Chicago, Illinois.
Located on the southern shore of the vast Lake Michigan, the famous Windy City of Chicago rose proudly before him — its towering skyline a true testament to American architectural ambition.
Ethan wasn't in a hurry. He had taken a day to enjoy the drive, stopping to spend a quiet night at a roadside motel before reaching the city. It was shortly after noon the next day when his Challenger, coated in dust and the marks of the road, finally rolled through Chicago's streets.
Leaving the main avenues behind, he drove along a tree-lined street in the northern part of the city until he stopped in front of an elegant three-story villa near the end of a private lane. The house had a deep red brick façade with limestone accents, standing out among the neighboring residences.
The wide black-framed windows, the neatly trimmed front garden, and the heavy oak door gave the place a distinguished look.
The front yard was perfectly maintained, bordered by a solid wrought-iron fence as tall as a man. Inside, just a dozen carefully shaped shrubs filled the space.
Some time ago, he had asked Hank to help him find a trustworthy real estate agent. After several days of back-and-forth calls, Ethan had settled on a place just twenty minutes from the precinct.
Used to living alone, he had no interest in squeezing himself into a crowded apartment building. Instead, he rented a small villa for five thousand dollars a month — almost his entire monthly salary — but the cost hardly mattered. Money wasn't a problem for him.
Ethan picked up his package and walked to the iron gate. He entered the combination, which unlocked with a sharp click. Resetting it, he climbed the front steps.
The door had a combination lock as well. After repeating the process, Ethan pushed the door open and stepped inside. The house had been recently renovated.
According to the agent, no one had lived there since the remodel. The owners had moved to Miami. He'd been sent plenty of photos and videos, and now that he was seeing the property in person, Ethan was more than satisfied with his choice.
The interior had a strong industrial style — exposed steel beams and ceiling pipes, vintage pendant lights with filament bulbs casting a warm glow.
The front door opened directly into a spacious living room. Just beyond it were an open kitchen and dining area, simply furnished with a large sofa, a table, and several chairs.
Beside the dining area, the back door led to a much larger backyard — completely private thanks to the tall, dense shrubs enclosing it. In one corner, a small rectangular pool reflected the afternoon light.
It was the perfect place to relax or host friends — a shame he didn't know anyone here yet.
Back inside, he went down to the basement. It was about ten square meters — he hadn't decided what to do with it yet, maybe buy some gym equipment and a safe.
He climbed to the second floor, his favorite part of the house. Unlike other family homes with lots of small rooms, this one made smart use of the space.
The second floor had a master bedroom and a smaller room. The suite included a walk-in closet and a full bathroom with a tub, making it just as comfortable as his old place in Banshee — only without the sense of confinement.
On the third floor, there was another small room and a large terrace. The view was open, with the city's skyscrapers visible in the distance.
Returning to the living room, Ethan dropped his bag on the floor, lifted the sheet off the couch, and sat down.
The house wasn't fully furnished, but it had the basics — a bed, a slightly worn sofa, a dining table, and a brick fireplace that still carried the scent of old wood smoke. Ethan stood in front of the fireplace for a few moments, then pulled out his phone and dialed his new boss.
A moment later, Hank's rough voice came through the line:
—Ethan, you made it?
—Yeah, I just got to Chicago. I'm home now — and it's great, by the way — he said, tossing his jacket onto the couch.
—Perfect. Don't mention it — Hank replied, the background noise of traffic hinting he was in his car. — I finished all the paperwork so you can officially join the force, but I've got something to handle right now. Could you wait for me at the precinct? Ask for Sergeant Platt, tell her I sent you.
—Got it, no problem.
—I'll be there in an hour — Hank said before hanging up.
Ethan pocketed the phone and sighed. He knew that in this line of work, schedules were a luxury few could afford. The sooner he showed up, the sooner he could start getting paid — and that rent wouldn't pay itself. With the key to the electric gate in hand, he stepped outside and locked the door behind him with a firm click.
As he drove, his gaze stayed sharp. With every block he passed, the sense of safety seemed to fade. The streets grew rougher; the well-kept lawns gave way to groups of men loitering on corners or sitting on stoops, watching strangers with suspicion.
Under the shadows of overpasses and bridges, he saw homeless people moving sluggishly, barely hanging on. It was a stark reminder — he wasn't in Pennsylvania anymore.
—What the hell are you staring at, huh? —a tall, muscular man barked, his white T-shirt stained, arms covered in tattoos. A thick chain hung around his neck as he glared at Ethan.
A middle-aged Black man caught Ethan's glance, raised a hand in a gang sign, and stared him down with a challenging look. Others in the group slowly stood up, trying to intimidate him.
Ethan just gave a faint, indifferent smile and looked away. When the light turned green, he pressed the accelerator and drove off. Minutes later, he reached the 21st Precinct. The parking lot was full of white patrol cars with light-blue stripes and the Chicago Police Department emblem gleaming under the sun.
He still saw plenty of old Crown Victorias — a familiar sight — but lined up beside them were the new Ford Interceptors, the modern replacements that were gradually pushing the old veterans out of service.
The roar of his Challenger didn't go unnoticed; several officers turned their heads as the sound approached. Ethan found an empty space and parked calmly, watching the constant movement outside the precinct — officers coming and going, radios crackling.
He stepped out and adjusted his classic black leather jacket. Dressed in dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and matching boots, he looked every bit the part. It wasn't his first day in law enforcement, but it was his first time in a place this busy — and that new-territory thrill stirred something in him, even if he wouldn't admit it aloud.
Following the quick pace of a few patrol officers, he pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the 21st Precinct lobby. The hum of radios, phones, and footsteps echoed off the brick and glass walls. He removed his sunglasses and scanned the room, taking in every detail.
At the center of the floor, a large circular emblem of the Chicago Police Department spread beneath his boots — the seven-pointed star in blue and gold, bearing the motto "We Serve and Protect."
In front of him stood a long reception desk, about five meters across, slightly elevated — a psychological design meant to establish authority from the first interaction. Behind it, several clerks typed, answered phones, and dealt with the steady flow of officers coming and going.
Ethan approached with confident steps. He knew the Chicago Police Department followed a structure modeled after the British system — clear divisions by district and a strict chain of command.
—Can I help you? —a firm voice asked, marked by a strong Chicago accent, without looking up.
Ethan cleared his throat and smiled.
—Good afternoon. I'm looking for Sergeant Platt.
The woman glanced at the papers in her hand, frowning slightly before looking up — her expression a mix of weariness and authority. Trudy Platt was a middle-aged woman with dark brown hair pulled tightly into a bun, her sharp features and piercing gaze speaking of years on the job.
—I'm Sergeant Platt —she said, her tone firm. —What can I do for you?
When her eyes met his, though, her expression softened ever so slightly. A faint, rare smile curved her lips.
Ethan already knew who she was — a legend in the precinct. Tough on the officers under her, known for her sarcasm and always having the last word. But according to rumor, she also had a soft spot for handsome men. Well, he thought, at least that worked in his favor.
No doubt about it — being good-looking was always an advantage.
—I'm here to see Hank Voight. I spoke to him earlier, and he told me to wait here —Ethan said with a friendly smile.
—Ah —Platt replied, smiling as she gestured to the side. —You can wait over there.
—Alright, thank you —Ethan said.
A nearby patrol officer glanced up and nearly froze — he couldn't believe he'd just seen Platt smile. The sergeant caught his stare and shot him a cold look, and the young officer quickly turned away.
Platt went back to her papers just as two familiar figures entered the lobby — Kim Burgess and Kevin Atwater, laughing about something they'd seen a moment earlier. And, of course, they weren't about to miss a chance to tease her.
—What do we have here? —Atwater murmured, raising an eyebrow with an incredulous grin. —Kim, please tell me you just saw what I saw.
—Was that a smile I just saw? —Burgess said, raising an eyebrow as she looked at him—. On Sergeant Platt's face? No way… I think I just witnessed a miracle.
Platt looked up just in time to catch the comment, and the faint hint of a smile vanished instantly.
—What the hell are you staring at, Burgess? Never seen someone doing their job before? —she shot back in her usual dry, sarcastic tone.
—Yeah, but we've never seen you enjoy it, Sarge —Atwater replied, trying to hold back a laugh. He was referring to her dealing with civilians, something Platt openly despised.
Platt clicked her tongue and crossed her arms, setting the documents down on the counter.
—Enjoy it? Trust me, Atwater, the only thing I enjoy is watching you two show up late again. —She gave Burgess a sharp look—. And you, wipe that smile off your face; this isn't a photo shoot.
Burgess shrugged, amused, while Atwater muttered something under his breath that made her stifle a laugh.
Nearby, a rookie officer who had witnessed the scene stood frozen, stunned that he'd actually seen Platt smile.
—What is it, rookie? —she snapped, glaring at him—. You want a picture to remember the moment?
The kid swallowed hard and immediately looked away, pretending to focus on some paperwork at his desk. Platt huffed and shook her head.
—Good Lord… smile for one second and everyone thinks hell just froze over.
Platt gave them that half-smile that always came right before bad news. Burgess and Atwater exchanged wary looks; both knew that when the sergeant smiled like that, nothing good followed.
—Did you say miracle, Burgess? —Platt repeated, leaning forward on the counter with her hands clasped—. How funny. Glad to see your sense of humor's still intact… you're gonna need it.
Atwater sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
—What'd we do this time, Sarge?
—For clowning around —she replied, opening a folder and flipping through a few pages—, you're not taking that nice new SUV today. —She looked up with a smile that erased any hope—. You're taking unit 1824.
Burgess frowned.
—1824? That thing still runs?
Platt shrugged with mock innocence.
—It's got four wheels, brakes… and if you give it a push, it'll start. That's more than some people have.
—Come on, Sarge, that car smells like gas and vomit —Atwater protested.
—Perfect —Platt shot back with a sharp look—. Matches your attitude.
Burgess huffed while Atwater let out a resigned laugh. Platt, satisfied, slammed the folder shut with a crisp thud.
—I want that patrol report on my desk before the end of your shift. No complaints, no delays. And if that heap breaks down, you walk back. Got it?
—Yes, Sarge… —they both replied in unison, heads down but barely hiding their grins.
As they headed toward the parking lot, Burgess muttered under her breath:
—Next time she smiles, we run.
Atwater chuckled.
—Don't jinx it, or she'll have us riding bikes next.
From behind the counter, Platt watched them leave and shook her head.
—Kids… —she muttered, as the faintest trace of a smile returned to her face.
Ethan sat back, resting one arm over the chair as he watched the scene with quiet amusement. He loved seeing how Sergeant Platt always found a way to mess with Burgess—and today was no exception. The look of resigned frustration on Kim's face was priceless.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and checked the time. There were still a few minutes before his meeting with Hank, so he let himself relax for a moment.
Moments later, Platt's unmistakable voice boomed from the front desk, sharp enough to make everyone stand straight.
—Voight! Someone's here for you!
Ethan looked up, a smile forming when he saw a familiar figure.
—Ethan.
Hank turned, immediately recognizing him, his expression softening. He walked over with that firm stride of his, leaving behind any trace of his usual sternness.
Ethan pocketed his phone and jumped to his feet. The two men embraced tightly, giving each other a couple of solid pats on the back—the kind of greeting reserved for those who've been through hell together.
—How was the trip? —Hank asked, pulling back slightly, still smiling.
—Good. —Ethan replied, shaking his hand firmly—. I'm ready for action.
Voight nodded with a look that mixed pride and camaraderie.
—Perfect. Because today, we've got work to do. —he said with a half-smile, motioning for Ethan to follow.
From the desk, Platt watched them leave, arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between satisfaction and curiosity. It wasn't every day she saw Hank Voight greet someone that warmly.
The events from two months ago were still fresh in Hank's mind. After surviving a dangerous situation together, he'd come to trust and respect Ethan. He saw him as a good friend—and he was grateful the man had come all the way to Chicago to help.
—Come on, follow me. I'll introduce you to the one who runs this precinct.
Hank gave Ethan a pat on the shoulder and headed toward the front desk.
—Platt, this is my friend, Ethan Morgan —the one I told you about.
The sergeant looked up from her paperwork and froze for a second. Hank Voight… introducing someone with a smile? Now that was a miracle.
—Your friend? —she repeated, a mix of surprise and curiosity in her tone, before straightening up behind the counter—. Hello, Mr. Morgan… the new detective, right?
She quickly composed herself, removing her glasses with practiced grace and extending her hand.
—Trudy Platt. You can call me Sergeant… or just Trudy. —she said, with a smile that rarely appeared on her face.
Ethan returned the smile and shook her hand firmly.
—Call me Ethan.
For a brief moment, silence hung in the air. Platt, still taken aback by the warmth of the introduction, glanced at Voight for an explanation.
—That's right. —Hank confirmed, crossing his arms with a satisfied look—. Ethan's joining Intelligence. Make sure he's got everything he needs.
—Of course, no problem at all —Platt said, then turned to Ethan—. Come see me if you run into any issues.
Thanks to the connection between Phillips and Hank, most of the paperwork was already handled. With Platt's cooperation, Ethan's onboarding went smoothly.
Hank then took him to meet Commander Ron Perry, his direct superior —which was essentially a formal interview. Ethan, a police academy graduate, had an impressive résumé and work record. And thanks to a couple of favors Phillips had called in, the meeting was over after just a few polite words of welcome.
An hour later, Ethan had his dress uniform, badge, locker key, and several documents.
In the locker room on the precinct's ground floor, he opened his assigned locker and hung up the dark navy dress uniform along with the service cap. As a member of the Intelligence Unit, his role was fieldwork —blending into the streets of Chicago.
He turned the CPD badge in his hand —the familiar five-point silver star, though slightly different in design. When he clipped it onto his belt, Ethan officially became a detective in the 21st District Intelligence Unit.
—Damn —Hank said, giving him a gruff pat on the shoulder—. You're now the second most handsome detective in the 21st.
Ethan wore black boots, dark jeans, and a black leather jacket. Nora had always hated his cheap clothes and scruffy look, so before leaving Banshee, she'd completely overhauled his wardrobe.
—Who's the first one? —Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow with a smirk.
—You're looking at him. —Hank replied with a half-smile and a short laugh that broke through his usual seriousness—. Come on, I'll introduce you to the team. —he added, motioning for him to follow.
Hank walked with the confidence of someone who owned the place. Just a few meters to the right of the lobby was a staircase going up. The entry was blocked by an iron gate secured with a combination lock.
He pointed upward.
—That's our office. —Hank said as they walked down the hallway—. But first, let's grab some gear. Intelligence has its own armory.
They went around the stairs and down a side corridor to a metal door at the end. Hank pushed it open, revealing a wide garage filled with police vehicles, tools, and the smell of old oil. In one corner, behind a heavy iron grate, was the equipment room.
—Whistle… —Ethan let out with a grin—. Nice setup.
The "equipment room" was little more than a caged-off area with a square table in the center, several weapons neatly arranged on racks, and stacks of ammunition boxes on the shelves. To one side, a glassed-in office revealed rows of shelves filled with files and old case records.
Then, a voice sounded behind them.
—Sergeant.
An Asian man, lean and dressed in a dark checkered shirt, stepped out from the records room.
—This is Sheldon Jin, —Hank said, gesturing toward him—. Our tech support. Handles everything electronic and surveillance-related.
—Ethan Morgan. —Ethan introduced himself, shaking his hand.
—Nice to meet you. —Jin replied with a small smile—. If you need gear or tech support, come find me.
—Beep, beep, beep. —Hank muttered as he punched in the code on the lock. With a metallic click, the cage door opened—. Go ahead, grab what you need. Jin will handle the paperwork.
Inside, the walls were lined with regulation weapons: AR-15s, Remington 870 shotguns, and Glock 17 pistols. In one corner hung a couple of bulletproof vests ready for use.
—Long rifles stay in the vehicles. We only pull them during ops —same with the vests. —Hank explained, checking a magazine.
Ethan picked up a Glock, weighed it in his hand, and tested the trigger with muscle memory precision. It was a solid weapon—but he still preferred his Beretta.
—Mind if I register my own sidearm? —he asked, glancing at Jin.
—Sure. If it's clean, it's fine. —Jin replied, jotting something down on a clipboard.
Hank nodded, and they both headed back to the parking lot. Ethan popped the Challenger's trunk and opened a padded case, revealing his Beretta 92x—the one he'd bought from old Sam. It felt far better than any issued Glock.
Back in the armory, Jin logged the weapon and stamped the form.
—All set.
Hank crossed his arms, watching with a faint smile.
Jin handed over a black leather side holster that fit perfectly on Ethan's belt. Ethan slid the Beretta in with a swift, confident motion, locking it in place with a soft click. Then he added a pair of handcuffs to the back of his belt—simple, efficient, professional.
—Now you look like a real detective —Hank said with that dry humor of his.
Ethan noticed the hint of surprise in Jin's expression but just smiled and shrugged.
—Boss —Jin said quietly, glancing sideways—, can I have a word?
Ethan understood and stepped aside, scanning the garage to give them space.
The room Jin had come from served as both his office and the armory. Next to it stood a large rolling door—by the marks on the floor, it clearly doubled as a vehicle bay. In the corner near it, a heavy iron cage with a bench inside looked like a holding cell for temporary detentions.
—Ethan, let's go. We've got to head upstairs. —Hank called out after a moment.
—Got it. —Ethan replied.
Climbing the stairs, Hank showed him the code, demonstrated once, then unlocked the metal gate leading into the Intelligence Unit's workspace.
The room was wide and bright, roughly twenty square meters. Desks lined both sides with a central aisle leading to two back offices. Above the door of one, in the upper-left corner, hung a flag bearing both the CPD insignia and Chicago's flag—a constant reminder of where they were.
Clap, clap!
Hank clapped his hands twice.
Hank stepped forward into the center of the room, his rough voice carrying easily.
—Alright, everyone, this is Ethan Morgan. —He turned toward him, then back to the group—. Morgan, meet the Intelligence Unit.
The first to stand was a strong-built man with tanned skin and a steady gaze.
—Detective Antonio Dawson —Hank introduced.
Ethan shook his hand, noting the firm grip and upright posture—military background, no doubt. He wore an olive-green V-neck shirt, a badge hanging from his neck, and a small earring in his left ear. The kind of man who trusted very few people.
—Julia Willhite —Hank continued, pointing to a woman typing at her computer.
She looked up and smiled politely. Short blonde hair, clear eyes, and a simple beauty that shone even through fatigue. The ring on her finger and the tan line beneath it made her marital status obvious.
A few steps away, a younger man with an easy grin and the relaxed air of an ex-soldier approached.
—Jay Halstead —he introduced himself, shaking Ethan's hand.
He wore a leather jacket, short hair, and a look that hovered somewhere between mischief and suspicion.
—Alvin Olinsky —Hank said, pointing toward a thin man watching from his seat.
He wore a baseball cap pulled low, several days' worth of beard, and a pencil between his teeth. Still, his sharp eyes missed nothing.
—And that's Erin Lindsay. —Hank nodded toward a young woman with light brown hair and a reserved smile.
Ethan noticed the small beauty mark on her cheek and the determined, almost defiant look in her green eyes. Definitely his type.
He gave a short nod, scanning the group—eight people, eight distinct personalities. He knew he was stepping into new territory, yet something about them felt oddly familiar—probably from all those episodes he'd seen of Chicago P.D. back in the day.
—Alright —Hank said, clapping him on the shoulder—. This'll be your desk. —He tapped the empty surface—. But first, come with me. I want a quick word in my office.
While Hank was introducing him, Ethan mentally noted everyone's faces. He smiled and shook their hands, aware they'd be his partners from now on. Including Jin, the tech guy, there were eight in total on the Intelligence Unit, counting Hank.
—This one's yours. —Hank said, tapping the empty desk again. Only a computer sat on it—. Come on, my office first.
Ethan's desk was across from Erin's, tucked into a corner. His back faced the wall, with a narrow passage to one side, blocked partly by a filing cabinet that offered great privacy.
From his spot, he could see nearly the whole bullpen. Unless someone came right up behind him, no one could see what he was doing on his screen.
Satisfied with his spot, Ethan took one last look around before following Hank into the office at the back.
The adjoining room served as the break area, complete with a coffee maker, fridge, sink, tables, and chairs. As soon as they went inside, the chatter outside picked up again.
—Hey, Antonio —Halstead said, leaning against the nearest table by the stairs—. You know that kid? That desk's been empty for two months. Didn't think it was for him.
—Don't ask me —Antonio replied, sitting down and glancing at Erin, who was right beside him—. You got anything to share?
—No —Erin shook her head—. Voight didn't mention it to me either. I didn't know he'd recruited someone else.
—Olinsky —said Julia, who was sitting across from Antonio and turning around in her chair—. You know anything about the new guy?
Alvin peeled an orange slowly with his hands and smiled.
—All I know is, don't mess with him just because he's young. Voight seems to have gone through a lot of trouble to bring him in.
—Why not? —Jay asked—. I've been trying to get you to grab a coffee with me all week, and now that the new guy finally shows up…
—Jay —Alvin interrupted, tossing the orange peel into the trash with perfect aim and a crooked grin—. You really wanna mess with the guy Voight personally brought into the unit? The same guy he kept an empty desk for during two whole months? Let him run your errands.
—I'm not scared —Jay shot back.
He looked around, but Erin, Antonio, and Julia all raised their hands in mock surrender, making him give up the idea. Detectives weren't stupid, after all. Still, their curiosity about Ethan grew. They couldn't help but wonder about his past.
After closing the door, Hank and Ethan sat down at the desk. Hank opened the window and pulled out a cigarette.
—Make yourself at home —he said.
—Thanks —Ethan replied, taking one and lighting it.
Several framed photos of Hank receiving awards hung on the office wall. Papers were scattered across the desk.
—A few things have happened —Hank said bluntly, crushing the cigarette in the ashtray and fixing his gaze on Ethan—. I got out of prison not long ago, and against all odds, they promoted me. That wasn't just luck. With Phillips's help, I got close to Internal Affairs. I offered them something: cover for my moves in exchange for turning in dirty cops.
He paused, his tone hardening.
—But I have no intention of keeping my end of the deal. I'm figuring out how to shake them off. That's my problem. Only Alvin, you, and I know about this, and I want it to stay that way.
Ethan nodded, signaling that he understood.
—Good. As long as that's clear —Hank said, tapping the desk.
—The people out there… Erin's my foster daughter. If there's anything you don't understand, you can ask her. And Olinsky—I've known him for over twenty years. We've done a lot together. He's one of us.
—"One of us"? —Ethan smiled.
—That's right —Hank nodded seriously—. He's my right hand. If I'm not around, you can lean on him.
Here, "one of us" didn't just mean coworkers. It meant someone you could trust completely—someone who'd earned it.
—In short, if you have any problems, or if someone asks you to do something, come to me first —Hank said firmly—. I'll find a way to handle it.
—This is Intelligence, and it'll be very different from your small-town police life —he continued—. Don't rush it. Take your time. Learn as you go, and you'll catch on fast.
—You know my strengths —Ethan said with a shrug—. Leave the heavy work to me.
At that, Hank suddenly straightened up.
—I should remind you, this is Chicago. If you don't want the State's Attorney or Internal Affairs breathing down your neck, I suggest you keep a low profile—and try not to kill anyone your first week.
—Don't worry, I know —Ethan waved a hand casually—. Last time, I was just a little pissed. Those guys were trying to carve the heart out of someone close to me… I'll tone it down a bit.
—Oh, really? —Hank gave him a look—. I've been a cop a long time, and even I wouldn't wanna see you when you're really angry.
—I'll take it easy. —Ethan raised his hands in mock surrender, smiling.
After finishing his cigarette, Hank picked up the phone.
—Alright. Go introduce yourself to the team and get familiar with things. They'll have your back, and you'll have theirs.
When Ethan stepped out into the bullpen, he felt all eyes on him. Transfers were common enough in units like this, and it wasn't unusual for a new detective to show up—but seeing Voight personally bring someone in was a whole different story. That alone sparked everyone's curiosity.
Ethan smiled, meeting their stares without hesitation.
—Can I call you Ethan? —the person sitting furthest away, near the stairs, asked as he walked over with a friendly grin—. Where are you from? You don't sound like a Chicago native.
—Of course —Ethan replied—. Pennsylvania.
—The Keystone State. Welcome to the 21st District Intelligence Unit. Judging by your build, you must work out regularly. —Antonio patted him on the shoulder—. We should hit the gym sometime. A buddy of mine owns one—cops get twenty percent off.
—Thanks, I'll take you up on that —Ethan said with a smile.
After a brief chat with Antonio, the rest of the team came over to greet him.
—You bring your own weapon? —Olinsky asked when he spotted Ethan's badge clipped to his belt alongside a nonstandard sidearm. He pulled a red candy from his pocket and popped it into his mouth.
—Yeah. I'm just more comfortable with it than the issued ones —Ethan said, lifting his jacket to show him.
When they saw Ethan's Beretta 92X holstered at his side, Halstead, the short-haired guy, rubbed his chin and asked, —Mind if I take a look?
—Sure.
Ethan grabbed the grip and drew the Beretta 92X, handing it to Halstead by the barrel. That pistol had cost him over a thousand dollars—and it was one of his favorites.
Unlike the Glock 17, the Beretta 92X was slightly heavier, but its balance and accuracy made it feel surprisingly light in the hand. The recoil was smooth, the trigger crisp, and its response immediate—reassuring even for an untrained shooter.
Halstead held it carefully, feeling the solid, well-balanced weight. Naturally, he kept his finger off the trigger and aimed at an empty spot, testing the gun's balance.
After everyone had had a look at the sleek weapon, Erin handed it back to Ethan with a faint smile.
—Nice piece. So you're the tactical type, huh? Must love the action. —she said, carefully passing him the Beretta.
—Thanks. —Ethan nodded and slid it back into its holster.
After the talk about guns, he began to fit right in with the group.
—Excuse me, where's the cleaning rag? —he asked.
Ethan searched around the break room but couldn't find one, so he turned to Erin and asked quietly.
—Sorry —she said, quickly setting down what she was doing and standing up to show him around. She was Hank's foster daughter, about five foot three, with a pretty face and a smile that carried a hint of mischief.
With her help, Ethan quickly understood how the Intelligence Unit's space was laid out and how the areas were divided. Once he found a rag and a bucket, he cleaned up his workspace before settling in.
Before he could even turn on the computer, footsteps echoed on the stairs. Two uniformed patrol officers and a young Chinese-American man named Jin came up. The male officer was tall and Black, with a friendly demeanor. The female officer was fair-skinned, with her hair in a ponytail and full of energy.
He'd seen them earlier that morning talking with Platt.
—Alright, everyone, listen up. We've got work. —Just then, Hank opened his office door and stepped out—. Regarding those six overdose deaths—we've got a suspect, thanks to one of my informants.
As he walked, he continued:
—The dealer's name is Rafe. Lives on South Emerald Avenue.
—We're running a controlled buy. Halstead and Erin will pose as drug buyers and make the purchase —he said firmly—. But remember: under no circumstances do you go inside that apartment. I want eyes on you at all times.
—Got it.
Erin took a bite of her sandwich, and Halstead met Hank's gaze with a nod.
—I don't care how other departments work… or where you came from. This is Intelligence—my unit. We play by my rules.
His eyes moved from one to another — Atwater, Erin, Halstead. No one dared to interrupt him.
—You tell me the truth… the whole truth. I'll be the one who lies for you. But if any of you try to go over my head… —he paused, his gaze cutting through the silence— it'll be the last head you step over.
—If anything happens, you find me immediately and report it.
Hank pointed at the floor several times with his index finger, saying bluntly:
Silence filled the room. Ethan noticed the two patrol officers clenching their fists nervously.
—You both know Kim Burgess and Kevin Atwater from patrol —Hank said, addressing the two officers—. Tomorrow, you'll assist with the intelligence unit. I'll brief you in the morning.
—No overtime tonight. Everyone go home and get some rest. We've got work tomorrow.
At those words, everyone except Ethan smiled.
The first day on the job was mostly about getting to know the team. Ethan calmly reviewed the open case files, and soon it was time to leave.
The others said goodbye to him one by one before heading out of the office.
Bang, bang!
Hank smacked the desk hard:
—.Come on, dinner at my place tonight. Erin, you too —he said, turning toward her.
—That's not necessary —Ethan said calmly, closing his folder.
—Nonsense, I insist —Hank replied, hitting the desk again, this time with a serious look.
—When he gets stubborn, he's like a bull —Erin said with a smile, slipping on her maroon coat—. You'd better do as he says. Besides, his mac and cheese is amazing. You sure you don't want to try it?
Ethan locked the case files away, grabbed his coat, and sighed with a faint smile.
—Then I guess I'll have to trouble you.
—That black Cadillac SUV's mine. Follow me, I'll drive slow —Hank said, pointing ahead.
—No problem.
Ethan twirled his keys in his hand and walked to his car.
Twelve minutes later, three vehicles pulled up in front of Hank's house —a single-story red-brick home. Nearly every house Ethan had seen that day in Chicago shared the same style: large basements, stairways leading up to the main door, and small fenced gardens of iron or wood.
—Nice car… totally your style —Erin said as she got out, giving the hood of the Dodge Challenger a friendly pat—. I love muscle cars. Though I prefer the '69 Pontiac GTO —my favorite.
—Thanks. You can take it for a spin sometime —Ethan replied, lifting a bottle of whiskey from the trunk—. Hank, I brought you a gift. Hope you like it.
—Macallan? —Hank asked, spotting the number 18 on the label. But before he could say another word, Erin snatched the bottle with a mischievous grin.
—I'll pour! —she said, heading inside.
—She's… very enthusiastic.
—That's Erin for you; you'll get used to it —Hank laughed, raising his hands.
The three stepped inside. Ethan glanced around —a typical, cozy home with family photos on the walls. In one of them, he recognized Erin smiling beside Hank.
The house was quiet. Ethan asked,
—Where's Mrs. Voight?
Erin gave him a quick wink, but Hank answered calmly,
—She passed away some time ago, and my son's in prison —but he'll be out soon.
—I'm sorry —Ethan said, sitting down on the couch with a regretful tone—. That's tough to hear.
—It's alright. Justin got into trouble, and I couldn't help him this time —Hank replied with a wave of his hand—. It's in the past.
Erin pressed her lips together, watching Ethan. She couldn't understand how someone new could be so at ease around Hank. She'd known him since she was young, and no one had ever gotten this close, this fast.
—Now then, let's celebrate! —Hank said, opening the bottle with practiced ease and pouring three glasses—. To friends, and to new beginnings.
—To friends, and to new beginnings —the three echoed, clinking glasses and downing half their whiskey in one go.
Ethan and Hank stayed expressionless, while Erin grimaced slightly at the burn.
—Alright —Hank said, setting his glass down and rubbing his hands together—. You two talk for a while; I'll start dinner.
Once he headed into the kitchen, the room fell silent. After all, Ethan and Erin had only met a few hours ago —it was natural for things to feel a bit reserved.
Ethan poured her another drink and watched a football game in silence.
—So, did you just get to Chicago? —Erin asked, breaking the silence, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
Horsted, from the Intelligence Unit, was known for being handsome —but compared to the man sitting beside her, quietly watching the screen, he fell a bit short.
—Arrived at noon today —Ethan said with a faint smile, raising the glass to his lips—. It's been a long trip, but an easy one.
—Got a place to stay? —Erin asked, arching a brow as she turned the glass in her hand—. There are a few apartments open in my building. I could talk to my landlord… he loves having cops as tenants.
Ethan chuckled softly, sincerely.
—I appreciate it, but Hank helped me find a place. Good location, close to the district.
—Living alone? —Erin leaned a little closer, a curious glint in her eyes—. Girlfriend or wife?
—I live alone —he replied without hesitation—. And no, no partner.
Erin nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact.
As a detective, she knew the neighborhood he mentioned —quiet, safe, the kind where you only hear distant traffic and maybe a dog barking past midnight. She also knew rent there wasn't cheap, but she didn't ask further. In their line of work, everyone had their reasons for where they chose to sleep.
The TV cast soft blue and gold light across the room, reflecting off the bottles on the bar. They both drank in silence for a while as a slow song played faintly in the background.
After dinner, and a few shared stories about old cases, Ethan said his goodbyes. Outside, the cold Chicago night greeted him with that familiar mix of rain and asphalt. He lit a cigarette, exhaled slowly, and thought that maybe —just maybe— the Windy City wouldn't be so bad after all.
The next day would bring his first case in Chicago, so he decided to stay in for the night. After a long, hot shower, he went to bed early, letting the distant hum of traffic fade into his thoughts.
With a single thought, a translucent blue screen appeared before his eyes, hovering in midair.
Text formed in glowing letters:
[Mission Completed]
Ethan raised an eyebrow, sitting up slightly. The lines shifted, revealing a new menu he hadn't seen before.>> TALENT [NEW] —the system had also granted him a bonus, and his dimensional space had expanded to three cubic meters.
"Detective's Instinct" [Active]
Your intuition sharpens during investigations or interrogations, enhancing perception, body reading, and lie detection for a limited time.
Ethan let out a quiet, amused laugh.
—Detective's Instinct… —he murmured—. Not bad.
The screen slowly faded until only the darkness of the room remained. Ethan lay back down, a faint smile curving his lips as he stared at the ceiling.
──────────────────────────────
[ SYSTEM INTERFACE v2.0 ]
──────────────────────────────
USER: ETHAN MORGAN
STATUS: ACTIVE | SYNC: 100%
MODE: DETECTIVE PROFILE ONLINE
──────────────────────────────
>> COMBAT MODULE
──────────────────────────────
• Close Combat ... [INTERMEDIATE]
• Handguns .... [COMPETENT]
• Rifles & Shotguns .... [ROOKIE]
──────────────────────────────
>> SPECIAL SKILLS
──────────────────────────────
• Dimensional Space ... [3 m³ Capacity]
• Regenerative Essence ... [Minor Healing Boost]
• Battle Concentration .... [10s Time Focus | CD: 10 days]
• Tactical Radar .... [Real-Time Awareness]
──────────────────────────────
>> TALENT [NEW]
──────────────────────────────
→ Detective's Instinct [Active]
🎁 BONUS TALENT UNLOCKED:
→ "Detective's Instinct" [Active]
──────────────────────────────
>> AVAILABLE SKILL POINTS: [0]
>> CURRENT MISSION: [None]
──────────────────────────────
[ SYSTEM EVOLUTION COMPLETE ]
──────────────────────────────