A month later.

The alarm went off at 7:30 a.m., and I lay there in the dark, still. Somewhere beside the bed, the cold shape of my phone rattled on the floor. I reached for it, blindly fumbling, the screen a distant glow through the fog of sleep. I silenced it without opening my eyes. It rang again in three minutes.

I sat up slowly, the weight of sleep clinging to me like a heavy coat. My head throbbed, the pain already settling in behind my eyes. I reached for the light, but there was no need. It was already there, creeping in through the half-open blinds, pale and unforgiving.

I blinked, rubbed at my eyes until the crust came away. My head still felt heavy, though, my temples pulsing to some relentless beat. I got up, stood in the dim light. A man not yet awake. I glanced out the window and saw the world caught in the same grey haze. The sun slipped up between the city towers like a thief trying not to be seen.

It was a bad day. I could tell already. But then, most of them were.

I shuffled across the room, bare feet brushing past empty bottles and bits of trash. Remnants of another night spent without purpose. The kitchen was no better. Oil-stained Styrofoam containers, empty cans, everything scattered like I’d left it on purpose. But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the thing on the microwave.

There it was, a black ball of fur curled up in the soft morning light, like it owned the place.

I grabbed the cat by the scruff, holding it up in front of me. It hung limp, completely unbothered by the manhandling. I squinted at it, the headache gnawing at the edges of my vision. “How the hell are you still getting in here?” I muttered. The window near the sink was cracked, just enough for a cold breeze to slip through, bringing in the stale air from the streets below. I cursed under my breath, dropped the cat back on the microwave. I should’ve fixed that damn latch weeks ago.

I reached up into the cabinet, pulled down two bottles—Venlafaxine, Paracetamol. A fistful of pills slid into my hand, and I washed them down with a swig of flat beer. First taste of the day. It sat heavy in my gut, like a stone.

I leaned against the counter, eyes drifting back to the cat. The little bastard just stared, indifferent, like it always did. It didn’t care. It’d leave when it wanted, come back when it felt like it. I sighed, knelt down, and scratched at the paper scraps littering the floor, then tossed them in the trash. Just enough movement to pretend I was cleaning.

The vacuum hummed to life behind me. The cat sprang up, batting at the machine like it had finally found something worth its time.

I wandered into the bathroom. The shower ran cold as I scrubbed the night from my skin. Five minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror, towel slung around my waist. The face staring back was one I’d grown used to, but didn’t like. Eyes dull, rimmed red from too little sleep. Skin pale, covered in stubble. A man hanging on, waiting for something to change.

I dressed quickly. Uniform pressed, badge on my chest, holster on my hip. The weight of the gun sat on my waist like an old friend as I moved back to the kitchen. Bacon sizzled in the pan. Eggs cracked into the grease. The smell of something cooking but not something good.

"Meow."

The cat again, at my feet, staring up with those yellow eyes.

"You’re begging now?" I muttered, shaking my head. I slid a piece of bacon off the plate and held it out. The cat blinked, unmoved. I tossed it onto the floor, and it ate in silence.

I chewed my own food without tasting it. The cat finished and slipped back through the window the same way it had come. I watched it leap between ledges, vanishing into the shadows where it belonged.

I wiped my hands on a rag, grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door. Old and worn, but familiar. I slipped it on, shoved my phone into one pocket, glasses into the other. The door slid shut behind me with a soft hiss as I stepped into the hallway. The lights flickered above, the hum of the building barely noticeable anymore.

Fifty-seven floors down, I walked into the parking lot. There it was—my cruiser. Blue and white, sitting in the shadows like it didn’t want to be found.

“Mornin’, skipper,” the car greeted me, that familiar pre-sunder accent echoing through the silence.

“Morning, Roadman,” I muttered back. “Thanks for yesterday. You did good.”

“No sweat, boss. So… we rolling to home base or hitting the streets?”

“The station first. Patrol later. I’ve got incident reports to file.”

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The car hummed to life, slipping into the flow of traffic. The district buzzed with its usual activity. As always, towering megascrapers loomed like monoliths of steel, glass and concrete, casting elongated shadows that merged with the shards of sunlight peeking past the daunting cityscape. Holographic advertisements danced through the smog and morning mist as a symphony of neon lights, painting the district in hues of electric blue, caustic green, and fiery red.

image [https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/011/520/741/large/job-menting-cuberpunk5finished2.jpg?1530007945]

Source: Job Menting [Cyberpunk Practice]

At the station, I stepped out. Gravel crunched beneath my boots as the car shut its door behind me with a soft thud.

As far as the precinct was concerned, access control was not just a protocol—it was a way of life. With the proliferation of innumerable, and often challenging-to-counter, paranormal abilities, the force had been forced into an evolutionary arms race against the very concept of randomness. For that reason alone, investing in only the best became more than a matter of simple prestige, it became a requirement for the precinct's continued survival. Every corridor, door, and terminal was encrypted with layers of code so dense and intricate that most conventional supercomputers could waste decades futilely attempting to crack it and still come up short. Arcane scanners, sentient firewalls and multidimensional intrusion detection systems synergize to form a near-impenetrable web that would have most Enigmas, Shifters and Savants blanching at the thought of even approaching the building, talk less of attempting to breach it. And with walls made of high-strength Forticrete composites, getting past with brute force alone was a non-option for all but the most powerful threats.

Inside, past a set of pressurized blast doors, the day was picking up. Phones ringing, tired voices murmuring. I made my way to my desk, head down, pushing through the blur of faces. I dropped into my chair, sorting through reports. Nothing important. Nothing that mattered.

image [https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/011/042/093/large/romain-jouandeau-set-act-2-s3c-police-station-open-space-v09.jpg?1527566571]

image [https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/011/042/094/large/romain-jouandeau-set-act-2-s10a-police-station-fowler-v08.jpg?1527566573]

Source: Romain Jouandeau [DETROIT : BECOME HUMAN - POLICE STATION CONCEPTS]

“Morning,” came a voice behind me—familiar, too familiar. Sarah.

I barely looked up.

“I heard about yesterday,” she said, grinning like she’d been waiting all morning to bring it up.

“Nope,” I muttered, not giving her my full attention.

“Come on, spill it.”

“There’s nothing to spill. Routine op.”

She hopped onto my desk, blocking my screen, hair falling over one eye. “Routine? You almost took down a whole squad of class fours with just five men and two droids—two trainees, at that!”

“Almost,” I repeated, already tired of this conversation.

She flipped me the finger with a grin and finally walked away. Then, she froze.

“Oh,” she said.

I sighed. “What now, Sarah?”

“The boss wants to see you.”

“Chief Anderson? Why?”

She shrugged, her grin twisting sly. “No idea. But he looked real serious. Wonder what our golden boy’s gone and done this time.”

I exhaled slowly, exhausted already. “Gosh, you’re so immature.”

She flipped me the bird again, disappearing behind the glass partition.

I dragged myself up, headed for Anderson’s office. The door was cracked open, held by a sad little cardboard box. I knocked once.

“Come in,” came the chief’s low voice.

I stepped inside. The dim light made it hard to see, but Anderson was hunched over a file at his desk, not looking up.

“Morning, sir,” I said.

“Morning, Chris. Have a seat. How are things?”

“Fine, sir.”

“And Amelia? Chloé?”

“Fine, sir.”

Anderson finally looked up, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked like old bones. His hands folded together, his face stern.

“None of that today, Chris. Be straight with me.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “I don’t follow, sir.”

He let out a slow breath. “I’ve been getting reports. About you. Reckless pursuits. Taking risks where there aren’t any to take. Staying late when you don’t need to. That’s not you, Chris. Hell, you’ve always been solid. But lately… something’s changed. What’s going on? Trouble at home? How’s the wife?”

I sat there, the silence thick between us. Looked down. Looked up again. Then sighed.

“I’m getting a divorce, sir.”

Anderson’s frown deepened. “Ah. I see.”

He rubbed his chin, staring off into space like he saw something far away. “If you need time, say the word. I’ll make it happen.”

I nodded. “I’d rather focus on work, sir.”

He searched my face for a moment, then nodded back. “Alright. But don’t burn yourself out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Anderson sat up, the air between us lightening a bit. “Martinez is in the building. Wants to talk about yesterday.”

“The prick from PASIT?”

Anderson smiled dryly. “Yeah. No hurry. Let him sweat.”

“Understood, sir.”

I rose to leave, but his voice stopped me.

“And Chris—”

I turned, hand on the doorknob. “Sir?”

“You’re not alone in this. If you need to talk, you know where to find me.”

I nodded.

“Sure thing, boss.”