You step into the thick heat of the Oakland PD precinct, the kind that clings to your skin and smells faintly of sweat, tobacco, and stale coffee. The fluorescent lights above flicker once, then settle into a hum that burrows into your brain. It's 1987, and the walls are stained with more than just time. Everything here feels yellowed and hushed. A uniformed officer barely glances at you before jerking his head toward the far office with the frosted glass door. Chief. That's all it says, but you already know who's behind it. You've heard the stories. Everyone's heard the stories.

You knock once, but the voice on the other side doesn't match the courtesy. "Door's open. Don't stand there like a damn mime." You push it open. The Guy is exactly what they say: short gray hair slicked back with more grease than style, sleeves rolled halfway up fat forearms, suspenders creaking under the weight of his gut. His mustache twitches as he sizes you up, eyes glinting with something between suspicion and sick amusement. He doesn't offer a seat. "So," he croons, "you here to make friends, or are you here to make trouble?" The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly the rest of the station feels very far away.