The night is soot black. Every woman's nightmare has materialized for one female victim. In the dead of night, her crazy stalker ex broke into her house and attempted to force himself on her. She was woken up at gunpoint. Luckily, the frantic woman was able to tap Emergency on her phone and give the dispatcher enough information before she cut out, her phone presumably wrenched from her hands and confiscated.

We jumped on the call immediately, a whirl of blue lights and grim faces.

The seconds fly by. Tick. Tock. My cruiser wheels fly against the asphalt. Tick. Tock. The cars fly by, a rush of colours through the windshield. Tick. Tock...

My pulse drums steadily in my chest. I can only imagine the tortured sound of her voice as she pleaded with dispatch, the fear she must be feeling. If she's still feeling. A fifty-one-fifty suspect is capable of anything.

Tick. Tock.

I wish I could teleport. What she's experiencing right now has got to be horror movie type shit. Depending on just how psycho this guy is, I need to brace myself for the worst. Grime, blood, gore. Maybe a dead body. Maybe two.

We fly out of our cruisers into the still night at lightening speed, feet pounding against the cement. There's a chilled bite to the crisp winter air that lashes my face. The shrieking cacophony of sirens pierce the veil of dark silence.

Shouts ring strident in the night. Some officers evacuate the adjoined houses while the rest rush to the RP's door. The ram is passed forward.

"Police, come out with your hands up!" I below at the top of my lungs, pounding on the door. "Police, come out with your hands up!"

"Come out with your hands up!"

"Police!"

Tick tock...

In this moment, I pray that the sound of sirens and the announcement of our presence is a sufficient deterrent to prevent whatever the deranged ex had planned for the victim, until we make entry.

"NYPD, come out with your hands up!"

Bang. The ram breaks down the door, the sound drowned out by the pounding of my heart. Our flashlight beams pan through the darkness.

Tick tock...

A man who I presume is our suspect comes into view, emerging from one of the rooms. We crowd the front doorframe, guns trained forward, shield up.

"Hands up!"

"-Right now!"

He scrambles, bewildered. I notice blood on his hands.

"Come on, let's go! Get down on the ground!"

Incoherent yelling from the man. He makes a move, but not to comply.

"No no no, hands up!"

"Right now!"

The faint sound of sobbing gives me hope. She's alive.

"Get down!"

We crush against the doorframe, assessing the scene, poised to enter if the man doesn't comply and come out to us. Our shouts are an uproar in the otherwise quiet night air. 

"Crawl to me right now! Crawl to me right now! Crawl to me right now!"

A young woman, bruised and battered, emerges on hands and knees, her hair awry and her face streaked with blood and tears. She's sobbing.

"Both of you, on your hands and knees!"

"Crawl to the sound of my voice!"

"Crawl to me right now!"

The commands continue to rain down on the man.

"Come out where we can see you!"

"Come out, let me see you!"

"Ma'am, crawl to the sound of my voice!"

She crawls over to us like we're water in the middle of the Sahara. Strands of damp hair hang in front of her puffy, swollen eyes. It appears she's sustained an injury to her head, brown hair matted with blood.

She is quickly taken away to safety. Her sobs renew fiercely, now of relief. Deus ex machina. What an incredible feeling. It gives me a high every time.

My mind is awhirl with a litany of thoughts.

She's alive. Fuck, what is the suspect reaching for now? He's fixing to get shot. The woman is crying profusely, shaking, a mix of relief and still-fresh terror. She needs to be taken to the hospital, I bark out. I can't take my eyes off the suspect. She's bleeding, could be dying in the officer's arms. I don't envy him. I've experienced my fair share of last moments. She'll be okay. I can't take my eyes off the suspect.

The man's hands finally go up, and we close in on him. I take the lead with apprehending, but he decides to change his mind at the last moment and square up.

He's covered in smears of blood, and his eyes shift constantly to his victim, trying to figure out how to get past us and reach her.

"Fuck all of you," he spits, finding himself surrounded. Turning on me, he issues a challenge. "You ain't shit without your gun."

So I take it out of my holster and give it to Ken. A slow, sinister smile spreads over my face.

"Come." I snarl, grinning darkly. I spread my arms in a welcoming gesture. "Play my game."

He charges at me.

Feet planted firmly, I block his blow with one swing of my arm in a precisely-executed arc. When he tries to rush me again, I do the same with the other arm. Then we basically just hold hands, me bored and him getting pretty irate. I could have so much fun with him, burn some steam... but they never let me have any fun on this job.

"F-fuck you," he spits, dazed. His eyes dart from the nearest exit, to his victim, to the sea of uniforms blocking his path. "Fuck the police, man!" He groans. He could've gotten away with it if it weren't for that darned Emergency button, and he knows it.

"Funny how everyone wants to fuck me," I mutter drily, lifting him up by his collar, spinning him around and twisting his arms behind his back. I cuff him and hand him over to Ken.

"Search him, put him in your car, Mirandize him, and bring me over for questioning."

"Yes, Beast."

Crime scene tape is put up, sectioning off the entire property.

My flashlight beam pans over the evidence. A clump of hair, no doubt torn out of the victim's head. Bloodstains on the wall; it looks like he bashed her head against it. Shattered glass from the mirror. Things strewn everywhere. It was a violent struggle. We take pictures of everything.

The woman is being checked out by EMS. Her head wound is being cleaned and bandaged; the paramedic tells me she won't need stitches. They're shining lights in her face, assessing for any damage to her brain.

Her big, limpid eyes meet mine, wet with tears of relief. Her lips mouth thank you.

She could've been Ciel.

This is why I do what I do. Everyday, I do my job the way I want the responding officer to do theirs if Ciel ever has to call 9-1-1.

I'm a little shaken when I stumble up to my front door later. Ciel has waited up, like I told him not to. He looks so safe. Safe, a little bit tired and in need of a cuddle.

"Daddy," he bleats out. Standing in the hallway in his pyjamas, he looks like cotton ball marshmallow floof. Soft things are a clear departure from what I'm used to, and I have to blink to make sure the vision in front of me is real.

Seeing that I'm safe and in one piece, Ciel runs up to me with a content smile. He rubs his hands in my stubble and kisses my cheek hello and I can feel all my muscles slacken, melt.

"Did you buy Nutella?" He asks me sweetly.

Shit.

As Ciel's eyes take in my tired, blood-stained appearance, his fingers trail over my uniform.

He's obsessed with it. I wonder what he'd think if I showed him pictures of baby-faced me in the old uniform.

I think he'd like that.

•••

There was a rape at a local club. The club owner did the right thing, immediately calling the police. My uniform parts the crowds like a knife through butter, and I make my way to the perp like a goddamn fucking angel of wrath. Not one syllable comes out of his mouth before he's on the ground, rolled onto his belly, his arms pinned behind his back, cuffs snapped shut, turned onto his side and yanked back up to his feet again in one fluid motion. It's like fuckin' ballet.

Once I've got him detained and cleared for weapons, I review the surveillance footage. When I find out the girl is barely legal, I take my sunglasses off and draw my hand slowly down my face. I'm silent for a long beat. Then I have Jackson talk to her and Ken drag the perp to the cruiser.

When I turn to leave after wrapping up, I'm taken aback by the sight of a band of strippers standing in a row and blocking my way out. At first I think they have me mistaken for one of the other performers, except my uniform is no costume. Every one of their faces is so solemn, however, that I'm immediately apprehensive.

"Romano, right?" The woman in the middle queries, a manicured mail settling on her bottom lip.

"Yes, ma'am."

"We've heard things about you." She folds her arms across her chest. Uh oh. Apprehension prickles at the back of my neck. "Rumour has it you don't go to strip clubs, you've never had sex, you've never even dated..."

"No, ma'am."

"Hell," she rattles on, scoffing. "They say you've never even looked at a woman."

Her expression is cool and even. I'm not sure what would be an appropriate response. I have no regrets about the way I choose to live my life. Honestly, I think people would be amazed how many of their problems wouldn't exist if they didn't drink, do drugs or sleep around.

It's a long moment of silent scrutiny before her arms fall away to her sides. "Who the fuck are you?" Her face is pained, voice breathless.

Then, to my utter shock, the women close in on me and fold their arms around me one by one. I'm crushed in their embrace, stunned. One woman whispers solemnly, "I wish there were more of you."

I squeeze my eyes shut. I can sense the pain in their embrace. There are tears soaking my uniform.

It's another long moment before we break apart. There isn't a single dry eye among them.

"Sorry, I'm an emotional little bitch after what happened to Mel."

They scramble to dry their eyes, sniffling and apologizing.

I let them know it's perfectly understandable. Mel's rapist is going to jail. And if they ever need me, my number is 9-1-1.

Someone taps my shoulder.

"Sir, EMS wants to know if they're still needed."

"Oh." I forgot about the medics staged down the street. "No, we're code four. Thank you."

I put my sunglasses on as I walk back to my squad car. I've always loved my sunglasses, rarely leave the house without a pair. Court, the precinct, a night out with the boys, vacation, the damn grocery store, doesn't matter.

Not even twenty minutes later, it's on to the next thing.

"81, 81, 81," I relay grimly to dispatch.

The crash is severe, but the car isn't completely totalled. It's a car versus hydro pole, definitely not the worst I've ever seen. The driver is sitting with his legs outside the car and his arms crossed, looking fine if not a little irritated. I push my sunglasses up on my head as I step out of my cruiser.

"Alright, boss, we gotta do some business right quick," I clip, addressing the driver.

We don't get off to a great start.

Whenever they say they left their license at home, you know it's gonna be good.

Minutes later, I'm back in my patrol car running the man through our database. Holy shit. You have to have a serious driving problem to be HTV. This man has hit everything but the fucking lottery. He's racked up pretty much every moving violation that's ever existed.

As I make my way back to the driver, I get dispatch to check for wants and warrants.

"He will be 98, 29 times," dispatch reports.

"What?" My jaw falls open and I spin to face the driver. "29 warrants? Sir!"

The man looks positively out of fucks to give.

"I just wanted to go to the grocery store-"

"Sir. You are not allowed to be driving. Nod if I make myself clear."

Following that, I respond to a stabbing. I hold the victim while EMS treats him for multiple knife wounds. He starts scream-singing the Star-Spangled Banner and we all join in. I watch him get loaded up in the back of the ambulance and my heart is seized by emotion that I need to suppress.

Back at the station, I learn of a development in the hit-and-run fatality I handled a while back. Another officer tells me grimly that she found the vehicle involved. The driver didn't stop because he didn't have a license or valid tag. Mother and two kids are dead, and the husband and father won't stop wailing at the top of his lungs, swearing he'll kill himself.

"Police are investigating a man wanted for a murder in the vicinity of Ward avenue and East 173 street..." The news is playing on the massive, flatscreen TV in the lobby. We've opened an investigation on a murder. Male teenage victim was stabbed, robbed and abandoned conducting a shoe sale in an alleyway. Probably knew the names of every great basketball star that ever existed, but not that his local police department has a safe e-commerce area in our parking lot where he could've sold his stuff.

We've also put out an amber alert for a child abduction, instructing every resident to call 9-1-1 if they have any tips. 

We've got assault on the southbound Q111 MTA bus, forcible touching inside a park located at Westchester avenue and Whitlock avenue, an assault in the vicinity of Merrick boulevard and 89th avenue, a bank robbery in the vicinity of 83-20 Roosevelt avenue, a burglary inside 2035 Newbold avenue, attempted robbery in front of 550 Washington street, robbery on the intersection of Alderton street and 62 Ave, burglary in the vicinity of Briggs avenue and East 199 street, burglary at 325 East 201 street, grand larceny in front of 15 Elliott place, assault on the 161st street Yankee stadium subway station, attempted robbery in front of 355 New Lots avenue...

It's true what they say, this city never sleeps. And neither does the NYPD. New York City is a burning dumpster fire of crime, almost as bad as California, and his honour will just give all the criminals cookies once they've done their two days in jail. Meanwhile a homeless man is shitting on the open street while hundreds of pedestrians walk by. The California, New York and Illinois exodus, also dubbed the blue-state exodus, makes perfect sense. But it hurts because this is my city. As long as civilians need me, I plan on staying and working to make things better. I can't help that taxes are highest in these states, but I can help lower crime and raise property values.

"Well, Miranda," I tell my probie, who has been listening in to the briefing. "Welcome to Hotel Hell. Check-in time is when you get your badge. Check-out time is never."

After she goes home, I sit in my cruiser with my forehead against the steering wheel for a long time.

Ken comes over and raps on the window. He heaves a long sigh, then pulls me out and folds me in a fierce hug.

"I got you, brother."

He pecks my temple, and I return the bone-crushing hug. "I got your six."

"Same, bro."

Ken has been my rock since the baby-faced rookie days.

Now he's big, broad and badass, but his heart is still just as big.

He claps my shoulder and then pulls back, assessing my weary face.

"Mom wants to know if we're still on for thanksgiving."

Ken's mother is best friends with mine. Her name is Shanice and she's a lawyer as well as a choir conductor. I've never heard voices as rich, strong and passionate as in those stereotypical black gospel choirs; she can belt it like nobody else. She's super sweet, sends me LEO-themed messages like "What does the Lord require of you? To act justly, and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God... Micah 6:8."

But like all black women, she can also put the fear of God in her six-foot-two son with one firm grip on his ear. In my experience, young criminals are more afraid of a call to their mothers than me. It's adorable.

I confirm that our families are still on for a joint thanksgiving dinner.

Then Ken stands by while I fill my car up. Benefits of having a pump at the station include no civilians stopping me to ask for directions. Not that I mind.

Then Preston joins us as we walk into the station.

"First time I've seen a Honda Accord police car," Ken muses aloud, scanning the parking lot. "It's about time they started using Asian and not American brands to go undercover."

"Right? And that Nissan Altima..." Preston shakes his head. "Never would've crossed my mind."

"I've seen a few Dodge Rams pulling people over."

"Gotta look out for every car on the road now," I quip.

"I've seen a Ford F-350, they don't mess around."

"Fuckin' New York, man, I've seen taxi police cars."

I have plans with Ken, Reagan, Jackson, Preston, Tony, Jerry, and the the rest of the gang. We're scheduled to get wings and beer for lunch, so we wait in the caf for everyone to convene.

The cork-board is filled to bursting with pictures from various functions and public awareness events. A non-profit event to raise money for families of officers killed in the line of duty. A pamphlet from October, National domestic violence awareness month. An interview session about some epic parkour training. Clippings of supportive emails and DMs from civilians to our NYPD Instagram account. Police fitness and nutrition programs. Mental health stuff. NYPD Health and wellness Club, NYPD CrossFit club. Community overdose death stats emblazoned with Let's Talk. Pink patches from breast cancer awareness month. Photos from our last officer's night out barbecue. The most recent set of pictures is from this month's Movember event to raise awareness for men's mental and physical health, something of particular importance to those of us who put on the uniform and badge every morning.

In one room, a group of rookies are undergoing officer down rescue training, learning how to stop the bleeding. In another, detectives and inspectors are going over investigations. In the interview rooms, witnesses are giving their statements and filing reports.

"Boys, gives these to your significant others, please!" Anita's friendly smile bobs into view. She hands out pamphlets to each of us. She's the head of the LEO wives club at the station. Looks like they're planning another event.

"I don't tell my girlfriend anything," Jerry says as we make our way out to the parking lot.

"Same. If I told my wife some of the calls I've responded to, the shit I've seen," Tony shakes his head, "she wouldn't let me go back to work the next day."

"Please. You probably run crying home to her every time you volunteer to get tased during taser training."

"Oh, shut up, man. You cry more tears than a liberal after five volts."

As we walk out to my car, Ken updates us on the latest NotTodayIA memes.

"When you lateral to a new department and people are actually happy and admin is supportive..." We snicker collectively. "I get home, I fall asleep. My cop brain: did I log out of CAD?! Relatable."

"Haha, happens to me all the time. So I call the non-emergency number and ask dispatch to put me out of service."

"Same."

"Cops are always pulling me over to harass me," Ken continues. "Their vehicle: bald tires, no headlights, bumper is sparking on the road, missing a door, spiderwebbed windshield... Me, the primary officer of a car chase turned foot pursuit with a tackle takedown. Next four hours consisting of UOF paperwork, report writing, and sitting at the hospital for medical clearance..."

At the restaurant, I order a mix of buffalo, barbecue and honey garlic chicken wings, hold the beer.

Afterwards, I take off my sunglasses and rub my eyes.

"Cheer up, man." Ken knocks my shoulder, his rich barritone voice comforting. "We're the cavalry. We can't cry."

"I'm not crying."

He claps my back a couple times.

"You good?"

"Yeah."

"No you're not, but I can fix it. Get this. Earlier today I saw a bunch of officers handling a call about a naked man literally covered in shit."

I snort, Ken having successfully brightened my mood.

"Gotta wonder what those officers did to piss off dispatch," I mutter wryly.

"Oh yeah," he chuckles. "Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Or in this case, the one that determines how much hell you're gonna have this shift."

He takes a gulp of his beer. I feel eyes on me, but when I look up, everybody in the restaurant is focused on their food and friends. "Did I tell you about my day yesterday? First call was because the neighbours' dog keeps shitting on the lawn. I'm like, ma'am, have you spoken to your neighbour about the issue? That's your job, she says. Then it's my job to investigate the weird noise in someone's garage. Then some McDonald's employee refused to apply a coupon discount to some guy's meal, said it was expired - guess who's job it was to settle that? I ended up paying the guy his six dollars out of pocket, by the way. Then, it was my job to tell the next-door neighbours to turn their party music down. Don't I have the most important job in the world?"

I continue my patrol with lifted spirits.

The first car I pull over, I notice a Felony Forest. I put my search gloves on preemptively. Black ice scent, I note as I approach.

Not only do I find dope, but the driver's got state-wide extradition warrants.

Most officers when they run a license plate? Valid insurance, valid registration. Me when I run a license plate? Registered owner wanted for murder, stolen vehicle, suspended registration, statewide BOLO for armed robbery.

Fuuuck.

•••

When I get home, I check my personal cellphone and find a text from Ken. IGY6.

Looking up with a smile, I notice a woman pushing a stroller down the sidewalk in front of my driveway.

Her toddler trots up to me and presents me with two rocks. She smiles a gummy smile up at me. When her mom gives me a nod of approval, I swing the child up into my arms and hug her tightly, being mindful of my duty belt.

"Thanks, sweetheart. That's so nice of you!" I set her down once she reaches for my radio.

"Sorry about that," her mother chuckles softly, pulling the child to her side and admonishing her gently.

"Not to worry. She's precious." I smile, nodding courteously and stepping aside so they can pass and continue down the street. "Have an American day."

She giggles and wishes me the same. Sensing a lingering presence, I look around me, but the sidewalk is empty.

The house is quiet. Ciel called me earlier from Vic's phone, to let me know he picked up an extra shift and is working late.

I cross through to the backyard to check on Nougat. The puppy comes racing to the door only to skid to a halt and look at me rather crestfallen, probably disappointed that I'm not Ciel.

"Yeah, I'm sad too, bud." I scratch his belly and he rolls over and over and yips and yaps and licks all over my hand. I check the litter box. The positive reinforcement has paid off and he's about potty-trained. Just in time for the cold weather. Instead of spending days in the backyard and nights indoors, he'll move full-time into Ciel's room, I decide.

I take a shower, cataloging a few new bruises while standing under the spray that I wasn't aware of. Then I change into sweatpants and a fitted, white wifebeater.

I'm starving, so I toss up some cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, avocado oil and salt and make myself a garden salad while I pull ingredients out for dinner. I'm craving chicken sandwiches with pickles and brioche buns.

Using his little puppy claws, Nougat starts scratching at my pant legs like he's aiming to literally crawls up my legs and up over my ass. Chuckling, I reach around with one hand and carefully scoop him up. He licks at the veins on my arm. To a human, vascular arms are a sign of low body fat. To a puppy, they're tongue-tracing maps.

I give him his avocado toy and he starts chewing and cuddling it madly, rolling all over the floor.

After I eat and put the chicken in the oven, I mow the lawn, as well as the neighbours'. I make sure to set a timer though. My firefighting ass is not about to let my own house burn down.

I'm rinsing my mouth with mouthwash after brushing my teeth, when my phone vibrates. I spit the minty liquid out and pick it up. It's Ciel texting me from Vic's phone. He needs a phone of his own, I resolve.

I throw on an NYPD sweatshirt and grab my keys.

When I pick up Ciel from the café, he's all bubbly and effervescent. The shop has started putting Christmas decorations up, and he wants us to put some up in our house.

The excitement is contagious. I think about putting decorations up with Ciel, Nougat zipping around our feet... It's the most wonderful time of the year, but it will be extra special now. I spend Christmas with the family, but I've always lived alone. Now, I have Ciel.

It's nearing 8PM, but what the hell, off we go to pick out a Christmas tree.

Ciel is making siren noises with his mouth as we cruise down the road. I'm smiling a rare smile, focused on the road, content to listen to Ciel's rambles and soak up his excitement. This boy's got me in such a great mood.

We stop at Costco first. I need to pick up more chicken, preferably drumsticks, so I can make them with basil, paprika, pepper and dried ground vegetable powder. Maybe I'll bring them to my mom's for Thanksgiving dinner; we can serve them with mashed potatoes and garden salad... 

I buy Ciel some Caramilk because it's his favourite chocolate bar. I know because he tried to steal it in the not-so-distant past. I add a reminder in my phone to make him a dentist appointment.

He also wants a pumpkin spice candle, pumpkin spice yogurt, pumpkin spice everything.

Seeing my NYPD sweatshirt, the cashier informs me that Costco offers an exclusive discount on their membership for first responders, but I explain that I'm already a member.

Ciel cups his bag of prizes happily to his chest, fingers curled protectively around it.

Then we hit up Home Depot.

For 'inspiration', I show Ciel a picture I took on my phone of one of the trees at the station that someone put up as a joke with crime scene tape instead of tinsel.

It's fucking hilarious. As he's chuckling, I look up and scan the parking lot. I can't shake the feeling that we're being watched.

I've been feeling it for a while now. Probably just a cop thing, though.