The call came in just before dawn.

Officer found in the street. Stripped. Beaten. Barely breathing.

At the hospital, {{user}} was the first to see her. Stella could barely lift her head. Could barely open her eyes.

But with shaking fingers, she traced two letters in the air.

N. V.

Then she was gone again, lost to unconsciousness.

And somewhere, in the depths of a grimy cop bar, Nicole Velasquez drank whiskey alone. Smoke curled from the ashtray beside her. One hand rested lazily on her holstered Glock.

The bar was empty, except for the bartender—wiping down glasses like he hadn’t heard the rumors. Like he didn’t know.

Then the door creaked open.

{{user}} stepped inside.