Timothy Bradford

The sun was barely up over Los Angeles when you and Angela Lopez rolled out for patrol. The day was supposed to be simple — routine traffic stops, a few noise complaints, maybe a call or two. But with Angela six months pregnant, “routine” quickly became “stop number twenty.” You parked beside yet another gas station. “You good?” you asked, amused as Angela waddled toward the convenience store. She shot you a look over her shoulder. “You try growing a human and then tell me how many bathroom breaks you need, rookie.” You chuckled, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel. It was peaceful — until Angela froze halfway to the door. Her voice went quiet, serious. “Don’t look obvious, but that’s Rosalind Dyer. Across the street. Blue jacket. Hair tied back.” Your blood ran cold. Rosalind Dyer. The most wanted murderer in the state. Angela reached for her radio, but you stopped her. “You’re not chasing her — not in your condition. I’ll call it in.” You quickly paged backup — Sergeant Tim Bradford’s name flashing first. Then you eased the cruiser around the corner, parking out of sight before slipping out, hand resting on your gun. The alley was quiet, too quiet. You followed Rosalind’s movements as she disappeared into a derelict warehouse. “Dispatch, this is Officer (y/l/n)visual on suspect Rosalind Dyer, requesting immediate backup,” you whispered into your radio. You edged inside. Dust. Darkness. And that feeling — like something evil knew you were there Rosalind’s voice came out of the shadows, sing-song soft. “Come out, little rookie. I can hear your heartbeat.” Before she could move, you lunged. The two of you crashed into a stack of crates, fists flying. You managed to land a solid hit — adrenaline surging — but Rosalind was faster. She grabbed your arm, twisted, and slammed you into a wall. The world tilted as pain flashed white. When you came to, chaos reigned. Nolan was fighting Rosalind near the center of the warehouse, losing ground fast. Tim was shouting orders, trying to coordinate his team. You forced yourself up, ribs aching, and grabbed the nearest thing — a rusted drain pipe. Rosalind shrieked as you stumbled forward and swung with every ounce of strength left in you. The pipe connected with a dull crack. She went down, and the room fell silent. Tim rushed over. “Are you out of your mind?” he barked, voice sharp, face pale with anger. You were still shaking, adrenaline high. “I wasn’t about to let her kill Nolan or Angela!” “You could’ve been killed!” he shot back. Before you could answer, Rosalind snarled from the ground, somehow slipping free of her restraints. She lunged — straight toward Angela. Without thinking, you dove, tackling Rosalind midair and slamming her face into the concrete. The sound echoed, then silence. Angela stared, wide-eyed but safe. Tim crouched beside you, his voice softer now. “You okay?” You exhaled, shaky but steady. “I will be.” Nolan grinned weakly from across the room. “Guess the rookie saved our asses today.” Tim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t let it go to your head.” You smiled through the blood on your lip “Too late, Sarge.”

The fluorescent lights of the ambulance felt harsh against your throbbing head. You were sitting upright on the stretcher, arms crossed, trying to look composed while the EMT ran through the concussion checklist. Your pulse was still high, and every little noise made your head pound. “You’re lucky it’s just a mild concussion,” the EMT said, jotting notes. “But you need rest. No sudden movements, no thinking too hard, no—” You barely registered her words. Tim sat opposite you, his hands clasped tightly, eyes narrowing every time you moved. He was blabbering, in that way he did when he was nervous but trying to sound authoritative. “You know,” he started, voice tight, “when I got shot on your first day, rookie, I thought—” You winced as the memories hit. The adrenaline. The chaos. “Sarge, I know what happened on my first day,” you said, voice low, trying to stay calm. “No, you don’t get it!” Tim snapped, leaning forward. “You sprinted after two armed men, reckless as hell. And now today — chasing Rosalind Dyer, going in after her when Lopez is pregnant, Nolan’s fighting her, and you just—” Your head throbbed. Pulse racing. Adrenaline still pumping. The words started stacking up in your brain, each one hitting like another hammer blow. You clenched your fists, trying to stay composed, but it snapped. “You don’t get it!” you yelled, cutting him off, the words sharper than you intended. “I wasn’t thinking about me! I was thinking about everyone else! Maybe if I didn’t act, Angela or Nolan or someone else would be hurt!” The ambulance went quiet, save for the distant hum of the engine. Tim’s jaw tightened, eyes flashing, but you could see the shock in his face. You were usually the calm one, the rookie who followed orders — now you were yelling, shaking, all of the stress and adrenaline finally spilling out. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Just sat there, hands tightening in his lap. You slumped back against the stretcher, rubbing your temples. “I… I’m sorry,” you muttered, voice quieter, defeated. “I didn’t mean to yell…” Tim’s voice softened, though his eyes didn’t lose their sharp edge. “I know,” he said slowly. “I just… I’ve seen rookies get themselves killed before. I’ve been shot. I’m trying to keep you alive.” You let out a shaky breath, adrenaline finally starting to drain. “I get it, Sarge… I do. But sometimes, I just… I can’t wait for orders when someone’s in danger.” He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Just… try to think before you leap next time.” You gave him a half-smile, still wincing as the ambulance jolted over a bump. “I’ll… try.” And for the first time, the headache didn’t feel quite as unbearable, even if your pride still stung.