m fine.”
Caitlyn didn’t let go right away until Vi stepped up beside Steb’s bed, leaned over the rail, and they hugged him with an awkward angle, careful of the bandages and IV line.
Steb groaned as he was half pain, half amusement. “Cait, when did you get so clingy?”

Caitlyn finally releasedh him, with her eyes red-rimmed, but she managed a small, watery smile. “Since someone decided to get himself shot by an unstable cultist.”
Steb snorted — winced — then looked at Vi.
“You too, huh?”
Vi grinned and squeezed his shoulder.
“Had to make sure you didn’t die on us, old man.”
Steb rolled his eyes — but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“I’m only 24”

Loris reached out with his good hand and tugged Vi into a one-armed hug next.
They stayed like that until a nurse poked her head in and cleared her throat.
“Visiting hours are technically over, but… five more minutes.”
Caitlyn straightened first — wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie.
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” she said — voice steadier now. “With real food. And coffee that doesn’t taste like motor oil.”
Steb saluted weakly with his clipboard.
“Bring whiskey.”
Vi smirked.
“Only if the doctor says yes.”
Loris laughed — soft, tired.
“Get out of here before they kick you out.”
Caitlyn hesitated — looked between them — then nodded.
“Love you, idiots.”
Vi echoed it — quieter.
They turned for the door.
Behind them, Steb called out — voice rough but warm:
“Hey.”
They looked back.
“Thanks for not leaving us behind.”
Caitlyn’s throat worked.
“Never.”
The door clicked shut.
Outside in the hallway, fluorescent lights were harsh after the dim ward. Vi slipped her hand into Caitlyn’s.
Caitlyn squeezed back hard.
They walked to the elevator in silence.

At 11:45 pm
The Interceptor hummed steadily along the highway — not siren-running, just cruising in the slow lane, Vi had one boot propped on the dash, window cracked, letting cold February air mix with the heater.
Caitlyn drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, eyes flicking between the road and the passing exits.
They passed the old industrial lot off Russell Street — the one Vi used to use for outdoor workouts when the precinct gym was closed or too crowded.
Rusted chain-link fence, cracked concrete, a couple of old shipping containers someone had turned into makeshift pull-up bars and dip stations.
Vi sat up straighter.
“Hey. Pull over for a sec? We can do a quick circuit together. Thirty minutes tops. Shake off yesterday.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer right away.
She reached into the center console, pulled out her phone, and unlocked it one-handed.
The screen lit up her face — calendar app already open.
Vi leaned over to look.
Right there, slotted in bold red:
11:45 AM – 1:00 PM
Grady’s vet trip – neuter surgery
Must grab him in the Interceptor!!!
Caitlyn sighed — long, heavy, the kind of exhale that carried a whole shift’s worth of exhaustion.
“Maybe tomorrow,” she said quietly. “If we have more time. Which… chances are unlikely.”
Vi let her head fall back against the seat.
“Wish we didn’t have to work thirteen-hour days. But… it is what it is. This is what we chose.”
Caitlyn didn’t reply.
A few minutes later they rolled past an open stretch of sidewalk near the Inner Harbor — a loose circle of street dancers had claimed the pavement.
Boombox blasting hip-hop beats, four or five kids (late teens, early twenties) trading rounds: popping, locking, breaking, one guy throwing himself into a flawless windmill that ended in a freeze so clean the crowd erupted in applause and scattered dollar bills.
Caitlyn’s foot eased off the gas — just enough to slow without stopping traffic.
She stared.
Vi noticed.
“You okay?”
Caitlyn didn’t answer immediately.
Her eyes stayed on the dancers — the way they moved like gravity was optional, the way their faces lit up with pure, reckless joy, the way every spin and freeze carried zero fear of falling.
Inside her chest, something twisted — not envy exactly, but a deeper, older ache.
She still remembered.
Stage 10 piano exams.
Hours in the university dance studio until her feet bled through her socks.
Winning solo performance awards, best choreography trophies, the rush of stepping onto a lit stage and knowing — for those three minutes — she was exactly where she belonged.
And now?
She wore a badge.
A gun.
A uniform that felt heavier every year.
She enforced laws, wrote reports, and ran toward gunfire instead of spotlights.
She was good at it — damn good — but it was never the thing that made her heart race with joy.

She watched a girl in baggy sweats hit a perfect headspins and felt the familiar question rise again, quiet but insistent:
Why did I choose this crown?
Just because I knew my grades would get me through the academy?
Because it was safe? Expected?
Because I could do it — so I did.

She glanced sideways at Vi — Vi who had chosen this life with eyes wide open, who still lit up every time they rolled code to a hot call, who never once questioned the weight of the shield.
Caitlyn looked back at the dancers.
They were free.
Not in the naive, carefree way people romanticize street life — they were probably broke, probably exhausted, probably fighting for every dollar and every second of stage — but they were free to chase what set them on fire.
Caitlyn rested her head on her fist, elbow on the door ledge, and watched until the light changed and she had to accelerate again.
The dancers shrank in the rearview.
She didn’t speak for another mile.
Then — voice soft, almost lost under the engine hum:
“Every time I see Uncle Billy post a picture… standing outside the Royal National Theatre in London with a cigarette and his Gibson, about to play with Metallica and the royal orchestra… or flying to Sydney for a stage show… I wonder why I didn’t choose that.”
Vi turned her head as she quietly listened.
Caitlyn kept staring at the road.
“I was a stage 10 piano. I was the lead choreographer for the university crew. We won regionals three years running. I had offers — small ones, but real ones. Dance companies. Session work. Even got a scholarship to continue performing while studying.
But I looked at the acceptance letter from the police academy and thought… ‘This is certain. This is respected. This is what Mom would be proud of. This is what keeps the Kiramman name clean.’
So I chose the crown. And now I’m here — risking getting shot, writing reports at 3 a.m., watching friends bleed out — while Uncle Billy is still out there… free.”

She furrowed her brows — the same tiny crease she’d had since she was six whenever she was trying to solve something bigger than herself. (like trying to identify the Kiramnan Twins)
Vi noticed. “What’s that face for?”
Caitlyn didn’t answer right away
Instead, she just let the unbidden, vivid memory surface the way memories do when you’re tired and the highway is hypnotic.
She could still see herself sitting at the old upright piano in Vander’s bar after closing, feeling the pedals like dancing.
Vi, all elbows and wild red streaks in her hair even then — perched on a bar stool with a beat up acoustic guitar across her lap, fingers fumbling but fearless through the opening chords of “Radio Ga Ga.”
With Slico and Vander behind the railing of the second floor, Felicia leaning onto it with her chin in her hand, all of them smiling like proud parents at a school play.
When the song ended, the three adults had applauded as if it were Carnegie Hall.

Vander had even whistled.
Caitlyn had felt it then — that almost-ecstasy rush, the way the music filled every space inside her chest and made her feel weightless, fearless, exactly right.
She glanced sideways at Vi.
“I wonder if Uncle Billy felt the same thing back when we performed ‘Radio Ga Ga’ in your dad’s bar.”
Vi tilted her head — curious, not defensive.
“What do you mean?”
Caitlyn’s voice softened, almost wistful.
“No, Vi. He wasn’t just a sheriff deputy in the 90s.
He was a singer first then he was Vecna’s vocalist and rhythm guitarist.
The shirt you’re wearing right now? That’s their old band tee.
What I mean is… does he still feel that almost-ecstasy when he’s on stage? The way I did when Vander and Felicia applauded us?
Because I bet he does. That’s why he kept performing even after everything.
Even after… whatever broke Vecna up.”

Vi frowned — processing.
“I thought he just said it was ‘conflicts and drama.’”
Caitlyn shook her head — eyes back on the road.
“That’s all he’ll ever say. He keeps his mouth shut so tight about the real reason you’d think it was classified. But I bet it was something big.
Something that hurt enough to make four people who loved each other like family walk away and never fully come back together.
Vecna was so underrated and so talented.
If they’d stayed together — if they’d gotten even half the luck they deserved — I swear they could’ve won multiple Grammys for Best Rock Album or Best Hard Rock Performance.
Maybe even Album of the Year if the right label had found them.”
She sighed — long, heavy.
“But he left or they all did. And now he’s out there alone — still playing, still writing, still looking like he’s chasing something he can never quite catch.”

Vi glanced sideways, then back out the passenger window.
“Like chasing ghosts?”
“Yeah,” Caitlyn said softly. “Exactly like that.”

The Interceptor rolled off the highway and onto surface streets, the skyline shrinking behind them, familiar brick rowhouses rising ahead.
Silence settled again — comfortable, thoughtful — until Caitlyn spoke once more, almost to herself.
“Vi… what would you be if we didn’t choose to be cops?”
Vi tilted her head against the window glass, watching the city slide by.
“I don’t really know, actually. I spent so long stuck in my own head back then. But if I didn’t have the mental illness, if I’d been able to breathe… I think I’d be an athlete. Parkour athlete. I just love the freedom free-running gave me — jumping from one rooftop to another, feeling the air, the drop, the catch. That moment when you’re weightless.”
Caitlyn smiled — small, nostalgic.
“Fair. You’ve always been the one with the biggest balls to do a long-distance vault jump through multiple half-walls like a flying tiger.”
Vi laughed — hard, bright, the sound filling the car.
“Vi the Flying Tiger. Damn, you still remember this nickname? Wow.”
“Yes,” Caitlyn said, eyes softening. “I still remember every detail of the Flying Tiger. And I wonder if this tiger’s teeth are still sharp?”
Vi’s grin turned sharp, playful.
“Oh, you’ll see.”

A while later. The Interceptor cruised past the last industrial exit before the city swallowed them again.
Vi had her boots back on the dash, one hand drumming idly on her thigh to whatever low rock track was playing through the speakers.
Caitlyn drove with both hands on the wheel now, posture straighter, eyes flicking between mirrors and road.
She broke the quiet first — voice casual, but carrying that faint undercurrent of old embarrassment.
“But talk about his studio… Uncle Billy still hasn’t let me back into the loft studio. Not even once since I was a baby.”
Vi turned her head, eyebrow raised.
“Seriously? After all these years?”
Caitlyn gave a small, dry laugh.
“Yeah. According to him, the last time he let me in, I managed to pull every single cable out of the mixer. Guitar, pedalboard, piano, bass, microphone… Everything when I could climb and deliberately smacked every button I could reach as I sat on his chair. Push them all the way up, all the way down. He is like Nope, do not let this tiny devil get in again”

Vi barked a laugh — loud, delighted — head tipping back against the seat.

“Oh my god. Baby Caitlyn the sound engineer from hell.”

Caitlyn’s lips twitched despite herself.
“He said it took him five hours to get everything recalibrated. Headphones on, swearing under his breath the whole time. After that, he just… quietly decided I was banned from the studio. Forever. Even now, when I visit, he’ll let me in the living room, the kitchen, the hallway — but the second I drift toward that corner with the console, he steers me away like I’m still seven months old and about to nuke his mix.”
Vi was still grinning, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
“God, I can picture it. Tiny you in a onesie, pacifier dangling, just wham wham wham on every fader while he stands there frozen, realizing his three-BMW mixer is now a noise generator.”
Caitlyn shook her head — fond exasperation in every line of her face while Vi’s grin softened into something warmer.
“Someday you have to tell me the full baby-Caitlyn chaos saga. I need all the stories. Every single one.”
Caitlyn glanced over — eyes catching Vi’s — and smiled, small but real.
“Some day. When we’re not tired as fuck from work. I’ll tell you everything. Promise.”

The conversation drifted again until Caitlyn slowed the Interceptor to a crawl past the old neighborhood park on the corner of Light and Warren.
She didn’t mean to stop.
Her foot just eased off the gas.
Her eyes caught the faded demolition notice stapled crookedly to the chain-link fence:
DO NOT ENTER – DEMOLITION SCHEDULED FEB 2026
The colorful slide tower with red spiral tube, yellow ladder, and blue climbing wall still stood in the center half-hidden by overgrown weeds and graffiti tags.
The swings hung motionless.
The merry-go-round was rusted to a standstill.
Caitlyn sighed heavily with her shoulders dropping and stared at the slide as it had personally betrayed her.
Vi noticed immediately.
“Still mad about the slide?” she asked, voice soft.
Caitlyn pouted — arms crossed over her chest, looking twelve again.
“I was twelve. Already 172 cm. A security guard wouldn’t believe I was born in ’91. Kept kicking me out while you, Powder, Milo, Claggor, and Ekko got to play. I stood there watching like some giant weirdo.”
Vi’s mouth curved into a fond, mischievous smile.
“I still remember telling you, ‘Don’t feel so sad, Cait. Maybe one day you can come play it.’”
Caitlyn huffed a small laugh — wry, wistful.
“Yeah. ‘One day.’”
Vi unbuckled her seatbelt. “I have an idea.” as Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s probably a bad idea.”

“Oh, come on, Caitlyn.”