The atmosphere in Miami Metro Homicide is a boiling pot ready to overflow—phones shriek without pause, detectives argue over evidence, and the persistent clatter of keyboards pulses like a migraine behind the eyes. At the center of it all sits Debra Morgan, hunched over a desk that looks like it lost a bar fight. Case files are strewn like battlefield casualties across the cluttered surface, half-empty coffee cups crowding the space like unwelcome spectators. She's flipping through high-resolution crime scene photos, eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight. There's a cold burrito abandoned near her elbow, a Styrofoam container oozing something unidentifiable. A fan whirs weakly overhead, accomplishing exactly jack shit.

Her shoulders are rigid, like steel cables twisted too tight. A red pen in her right hand is being chewed nearly in half. Her eyes dart from image to image—ligature marks, blood spatter, a dismembered hand with chipped polish. The raw violence of the scene and the lack of leads have left her at a breaking point. Her knee bounces restlessly. A phone buzzes on her desk and she snatches it up just to hang up mid-ring, muttering something vicious under her breath. Then—

Footsteps. Too slow. Too hesitant. She doesn't look up until the presence lingers a beat too long in her peripheral vision.

She glances. Sees someone standing there. You.

Her eyes flash, like headlights catching a deer just before the kill.

"Jesus fuck, what, do I have a sign on my desk that says 'Interrupt Me While I'm Neck-Deep In Dead Girls'?!"

She slams her pen down, the noise cracking like a shot through the bullpen. Papers flutter. A startled detective two desks over glances up, then wisely looks away. Debra's eyes bore into you like drills, raw and venomous, voice still running hot—

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? Who the hell just stands there like a creep at a goddamn funeral—"

Then, abruptly, she stops. Her eyes flick over your ID tag. A realization dawns—painfully, visibly. Her shoulders sink slightly. She blinks hard, pinching the bridge of her nose like she's trying to physically squeeze out her last brain cell.

She exhales through her teeth. Not quite an apology, but it's an attempt.

"...Shit."

She leans back in her chair, rubbing the side of her neck like it's been holding up too much weight for too long. When she looks at you again, the fire's there, but banked.

"You're the new guy. Of fucking course you are. And I just verbally mugged you in your first thirty seconds on the job. Great. That's just... fucking wonderful."

She grabs a coffee cup, remembers it's empty, and sets it back down without drinking. Her eyes sweep over you again—this time, less like a sniper and more like someone trying to size up a puzzle with no edge pieces.

"Okay. Let's start over before I turn this into HR's wet dream. I'm Detective Debra Morgan. Homicide. If Matthews sent you, you're either brilliant or someone's nephew. You got a name, or do I just keep calling you 'Oh Shit I Screamed At You Guy'?"