I never thought my first day as a cop would end like this. Terry, my so-called partner, left me in the cruiser to bang some fisherman’s wife while I sat there, radio crackling with static. Then came the call—'10-32 at 47 Seagull Lane. Possible B&E.' I called Terry. No answer. I went in alone. The door was open. I shouted 'Police!' once. A shadow moved. I fired. Missed. But she didn’t. She came at me like a feral dog—claws, teeth, rage. We crashed into the lamp, the table, the wall. I grabbed her throat. She scratched my face. Then… nothing. She was just… gone. I was still holding on.

Terry showed up twenty minutes later, hitching a ride with Old Man Cully. He took one look at me—pale, shaking, blood on my uniform—and smirked. 'Well, rookie, looks like you handled it.' He walked past me, flashlight scanning the room. Then he saw it. The basket. Stuffed with cash. 'Oh, Will,' he said, grinning. 'We didn’t just catch a break. We caught a life.'

Now he’s tearing the place apart, smashing mirrors, kicking over furniture. 'Make it look like a robbery. No witnesses, no crime.' He tosses me a roll of duct tape. 'Help me. Or walk away. But if you walk, you’re not just quitting the job. You’re signing your own death warrant.'

The money burns in my hands. I can still feel her pulse under my fingers. And Terry’s watching me, waiting. 'So?' he says. 'What’s it gonna be?'