EIGHT HOURS LATER…
I've been thinking about that damn case all day.
It's like it crawled under my skin the moment Donnelly slid that file across the desk. I haven't been able to shake it, not even after sorting through a mountain of unrelated reports and casework, trying to lose myself in paperwork and noise.
But the thought keeps circling like a vulture. Six people gone. No struggle. No trace. No reason.
And that number in the elevator…
I want to go back into the field. God knows I miss it. The adrenaline, the clarity, the feeling that I'm doing something again. But this case? It feels different. Off.
Would it help me, or finish breaking what's left?
I glance down at the envelope on my desk. Still unopened since I stuffed it back inside hours ago. I know exactly what's in it: keys, phone, new name, new life, but it still feels heavier than it should. Like opening it again will make the decision permanent.
I sigh and lean back in my chair.
The squad room is dead quiet now. At some point, everyone else trickled out. Except one.
Steven.
He's sitting a few desks over, spinning a pen between his fingers, pretending not to look at me, but failing. He's waiting. Probably thinking he can drag me to Freddie's and get me wasted enough to forget I'm brooding again.
I push myself to my feet.
"Hey, du—"
"Yeah, we'll hit Freddie's. Wait for me to change," I say, cutting him off as I make my way toward the locker room.
"You know me so well."
I came in uniform today, figured it'd help me stay focused. Now I just want out of it.
I open my locker. The smell of stale soap and metal hits me, familiar, grounding. My civilian clothes are folded neatly on the bottom shelf. I grab the shirt, then stop in front of the sink.
The mirror is cracked in the corner. Typical.
I pull off my uniform shirt, drape it over the locker door, and look at myself.
There it is.
That scar.
A deep, ugly gash running vertically along the left side of my torso. Pale against my skin, raised at the edges like the wound never really healed right. It still aches sometimes when it rains.
I run my fingers over it, tracing the story it tells.
Not just a scar, a sentence. Etched into flesh. Permanent.
I can still hear the screams, the sirens, the static over the radio when it all went to hell. Still see the blood that soaked the floor. Not just his… theirs. All of them. People I couldn't save.
People I should've saved.
It's all my fault.
The bodies.
The families left behind.
The birthdays that won't be celebrated. The dinners that'll forever have one empty chair. The laughter that's gone silent in their homes.
I hear my therapist's voice echo in the back of my mind, distant and clinical.
"It wasn't your fault, Tomozaki. You did the best you could under the circumstances."
And maybe I did.
But that doesn't stop the questions.
Doesn't quiet the voice that whispers late at night: You hesitated. You missed something. You could've stopped him.
And I believe it. Because deep down, in the part of me I don't like to admit exists, I know I could've done better. Moved faster. Listened closer. Thought sharper.
But I didn't.
And people died.
I press my palm flat against the scar, then slowly pull my hand away. The skin is cool under my touch, but everything underneath still burns.
The truth is, I carry that day with me, not just in this mark, but in every choice I make now. Every hesitation. Every second guess. Every file I over-analyze. Every instinct I don't trust.
Maybe Donnelly's right.
Maybe this case is what I need.
I close the locker and take a breath. Just one. Shaky and shallow.
Then I grab my jacket off the hook.
I'm done changing.
The mirror doesn't say much, but I don't need it to. I already know the man staring back at me isn't whole, and probably never will be.
But he still has work to do.
I walk out of the locker room, the distant hum of dying fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Steven's still waiting, leaning against the hallway wall, phone in hand.
He looks up, smirks. "About time. I was starting to think you crawled into one of the lockers to nap."
I force a smile. "Nah. Just got lost in thought."
His eyes study me for a second, he's known me too long to miss the weight behind those words, but he doesn't pry.
"Let's go get drunk," he says, pushing off the wall.
"Lead the way."
…
The place is dimly lit, low ceilings and cheaper whiskey, filled with people pretending they're not running from something. It smells like spilled beer, burnt fries, and bad decisions.
It's perfect.
Steven and I grab a booth near the back. It's our usual spot, half-shadowed, far enough from the speakers to talk, close enough to the exit in case things go south. Force of habit.
A waitress I vaguely remember comes by with two glasses of whatever we always order. She doesn't ask. Just drops them on the table and moves on. Guess she knows us better than we thought.
I take a sip. Burnt gold, sharp going down. Does nothing for the weight in my chest.
Steven raises his glass. "To youth."
I blink. That's it? That might be one of the corniest toasts he's pulled in a long while, and this is the same guy who once toasted "to the glory of microwave burritos" after a double homicide case.
Even the best crash eventually. Looks like we've hit rock bottom.
I raise an eyebrow. "Dude, is that the best you've got?"
He shrugs, unbothered. "Hey, we've already toasted to everything there is to toast. Twice. I'm working with scraps here."
"You could've gone with 'to surviving the week' or 'to whatever's in this drink not killing us.' Something gritty. Something with flavor."
"Nah," he says, sipping. "Sometimes simple's the only thing left standing. Like youth."
I snort. "Pretty deep for a guy who once toasted to socks."
"They were good socks."
We both chuckle, the sound easy. Familiar.
But as the laughter fades, I notice his eyes still on me, more serious than his smile lets on. He's been watching me carefully all night, not like a detective, more like a friend keeping score of how far I've slipped without realizing.
He doesn't ask again if I'm okay.
Maybe because he knows the answer hasn't changed.
So instead, he lifts his glass again.
"Well," he says, "corny or not, bottoms up."
I clink mine against his with a hollow tap, and we drink.
The burn hits the back of my throat, warm and familiar.
I set my glass down. "Donnelly finally decided to give me a case."
Steven perks up like I just told him Christmas came early. "Whoa, really? No more desk duty?"
"Nope."
His eyes light up. "Damn. Took him long enough. What is it? Homicide? Missing persons?"
I hesitate.
"Undercover."
Steven's smirk falters. "Wait, undercover?"
I nod, watching the amber in my glass swirl.
"I thought you don't do undercover," he says, voice a little quieter now, like he's not sure if this is a joke.
"I don't."
A beat passes. The buzz of the bar fades into the background for a moment. All that's left is the quiet tension across the table.
He leans in slightly. "Then why the hell are you taking it?"
I shake my head, exhaling slowly. "I didn't."
Steven frowns, confused. "So…"
"But I will," I continue, my voice low. "I'll probably send Donnelly the go-ahead tonight. Just gotta hit send."
Steven leans back, dragging a hand through his hair. He doesn't say anything at first, just exhales like the air's gotten heavier.
"Damn," he mutters. "Why?"
Why?
That's a good question.
Could be because I've been waiting for something to get me out of this office graveyard. Could be because I'm not afraid of going undercover. I know how to lie. That's easy.
But that's not the real reason.
No, the real reason is buried deeper. Somewhere beneath the scar, under the guilt I pretend I'm not still carrying. The real reason is the faces I see when I close my eyes. The ones I couldn't save. The ones who didn't get to walk away.
Maybe this is my chance to even the score.
Maybe this is the only way I will be able to sleep at night.
But I don't say any of that.
I just force a chuckle and swirl the last inch of whiskey in my glass. "Why not?" I say with a crooked grin. "It's not like I have anything better to do."
Steven doesn't laugh.
He watches me with that steady, quiet stare. Not calling me out. Not needing to. He sees through it and we both know it.
But he lets it go.
"Alright," he says finally. "You hit send… I'll keep a seat warm for you here. Just don't get too comfortable."
I raise my glass and nod. "No promises."