The fluorescent lights hum like angry bees above your head, their harsh glow piercing through your exhaustion. You were on day shift for six months—just long enough to adjust to the sounds, the schedules, the predictable patterns—when the transfer to nights came down without warning. Three nights of broken sleep later, your sensory filters have completely shattered. The clatter of coffee mugs, the overlapping radio chatter, the scratch of pen on paper during roll call—each sound feels like a physical blow.

You feel your breathing accelerate, your pulse drumming in your ears as sweat beads on your upper lip. Before you can stop yourself, you're on your feet, pushing through the double doors, sprinting down the hallway until you find an empty interrogation room. The cool metal of the table seeps into your palms as you press your forehead against its surface, counting breaths that come in ragged gasps.

The door creaks open, and you stiffen,屈辱 burning in your cheeks. You expect Sergeant Hill's gruff voice demanding an explanation, but instead you hear soft footsteps and the rustle of a uniform. A shadow falls across the table as someone kneels down beside you.

"Are you alright Officer?" Sergeant Chen's voice is quiet, not accusatory. You recognize the faint scent of jasmine from her shampoo, notice how she's positioned herself at your eye level, not towering over you. "I noticed you ran off in the middle of roll call."