The air in Captain August's office was stifling, though the thermostat read a reasonable 72 degrees. Beads of sweat rolled down his ruddy face, glistening on his bald crown. His shirt collar, usually pristine and starched, was now crumpled and damp. The faint odor of stale coffee mingled with the faint musk of his own panic, forming a cloud of unease that filled the room.
He paced like a caged animal, his heavy footsteps thudding against the worn carpet. His bloodshot eyes darted to the blinds covering his office window. Unable to resist, he pulled them aside with two trembling fingers, peering out at the chaos in his precinct.
People in sharp suits moved with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, carrying boxes of files and equipment back and forth. His officers—his officers—sat scattered across the bullpen, many looking like deer caught in headlights. Some were being led away in handcuffs, their heads hung low, while others were sent to the roll call room under strict orders to wait. The rest whispered nervously among themselves, their gazes flitting toward his office door as if expecting him to storm out and fix it all.
"Fix it," he muttered bitterly, letting the blinds snap shut. "Fix what?"
He collapsed into his chair, his girth spilling over the armrests, and buried his face in his hands. The leather creaked in protest under his weight. For the first time in years, Captain August felt small, irrelevant, and utterly out of control.
Where had it all gone so wrong?
August had always prided himself on keeping things simple. He wasn't the kind of captain who micromanaged or stuck his nose into every little affair. That was what delegation was for. Wade had been his right-hand man, the guy who handled the streets while August managed the image.
"'Capable,' my foot," August muttered angrily, slamming a meaty fist onto his desk.
For years, it had been an arrangement that worked. Wade would bring him documents to sign—incident reports, budget requests, case summaries—and August would sign them without so much as a second glance. It freed him to attend fundraisers and galas, rubbing elbows with politicians, philanthropists, and business magnates. His job was to represent the 5th Precinct as the pinnacle of law enforcement in Corditia, a beacon of public service.
Let Wade handle the grunts and the gutters; August had better things to do.
And now?
He shot to his feet again, resuming his frantic pacing.
Now, Internal Affairs was crawling through his precinct like rats, gnawing at every corner of his carefully constructed world. The very foundation he'd built his career on—letting others handle the dirty work—was crumbling beneath him.
It wasn't just that Wade was dead. It was how Wade had died.
They'd called him early that morning, waking him from a blissful slumber. The voice on the other end had been cold and clinical, delivering the news with all the warmth of a morgue technician.
"Sergeant Wade is deceased. The sting operation conducted by Internal Affairs resulted in his death during an armed confrontation. Captain August, you are required to report to your office immediately."
The line had gone dead before his groggy mind could form a coherent response.
In a blind panic, he'd thrown on yesterday's wrinkled shirt and driven straight to the precinct. But from the moment he stepped through the doors, he'd been met with nothing but thinly veiled contempt. The IA agents didn't even bother to hide their disdain, brushing past him with curt nods or ignoring him altogether.
They hadn't asked for his cooperation. They hadn't even briefed him on the situation.
Instead, they'd delivered a single, humiliating order:
"Remain in your office, Captain."
The words echoed in his head like a taunt. Captain August, commander of the 5th Precinct, reduced to a prisoner in his own domain.
He gritted his teeth, his hands balling into fists. His reflection in the window stared back at him—round, balding, and red-faced with humiliation.
But even amidst the chaos, August wasn't completely in the dark. A few tidbits of information had trickled through.
Apparently, Wade had been set up by one of his own men—a patrol officer. The officer had made a deal with Internal Affairs, arranging a sting operation that had brought Wade's empire crashing down.
And Wade, being Wade, hadn't gone quietly. The sergeant had died in a firefight, likely betrayed by the very people he'd served so loyally.
August couldn't decide how he felt about it. On one hand, he felt a flicker of pity for Wade—loyal to a fault, but ultimately expendable. On the other hand, the irony of it all was almost poetic. Wade, the untouchable king of the streets, taken out by his own kind.
The real question that gnawed at August was who.
Who was the officer who'd dared to turn against Wade?
Who was the rat that had sold them all out to Internal Affairs?
Whoever the rat was, they'd been smart. Too smart for August's liking. They hadn't just handed Wade over; they'd built a case, set the trap, and led Internal Affairs to the right place at the right time. It wasn't the work of someone desperate—it was someone with a plan.
August slumped into his chair again, his brow furrowing deeply. He didn't know whether to shake the officer's hand or rip his head off. Either way, he pitied the poor bastard.
There was a reason no one talked to IA.
Even if the patrol officer had managed to cut a deal, August knew it was only a matter of time before the wolves came circling. The street didn't forget betrayal, and Wade's associates—the ones who were still out there—wouldn't forgive it.
Whoever the officer was, they were living on borrowed time.
August wiped his brow with a handkerchief, staring blankly at the stack of untouched paperwork on his desk.
The humiliation of the day wasn't over yet. He knew how this game worked—he'd played it himself once or twice.
Give the suspect just enough information to sweat, then leave them to stew. Let their own mind do the heavy lifting, spinning out worst-case scenarios until they were desperate enough to crack.
And Captain August was cracking.
His stomach churned as he thought about the cases being reopened, the records being scrutinized. How many documents had he signed without reading them? How many corners had been cut under his nose while he smiled for the cameras?
He didn't know. And that terrified him more than anything.
For years, he'd thought himself untouchable, a man above the fray. But now, as the walls closed in, August felt the weight of every decision, every shortcut, every blind eye he'd turned.
And for the first time in his career, Captain August wondered if he'd been wrong.