The next morning, the insistent sound of the alarm clock broke the silence of the apartment. Ethan yawned, sat up slowly, and pushed the sheets off his body.
Outside, the first rays of sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting a golden hue over the red rooftops of the neighborhood. The view was no longer the lakeside horizon from his cabin in Banshee.
After a few seconds of quiet, he got up, slipped on his slippers, and walked to the bathroom. The cold water finished clearing his mind. Minutes later, already dressed in his usual dark blue shirt—sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and dark denim jeans, he stopped by the nightstand.
There, perfectly placed, rested his silver badge, clipped to a round black leather holder. The morning light streaming through the window made the emblem of the Chicago Police Department shine. Ethan picked it up carefully, studied it for a few seconds, and then fastened it to his belt with a firm gesture.
He walked down the stairs with steady steps. The night before, he had barely managed to buy a few basic household items; the refrigerator was still empty, so he would have to grab breakfast elsewhere.
As he slipped on his sunglasses and started the engine of his Challenger, he noticed the thin layer of dust covering the body—remnants of the long drive from Banshee.
He decided to stop by a car wash before heading to the precinct. The roar of the engine drew a few curious glances as he drove through the quiet streets of the neighborhood.
The car wash attendant whistled when he saw the vehicle.
—Nice car, officer —he said, taking the keys to drive it into the wash tunnel.
Ethan nodded with a faint smile before sinking into one of the chairs in the waiting area.
As he watched the high-pressure water strip away the dirt of the road, he picked up a gossip magazine from the pile and began flipping through it absentmindedly.
One article caught his attention. He knew that certain elements of pop culture still existed in this world—musicians, movies, even entire franchises—though with different faces. He remembered seeing an Iron Man poster featuring a completely different actor than the one from his previous life.
But this time, he stopped.
There she was—Taylor Swift—exactly as he remembered her.
He figured the scripts, the stories, maybe even the names stayed the same, but the faces... the faces seemed to have their own destiny. So far, he had never seen the same actor play two identical roles.
He wondered if geniuses in Pasadena or the lawyers from Suits existed here too. He still didn't fully understand the scope of it all; from what he had experienced so far, it felt like he'd been trapped in a police drama since day one—and every new case only dragged him deeper into it. Since arriving, he hadn't really stopped to think about it; he'd always been in a rush.
He also thought about Nathan Fillion. Would he be a rookie cop in Los Angeles here—or a writer in New York? Maybe both... or neither.
The thought made him smile.
Maybe he should stop by a bookstore and see if the Nikki Heat series existed. It would be a curious way to measure how much this world mirrored—or rewrote—the scripts of his past life.
—Sir, your car's ready. —The mechanic's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He wasn't sure how long he had been lost in them, but when he stepped outside, he saw his Challenger gleaming under the morning sun.
Later… Ethan crossed the precinct lobby with a confident stride, the smell of fresh coffee mixing with that of paper and disinfectant. At the front desk, Sergeant Platt was typing something into her computer, wearing her usual stern expression.
Ethan set one of the cups on the counter.
—Good morning, Sergeant. Thought of you this morning and got you a coffee —he said with an easy smile.
Trudy glanced at him over her glasses, raising an eyebrow before taking the cup.
—I don't like suck-ups, Detective —she replied, her tone still sharp with authority.
—I know… —Ethan said, leaning slightly on the counter.
She frowned, half amused.
—And what is it you need now, Detective? —she asked, opening the lid of her cup to blow off the steam.
Ethan chuckled softly.
—Believe me, I didn't bring this coffee out of interest. Just seeing your smile every morning makes my day better —he said, so naturally that, for a moment, even she was left without a response.
Trudy narrowed her eyes, fighting back a smile as she took a sip.
—You're a charmer, Ethan —she finally said, setting the cup down with satisfaction—. But I'll admit, you know how to earn points.
—See? You're already smiling —he teased, raising his own cup and giving her a playful wink before heading for the stairs.
Platt shook her head with a smirk as she watched him go.
—That kid's gonna ruin my reputation —she muttered to herself, taking another sip of coffee.
Ethan shrugged, took another drink, and began climbing the stairs at an easy pace.
—Detective Morgan.
The voice—soft but firm—stopped him. He turned on his heels and saw two patrol officers he had met the day before in Intelligence. Both wore nervous smiles, like they were about to pull a prank.
—How can I help you? —Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow while holding his coffee cup in one hand.
—We wanted to ask you something —the female officer said in a conspiratorial tone—. How the hell did you manage to win over Platt? —Her expression was so serious it was almost funny—. You know… the terrifying front desk sergeant.
—Yeah —the other officer chimed in, nodding eagerly—. Atwater and I are patrol. Platt assigns our routes every day and… well, let's just say she's not exactly friendly. But with you? It was different. She smiled.
—Exactly —Burgess added, clasping her hands in mock supplication—. If you've got any advice, Detective, we'd be forever grateful.
Ethan held back a smile at their desperation.
—I remember your name's Atwater, right? —he said, pointing at the tall, broad-shouldered man with dark skin and a shaved head.
—That's right —Atwater replied with an easy grin.
Ethan turned to the woman, a bright-eyed officer with fair skin and an infectious energy that stood out even in uniform.
—And you're…
—Burgess. Kim Burgess —she said quickly, extending her hand with enthusiasm.
Ethan nodded, lowering his voice as he leaned in slightly, as if about to share a top-secret confession.
—I'll tell you something, but you've got to promise to keep it between us —he whispered.
Both of them nodded immediately, eyes wide with anticipation.
Principio del formulario
Final del formulario
Ethan raised an eyebrow, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
—The trick's simple —he said confidently— you just have to have this face.
He took another sip of his coffee, gave them a wink, and walked up the stairs with an easy stride, leaving behind a mix of confusion and reluctant admiration.
Atwater and Burgess stood there for a few seconds, staring at each other in silence.
—This new detective… —muttered Burgess, crossing her arms— …he's a bastard.
—Yeah —Atwater chuckled—. But one with style.
Atwater nodded, giving his partner a resigned pat on the shoulder.
—Morning.
Ethan had arrived a little early. The place was still quiet; only Alvin was there, leaning over his desk cluttered with papers, a pencil hanging from his mouth.
Olinsky was dressed almost the same as the day before: brown jacket, worn-out jeans, and a dark gray baseball cap covering his messy gray hair. When he noticed Ethan, he looked up and gave him a tired smile.
—Morning. —He stood up, pulling the pencil from his mouth, and bumped fists with him—. Didn't get much of a chance to talk yesterday.
—Morning —Ethan replied with a faint smile.
Olinsky studied him for a moment, then nodded.
—Hank told me you saved his life in Pennsylvania.
Ethan looked down for a second, brushing it off.
—Just luck.
—Saving Hank's life is like saving mine —Alvin said seriously, though there was a genuine gleam in his eyes—. So I want you to know you can count on me, alright?
Ethan shook his hand firmly.
—Of course. Same goes for you.
—Well said. —Olinsky adjusted the brim of his cap and grinned—. So, what's your specialty?
—Depends on the day —Ethan joked before adding—. But let's just say I'm a hammer.
—Ah, a man of action. I like that. —Alvin nodded approvingly—. I handle undercover work, surveillance… and making sure there are always donuts for the coffee.
Ethan let out a brief laugh.
—Wow, a multitasker.
—You bet. —Olinsky shrugged, then his tone grew a little more serious—: By the way, since you're new in Chicago, you should start finding a few good informants.
—Any advice? —Ethan asked with a knowing smile.
—Things move fast around here, and there's no manual for surviving in Intelligence. But if you know when to hit… and when to smile, you'll do just fine.
The two sat side by side, chatting idly about nothing important—traffic, coffee, and the humid Chicago weather. Slowly, the rest of the team began to trickle into the office, bringing with them the usual morning energy: hurried footsteps, steaming cups of coffee, and the hum of printers.
When Hank appeared, everyone instinctively straightened up. After a quick and to-the-point briefing—as was his style—the team headed down to the garage.
Halstead and Erin, following up on the previous day's prep, began changing with Olinsky's help. Between laughs and comments, they transformed into a pair of street junkies: worn-out clothes, ragged hoodies, and empty eyes straight out of a crime film.
The metallic door of the garage lifted with a screech. Antonio and the blonde detective, Julia Willhite, moved ahead, driving the cars toward the exit. The roar of the engines filled the enclosed space, mixing with the smell of gasoline and hot metal.
Hank and Ethan entered the equipment room and came back carrying rifles. Both men checked their weapons with mechanical precision before setting them carefully in their respective trunks. The bulletproof vests were already waiting in the back seats, ready for whatever came next.
When everything was in order, Hank clapped his hands once—sharp and commanding. He didn't need to say a word. That sound alone was enough for everyone to know it was time to move.
A series of car doors slammed shut, followed by the synchronized growl of three engines starting up. The vehicles shot out through the back exit of the station, their bodies gleaming in the pale morning light.
A few seconds later, another patrol car joined the convoy. Inside were Burgess and Atwater, watching as the Intelligence team took the lead. From his window, Ethan raised a hand with a friendly smile.
Burgess returned the gesture with a forced grin, while Atwater shook his head and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like:
—So, how's it going? —Hank asked in his gravelly voice, gripping the steering wheel—. You settling in so far?
—Not bad —Ethan replied, rolling the window up—. You set up a big operation for me on my second day. I'm pretty surprised.
—That's our Intelligence unit —Hank smirked—. A city of millions, the Midwest's main narcotics hub… you'll see plenty of action. Don't worry, take it easy—you'll get used to it.
Outside an old apartment building, the air smelled of dampness and fried grease. It was one of those dark-brick constructions with rusty metal fire escapes and windows covered by cheap curtains. Several unmarked cars were parked on different corners, engines running, each with an officer watching discreetly from inside.
Ethan, sitting inside a van half a block away, held a pair of compact binoculars. Ahead, the building seemed to swallow the morning sunlight. Through the lens, he could make out Halstead and Erin in the third-floor hallway, standing in front of a chipped white door. They looked like any ordinary junkies—worn clothes, twitchy movements, tired eyes.
Bang, bang, bang
Halstead knocked on the door, his voice echoing in everyone's earpiece.
—Rafe, open up —he said again, his tone perfectly balanced between annoyance and desperation.
Hank's voice crackled over the comms.
—Stay calm. Don't go in until you see him.
Ethan nodded, even though no one could see him. He adjusted the zoom and watched as the door cracked open slightly. Nothing inside was visible; the angle was bad, and Halstead and Erin's bodies blocked most of the view.
—What do you want? —a man's voice asked from inside.
—Is Rafe home? —Halstead replied naturally, lowering his gaze as if avoiding eye contact.
There was a brief pause. Then the same voice, now irritated, said:
—No. Stop coming here.
Ethan pressed his earpiece tighter, sensing the faint tremor in Halstead's voice—more tension than fear.
Upstairs, the officer stepped forward, pretending to be frustrated.
—Hey, she's my girlfriend —he said, pointing at Erin, who was pretending to be nervous, biting her lip—. She's going into rehab tomorrow and wants something strong tonight. Rafe always hooks me up.
Halstead pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket and flashed it.
—Please, Rafe and I are friends… Rafe, it's me, man —he suddenly shouted, pretending to recognize him.
Erin tugged gently on his arm.
—Forget it, babe. We'll come another day.
—Alright —he replied, feigning resignation.
Suddenly, the guy stepped aside and said in a dry tone:
—Go ahead.
Ethan watched through his binoculars as Halstead moved, leaning halfway into the room.
He frowned slightly; that wasn't part of the plan.
—Let's wait for Rafe, honey —Erin said through the earpiece, and Halstead froze.
Ethan lowered the binoculars and, from the corner of his eye, saw Hank's annoyed expression —he'd warned them not to go inside under any circumstances.
Ethan stayed silent, raised the binoculars again, and looked up.
—What's wrong? You've been nagging me for two hours, and now you don't want to?
—Halstead realized his mistake and tried to recover quickly.
—Can't I change my mind? —Erin slapped him lightly on the arm.
—Stupid —Halstead turned, forcing a helpless smile at the man in the doorway—. Sorry, man, you know how women are.
Then he stepped back from the room. The unshaven man inside stared at him for a moment before slamming the door shut.
Halstead and Erin pretended to argue in hushed voices as they headed down the central staircase.
—Everyone, regroup here —Hank ordered over the radio. Then he gave Ethan a quick wink before getting out of the car beside him.
Soon, the others joined them. After waiting for a bit behind a wooden house, Halstead and Erin hurried back.
Seeing Hank's hostile expression, their steps slowed.
—Now tell me what happened —Hank demanded, looking at Erin.
—The Latino guy who opened the door sounded Colombian, about thirty, medium-length black hair, mustache —Erin reported quickly—. I noticed a red stain on his pant leg that I suspect was blood. He said Rafe wasn't there.
—Alright —Hank said, glancing at the people gathered in a circle—. There's blood. We need to change our plan.
—Let's grab our gear and go in hard.
—No —Julia Willhite said, shaking her short blond hair—. Erin can't be sure. It's suspected blood, but that's not enough for a forced entry.
—Julia's right —Antonio agreed, glaring at Halstead. He rubbed his face and added dryly— Maybe he just spilled barbecue sauce on his pants while marinating chicken.
A brief laugh broke the tension.
—Come on, Antonio, you know that's impossible —Hank said, chuckling before turning serious again—. We've got six overdose deaths, all connected to the powder Rafe handled.
—Are we gonna wait for more people to die before we move? —Erin shot back.
—Or we could do this —Alvin suggested, adjusting his dark gray baseball cap—. How about we go door to door?
—The guy who opened the door was acting weird; let's start there.
—That should work, right?
—Sounds good to me —Antonio nodded.
—Alright —Hank motioned with his fingers—. Everyone, move out and gear up.
Ethan returned to his vehicle, opened the trunk, and pulled out his bulletproof vest. It felt slightly uncomfortable.
To move more easily, everyone wore temporary police vests over their clothes.
There were rifles available, so he grabbed an AR-15.
Soon, everyone was fully armed.
—Let's move —Hank said through the patrol car's radio—. Be ready to provide backup anytime.
Burgess and Atwater exchanged a nervous glance and adjusted their stance. Antonio led the way, and the group moved toward the apartment building.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A burst of gunfire echoed, sending clouds of dust into the air.
—Take cover! —Hank shouted, backing up several steps and ducking behind a nearby abandoned vehicle.
The moment the shots rang out, Ethan dove for cover, raising his weapon to aim toward the window. A pistol jutted out from behind the curtain, firing wildly at them.
He was about to return fire when the hand quickly withdrew.
—Calling command center —Antonio shouted over the radio from behind the car—. 5600 Emerald Block, shots fired, undercover officers on site, requesting backup!
—Go, go, go!
The gunfire stopped, and without hesitation, Hank ordered everyone forward. The nearby patrols switched on their sirens and sped toward the scene.
The sound of boots thundered on the iron stairs.
The group carefully climbed the spiral staircase and soon reached the door. Inside—
Alvin, holding a battering ram, pressed against the door and yelled to anyone inside:
—Chicago Police! Everyone inside, stay put!
The others stayed alert; in a place like this, who knew when a gunman might burst out?
Ethan turned on the scanner, but it wasn't much use. There were too many people in the building, and the area was well lit.
Alvin glanced at Hank, who gestured downward with his finger.
—Bang!
The ram slammed against the door, echoing through the hallway. The frame splintered around the lock, and the door gave way instantly.
—Chicago Police Department! —Antonio shouted, entering first with his weapon raised. His eyes scanned fast, corner to corner, searching for movement. Seeing no one, he advanced cautiously.
The others followed, flanking the entrance. Dust fell from the broken frame as tension filled the air.
Antonio stayed in the main room, covering the front, alert to every sound. Julia checked the first room one by one, calling out firmly:
—Clear!
Erin rushed past her and headed to the bathroom. Her voice cracked the moment she stepped inside:
—There's a body!
Ethan glanced over her shoulder: a body slumped by the sink, blood pooling across the tiles. Without wasting a second, he followed Hank into the bedroom, his weapon steady, finger on the trigger, aiming into the dark.
The window was wide open, the curtains flapping in the cold wind outside. Hank rushed over, leaned out, and saw a shadow vanish between the buildings.
—The dead guy's Rafe —Halstead growled, jaw tight—. The one we just saw… he's our killer.
—Atwater, call for backup —Hank ordered into the radio, voice firm and dry—. I want the entire building secured. Nobody leaves without my say-so.
Ethan snapped his fingers —click— to get Hank's attention. Hank turned toward him, following his line of sight. Ethan was pointing at the closet in the corner.
Without a word, the team spread out, surrounding the spot. Ethan stepped forward, pressed one hand to the wall, and knocked hard on the door.
—Bang!
The noise was followed by a crash from inside —something falling, a gasp, frantic movement.
Everyone raised their guns, aiming at the closet.
—Chicago Police Department! —Antonio shouted— You're surrounded!
A brief silence… then a trembling voice answered from within, cracking with fear.
Ethan nodded to the others, reached out, twisted the handle sharply, and flung the door open before stepping aside.
No gunfire —just a sharp intake of breath.
Inside stood a Black teenager, no older than fourteen, hands raised, eyes wide in terror, frozen before six drawn weapons. His lips quivered, tears barely held back. The scene hung in silence, heavier than any gunshot.
—Julia —Hank said, lowering his weapon—. Take him back and see what he knows.
The kid's hands were clean, his face terrified; it was clear he wasn't the killer —just someone hiding.
Detective Willhite, short blond hair tied back, pulled the cuffs from her belt and stepped forward to restrain him.
—Nice work, not bad for your first day out.
Hank extended his hand to Ethan, and they bumped fists.
The others patted him on the shoulder with approving smiles. Ethan carried his AR-15 into the bathroom they'd just passed. The floor was slick with blood, and a headless body leaned against the tub, the severed head dumped in the sink.
—Decapitated —Antonio muttered beside him, smirking darkly—. Classic cartel move.
They searched the room but found nothing useful. After another ten minutes of clearing the building with patrol officers, they came up empty and took the boy found at the crime scene back to the precinct.
The crime scene was left in the hands of forensics.
Back at the precinct, Ethan and Erin escorted the kid upstairs.
—Antonio, Halstead, stay here —Hank said, motioning for them to step aside.
He crossed his arms, looking first at Antonio, then at Halstead.
—You ever heard the saying, "Ten percent of the cops do ninety percent of the work"?
—Yeah —Halstead replied after a pause, hands in his pockets—. I've heard it.
—Our Intelligence Unit is that ten percent —Hank said, stepping closer to him—. I admire your ambition.
—But you were ordered to do reconnaissance. You weren't supposed to cross that threshold. If you had, you and Lindsay wouldn't have made it out alive.
Halstead's eyes drifted, avoiding Hank's gaze. He lowered his head slightly.
—If you had gone in —Hank continued, stepping forward seriously— based on what happened in that room, what do you think your chances of survival were?
Halstead bit his lip and nodded, showing he understood.
—You recommended him for this unit —Hank said, turning to Antonio—. Keep an eye on him, alright?
—Now go upstairs and question that kid, see if he's got anything for us.
—Got it.
Antonio nodded slightly, and after Hank grabbed his weapon and headed to the equipment room, he patted Halstead on the shoulder.
—The Sergeant's right. He's not just worried about Erin. Whatever we do, our safety comes first.
—That's the goal of the plan —Halstead replied.
Ethan and Erin led the boy upstairs, turning right from their desks —and found themselves in front of the interrogation room.