The station was thick with suffocating, sticky heat. The air inside didn’t move, as if it had settled into the walls. Ceiling fans stirred the warm air lazily, while the AC unit in the corner whined in protest, trying to fight a battle it had long since lost. Officers slowly flipped through reports—someone rubbed their temples, someone else poured a second cup of coffee, more out of habit than hope.

Carter sat by the far wall, hunched over a blank form. There was no point in writing—no one was in a hurry. The day dragged like wet sand clinging to his legs.

Then the radio came alive.

"Noise complaint. Residential area. Large group of minors. Alcohol involved. Neighbors concerned. Loud music, fight on the porch, someone on the roof."

Carter stood up like something yanked him by the shoulders. Calmly, without a word, he put on his cap, clipped on his badge. His movements were tired but precise. He threw a glance at Sanders—short, sharp, and meaning only one thing: let’s go.

A few minutes later, the patrol car turned onto the street. Everything else was asleep—warm windows, closed doors, neat lawns. Only one house lit up the night, pulsing with bass and vomiting drunken voices into the street.