8:18 a.m.
Ezra sat quietly at his desk, watching as the precinct morning slowly booted up like an old computer. The rhythm was becoming familiar—Boyle's thermos hissing with homemade bone broth, Gina typing with exactly three fingers while blasting euro-pop, and Hitchcock and Scully arguing over who sat in which chair first like two toddlers with arthritis.
Today, Hitchcock had actually put his badge on upside down and Scully was using a lint roller on his own back. No one asked why. Ezra had already learned not to.
Terry walked by with a clipboard and a grim look.
"Administrative week," he muttered. "Paperwork. Backlogs. Expense forms."
Jake perked up from behind his monitor. "Did someone say expense forms?"
Terry narrowed his eyes. "You still owe six months of receipts for 'undercover mustache grooming supplies.'"
"Those were legitimate disguises!" Jake protested. "The Fu Manchu was essential for that dog show case."
Terry walked off, muttering about requisition fraud.
Amy entered moments later, holding a fresh stack of forms and looking like she'd just emerged from a highlighter convention.
"Today," she said brightly, "we audit the year's unsorted case files. Bring your highlighters, boys. And your ambition."
Jake groaned. "Bring my resignation instead."
Gina leaned over from her desk. "Bring snacks or perish."
Ezra leaned back in his chair, slowly rotating a pen between his fingers. The last time someone said 'audit' around him, he was lying his way out of a casino surveillance room in Monaco. Now? Now he was wearing an NYPD badge and expected to organize cold cases alphabetically.
The universe had a sense of humor.
9:22 a.m.
Ezra was partnered with Amy and Boyle for the morning's 'review and file' mission.
Boyle was unreasonably excited. "I brought snacks! Almonds, energy chews, and something called 'smart jerky' I found at a co-op."
Amy eyed it. "That's not food. That's a dare."
Ezra took the first case file. "Missing garden gnome. Recovered from a frat house. Suspect was quoted saying it 'had good vibes.'"
Amy sighed. "That one's from the annual prank wars at Hudson. We get at least three of those every spring."
Boyle flipped through his folder. "Found one about a guy who faked his own death to avoid a baby shower. I kind of respect it."
Ezra added, "He used his cat as a witness. That's impressive."
Amy groaned, but she was smiling.
By the time they got to a vandalism complaint involving someone drawing a mustache on every billboard featuring a certain city councilman, Ezra and Boyle had begun assigning points for creativity. Amy tried to disapprove but eventually gave in and created a rubric.
Jake wandered by just as Ezra was marking a file with a "6.5/10" for method.
"Whoa, are we rating crimes now? Because that's my dream lunch conversation."
Boyle nodded. "We're innovating. Amy said it was technically unsanctioned but not strictly illegal."
Amy frowned. "That's not what I—never mind."
11:10 a.m.
Jake kept wandering into their paperwork circle with fake coffee deliveries, dramatic readings of the most absurd case notes, and once, wearing sunglasses and pretending to be Ezra's lawyer.
"Mr. Kael declines all questions unless the coffee is artisanal and the folders are color-coded," Jake announced.
Ezra deadpanned, "My lawyer has a caffeine problem."
Jake pointed. "That's slander. I'm filing a form."
Amy handed him one. "Here. Form 3B—Petty Grievances Against Fellow Detectives."
Jake gasped. "You have that ready?"
Boyle nodded solemnly. "She carries it like other people carry pepper spray."
Amy raised a brow. "You don't carry pepper spray?"
Ezra watched them banter. It felt… easier today. Natural. Not a performance. He still didn't trust any of them—not really. But he was learning how to exist among them without needing to.
Later, Rosa stopped by, dropped a file on his desk, and said, "You organize stuff like you're hiding something."
Ezra didn't look up. "Aren't we all?"
She stared at him for a beat. Then walked away.
Gina passed by a moment later and simply said, "I like you more now."
Ezra had no idea what that meant.
But he liked hearing it.
12:10 p.m.
After a brief break where Gina tried to explain cryptocurrency to Hitchcock using only interpretive dance (which ended with Scully getting stuck in a chair), the bullpen returned to its usual hum.
Ezra found himself back at his desk, typing a report when Amy dropped a new file on top of it.
"Identity theft case. Cold but maybe not dead. Thought it might interest you."
Ezra looked at her. "Because it's about deception and forged identities?"
Amy shrugged, but her face betrayed a smirk. "You just seem like someone who would appreciate a good fake passport."
Ezra let the silence stretch just long enough for it to be unsettling. Then he said, "That may be the nicest thing anyone's said to me today."
Amy blinked, then chuckled. "Yeah, well… welcome to the squad."
He scanned the report. Credit card fraud, false employment records, inconsistent social security numbers. It wasn't glamorous, but it was clever.
He liked clever.
1:00 p.m.
The whiteboard filled slowly as Ezra outlined connections between suspect aliases and repeated IP logins. Jake leaned back in his chair across the room, tossing popcorn into the air and missing half of them.
"You're like a mystery novel in a trench coat," he said, watching Ezra draw a third connection line.
Ezra replied without looking up. "And you're the footnote in Comic Sans at the bottom."
"Rude. Accurate. But rude."
Terry walked by, paused, and nodded. "Keep it up, Kael. McGintley's been asking why the newer detectives aren't doing more analysis work."
"Did he say it in those words?" Ezra asked.
Terry grunted. "No. He said, 'Why's the tall one not doing brain stuff yet?' I'm interpreting generously."
2:17 p.m.
Gina hovered near Ezra's desk, arms crossed. "Alright, trenchcoat. Spill. What's the weirdest fake identity you've ever heard of?"
Ezra hesitated, then answered too smoothly: "I once knew a guy who pretended to be an Icelandic ballet instructor to scam money out of a luxury cat spa chain."
Gina blinked. "Okay. I don't know if that's true. But I need it to be."
He smiled. "Reality is flexible."
Gina high-fived him. "You're weird. I approve."
3:30 p.m.
Amy brought over a second cold case file that mirrored the morning's identity theft.
Jake appeared again like a raccoon summoned by the smell of intrigue.
"Alright, what do we have? Cat burglars? Secret societies? Twins pretending to be each other for inheritance tax loopholes?"
"Credit card fraud," Amy answered.
Jake looked disappointed. "Oh. The documentary version of crime."
Ezra didn't look up. "You're free to return to your popcorn."
Jake sighed and flopped backward. "Only because it's kettle corn and not worth the emotional investment."
Still, he lingered, watching Ezra move from board to file to screen like he was unraveling a code only he could see.
5:45 p.m.
The board was full now. Ezra stood in front of it with Terry and Amy, walking them through the pattern. Two suspects, linked by minor inconsistencies in digital footprinting and a shared alias used in hotel bookings.
"Think we could close it?" Terry asked.
Ezra shrugged slightly. "If they slip up again. Or if I can trick them into thinking they already did."
Amy blinked. "Is that legal?"
Ezra smiled faintly. "It's only illegal if it goes in the report."
Terry gave him a long look, then walked off muttering, "If McGintley ever retires, the next poor captain's gonna have his hands full…"
Ezra tapped the board, then erased the last alias. "Sometimes people don't want to disappear. They just want to be untraceable."
Amy looked at him. "You say that like you know from experience."
Ezra didn't reply.
But his smile lasted a little too long.
8:04 a.m. – The Next Day
Ezra stepped into the bullpen and found Boyle earnestly explaining the ethical implications of balsamic vinegar to a visibly disinterested Gina.
"You can't just drizzle it on pancakes, Gina. There's a balance. A dance. A—"
"A very lonely argument you're having with yourself," Gina interrupted, sipping something aggressively green from a mason jar.
Jake waved at Ezra from behind a cereal box fort. "Welcome back, shadow detective. I've decided that's your code name. You blend into shadows, manipulate information, and you probably own at least one cool dagger."
"I've never owned a dagger," Ezra said flatly.
Jake grinned. "That's exactly what a guy who owns three daggers would say."
Boyle nodded solemnly. "It's okay, Ezra. We all have secrets. Mine is that I sleep with a fanny pack filled with artisanal pickles."
Ezra opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it. There was no follow-up to that.
9:30 a.m.
McGintley's growl echoed through the bullpen.
"Who put a smiley face sticker on my parking citation board?"
A long silence. Then Scully muttered, "Could've been the printer. It jams a lot."
"No one move!" McGintley shouted. "I'm gonna sniff it out like a bloodhound."
Jake whispered, "That man is three minutes away from developing a new personality trait out of sheer rage."
"Is this about the missing breakfast sandwiches?" Amy asked, flipping open her notebook.
Jake nodded. "Also the sticky note that says 'Smile! You're underpaid.'"
Ezra arched a brow. "Did you write that?"
Jake looked offended. "No. That was Gina. Mine said, 'Smile! Your rage is what keeps you warm.'"
11:00 a.m.
The new identity theft case had a lead: a low-level tech support employee who kept changing names every six months.
Ezra, Jake, and Amy headed out to question the company's receptionist. On the way, Jake mused about how Ezra would fare in an espionage movie.
"Picture it," he said. "Cold open. Rain. You appear on a motorcycle in a trench coat. Cut to a card game. Someone gets poisoned."
Ezra, driving, didn't flinch. "That sounds like a terrible movie. Too obvious."
"Okay, plot twist—you're also the villain. And the bartender. And the long-lost twin."
Amy looked between them. "How do you both function in polite society?"
Jake beamed. "We don't. That's the secret."
12:15 p.m.
The receptionist, a woman named Marla, blinked as Jake asked if any of her coworkers had recently started using fake identities or developing evil twin syndromes.
Ezra smoothly interjected, "We're actually looking into some inconsistencies in recent hires. If you have any records of staff with multiple addresses or mismatched ID numbers…"
Marla nodded slowly. "Yeah… actually, we flagged a guy a few months ago who disappeared. He had like… three different birthdays on file. That's not normal, right?"
Amy took notes, while Jake quietly mouthed, "Three birthdays? Overachiever."
2:00 p.m.
Back at the precinct, Gina had set up a miniature stage made of file boxes and was reciting lines from a fake musical she was workshopping: Fraudulent Intent: The Identity Theft Opera.
Ezra walked past just as she hit a dramatic note: "You forged my trust and typed your lies!"
She held the note until Scully clapped with tears in his eyes.
Jake, sipping a soda, said, "I swear, if this place had less crime and more interpretive jazz, it'd be the greatest community theater on Earth."
4:45 p.m.
The pieces clicked. Ezra triangulated the suspect's usage of burner phones with hotel check-ins and ride-share logs. He pulled Boyle in for a brainstorm session, which quickly turned into a bizarre analogy about dumplings and aliases.
"The wrapper," Boyle said, holding up a napkin, "is the fake identity. But the filling—that's the person. You can't fake the filling, Ezra."
Ezra blinked. "…I think you just solved the metaphor for every undercover agent in cinema."
Boyle smiled proudly. "Also, I'm hungry. Do you want to go halfsies on a meat pie?"
Ezra politely declined.
6:15 p.m.
Jake hovered as Ezra compiled the final report.
"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you hadn't ended up here?" Jake asked.
Ezra didn't answer right away. Then: "Yeah. All the time."
Jake nodded. "Same. Except mine involves a failed surfboard repair shop in Tampa."
Ezra turned to him, deadpan. "That's incredibly specific."
Jake grinned. "I've put thought into my backup dreams."
They sat in silence for a moment. Outside the window, the sky turned soft orange.
Ezra looked out and said, just barely above a whisper, "Sometimes I forget this is real."
Jake didn't respond.
But for once, he didn't joke either.