Pocho's wife didn't come home the night after the paper.
She stayed with her sister.
He didn't argue.
He didn't ask her to.
He told himself it was temporary.
---
He was officially off the case for forty-eight hours.
Which meant he wasn't allowed near the board.
Not allowed to question witnesses.
Not allowed to coordinate patrol.
It felt wrong.
He still went to the station.
He just didn't touch anything.
Harris noticed.
"You're not helping by standing there," Harris said.
"I know."
"Then go home."
Pocho didn't.
---
At 7:12 p.m., Harris' phone rang.
His face changed immediately.
He looked at Pocho.
"You need to sit down," Harris said.
Pocho didn't.
"What happened?"
Harris swallowed once.
"There was an incident near your sister-in-law's place."
Everything inside him tightened.
"Who?"
"Your wife."
Pocho was already moving.
---
She was conscious when he arrived at the hospital.
Bruised across the ribs.
Left wrist fractured.
Cut above the eye.
Not broken the way the others were.
But hurt.
He stood at the door of the room for a few seconds before walking in.
She looked at him.
There was no anger in her eyes.
Just exhaustion.
"He didn't stay long," she said.
Her voice was steady.
"He didn't need to."
Pocho pulled a chair close to the bed.
"Tell me everything."
"I was walking from my sister's car to the door," she said. "He came from behind the building."
"Did you see his face?"
"No."
"Height?"
"Taller than you."
"Did he say anything?"
She nodded.
"He said, 'You asked him to stop.'"
Pocho didn't speak.
She continued.
"He said, 'He won't.'"
Silence filled the room.
"Then what?" Pocho asked.
"He pushed me down. Kicked me once. Broke my wrist when I tried to block."
She swallowed.
"And then he left."
That was it.
No extended torture.
No broken ribs deliberately crushed.
No drawn-out damage.
This wasn't an attack for pleasure.
This was a message.
Pocho's jaw tightened.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't punch anything.
He just sat there.
"He didn't want to kill me," she said.
"No," Pocho replied.
"He wanted you."
"Yes."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"I told you to step back."
He didn't answer.
Because she was right.
---
Outside the hospital room, Morrison was waiting.
"This changes things," Morrison said.
"Yes."
"You're not off the case anymore."
Pocho didn't respond to that.
"You understand what he's doing?" Morrison asked.
"Yes."
"He's destabilizing you."
"Yes."
"And it's working."
Pocho looked at him.
"No," he said.
But he didn't sound certain.
---
Back inside the room, his wife was awake again.
"You can't do this," she said quietly.
"I have to."
"No," she replied. "You want to."
He held her gaze.
"I won't stop."
"I know," she said.
That hurt more than if she had yelled.
"I won't forgive you if you choose him again," she added.
He didn't argue.
He didn't promise.
He just sat there.
Because the truth was simple.
He wasn't choosing the killer.
He was choosing the end of it.
And those two things were starting to look the same.
---
Later that night, he stepped outside the hospital alone.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He stared at it.
Then answered.
"Yes."
The voice was calm.
Measured.
"I told you," the killer said. "You don't stop."
Pocho didn't speak.
"I didn't break her," the killer continued. "You should thank me."
Silence.
"You could still walk away," the man said.
"No," Pocho replied.
"I know."
Pause.
"I wanted to see if you'd hesitate."
Another pause.
"You didn't."
Click.
The line went dead.
Pocho lowered the phone slowly.
The killer wasn't angry.
He wasn't chaotic.
He was observing.
Testing.
And tonight, he got confirmation.
Pocho would not step back.
No matter the cost.
That realization didn't make Pocho explode.
It didn't make him cry.
It made something else happen.
He stopped doubting.
The line had been crossed.
And now, it wasn't about balance anymore.
It was about finishing.