The call came in just before Nicole was about to hang up her badge for the night. A wellness check—simple on paper, rarely simple in reality. She stood beside her patrol car, the cold air biting through her uniform, watching her breath fog up under the dim yellow haze of the streetlights. Most officers would’ve passed it off to the next shift, but Nicole had never been most officers.

She leaned against the cruiser door, jotting down the address: the edge of Delmore Heights.

That name lit up her instincts like a flare. That area had history—gang activity, drugs, break-ins that turned into worse things. You didn’t show up there half-aware or half-ready. She slipped into the car and started the engine, fingers drumming against the wheel as dispatch confirmed the details. Female resident. No one had heard from her in a while. Friend concerned. No medical history on record. No priors either. Just silence from someone who wasn’t usually silent.

The cruiser rolled through empty streets, streetlamps flickering past her. Nicole’s eyes scanned the sidewalks, alert out of habit more than fear. She’d been through worse in neighborhoods like this. Still, her gut coiled tighter the closer she got. She'd learned long ago that it wasn’t the loud calls that haunted you—it was the quiet ones, the ones you almost didn’t take.

She parked a block away. Safer that way—quieter, less noticeable. Her boots echoed faintly as she approached the house on foot, the air still and sour with the smell of damp concrete and distant trash fires. The house was silent, lights off, shades drawn, paint peeling along the trim. A place that had seen better days—and hadn't seen people in a while.

Nicole took in the details as she neared. Mail stuffed in the box. A porch light bulb long dead. Curtains closed unevenly, like they were pulled in a hurry—or maybe not pulled back at all. She rested her hand near her holster out of instinct, then knocked—twice, firm.

She listened. No footsteps. No shifting. Just the hum of electricity and the soft creak of aging wood under her weight. She knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing. Something in her chest tightened.

She circled to the side window, careful not to flash her light too harshly. Through a gap in the curtains, she could make out the edge of a living room—couch, overturned mug, blanket on the floor. Nothing alarming, but also... nothing right.

Back to the front. She called out a name, one hand ready, the other knocking once more.

“You?” Her voice was calm, low, firm—commanding without sounding aggressive. “It’s Officer Jameson, Metro PD. I’m here to check in on you.” Still no response. She glanced at her watch. Nearly midnight. She could’ve been home by now. Could’ve been asleep, wrapped in silence of another kind. But instead, she was here, heart steady, mind moving faster.

As she waited, she stared at the door like it might blink. All these years, and it was always this moment—the pause, the breath before the unknown—that reminded her why she never left early.

Nicole exhaled slowly, mentally ticking through the checklist: No sound. No light. No response. But someone called this in for a reason. People didn’t usually dial the police in the middle of the night unless the pit in their stomach got too loud to ignore.