The chilly wind blew through the streets of Chicago as Jay Halstead stepped out of his truck, his breath visible in the frosty air. The city never really slept, but tonight, the streets seemed quieter than usual. Jay's eyes were sharp, scanning the dimly lit alleyways and flickering streetlights with the kind of precision that only years of being a detective could instill. Something wasn't right, but it wasn't just the cold or the eerily quiet streets. It was something inside him. A storm brewing, a sense of inevitability he couldn't shake.

Jay had been different lately. He wasn't the same easy-going detective, the guy who always managed to keep things cool. Something had snapped after that last case. After Erin left. And now he was walking a fine line—one step from crossing over into something dark, something dangerous. And it all came down to revenge.

The song "Don't Blame Me" by Taylor Swift played faintly through the radio, its lyrics echoing in his head. He didn't know why, but that song seemed to describe the way he'd been feeling lately. Like he was losing control, spiraling down a path he'd sworn he'd never take.

His phone buzzed, breaking his thoughts. It was Hank Voight, his sergeant and mentor.

Voight: "Got a lead on Diaz. Meet me at the old factory. And Jay… keep your head straight."

Jay stared at the message, his jaw clenching. Diaz. The name alone was enough to send his blood boiling. The guy was slippery, had slipped through their fingers more times than Jay cared to count. He was responsible for Erin leaving, for the downward spiral Jay had been on ever since. This wasn't just about justice anymore. It was personal.

Jay texted back:

Jay: "On my way."

He slipped into his truck, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. The old factory Voight mentioned was where it had all started—the deal that went wrong, the operation that cost them a lot, and almost cost Jay everything. As he sped through the streets, the city lights flashing past him, Jay could feel the rage bubbling inside, almost uncontrollable. He didn't care what Voight said. Diaz wasn't getting away this time.


When Jay arrived at the factory, Voight was already there, standing with his arms crossed, the usual unreadable expression on his face. Behind him, the dark, looming factory was a testament to the city's industrial past—now abandoned, decaying, and perfect for the dirty business that went down inside.

"Halstead," Voight greeted him gruffly, his eyes studying Jay with a knowing look. "You good?"

Jay didn't answer at first, staring past Voight at the factory's broken windows and rusted doors. "This ends tonight, Hank."

Voight raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, it does. But not the way you're thinking."

Jay shot him a sharp look. "He's responsible for everything—Erin, the drugs on the street, the bodies. We let him slip once, and I'm not doing that again."

Voight stepped closer, his voice lowering. "We don't let emotions make our decisions. I've been there. You go down this road, you don't come back."

Jay's heart raced, but he kept his face hard, unreadable. "I'm not you."

Voight smirked darkly, shaking his head. "No, you're not. But you're closer than you think."


Inside the factory, the air was thick with dust and decay. Jay's footsteps echoed off the cold concrete floors, and the dim lighting cast long shadows on the walls. It felt like walking into a tomb. Voight had told him to stay calm, to follow the plan, but that advice was long gone. Jay's mind was focused on one thing—Diaz.

His radio crackled, and Voight's voice came through. "He's on the second floor, Jay. Don't do anything stupid."

Jay didn't respond. His hand rested on his holster as he made his way to the stairwell. His heart pounded in his chest, but not from fear—from anticipation. He could already picture it, Diaz's face when he saw Jay standing there, the shock, the fear, and then the satisfaction of finally ending it.

As he climbed the stairs, Jay's thoughts became more intense. The lyrics of "Don't Blame Me" echoed in his mind: "Don't blame me, love made me crazy. If it doesn't, you ain't doing it right."

Love. The word twisted in his gut. Love had driven him to this point—his love for Erin, the woman who left him, the woman who said she couldn't handle it anymore. He had tried to be the man she needed, but in the end, his love for her and his obsession with the job had driven her away. And now, the same love was driving him to do something reckless, something he might not be able to come back from.


Jay reached the second floor and spotted Diaz, sitting casually in a makeshift office, counting cash. Diaz looked up, saw Jay, and froze, his eyes widening for a split second before he quickly composed himself.

"Well, well," Diaz said with a sneer. "If it isn't Chicago PD's golden boy. You're a little early to the party, Halstead."

Jay didn't respond at first. His hand rested on his gun, his pulse racing. He could feel the anger bubbling up, threatening to spill over. "This is over, Diaz."

Diaz laughed, shaking his head. "You've said that before, remember? Last time you let me walk."

"That was a mistake," Jay said coldly, taking a step closer. "One I won't make again."

Diaz leaned back in his chair, still smirking. "You're not the type to pull the trigger, Halstead. You're the good cop, the one who follows the rules. Voight's the one who gets his hands dirty."

Jay's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching near his gun. "You don't know anything about me."

Diaz stood up, his smirk fading slightly. "Oh, I know enough. I know you're here because of Erin Lindsay. I know you're blaming me for your pathetic life falling apart. But here's the thing, Jay—Erin didn't leave because of me. She left because of you."

Jay's vision blurred with rage. "Shut up."

"Face it, man," Diaz continued, stepping closer, his voice low and taunting. "She left because you were too wrapped up in this job, too wrapped up in your own head. You think taking me down will make that better? It won't."

Jay's heart was pounding in his chest, his mind screaming for him to act, to do something. He could feel his control slipping, feel the rage consuming him.

"You think you're the hero, Jay," Diaz whispered, now just inches from him. "But you're just like the rest of us. You're nothing."


Jay snapped. In one fluid motion, he pulled his gun, pointing it directly at Diaz's head. The room went silent, the weight of the moment hanging heavy in the air.

Diaz's smirk vanished. "Whoa, man. Relax. You're not gonna shoot me."

Jay's hand trembled, his finger hovering over the trigger. His mind raced—he could end it all right here. One pull of the trigger, and Diaz would be gone. No more games, no more threats, no more looking over his shoulder.

But as he stared into Diaz's eyes, something inside him shifted. The lyrics of the song played in his mind again: "Don't blame me, love made me crazy. If it doesn't, you ain't doing it right." Love had brought him to this moment, but it wasn't going to save him. If he pulled the trigger now, he'd lose himself.

Diaz stared at him, his smirk returning. "Go ahead, Halstead. Do it."

Jay's hand steadied. And then, slowly, he lowered his gun. His voice was calm, but full of steel. "You're not worth it."


At that moment, Voight appeared in the doorway, his eyes scanning the scene. He took in Jay's still-drawn gun, Diaz's cocky expression, and the tension in the air.

"Jay," Voight said softly, his tone heavy with understanding.

Jay holstered his weapon, his hands still shaking slightly. He had come so close, too close, to losing himself in his thirst for revenge. But he hadn't crossed the line. Not yet.

Voight nodded at him, then turned to Diaz. "Time's up, Diaz."


As they led Diaz out of the building, Jay stayed behind for a moment, staring at the empty office. His heart was still racing, but there was a strange sense of relief washing over him. He hadn't done it. He hadn't let the darkness consume him.

He pulled out his phone and, without thinking, dialed Erin's number. It went straight to voicemail, like always.

"Hey," Jay said quietly. "It's me. I, uh… I almost did something bad tonight. But I didn't. I'm trying, Erin. I really am. I just wanted you to know that."

He ended the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket, taking a deep breath as he walked out of the factory. The night air was cold, but it felt good, like a reminder that he was still here, still fighting, still trying to be the man he wanted to be.

As he walked toward his truck, the lyrics of "Don't Blame Me" played again in his mind. Love had made him crazy, sure. But maybe, just maybe, it was also keeping him sane.

And as long as he kept fighting, he knew he could hold on to that.