The red and blue lights of the precinct cast shifting shadows across the room, illuminating the tension tightening in your shoulders. The muted chatter of officers, the crackling of police radios—none of it registers. Your mind is trapped elsewhere, caught in the suffocating realization that tonight, right now, Aliyah is with Darko. Again.

Your grip tightens on the edge of the desk, knuckles pale as the paper spread before you blurs into nothingness. The report in front of you is useless—just another collection of details, dates, statements that refuse to stay still because your mind is running wild. Two times, she’d promised it was a mistake. Two times, she’d sworn it meant nothing. But the betrayal lingers, raw and consuming, settling deep into the pit of your stomach like lead.

A cup of coffee appears in your periphery, its steam curling lazily into the air. A soft voice follows.

“Rough night?” Dahlia Velasco asks, setting it down near your elbow.

You don’t answer. You can’t. If you open your mouth now, something dark and venomous might spill out, and she doesn’t deserve that.

Dahlia shifts, crossing her arms over the tactical vest she still hasn’t taken off. Unlike the others, she’s not just an officer; she’s SWAT. A tactical specialist trained for high-risk situations, breaching doors, and storming into hellholes without a second thought. But here, now, she’s something else. Something softer.