- PRESENT DAY -

—————༻☂︎︎༺—————

The fluorescent lights overhead hummed as I sat at my desk in the station, staring at the pile of papers in front of me. The glass walls of my office offered an unobstructed view of the bustling precinct—officers pushing suspects in cuffs, voices raised in tense conversations, the shuffle of papers, and the click of keyboards filling the air. It was a familiar noise, one I had learned to drown out over the years. But today, it felt like it was all closing in on me.

I tapped the pen against my desk, the sound hollow and empty. Waste, garbage, trash. The words repeated in my mind, matching the paper I was flipping through. Case files, all of them stacked high with leads that never went anywhere, evidence that didn't add up, names that led to nothing. It was all a puzzle I couldn't solve, a mystery that had haunted me for years. And with each piece I turned over, I felt the same emptiness gnaw at my gut.

Another sip of coffee. I was on my fourth cup now. It was cold, but I didn't care. The bitterness matched the taste in my mouth, the frustration that always simmered beneath the surface.

I shuffled through the papers, glancing at them only long enough to know they were filled with names I didn't recognize, locations I didn't care about, all leading to dead ends. I was no closer to finding what I needed than I was all those years ago. The answers were still just out of reach, taunting me.

Please, just give me something, I thought, the words barely a whisper in my mind.

Six years old. That's how old I had been when everything changed. The faces of my parents—their smiles, their warmth, their love—were nothing but distant memories now, blurred with the passing of time, distorted by the horrific truth of that night. A night that had been erased, a night that I had tried to bury. But it wouldn't stay buried.

I leaned back in my chair, letting out a slow, controlled breath. The weight of it all pressed down on me, like it always did. The unanswered questions. The faces of my parents. The blood. The silence.

I could still hear my mother's voice in my head, shaking and desperate, telling me to stay hidden, to stay safe, to wait. And I had waited. I had waited for years, believing that I would find some kind of justice, some kind of closure. But every case I opened, every clue I chased, only seemed to lead me further into a maze with no exit.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, and I looked up to see my partner, Patch, leaning casually against the frame. She had that easygoing smile on her face, the one that always seemed to put people at ease, even on days when everything felt like it was falling apart.

Patch was more than just my coworker—she was my partner, my friend. We'd been through countless cases together, long shifts, and the never-ending cycle of paperwork. We had each other's backs, no matter how tough the day got. She knew me better than anyone in the precinct, and sometimes, that felt like both a comfort and a curse. But today, I was grateful for her presence.

"Hey, Patch," I said, setting my pen down and giving her a quick nod.

She grinned and pushed herself off the doorframe. "Hey, I'm about to grab lunch. You wanna tag along?" She motioned toward the break room with a tilt of her head.

I glanced at the stack of papers on my desk, each file filled with dead ends and unfinished leads. Waste, garbage, trash. The words echoed in my mind, the same frustration weighing on me more with each passing hour. I sighed, rubbing my temples.

"I know what. Why not?" I said, standing up and stretching, trying to shake off the heaviness in my chest. "I've got a lot on my plate, and I could use a refill anyway." I grabbed my empty coffee mug, set it back down on the desk, and slid my chair in with a soft squeak before walking over to Patch.

We stepped out of my office together, and the noise of the precinct hit me like a wave. Phones ringing nonstop, detectives having hushed conversations, keyboards clicking in sync with the rhythm of the place. Everyone was moving, working, solving something. Everyone but me. I was stuck in a cycle of chasing ghosts, hunting for answers that felt just out of reach.

Patch, always upbeat and reliable, led the way to the break room. She had a way of making everything feel a little lighter, even when the world felt heavy. We'd been partners for years—side by side through thick and thin. I'd been through it all with her, and she had been there for me when I needed it most.

The door to the break room swung open, revealing the usual scene. A few officers were sitting around, chatting casually, grabbing a quick bite or taking a breather from the grind. I could feel some of the tension ease off my shoulders as I walked in. The break room, at least for a few minutes, was a place of normalcy in the chaos.

Patch and I part ways, and I make my way back to the coffee pot. The familiar hiss of the brewing coffee fills the air, and I pour myself a fresh cup of dark, black coffee. I add two sugar packets and stir it absentmindedly as I sit down at the table across from her. Patch is already digging into her lunch—a simple mix of rice and vegetables. She doesn't seem bothered by the blandness of it. She always made the simplest things look easy.

I sigh deeply and take a sip of my coffee, feeling the bitterness settle in my chest. My mind's still running on the case, and it's wearing me thin. The constant loop of paperwork, interviews, and dead ends. Nothing was making sense.

"Works on you?" Patch asked, glancing up from her meal with that sharp, dry tone she had.

I set my mug down, rolling my eyes as I leaned back in my chair. "More like works around me," I muttered, rubbing my temples.

"Still nothing?" Patch said, looking up from her lunch as she eyed me, concern creeping into her voice.

I didn't need to say anything. The look I gave her—the one I always gave when I couldn't find a damn thing in the case files—spoke louder than words ever could.

The case was as cold as it had been when I was six. The night my parents were murdered in our home, and I was left to watch it all unfold from a closet, alone. I can still feel the weight of that darkness, the terrifying silence after the last gunshot. That night haunted me for years—my parents gone, and not a single lead. No fingerprints, no DNA, no trace of the person who did it. The police, the detectives—they all gave up after months of looking for answers. But I didn't. I couldn't.

I joined the academy not just to be a cop, but to find the truth. To solve the one case that never left me. To find out who took my parents away from me, who destroyed my world that night. It was supposed to be my fight. A fight for justice, a fight for closure. But here I am, years later, no closer to the truth than I was as a scared six-year-old hiding in that closet. The case is old, forgotten by most. But not by me. Not by Patch.

Patch is the only one who knows the story. The only one who knows that the case I'm trying to solve is personal, that it's my case, too. She's been with me through it all. The endless nights, the frustrations, the failures. She's helped me keep going, even when everything felt like it was falling apart.

I pull out my pack of cigarettes, sliding one out and sticking it in my mouth. The weight of the pack feels familiar in my hand as I slide it back into my pocket, but when I reach for my lighter, I come up empty. I pat down my pockets with a sigh of annoyance.

"Hey, you got a lighter on you?" I ask, nodding toward Patch, who's still working her way through her lunch.

She pulls her bag from the floor and starts rummaging through it, but before she can find anything, a voice cuts through the air.

"I got you, Y/L/N."

I look up from my seat, cigarette still dangling from my lips, and spot Sergeant Quinn standing in the doorway with that easy smile of his. He's holding a lighter, and before I can say anything, he walks over, flips the lid, and lights the end of my cigarette. I inhale deeply, grateful for the small relief, feeling the smoke hit my lungs as I pull the cigarette from my mouth and blow out a slow stream of

"Thanks, Luke," I say, looking up at him with a small, appreciative nod.

"No sweat," he replies, walking over to the coffee pot. He pours himself a mug, then turns around, leaning against the counter with that casual air he always has. "How's the grind today, ladies? Still chasing paperwork or you're actually solving something?"

I exhale through my nose and roll my eyes. "Same old. Paperwork. Write-ups. Same damn cycle. If I had a nickel for every report, I'd have retired by now." I take another drag, the smoke curling up around my face.

Quinn nods, not surprised. He looks over at Patch, who's still shoveling food into her mouth without missing a beat.

"What about you, Patch? Still holding down the fort with the busy work?"

Patch doesn't even glance up from her food, her voice flat and dry. "Same shit. Just a different pile." She pokes at the rice with her fork, clearly unamused.

I chuckle quietly. "Yeah, some things never change."

Quinn gives a half-hearted shrug, the same grin plastered on his face. "Sounds like a rough day. You two need a drink, huh?

He looks at me with a slight grin. "On me."

I exhale, the smoke thick in the air. "If you're lucky, Luke."

Quinn flashes a quick smile before taking one last sip of his coffee. "Alright, I'll see you ladies around," he says, offering us a casual nod before turning toward the door. As it swings open, I hear his footsteps echo down the hallway, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.

I glance back at Patch, who's still watching the door. She turns back to me after a moment, her expression neutral but with a quiet intensity in her eyes.

"You still seeing Luke?" she asks, her voice calm but direct.

I lean back in my chair, exhaling a slow breath. "I wouldn't say 'seeing.' We're just... talking." I try to keep it casual, but even I can tell it doesn't come off as convincing.

Patch doesn't respond right away. She looks down at her food and stirs it for a moment before lifting her eyes to meet mine again. "How many times has he asked you out for drinks, and you've dodged it?" she presses, her tone dry and matter-of-fact.

I shift in my seat, unwilling to admit how many times she's right. "It doesn't matter. You and I both know I don't have time for relationships. They only complicate things. I've got work to focus on." I blow a cloud of smoke out of my mouth, watching it drift up before disappearing into the stale air of the break room.

Patch's gaze doesn't waver, though there's a slight shift in her eyes. "That didn't stop you with them," she mutters, her voice softer.

I freeze for a moment, staring at her. "What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, my voice sharp now, my patience fraying at the edges.

She puts her fork down slowly, letting the weight of her words settle. "You shut people out, Y/n. People who care. Luke, your exes—people who want to be around, even if it's messy. But you push them away. Every time." Her voice is steady.

I scoff, trying to dismiss her words. "It's not 'relationships' when it's just a one-night thing," I say, as if that somehow makes it less real. I flick the ash from my cigarette, the motion feeling too quick and too sharp.

Patch doesn't flinch. "Doesn't matter if it was a one-night thing, Y/n," she says calmly. "You still let them in, even just a little. Then when things get real, you close up again. You do it with everyone. Even me."

"That's a dramatic way to put it," I said, taking a sip of my coffee, trying to avoid the whole mess of emotions attached to the conversation.

Patch scoffed and nodded her head with a knowing smile. "Sure, dramatic—whatever helps you sleep at night."

I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair. "And plus, every relationship wasn't even 'real,' they were all just talking, or... fucking, you know," I said, shrugging as I blew out a puff of air.

"Not helping yourself," Patch mumbled, clearly unimpressed.

"Okay, maybe only one. But that was just a trainwreck of emotions. He was just too much," I muttered, feeling a small knot tighten in my stomach at the memory.

"You mean Number Two?" Patch smiled, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she sipped her drink.

I made a disgusted noise in the back of my throat. "Don't call him by that. Just... just makes me wanna puke," I grumbled.

"I remember your phase with him," Patch said, not missing a beat.

"More like a toxic phase," I corrected her, hoping to put a little distance between myself and that mess.

"Oh, bullshit, Y/n. You were crazy about the guy," Patch said flatly. "I remember you going off about him every day, telling me how cool it was to be dating the Number Two of the Umbrella Academy. That was your thing for a while."

"Okay, let's not make up lies now," I snapped, trying to brush it off.

Patch stared at me for a moment, unblinking. "Really?" she said, her voice quieter. "Okay, maybe some of that is true," I muttered, realizing she wasn't letting it go. "But that's why I left. I let a man take over me, let myself get swallowed by all that... and that's why I ended it." I pointed my cigarette at her, hoping it gave me a little distance from the truth.

"Did you really end it though?" Patch raised an eyebrow, studying me with that same smirk.

"Yeah, I'm sure," I said, my voice trailing off with a mix of doubt and frustration.

Patch took a sip of her drink, leaning back in her chair. "Y/n, you two were on and off more than a light switch. It was like a never-ending cycle of 'we're done, we're back on, we're done, we're back on.'" She shook her head in mock disbelief. "It was like watching two toddlers argue over a toy."

I shot her a look. "Okay, thanks, Patch," I muttered, trying to hide the small laugh that tugged at my lips despite the situation.

Patch's grin stretched wider, clearly enjoying herself. "What about all those times you and him made out at your desk? That was fun, right?" She said, her voice light, but her eyes glinting with mischief.

I froze for a beat, then shot her a look. "Oh, really? Why bring that up now?" I said, my disbelief thick in my voice.

She just shrugged, unbothered. "You're the one who made it all public, Y/n. I'm just reminding you. All those office hookups, and you acted like it was nothing."

I exhaled sharply. "Whatever. It was just a... phase," I muttered, trying to brush it off. But I knew Patch wasn't about to let it go that easily.

"Oh, right. How about that time you told me you made him wear his mask while you two were have sex" she said, her tone casual, like she was discussing the weather.

I felt my stomach twist. "Really, you remember that?" I replied, disgust and annoyance creeping into my voice.

"Oh yeah," she shot back, smiling. "And I remember you telling me it turned you on. You can't lie about that." She laughed, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

I couldn't take it anymore. I smashed the cigarette in the ashtray, the embers dying out, and stood up, slinging my coffee mug in my hand. "I knew coming on break with you was a bad idea," I said, irritation thick in my tone.

Patch only smiled wider, her eyes twinkling. "So, do you still want him?" she teased, her voice playful, but I could tell she was watching me for my reaction.

I rolled my eyes, throwing up my hands in mock frustration. "Kiss my ass, Patch," I said, shaking my head.

Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked out of the break room, leaving her laughter trailing behind me. I could feel the heat of my face, my head buzzing with everything she'd said. But the longer I walked down the hall, the more the tension faded, replaced by a weird, reluctant smile.

Despite everything, Patch had this way of getting under my skin, but not in a mean way—just in a way that always left me shaking my head and smiling. But today, I was over it. It was the past. And the past had no place in the present anymore.

—————༻☂︎︎༺—————
WORDS WRITTEN:
2999
—————༻☂︎︎༺—————