[Flashback – Six Years Ago. Lower Manhattan. Painting Exhibition.]
The gallery was white walls and soft jazz. Wine glasses clinked, critics murmured, and canvases hung like holy relics. Ray moved through the crowd with the easy confidence of a man who belonged, though every detail of his presence had been engineered. His name was on the program, his "artist's statement" printed on a card, his Instagram full of carefully staged studio shots. He was not there to sell paintings. He was there for a handoff scheduled to go down in the men's bathroom.
Through his earpiece, a whisper: "Target moving. Blue tie. Carrying the case."
Ray nodded slightly and slipped away from a group of patrons arguing about brushstrokes. He entered the bathroom just as Blue Tie stepped up to a sink. The man placed a sleek leather case on the counter and began washing his hands.
"Clear. Go," Ray's handler breathed in his ear.
Ray moved fast. He moved behind the guy and snapped his neck. He then opened the case, yanked out the envelope and stuffed it into his jacket. Then he dragged the guy and placed him on one of the toilet seats.
Then, he fixed his clothes, washed his hands, and walked out of the bathroom. When he reached the main hall, he grabbed a wine glass and walked fast to get out of there while looking normal, but he collided with someone small, soft, and very much not a criminal.
"Oh my god," the woman gasped, steadying herself. "Watch where you're—"
Ray looked down. Emma Watson, in a navy dress, dropped her purse on the floor, thanks to the clash. The whole gallery seemed to stop breathing.
Ray's cover instincts kicked in. He bent, picked up her purse, and gave a tight smile. "Sorry. I'm terrible at navigating crowds."
Emma's eyes narrowed just slightly. "And yet you don't spill your drink."
Ray glanced at the untouched wine glass in his hand. "Painter's reflexes. Steady hands."
That made her pause. She then noticed his ID card on his neck. "You're one of the artists."
"Trying to be," Ray said with a calm smile. "Raymond."
She shook his hand. "Emma."
Before she could say more, someone called her name from across the room. "Well, I'll see you around, Raymond." She gave Ray one last curious look before walking off.
'Phew! Alright, time to deliver the codes,' Ray walked outside.
...
[Later That Evening – Gallery Closing]
Ray came back, since he had to maintain an alibi.
The crowd had thinned. Critics drifted out, and collectors lingered to make final purchases. Emma was back, this time in front of Ray's canvas: a storm of dark blues and jagged streaks of silver.
She tilted her head. "This one yours?"
Ray approached carefully. "Yeah. First time anyone's looking at it longer than three seconds."
Her lips twitched. "They should look longer. There's something… unsettled about it. Like it's hiding something."
Ray almost laughed. "Story of my life."
Her gaze flicked to him, thoughtful, then she surprised him by saying. "I'll buy it."
Ray blinked. "You don't even know the price."
"I don't need to," Emma said. "I like it."
Ray couldn't stop his grin. "You just became my first real collector."
She smiled back, softer now. "Then you owe me a coffee."
...
[Weeks Later – Brooklyn Café]
They sat across from each other, coffee cooling, conversation easy. Movies, books, the absurdities of New York. Emma was sharp, funny, and quick to laugh. Ray, careful by nature, found himself speaking more than he usually ever did. Emma liked the fact that he never talked about her movies or her Hollywood fame.
One meeting turned into two, then into late-night walks, then into something more than friendship. But neither of them expressed their feelings.
...
[One Night – Emma's Birthday. Soho.]
They left the restaurant, Emma holding her stomach. "I don't feel so good," she muttered.
Ray opened the door of his brand-new McLaren, guiding her into the passenger seat. "We'll get you home quick."
She made it three blocks before groaning, grabbing her mouth, and leaning over.
The sound was awful. The smell worse. By the time they reached her apartment, the car's pristine leather was ruined.
Ray sighed. The damage was already done. "I told you not to eat sushi. Why do you have to eat raw fish? No matter what anyone says, those things are dangerous."
Emma slumped against the door, pale and miserable. "I'm so sorry. I just wanted to try something new. Please don't hate me." She opened the door and threw up again on the side road.
Ray stared at her. "Eeww."
Emma glared weakly at him, then winced and groaned.
That night, she texted him a long apology. He never replied. By the time she tried calling, his number was already disconnected.
...
[Back to Present – Atlantic Avenue]
The siren still flashed. Emma and Ray stared at each other across the gap of six years, old tension twisting between them.
Emma broke the silence. "You disappeared."
Ray's jaw clenched. "I had to."
She shook her head, eyes narrowing. "You don't just vanish after something like that. You don't just—"
Ray cut her off, his voice low. "Emma. Drop it. Not here."
For a moment, she looked like she wanted to fight. Then she leaned back in her seat, sunglasses dangling from her fingers. "Fine. But you owe me more than an explanation."
Ray exhaled, stepping back from the window. "And you owe me a new car."
Despite herself, Emma laughed once, sharp and short. "Still impossible."
"By the way, where were you going that fast?" He asked.
"To the police station," She replied.
"Huh?! Got a problem?" He asked as he noticed her expression. He could tell from her muscle twitch and the way her fingers tapped on the steering wheel that she was in trouble.
"Yeah, big one," She answered.
"Let's talk at the station. I'll be right behind, and Miss Watson, do drive within the speed limits," He said with a reassuring smile. "And thanks for not punching me for ghosting you."
"Ha! You wish. I'm not insane enough to punch a cop," She smirked. "I'll kick you when you are off duty."
"Ouch! Alright, one kick. I deserve that."
With that, Ray went back to his car. And they drove toward Nine Nine.
...
[Thirty Minutes Later – Nine Nine Precinct]
The bullpen buzzed like a beehive. Everyone pretended to work but every eye kept flicking toward Holt's office. Inside, blinds half-drawn, Emma Watson sat across from Captain Holt with Ray at her side. Their voices were low, clipped, impossible to hear.
Outside, the detectives clustered at their desks, straining for any hint.
Charles leaned forward, whispering, "If Ray is in Holt's office, this is serious. Like capital S serious. He doesn't just show up unless something is exploding or, you know, involving ancient cults that eat souls."
Jake gripped the edge of his desk, eyes burning with determination. "I must have this case. This is the reason I'm still alive. This is the prophecy case. The one I was born for."
Amy didn't even look up from her files. "Correction. I just finished wrapping the entire smuggling case, while you and Boyle still have zero progress on your open cases. Which means statistically, I'm ninety-nine percent the most suitable detective to handle a high-profile celebrity case."
Jake's jaw dropped. "What? No. You cannot math your way into destiny."
Terry crossed his arms, lowering his voice. "Whoever gets this case, we need to be ready. Just don't embarrass yourselves in front of her."
Gina was leaning back in her chair, spinning lazily, phone in hand. "Pfft. Please. The real crime is that Emma Watson is in Brooklyn and nobody has asked me to be her official stylist slash spiritual guide. Once again, this precinct undervalues my talents."
Jake turned back toward Holt's door, bouncing on his heels. "I'm telling you, my entire life has been leading to this. Emma Watson and me, solving a case together. The tabloids will call it Peralta and the Philosopher's Case."
Amy groaned. "You're embarrassing yourself."
Before Jake could reply, the office door clicked. Everyone snapped back to their seats in an instant, papers shuffled, phones lifted, keyboards clattered like a bad orchestra trying to sound busy.
Ray stepped out first, his expression as unreadable as ever. Emma followed, her sunglasses now perched on her head, looking equally serious. Together, they crossed the bullpen without a word. Every detective's eyes trailed them, but no one dared move.
The door shut behind them. Silence stretched. Then Holt emerged slowly, scanning the room with that flat, piercing gaze that froze everyone in place.
"Detective Santiago. A word..."
Jake shot up. "Wait, what? No, no, no, no. Captain, I should—"
One look from Holt silenced him. His mouth hung open, then he sat down again with a defeated flop. Holt went back inside.
Amy adjusted her blazer, trying not to smile as she walked briskly toward the office. She then turned around and gave Jake one of her usual smirks. "Yes, yes, yes, yes..." She did a quick victory dance. Then she walked inside.
...
[Captain Holt's Office]
Amy stood ready, notebook in hand, as Holt adjusted the file in front of him.
"This case requires discretion," Holt began. "Miss Watson has received multiple threat letters from a stalker followed by unfamiliar activity near her property, and last night someone broke into her apartment, sprayed her so that she won't wake up, changed her socks with new ones and then took her old shocks. However, there are no signs of forced entry or theft, according to her. The press cannot catch wind of this just when she became the UN Women Goodwill Ambassador. If it escalates, it could compromise her safety and reputation."
Amy nodded quickly. "Understood, Captain. I'll handle it carefully."
"You will lead this case," Holt confirmed, "And Officer White will assist you."
Amy straightened with visible excitement. "Ray? Yes, sir. I'll make sure to learn from him as we go."
"Good," Holt said flatly. "You leave within the hour."
Amy nodded once more, practically buzzing as she left the office.
...
[Precinct outer Parking Lot]
Emma leaned against her car, arms folded. Her eyes were on Ray.
"So," she said quietly. "After all these years, you show up here of all places. As a cop. So, go on. I'm listening."
He scratched the back of his head. "I can't talk about that. Not now."
Her eyes narrowed. "Six years, and that's all you have to say?"
"I'm still on duty," Ray replied calmly. "Which means right now, I can't have this conversation with you." He paused, then added, "But if you don't mind… we can meet later. Coffee, five o'clock. I'll explain why I disappeared."
Emma studied him, her expression unreadable.
"At five," Ray repeated softly. "Ralf's cafe, five minutes walk from your apartment?"
Finally, she gave a single nod. "Alright. But it better be the truth."
Ray allowed the faintest flicker of a smile. "I promise."
'Humm...' His eyes fell on a station wagon, parked on the other side of the precinct. The window glass was slightly lowered and he noticed a camera. Someone was taking pictures. The guy inside was wearing a mask. And judging by the angle, he was taking Emma's pictures. 'Interesting...'
"What's wrong?" Emma asked, noticing Ray's expression.
"Listen carefully, don't panic. Just act normal. I want you to take a round around this block, pass by the precinct's gate and then go straight to your apartment. I'll meet you there. And chill out, gloomy expression doesn't look good on your face," Ray said with his usual expression.
"Ok. Alright. I can do it," Emma said.
Then, she drove off.
...
[10 minutes later]
Ray sat in his cruiser. Amy was sitting beside him.
"So, the stalker followed her here, huh? This guy is pretty confident," Amy said as she kept her eyes on the road.
"I'm not too sure if this is our stalker guy, yet. But we'll know it in a moment," He replied.
Emma did a quick round around the block as Ray instructed. She passed by the main gate and drove toward her apartment.
He smiled, seeing that the same station wagon, following Emma's car. "Gotcha bitch!"
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