The PAB parking garage was still wrapped in shadow, the rising sun casting long slats of light between the concrete support beams. Sharon pulled into her usual spot slowly, jaw tight, one hand aching around the steering wheel. She hadn't slept. Her head still throbbed from where she hit the stone at Lydia's gate. Margaret had insisted she take the day. Provenza had threatened to lock her out of her own office. Neither of them had won. She killed the engine and reached for her bag, pausing just long enough to brace herself with both hands on the wheel. Her ribs still ached. Her palm, beneath the fresh wrap, pulsed with every heartbeat. But that wasn't what made her pause. It was the feeling. That prickle at the base of her neck. She looked up.
Russo stood at the far end of the garage — arms crossed, leaning against the concrete pillar like he had every right to be there. His tie was loose. His shirt open at the collar. He looked like a man waiting for a cab. Sharon's expression didn't shift. She stepped out of the car and locked it with a sharp click. Despite the pain her her side, her shoulder, her head, she walked with purpose. Heels clicking sharply on the cool concrete.
"Commander," Russo said casually, as if greeting an old friend. "Long night?"
"What are you doing here?" she asked, cutting straight through the morning pleasantries.
Russo shrugged, pushing off the pillar with a lazy ease that made her stomach turn. "Had to drop something off upstairs. Saw your car. Thought I'd say hello."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Since when do you do courtesies, Detective?"
He smirked, closing some of the distance between them. "You know, just checking in on you. You look like hell."
She said nothing.
"I mean — bruised cheek, busted lip, moving like someone clocked you one. Shame, really. You always carry yourself like you're untouchable."
Sharon didn't flinch. "Watch your mouth."
He leaned in, just enough to make his presence feel heavier. "Oh, don't worry. I didn't touch you. But someone did, didn't they?" The words were a blade wrapped in concern, and Sharon saw the game instantly. He wasn't curious — he was baiting.
She stepped forward, eyes sharp. "I don't know what Bishop promised you, but I assure you, whatever you think you're a part of — it ends the moment you touch me."
Russo's smile faltered for just a second. "I haven't touched anything. Yet. But I am hearing things. That you're unraveling. That you're not as composed as you used to be."
"You should be more careful about what you hear," Sharon said, her voice low. "And who you repeat it to."
He tilted his head, mock amusement returning. "Flynn would probably agree with you. But then again, you haven't seen him lately. Thought you two were—" he gestured vaguely, "—done."
Sharon stared at him, her silence its own kind of threat. He stepped back, just slightly, knowing he'd pressed far enough — for now.
"Take care, Commander," he said lightly, turning on his heel and walking away. "Would hate to see you take another fall."
She waited until he was gone. Then she slowly exhaled — her fingers shaking as she unlocked the elevator.
It wasn't just that Russo had seen her injuries.
It was that he wanted Andy to know. Which meant Andy was close. Which meant they were both on the edge of something.
And someone — Bishop, Russo, maybe both — was watching the cracks form.
The bullpen at Robbery-Homicide was buzzing with low-level chatter. Files shuffled, coffee brewed, the fluorescent lights humming in a rhythm that grated on Andy's nerves. He sat at his desk, flipping aimlessly through the Robinson case file. Not really reading. Not really focused. His mind kept drifting — to her. He'd texted Sharon again. Nothing. He told himself it was fine. She was being careful. She was protecting the operation. She was protecting him. That's all. That's what this silence was. So why did it feel like something had changed?
"Flynn." Russo's voice cut through the low hum like a knife. Andy looked up, already bracing. Russo dropped into the chair across from him like they were old friends. "Ran into your girl this morning. Well— ex-girl, I guess."
Andy didn't blink. "And?"
Russo smirked. "She looked rough. Lip bruised. Little off-balance. You sure she's not cracking up on the job?" Andy's grip on the folder tightened, knuckles whitening. "I mean, I know she liked to play queen of the precinct, but it's been what—ten years since she blew IA wide open? Maybe the crown's getting heavy." He leaned forward. "She was always too uptight. Judgmental. The kind of woman who'd rather bury you in paperwork than look you in the eye."
Andy forced a low chuckle. "You're not wrong."
Russo grinned, baiting. "Bet it felt good when she finally let you off the leash. All that control? Must've made for a hell of a fight when it cracked."
Andy swallowed the acid rising in his throat. He couldn't defend her. Not here. Not now. He had to be the man they expected — the bitter, washed-up ex who'd gotten burned by falling for the ice queen. "She was never as smart as she thought she was," Andy said, his voice level, the words scraping like broken glass on the way out. "Always two steps behind but too proud to admit it. Thought she could run the whole damn department from her corner office."
Russo laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all week. "Damn. So it wasn't just me. You get her to loosen up at home at least?"
Andy smirked — but it was hollow. "Depends on the night. When she wasn't running her mouth about policy changes or micromanaging my laundry, yeah, maybe." Laughter rippled across the bullpen. Every word tasted like poison. Andy leaned back in his chair, forced to ride the wave of camaraderie that came with shredding the woman he loved more than anything in the world.
"And now?" Russo asked, leaning in. "You glad to be out?"
Andy looked him dead in the eye. "Best decision I've ever made." It was a performance. But God, it didn't feel like acting.
Russo gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder, then stood and stretched. "Well, if you ever feel nostalgic, rumor is she's unraveling. Could be entertaining."
Andy didn't speak. Just watched Russo walk away, the laughter still echoing faintly around him.
The second Russo was gone, Andy turned his chair slightly, away from the others. His hand clenched so tightly around his pen that the plastic cracked beneath his grip. He had to stay in. He had to keep the mask on. But something inside him was breaking. And he didn't know how many more times he could do this. Andy sat motionless, staring at the cracked pen in his hand. The laughter had faded, the noise of the bullpen returning to its usual thrum, but inside him, there was only one sound: the echo of his own words.
"She was never as smart as she thought she was."
"Thought she could run the department from her corner office."
"Best decision I've ever made."
His stomach turned. He couldn't look at anyone. Couldn't breathe properly. He reached for his coffee out of habit and stopped midway — his hand was trembling. He set it back down, jaw clenched so tight it ached. God, Sharon… Andy had told himself this would be the job. That they were strong enough to withstand it. That she'd understand. That it was worth it. But nothing could have prepared him for saying those things out loud. For watching Russo soak it in like it was gospel. For the way some of the other guys nodded — like they agreed. Like they'd always thought the same thing. He hated this place. He hated this mask. But most of all, he hated the space growing between him and Sharon. Because every time he told another lie to Russo, it chipped away at the truth between them. And if this went on much longer, he wasn't sure how much of it they could survive. He pulled out his phone. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing from her. She was keeping her distance. Just like they agreed. But he'd never felt so far from her in his life.
He opened their last text thread — the one where her words had been cautious, professional.
"I'm okay. Still in the fight. Stay safe."
He stared at it for a long time. Typed something. Deleted it. Tried again.
"You'd hate the things I just said." He hovered. Then added: "But I know you'd understand why I had to say them." Still, he didn't hit send. Not yet. He needed her to know he hadn't forgotten who he was. Who they were. He just didn't know how long he could keep pretending to be someone else.
The light in Sharon's office was low — just the warm pool of glow from the lamp beside the sofa, casting long shadows across the polished desk and half-drawn blinds. The murder room beyond was still dark, the bullpen empty. She sat at her desk, still in the navy coat she hadn't bothered to remove. Her glasses lay discarded beside her keyboard, and her injured hand — though healing — still throbbed faintly beneath the fresh bandage. She flexed it without thinking, wincing slightly.
No new emails. No new texts.
Her eyes drifted to the screen, where the last report Tao had forwarded still waited: timestamps, access logs, overlapping digital footprints. Bishop's network had tentacles. The more she pulled, the more she saw the pattern: calculated moves, baited traps. Shadows crawling back to the surface. But it wasn't the investigation that had her stuck this morning. Not really.
It was Andy.
She hadn't heard from him in awhile — not really. Just a few short replies. Controlled. Measured. Like he was holding his breath. And that silence… it cut deeper than any insult Russo could hurl. She reached for her phone again. Nothing. Still nothing. She leaned back, exhaling slowly, then closed her eyes.
Her hand ached. But her heart… it ached worse.
She was doing what she had to do — they both were. But there was a quiet agony in pretending they were nothing to each other. In pretending that everything he said while undercover didn't reach her ears through the digital grapevine. Tao hadn't said anything, of course, but he didn't have to. She could feel it in the way he looked at her yesterday — a trace of worry, something unspoken.
She knew Andy was walking a dangerous line. And she also knew: the better he played his part, the worse it would feel when she finally heard the words he'd had to say. She opened the drawer beside her and pulled out the velvet ring box. Slid it open. His wedding band glinted in the dim light. Still hidden. Still secret. Still sacred. Her thumb brushed over the band's edge. "Come back to me," she whispered.
And then — as if summoned by the thought — her phone vibrated softly against the desk.
TAO:You were right. Something in the Van Nuys logs matches the newer Brentwood pattern. Sending you the full file now.
Sharon straightened, suddenly all business. She closed the ring box with a soft click, tucking it back into the drawer, her features hardening. Later, she could unravel. Now, she had work to do.
The squad room was still mostly dark, lit only by the soft hum of early morning fluorescents. Sharon stood by the murder board, pinning up photos with her good hand, her movements crisp, purposeful — and just slightly too careful. The bandage beneath her glove ached with every motion, but she didn't stop. She wouldn't. Not this morning. Her blazer was a shield, perfectly pressed, the pale lavender blouse beneath it spotless. But her face — even beneath subtle makeup — was a little too pale, a little too drawn. The swelling from the impact last night was faint now, masked by concealer and strategy. But Provenza would know. He always knew.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened. Buzz entered first, earbuds in, a coffee in each hand. He spotted Sharon instantly and slowed, eyebrows pulling together.
"Commander…" he started gently, "You're here early."
Sharon didn't turn. "We have new footage. I want Mike to run a facial re-scan. There's something about the lighting that might give us better resolution on Bishop's profile."
Buzz nodded slowly, then moved past her toward his workstation, setting one of the coffees on her desk without asking.
Moments later, Julio and Amy walked in together, mid-conversation. Julio's expression sobered the second he saw Sharon. Amy, still half-laughing, caught the shift in his body language and followed his line of sight — then froze.
"Commander," she said cautiously, "you should be resting."
"I'm working," Sharon replied, glancing over her shoulder just long enough to offer a thin smile. "I'm fine."
But then Provenza stepped off the elevator. He didn't speak right away. He just looked at her — really looked. From the rigid way she held herself to the faint line of bruising under the edge of her jaw, to the tension in her eyes that hadn't eased since he'd sat beside her at Stefanie's the night before. "Ye gads, Sharon," he muttered. Not with sarcasm — with genuine, weary worry.
"I'm fine," she said again, more forcefully now.
"You were knocked unconscious last night." Provenza stepped into the room, closer. "You should be in bed. You should be icing that hand. You should—"
"Be doing my job," she interrupted, turning to face him fully now. "That man — Bishop — sent one of his flunkies after me last night. You want me to rest? Tell me what part of that makes resting an option."
Provenza's jaw worked for a second, but he didn't speak. Around them, the room had gone quiet — Buzz, Julio, Amy, all pretending to focus on tasks but casting sidelong glances. Finally, Provenza exhaled through his nose and muttered, "At least sit down before Tao gets here."
"I will," she said quietly. "After I brief him."
There was a long beat. Then Provenza said, "You're still icing that hand. I don't care how damn tough you are."
"Iced it in the car," she murmured.
He gave her a look that said yeah, and I believe that about as much as I believe your 'just a scratch' line from a few years ago — but he let it go.
The squad room was unusually quiet for this hour — the kind of quiet that wasn't about exhaustion, but about anticipation. Julio leaned on the edge of his desk, flipping through a stack of files without really reading them. Amy hovered near the whiteboard, eyes flicking toward the closed blinds of Sharon's office every few seconds. Buzz sat at his station, but his hands hovered over the keyboard, waiting.
Mike Tao stepped off the elevator, carrying his laptop and a folder tucked under one arm. He moved with intent, his usual calm undercut by something tighter, heavier. He didn't head for his desk. He made a beeline for Provenza, who stood at the edge of the bullpen, arms crossed, staring toward Sharon's office like he could will her to open the door. "You should've called me back," Tao said, quiet but sharp. "I would've come last night."
Provenza turned, jaw working. "She didn't want anyone else there. Not yet."
"She was attacked," Tao said, the words landing heavy between them. "You said it was Jenkins?"
Provenza nodded once. "Confirmed it myself once she woke up. He was watching the house, waiting. She clocked him hard enough to break his nose. But he got in a good shot. She went down, hit her head."
Mike flinched. "How bad?"
"ER doc checked her out. No concussion, no fractures, but bruised ribs and a goose egg on the side of her head that'll be there a while. Margaret said she was lucky." Provenza glanced toward Sharon's office. "Lucky. That's the word we're using now."
Mike swallowed, looking away briefly. "And Bishop sent him?"
"She didn't say it outright, but yeah. She's convinced Jenkins is working for him. And Tao—he's been circling for days. That footage she sent you before the attack? The timing wasn't a coincidence. She saw something. She spooked him."
Mike opened his laptop, already navigating to the external drive Sharon had uploaded hours earlier. "I haven't had a chance to run everything. I was hoping to go over it with her directly this morning."
"You might still get that chance," Provenza muttered. "But she's not gonna want a fuss. Not with half the department still whispering about Andy walking out."
Buzz glanced over from his desk. "Are we going to address that soon?"
Provenza looked at him, then back at Tao. "Soon. But not until we're sure who's listening."
Julio spoke up from across the room. "You think Jenkins is still nearby?"
"I think we've got more eyes on us than we know," Provenza said. "And Sharon's not interested in spooking them until we can tie it all together. For now — we follow her lead. We protect the people who don't know they need protecting yet."
Tao gave a small nod and turned his attention back to his screen. "Then I'll keep digging."
"I want you off the main grid," Provenza added. "Work offline, use that secure laptop Fritz gave us. Don't log anything through normal channels. If Bishop's sniffing our system, I don't want him even catching a whiff of what we're onto."
"I already pulled the drive this morning," Tao said. "I've got the surveillance window of Bishop outside Lydia's — and I'm cross-referencing Jenkins' past patrol zones from the last six months. If he's got a base of operation, I'll find it."
"Good." Provenza exhaled slowly. "Because next time someone comes after her — I don't want them walking away."
The room fell silent again. The kind of silence that came right before a storm.
Behind the glass, the blinds to Sharon's office still hadn't shifted.
But the whole squad was already moving with a new purpose.
The door was closed. The blinds half-drawn. Sharon sat at her desk, one hand resting on a folder she wasn't reading, the other slowly massaging her temple. Her ribs ached beneath the structured fabric of her blazer. The bruise along her side had flared the moment Russo had stepped into her path earlier that morning, smirking like the devil had sent him in a pressed suit.
She hadn't flinched. She hadn't let him see it.
But her body remembered every second.
She turned to her phone, unlocked it, and tapped a message into the secure thread with Tao:
"I need garage security footage from 5:38 to 6:50 a.m. this morning. PAB Sub-Level 4, south stairwell entrance. Russo was waiting for me. I want confirmation on how he got there and how long he was watching. Do not log the request into regular channels" She hit send.
Then she sat back, jaw tight. The nausea hadn't quite left her stomach. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the sealed water bottle on her desk. Just a sip. Just enough to steady herself. Outside the window, the squad was moving. She could hear the murmurs now. Buzz typing. Julio's voice low. Provenza grumbling something about "son of a bitch Jenkins." It was comforting in a strange way. She didn't want them to worry. But she needed them ready.
Mike Tao's brows furrowed as he read Sharon's message. He didn't hesitate. He already had access to the PAB's internal security hub through the secured laptop he'd been running offline. Pulling up the footage was easy — getting it without triggering any audit flags was the trickier part. He scanned quickly through the requested timeframe.
5:38:10 — no movement.
5:38:46 — Russo, leaning casually against the pillar near the south stairwell. Too casual. Like he'd been there a while.
5:39:52 — Sharon steps into the frame. Russo straightens.
Mike didn't need the audio. The body language said everything. Sharon's shoulders stiff, squared. Russo's posture slanted, invasive. Too close. A smirk here. A comment there. She doesn't retreat — but she flinches once. Barely. That's all Mike needed to see. He paused the frame. Captured the still. Then he clicked out of the security feed, encrypted the file, and slipped a USB into the side of his laptop. Two minutes later, he walked into the bullpen, laptop under one arm, expression grim.
Provenza looked up immediately. "That was fast."
"She asked me to pull garage footage from this morning. Russo was waiting for her."
Julio's jaw tightened. "He what?"
Mike moved to the briefing table and turned the laptop toward them. He clicked play on the footage, then zoomed slightly. Sharon in frame. Russo slouched like he owned the garage.
Provenza watched, eyes narrowing with every frame.
Julio muttered, "What's he saying?"
"There's no audio," Tao replied. "But the way he's watching her — this wasn't a coincidence. He was lying in wait. He wanted to shake her."
"He get close?" Provenza asked.
Mike pointed to a still image. "She flinched. Just for a second. But I've known her twenty years — I've never seen her do that. Not like this."
Julio's voice dropped. "You think Bishop put him up to it?"
"I think Bishop's playing a deeper game than we realized," Mike said. "And Russo's not just in on it — he's enjoying it."
Provenza nodded slowly, his tone low and clipped. "Print the still. I want it in front of Mason and Howard before lunch. And I want someone tailing Russo until we know where his leash ends and Bishop's hand begins."
Tao hesitated. "Sharon didn't ask for that."
"She doesn't have to," Provenza said. "She's already doing enough. It's time we stop playing defense."
Andy sat at the edge of the cluttered desk, one hand gripping the side of the cheap chair like it might steady him. His other hand tapped compulsively at the burner phone, thumb hovering over the contact list. He hadn't heard from Sharon in a couple of days. A quick message, nothing more. No follow-up. No check-in. No sign she was okay.
And now Russo… Russo had come in late this morning, smug and whistling, like he'd just won the goddamn lottery. Andy couldn't breathe through the rage long enough to call it out. He waited. He smiled.
He let Russo sit across from him and talk about strategy like nothing had happened — until the words "saw the Ice Queen this morning" dropped like acid into his coffee.
"She looked like hell," Russo had said, stirring his creamer in too slow. "Something about her — looked different. Shaken. Like she finally got what was coming."
The words Andy said tore him up inside; the smile he had plastered across his face. That crooked, broken smile he hadn't worn in twenty years. The one that came with the drinking, with the blackouts. The one that made people think he didn't feel anything.
But now he was alone in the corner stairwell, phone pressed tight to his ear, calling the only man who might tell him the truth. It rang once. Then—
"Howard."
Andy didn't waste a second. "It's Flynn."
Fritz's voice immediately dropped into alert mode. "Andy."
"You've gotta tell me—Sharon. Is she okay? I know you're working with her, I know she's not telling me everything. But something happened. Russo saw her this morning. Said she looked 'off.' Said something was wrong."
There was silence on the other end. Just for a moment. Just long enough. "I'm undercover here, Fritz. I've been doing everything right. Every damn thing she asked. But I'm losing it. I haven't heard from her in almost forty-eight hours. Russo's walking around like he just got away with murder. I need to know if she's okay."
Fritz exhaled slowly, the kind of exhale that told Andy he wasn't going to like the answer. "She was hurt. Not badly," he added quickly, "but yes. Something happened last night after she reviewed new footage. Someone was waiting outside Lydia Kemper's house. She took a hit, but she held her own."
Andy's stomach dropped. "Holy Shit! —"
"She's recovering. Tao and Provenza are with her. She's back at work. But Andy—listen to me—she didn't want you to know. Not yet."
"She didn't want me to know she got hurt?" Andy's voice was a whisper now, dark and low.
"She didn't want to compromise you. You're too close to Russo right now. One wrong move—"
"I'm already compromised." Andy's jaw tightened. "Because I love her, Fritz. And I know when something's wrong. I've known for hours."
Fritz was quiet again, I'm telling you this because I trust you. But I'm begging you — don't reach out. Not yet. She needs you to finish this. She's holding on. Barely."
Andy closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool cinderblock wall. "She shouldn't have to hold on alone."
Fritz's voice softened. "She's not alone. Not really. She has me. She has Tao. Provenza. And she has you, whether you're in the room or not."
Andy nodded, though Fritz couldn't see it. "Get me an update when you can. I just need to know… when she's safe. Really safe."
"I will."
The line went dead. Andy dropped the burner to his side, chest heaving. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Then slowly, he looked up toward the buzzing squad room.
Back to the wolves.
Back to the act.
But this time?
He had a score to settle.
The blinds were still drawn. The overhead lights low. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat cooling on the edge of Sharon's desk, forgotten.
She'd been staring at the same page of Bishop's case file for almost ten minutes, rereading a paragraph she'd already memorized. Her hand ached beneath the fresh bandage. Her ribs still throbbed from the fall. But the bruises weren't the thing keeping her still.
It was the silence. Andy's silence. She hadn't reached out. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Not with Russo circling and Bishop escalating. Not with everything moving so fast. Her phone buzzed against the desk. Howard:
"He called. He knows something happened. I didn't give him details — just that you're safe and back at work. He's holding the line, but barely. Thought you'd want to know."
Sharon exhaled through her nose, the sound sharp and controlled — except it wasn't. Not really. She pulled the phone toward her, reread the message twice. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard for a long time before she finally typed:
"Thank you for telling him. He needed to hear it from someone he trusts. I hate this. But I'm grateful." She paused, then added: "I miss him."
The screen blinked. Delivered. Read. A few seconds later, Fritz responded: "So does he. But you're both still fighting. That's what matters."
Sharon leaned back in her chair, blinking up at the ceiling, throat tight.
Yes. They were still fighting. Even apart. Especially apart. She closed her eyes for just a moment, letting the silence settle. And then, slowly, she picked up her pen again and returned to the work. One breath at a time.