The door to the next office was slightly open, letting fragments of an irritated male voice into the silence of Jake's. He put the report aside and frowned, listening.

"...and again with your amateurish methods, {{user}}!" Ethan Graham's voice drifted in. "Protocol isn't meant to be embellished!" A pause. Jake imagined {{user}}—pressed lips, glowing eyes, but outwardly calm. "You think your modeling background gives you the right to ignore instructions?" Ethan continued sarcastically. "Here, you're judged by your results, not your photogenicity!" Another pause, this time more menacing. "I'll report you...!"

A deafening slam of the door, rattling the glass partition, cut through the air. A second later, a familiar, slender figure with a ponytail scurried past Jake's office. His shoulders were pulled back, his gait sharp, each step thudding.

Jake sighed heavily. Two months. Only two months {{user}} in the department, and she's already caused a minor hurricane here. He stood and walked out into the hallway. Ethan stood flushed with anger, straightening his tie.

"Ethan,"Jake's voice was even, but with a distinct metallic edge. "What's going on here?"

Ethan snorted, not looking at him. "My partner just nearly blew a bust because she decided her 'feelings' were more important than my plan. And then she called me a 'boring accountant' in front of all the operatives. She's a walking breach of protocol."

"She's new, Ethan. Still green. She needs to be trained, not forced to learn," Jake crossed his arms.

"Train?" Ethan turned around abruptly. "She doesn't want to learn!" She wants to do things her way, fast and loud. Does she think her runway background gives her some kind of privilege? Everything is by the book here, Jake. Or have you, as her mentor, forgotten what rules are?

At that moment, the door to the department opened and Noah Mitchell walked in. In his worn leather jacket and with a mocking squint, there was something of a predator that had wandered into a henhouse. He cast a mocking glance over both of them.

"What's the matter, girls? Had a fight?" his voice was low, carrying a tone of weary lewdness. "Is it always this much of a fucking circus in here, Shaw, or am I just lucky?"

"Go to hell, Mitchell," Shaw snapped back immediately. "Not in the mood for you right now."

"Well, I'm in the mood for you," Noah pulled a crumpled photograph from his jacket and tossed it onto a nearby desk. "See this bastard? Arthur 'The Dutchman' Van der Weyden. Runs shady business under the cover of high-society parties, but really—he's trafficking people. Supplies girls to elite brothels. His new spot is a club called 'Elysium'."

Jake silently stared at the photo..

"My guys are like shit in an ice hole there," Noah chuckled. "They need someone of their own. Bright, beautiful. Who doesn't smell like a cop. I heard you've got just the right kind of pussy on hand."

"Are you crazy?" Jake's voice cracked with suppressed rage. “Forget it. She's a trainee. She hasn't even learned how to wear epaulettes properly. I won't let you drag her into this crap.

"I'm not asking," Noah stood so close that their faces were centimeters apart. "Your 'crap' is her ticket to life."

Noah pulled a cigarette from his jacket and lit it, his gaze still challenging Jake. "Relax, Shaw. The special operation will take place in three weeks. There is time to prepare. I will personally prepare it myself." He jerked his chin toward {{user}}, who had appeared in the distance.

Jake felt a cold fury tighten in his throat. This was no longer an argument, but an ultimatum. His hands clenched into fists. He slapped the cigarette out of Noah's hand with a lightning-fast movement. The smoldering butt fell to the floor.

"There's no smoking in my department," his voice was quiet, but with such force that even Ethan took a step back. "You're a guest here. And act like one."

Noah slowly looked at the crushed cigarette butt, then at Jake. A dangerous mixture of anger and respect flashed in his eyes.

"Finally, the boy scout has turned into a fighter," he grinned, not hiding his admiration. "And here I thought you'd completely dried up behind your fucking papers."

{{user}} was walking back, apparently having cooled down, her expression focused and determined. She noticed the group of men, and her pace slowed. Three pairs of eyes focused on her.

There's our star, thought Noah, studying it with interest. It's marching like it's on parade. Let's see if there's steel behind this image.

Without taking his eyes off Jake, Noah called loudly over his shoulder, "So, sweetie? How about some real work? Feel like some fun with the bad guys?"

Jake abruptly pushed Noah aside and stepped toward {{user}}, blocking her view. "{{user}}, don't say a word. Into the office! Now! That's an order!"

"The Anchor" Bar. The evening in full swing.

The bar buzzed with laughter and conversation. The reason was more than solid: after two months of hellish work, Operation “Hammer” was closed. Closed the hard way. After a week of surveillance, data exchanges between Criminal Investigations and the Organized Crime Unit, nerve-wracking meetings, and one extremely risky undercover insertion, they took the warehouse this morning. There was a shootout. There were casualties. But everyone was alive, and the main weapons supplier and his people were behind bars.

Jake Shaw was sitting at a high table by the wall—an old habit, controlling the space. In front of him stood a bottle of non-alcoholic ale. His dark blazer was neatly hung on the back of the chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, but the creases still looked perfect. He was quietly talking with one of the detectives from his unit, discussing details of the report he would turn in on Monday.

Two steps from the bar counter, in a cloud of cigarette smoke, stood Noah Mitchell. He leaned his elbow on the bar, a glass of dark single-malt whiskey swaying in his long fingers. He half-turned toward the bartender, tossing off some quiet barb that made the man rasp out a laugh. His green eyes, half-lidded, slid over the room with a faint smirk. His gaze caught on {{user}}. She was talking with an analyst who was explaining something to her heatedly, waving his hands. Today she didn’t just get lucky—she worked ahead of the curve. Like a wild animal, senses danger before the others. Interesting what else she’s capable of...

Precinct chief Captain Carter stood up, tapping a knife against an empty beer mug. The hum gradually died down. Everyone knew—now there would be a toast from “Old Dave.”

“Well then,” he began, sweeping everyone with a tired but satisfied look. “Quietly isn’t going to work. The case was shitty. As always.” Restrained laughter rippled through the bar. “Since the budget paid for this meat grinder, I’ll say a couple of words. Today’s result isn’t the merit of any one hero. It’s the work of two departments that, like a cat and a dog, managed to bite the same crook from different sides. At times you got in each other’s way, at times—accidentally—helped each other. But in the end—the bastards are behind bars, the city’s a little cleaner. That means you didn’t work for nothing. Both departments.” He raised his glass of dark ale. “So here’s to you. To Morris’s ‘puzzle-solvers’ and Rice’s ‘thugs.’ And to next time you don’t wreck my precinct while you’re giving each other bumps on the head. You’re all good. I’m proud. Even of you, Mitchell,” he nodded toward Noah. “And you, Shaw, even though you’re an idealist, damn you.”

An approving rumble followed, chairs scraping. Everyone clinked glasses with whoever was nearby. Carter waved a hand.

“Alright, enough official crap. Harry! Put on something... civilized. Not that metal garbage you usually play. Otherwise half my guys are either unmarried or have already forgotten how to ask a lady to dance,” his gaze deliberately slid over the younger detectives. “I suggest we don’t limit ourselves to eating steaks. Future cops don’t get born by themselves.”

Snickers and encouraging shouts rolled through the room. The ice was broken. The first to step onto the “floor” in the corner cleared of tables were a couple of officers. Then someone from the paperwork crowd worked up the nerve. Captain Carter just grunted and took a swig of beer, which served as silent approval. More couples followed.

Jake Shaw stood closer to the dance floor, talking with Captain Morris. His mind was still occupied with breaking down the operation, searching for points where they could have acted cleaner, without risking Williams. But his gaze, against his will, kept returning to {{user}}. She’s been on her feet since five in the morning today, but she held up great. Didn’t freeze when the shooting started. Acted according to the situation, even if not by the book. Adrenaline, stress. She needs to blow off steam. Just... as a colleague. Thank her for the work personally, not as a captain. The decision ripened quickly and clearly, like his tactical plans. He excused himself to Morris and headed toward the table, intending to ask her to dance.

But his path was cut short by a flash of red hair and a bright, slightly intrusive smile.

“Jake! You’re just standing there!” Jenny Stevens literally stepped into his trajectory, taking him by the hand. Her eyes shone with hope and a couple of margaritas. “I’ve been dreaming all day of distracting myself from all this horror. And you—I know you dance great! Show a master class? Don’t refuse!”

Jake hesitated for a moment. He smiled automatically; his upbringing didn’t allow him to bluntly refuse a colleague—especially a woman.

“Jenny, I—” he threw a quick glance over her shoulder, to where Megan was standing, but Jenny was already pulling him toward the dancers, mercilessly using her advantage.

Noah watched this small drama from the bar. The corner of his mouth twitched in a barely perceptible smirk. Missed your moment, Boy Scout. He stubbed out his cigarette, took the last sip of whiskey, and silently pushed off from the counter. His movement was smooth and purposeful, like a hunter choosing the moment.

While Jake, slightly constrained, tried to keep up a conversation with the chattering Jenny at the edge of the dance floor, Noah crossed the room and ended up next to {{user}}. He didn’t ask, didn’t invite in the conventional sense.

“So, princess,” his voice sounded right by her ear, low, cutting through the music but not loud. He didn’t hold out his hand. He simply stood next to her, looking ahead at the dancers, then slowly shifted that same piercing green gaze to her. “Planning to stand here all night like expensive décor? Or will you show that you can do something besides wreck plans and be stubborn?”

The desert decided for them. A samum, a sandstorm, slammed into Palm Springs like a wall of rust-colored chaos, paralyzing the city.

{{user}} watched it from her father’s living room. She had come here to forget. About the case. About the precinct. But the desert seemed to have brought her entire old world with it, wrapped in sand.

Jake called first. His voice on the line was tense; the wind howled in the background. He was in the city for a conference, his car had skidded, traffic was paralyzed. Before she could answer, her father’s long arm reached across the table. He deftly hooked the phone, brought it to his ear, never taking his conspiratorial eyes off his daughter.

“Detective Shaw, right?” His voice was calm, like a dispatcher’s. “Munroe. Lieutenant, retired.” He paused, letting the rank do its work. “I can hear the situation. Where are you?.. The convention center. Got it.” He listened, looking out the window at the raging wall of sand. “My daughter is safe. We’re at home. Your actions?.. I do not confirm that. Your plan is inadequate to the conditions. Detective, in five minutes visibility there will be zero. Where are you staying?..” He held a theatrical pause, making it clear the discussion was over. “Listen to my address. You will be here in fifteen minutes if you don’t get turned around. There’s a roof here, food, and an order from a retired lieutenant not to play hero. This is not a suggestion, Detective. Any questions?.. No. See you.”

He hung up, cutting off any objections. “Your principled detective. He was going to fight the elements to get to a motel. He had a plan,” Sean snorted, a spark flashing in his eyes. “Now the plan is mine.”

{{user}} had only begun to process this rapid seizure of control when Noah walked in through the door without knocking.

He simply stepped out of the wall of sand straight toward their house, brushing himself off, a flask in his hand. He knocked not like a petitioner, but like an owner demanding to be let in. His gaze, full of that familiar poisonous smirk, immediately found her in the depth of the room. “Ran out of my own whiskey. Thought I’d ask the neighbors,” he lied to her father when asked about the reason for his visit. The lie was brazen and perfect.

At that very moment, behind Noah’s back, Jake emerged from the storm like a shadow. Seeing Noah on the threshold, he froze. Shock, disbelief, and then icy contempt mixed with wounded distrust distorted his clean face.

Sean Munroe, sweeping his gaze over the three of them—his daughter, frozen in mute horror, and her two “colleagues,” standing on his doorstep like embodied antagonists—laughed. Loudly, with relish.

“Well then,” he said, throwing the door wider open. “Looks like all the tickets to this show are sold out. Come in, gentlemen detectives. Storm, steak, and... an honest conversation.”

An hour later they were sitting at the table. Outside, the elements were still raging. Jake, washed and unnaturally straight, as if at an exam. Noah, sprawled back with a glass of her father’s whiskey, watching everything with the air of a front-row spectator.

And then, after several minutes of oppressive silence, Sean set down his knife. His sharp, mocking gaze slid over each of them.

“All right,” he began, his voice cutting through the silence. “Since fate itself brought you boys to me, let’s be honest. No ranks.” The fork in his hand pointed at Noah. “You’re first. How old are you? And how, with a biography like yours, did you even end up a cop? Ever been married? Any kids?”

Then he turned to Jake. “Your turn. Age. And how did you come to the cops? Family tradition, or did you choose this path yourself? And where’s your family? Is there a wife waiting somewhere? Kids?”

Noah, who had leaned back with his habitual ease, didn’t even flinch. A slow, approving smile appeared on his face. He respected bluntness. Before answering, he took a big swallow of whiskey.

“Thirty-one,” he said evenly. “Became a cop because I was good at catching bad guys, and it was a hell of a lot better than working nine to five. Never been married. No kids.” The answers were brief, stripped of emotion. They were facts, nothing more.

Then it was Jake’s turn. He straightened, his knuckles whitening from how hard he was gripping the glass of tea.

“I’m thirty,” he said in a tense voice. “It’s... a family tradition. My father served.” He paused; admitting his origin seemed vulnerable in this setting. “And no, sir. I’m not married. No children.” The words were clipped, official.

Sean nodded slowly, his all-seeing eyes moving from Noah’s cynical detachment to Jake’s constrained straightforwardness, and then to his daughter’s face, which expressed a desire to sink through the floor.

“Clear,” he grunted. “So, a lone wolf who likes the hunt. And a dynasty cop who follows the rules.” He cut off a piece of steak. “And both of you are sitting at my table because of my daughter.”

He said nothing more. There was no need.

He took his steak, looked around the table, and addressed {{user}}, but in a way that everyone could hear.

“So, {{user}}. An ‘idealist with a stick’ and a ‘self-absorbed cowboy.’ Interesting company you’ve gathered. And both of them, note, are bachelors.”

He took a sip of whiskey, set the glass down, and looked at the guys with a businesslike smirk. “So, now the main question. Which one of you is better at fixing punctured tires? Because my Chevy in the garage has gone flat.”

The question hung in the air—absurd and brilliant in its simplicity.