The words cut through the crisp morning air outside District 7. I stood there, a 15-year veteran of the force , wearing my perfectly tailored uniform , staring at a smirking patrol cop blocking the employee entrance. Officer Bradley Walsh crossed his arms, looking me up and down like I was a joke.

My jaw tightened, but I kept my breathing slow and steady. I’d dealt with guys like him my whole career. The casual disrespect. The immediate, stinging assumption that a Black woman couldn’t possibly belong in law enforcement.

“Officer Walsh, I suggest you reconsider your tone,” I said calmly.

He let out a harsh, ugly laugh. “Oh, you suggest? I don’t know what kind of costume party you think this is, but real police work is for real police officers”.

My hand brushed against my pocket, where my gold shield and Internal Affairs credentials sat heavy. I was there for a surprise inspection , investigating the exact kind of discriminatory, unprofessional behavior he was displaying right now.

I pulled out my ID, but he didn’t even look at it. Instead, he knocked my hand away. “I don’t need to see fake IDs, sweetheart,” he sneered.

The word “sweetheart” hung in the air like a slap to the face.

Around us, a small crowd was gathering. People were pulling out their phones. Two other officers flanked me, closing in like I was a dangerous suspect.

“Put your hands where I can see them,” Walsh barked loudly, stepping into my space. He was actually going to arrest me. For impersonating a police officer. For impersonating myself.

I raised my hands slowly , feeling the familiar sting of humiliation mix with a cold, sharp anger. He was about to make the biggest mistake of his life, and my body camera was recording every single second of it.

The cold steel of the cuffs bit into my wrists. Click. Click. The sound was sharp, metallic, and horribly familiar. I’d heard it a thousand times in my fifteen years on the force, but always from the other side. Always as the one administering the law, not the one being subjected to a twisted mockery of it.

Officer Bradley Walsh tightened the metal just a fraction more than necessary. It wasn’t enough to leave a permanent mark, but it was enough to send a clear message: I have the power here. You are nothing. “Save the speeches for your lawyer,” Walsh muttered, his breath warm and stale near my ear as he grabbed my elbow. His grip was a vise, rough and entirely unprofessional, intended to steer me like a stray dog.

I didn’t wince. I didn’t resist. I let my body go perfectly compliant, my face a mask of absolute calm. “Officer Walsh,” I said, keeping my voice level, stripped of any emotion he could feed on. “I want you to remember this moment. Remember how certain you were. Remember how convinced you felt that you were doing the right thing.”

He didn’t answer, just shoved me forward.

As we walked across the cracked asphalt of the precinct parking lot, my department-issued radio, clipped to my tactical belt, crackled to life.

“All units, be advised. Detective Captain Johnson should have arrived at District 7 for her inspection. Please confirm her status immediately.”

The dispatcher’s voice was crystal clear. The specificity of it, the rank, the exact location—it hung in the morning air, an undeniable lifeline of truth.

Walsh didn’t even pause his stride. He reached over, his heavy fingers fumbling against my belt, and twisted the volume knob until it clicked off. The sudden silence was louder than the dispatch call.

“Enough with the theater,” he sneered.

He actually thought I was broadcasting a fake dispatch call. His confirmation bias was so deeply entrenched, so thick and impenetrable, that he was willing to bend reality itself to fit his narrative. He didn’t realize that by turning off that radio, he had just confirmed to dispatch that an Internal Affairs Captain had gone dark during an unannounced inspection. When that happens, people don’t just send a follow-up email. They start tearing the city apart.

Officer Davis opened the rear door of the cruiser. Walsh placed a heavy hand on top of my head, pushing me down into the back seat with exaggerated, mocking care. “Watch your head, sweetheart.”

The door slammed shut, sealing me inside.

The air in the back of the patrol car smelled like stale sweat, industrial floor cleaner, and old fear. The heavy plexiglass partition separated me from the front seats. I sat rigid against the hard plastic bench, my hands painfully pinned behind my back. Through the bulletproof glass, I watched the familiar streets of the city roll by. It was surreal. I knew the protocol, the exact route to the processing bay, the forms they were going to fill out. I knew everything about the machine that was currently trying to chew me up.

Davis drove in tense silence. His eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, meeting mine for a fraction of a second before darting away. He was scared. He should be.

Walsh rode shotgun. He turned around, resting his arm on the seat, looking at me through the cage with a look of smug satisfaction. “You picked the wrong precinct to run your little scam,” he said, his voice carrying through the small grate in the partition. “We don’t play games here.”

I stared right through him. I didn’t say a word. I knew the car’s audio system was recording. Every word he spoke was just another shovel of dirt on his career’s grave. Sometimes, the absolute best strategy in an Internal Affairs investigation is to simply shut up and let the target talk themselves into unemployment.

The ride took less than three minutes, but sitting in the back of that cage, feeling the vibration of the tires through the floorboards, it felt like an eternity. I wasn’t scared. But I was angry. A slow, simmering, deeply rooted anger. I was angry for every citizen who had sat in this exact seat, terrified, voiceless, and powerless, victimized by the man sitting in the front passenger seat.

The cruiser pulled into the station’s rear entrance. The heavy concrete walls of the processing garage swallowed the morning sunlight.

Walsh got out, opened my door, and hauled me up by my arm. He marched me toward the heavy steel doors of the booking area.

The room inside was a hive of controlled chaos. Fluorescent lights buzzed aggressively overhead. Phones rang. Two other officers were processing a sullen-looking teenager in the corner. Behind the elevated booking desk sat Sergeant Rosa Martinez. I knew her file. Twenty years on the job. Solid, no-nonsense, a good cop who had somehow survived the toxic culture of District 7.

Martinez looked up from her computer monitor as we walked in. She took a sip from her styrofoam coffee cup, then paused, the cup hovering near her mouth. Her dark eyebrows furrowed as she took in the scene: a Black woman in a flawless, regulation police uniform, complete with tactical gear, being marched in wearing steel cuffs.

“What do we have here?” Martinez asked, setting the coffee down carefully.

“Criminal impersonation of a police officer,” Walsh announced, puffing his chest out. His voice was entirely too loud, performing for the room. “Plus trespassing and disorderly conduct. Subject was attempting to gain unauthorized access to the station using fake credentials.”

Martinez didn’t immediately log it. She studied me. Her eyes scanned my posture, the impeccable alignment of my duty belt, the calm, unblinking way I held her gaze. She was a veteran; she knew what guilt looked like, she knew what crazy looked like. I was giving her neither.

“Did you run her ID through the system?” Martinez asked, her voice tight.

“Didn’t need to,” Walsh scoffed, leaning casually against the booking counter. “It was obviously fake. I can spot a con artist from a mile away.”

Martinez’s jaw set. “Walsh. Protocol requires that we verify all identification before processing any impersonation charges. You know that.”

Walsh’s casual demeanor slipped. His face flushed, irritated that his victory lap was being interrupted by procedure. “Sergeant Martinez, respectfully, I’ve been doing this job for eight years. I think I can tell the difference between a real cop and someone playing dress-up.”

Martinez ignored him and turned her full attention to me. “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

I stood perfectly straight. “Detective Captain Zara Johnson, Internal Affairs Division, badge number four-seven-nine-two.”

The room seemed to drop a few degrees. The specificity of my answer—the rank, the division, the exact cadence of a badge number—hit Martinez like a physical weight. Scammers usually kept things vague. They panicked. They stumbled over their lies.

“Captain Johnson,” Martinez repeated slowly, testing the weight of the name. “You’re claiming to be a captain.”

“I’m not claiming anything,” I replied, my voice carrying the quiet acoustics of authority. “I am Captain Johnson. I was conducting a scheduled inspection of this precinct when Officer Walsh decided to arrest me without cause.”

Walsh let out a loud, theatrical sigh. “Scheduled inspection? Come on, Sarge. She’s good, I’ll give her that. But we both know Internal Affairs doesn’t send captains to do surprise inspections. They send low-level investigators.”

He didn’t know what he was talking about. Martinez did. She’d worked a stint as a liaison with IA five years ago. She knew damn well that when a precinct’s complaint metrics hit the red zone, the brass came down themselves.

“Ma’am, you said you’re here for an inspection. Do you have any documentation?” Martinez asked.

I nodded my chin toward Walsh’s left hand. “Officer Walsh confiscated my inspection orders along with my credentials. They’re in the folder attached to that clipboard.”

Martinez extended her hand across the desk. “Let me see the paperwork.”

Walsh hesitated. For the first time since he blocked the door outside, a flicker of doubt crossed his face. He looked down at the clipboard in his hand like it might be armed. He hadn’t actually read a single word of it. He’d been so blindingly focused on proving I was a fake that he had completely bypassed basic investigative procedure.

“The paperwork’s fake, too, Sarge,” Walsh deflected, gripping the board tighter. “It’s all part of the con.”

“Then it won’t hurt to look at it, will it?” Martinez’s voice left no room for debate.

Reluctantly, Walsh slid the clipboard across the polished counter. Martinez opened the manila folder clipped to the front.

I watched her eyes scan the page. I saw the exact moment her breath hitched. I saw her eyes dart to the top left corner—the authentic, watermarked department letterhead. I saw them drop to the bottom right—the heavy, unmistakable signature of Commissioner Thompson himself. And the date. Today’s date.

“Walsh,” Martinez said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “These documents look legitimate.”

“They can’t be legitimate!” Walsh snapped, his voice cracking slightly. He pointed a thick finger at me. “Look at her! Does she look like a police captain to you?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The ugly, naked truth of his actions was suddenly exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Martinez’s expression turned to stone. “What exactly is that supposed to mean, Officer Walsh?”

Walsh realized he’d stepped on a landmine. He backpedaled, his hands coming up defensively. “I just mean… I mean, she doesn’t look familiar. I know most of the brass in this district.”

“Internal Affairs operates out of headquarters, Walsh,” Martinez said, her tone dripping with ice. “They don’t spend time in district stations.”

Before Walsh could dig his hole any deeper, a detention officer—a young woman whose nametag read Carter—stepped forward nervously. “Excuse me, Sergeant Martinez. The subject is requesting her phone call.”

Walsh whipped around. “She doesn’t get a phone call until booking is complete!”

“Walsh,” Martinez snapped, her patience entirely exhausted. “All detainees are entitled to a phone call regardless of charges. That’s basic constitutional law.”

“But what if she’s part of a larger conspiracy?” Walsh pleaded, desperation leaking into his voice. “What if she calls her accomplices?”

“Her accomplices?” Martinez stared at him like he had lost his mind. “Officer Walsh, you arrested one woman carrying a clipboard. What kind of conspiracy are you imagining?”

I stepped forward slightly, the chain of the cuffs clinking. “Sergeant Martinez, I’d like to exercise my right to a phone call. I believe a single conversation will clear up this misunderstanding very quickly.”

Martinez didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Officer Carter, please escort the… detainee… to the phone.”

As Carter guided me toward the row of wall-mounted payphones, Walsh trailed behind us, his anxiety finally boiling over. “This is a mistake, Sarge. You’re letting her contact her criminal network. When this blows up, don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

I picked up the heavy plastic receiver with clumsy, cuffed hands. I didn’t need to look at a directory. I dialed the direct line from memory. Two rings.

“Commissioner Thompson’s office, this is Linda,” a familiar voice answered.

“Linda, this is Captain Johnson,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline thrumming in my veins. “I need to speak with the Commissioner immediately. It’s an emergency.”

“Captain Johnson? Aren’t you supposed to be at District 7?”

“That’s exactly why I need to speak with him.”

There was a brief click. Then the gruff, gravelly voice of Commissioner Arthur Thompson came on the line. “Zara. What’s the situation?”

I gave him the facts. Clinical. Precise. No hyperbole. Just the location, the arresting officer’s name, the stated charges, and my current physical status in cuffs.

When I finished, there was a terrifying, dead silence on the other end of the line. Then, a sharp exhale. “Give me three minutes,” Thompson said. The line went dead.

I hung up the phone and turned around. The booking room had gone still. Even the suspect in the corner had stopped moving. Everyone was watching me.

“Sergeant,” I said, my voice cutting through the heavy air. “I suggest you prepare for a phone call. And I suggest Officer Walsh prepare for a very difficult conversation.”

Walsh scoffed, but it sounded hollow, reedy. “More theater. She’s probably calling her lawyer.”

But Martinez wasn’t looking at Walsh. She was staring at me, her eyes tracking the lines of my face. I could see the gears turning in her head. She had seen my picture. It was probably in the department newsletter when I made Captain six months ago. The recognition was crashing into her, bringing with it a wave of absolute dread.

The phone on Martinez’s desk rang.

It was a sharp, piercing sound that made everyone in the room flinch.

Martinez stared at the caller ID display. All the color instantly vanished from her face, leaving her looking physically ill. Her hand trembled as she picked up the receiver. “District 7, Sergeant Martinez speaking.”

Through the quiet room, the voice on the other end was loud enough that even I could hear the tinny, furious pitch of it. It was Commissioner Thompson.

“Sergeant Martinez,” the voice barked. “I understand you have Detective Captain Zara Johnson in custody.”

The words hit the room like a grenade.

Officer Carter, who had been standing next to me, took a slow, horrified step backward. Miller and Davis, who had just walked into the booking area to check on the arrest, froze in their tracks.

But Walsh was completely lost in his own delusion. He pointed a finger at me, grinning a manic, desperate smile. “See! She’s obviously been calling people pretending to be this Captain Johnson person! Probably has a whole network—”

“Officer Walsh,” Martinez hissed, slamming her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. Her eyes were wide, terrified. “Shut up right now.“

The raw terror in her voice finally shattered the glass house Walsh had built around himself. He stopped talking. He looked at Martinez. He looked at the phone. And then, slowly, agonizingly, he looked at me.

Martinez took a shaky breath and uncovered the phone. “Yes, Commissioner. She’s here. She was arrested by Officer Walsh approximately twenty minutes ago.”

“On what charges?” The Commissioner’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble.

“Criminal impersonation of a police officer, trespassing, and disorderly conduct, sir.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone.

“Sergeant Martinez, I want you to listen very carefully,” Thompson said, his voice dropping to a glacial chill. “Detective Captain Zara Johnson is one of the most decorated officers in our department. She has fifteen years of exemplary service. She was conducting an authorized surprise inspection of your facility this morning at my direct request. And apparently, one of your officers just arrested her for impersonating herself.”

I watched Walsh’s knees physically buckle. He had to reach out and grab the edge of the booking counter to keep from collapsing. The blood drained from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Furthermore,” the Commissioner continued, his voice echoing through the silent room, “Captain Johnson leads our Internal Affairs division. She specializes in investigating officer misconduct, discrimination, and excessive force complaints. The irony of this situation is not lost on me.”

Martinez looked at me. Awe, respect, and sheer, unfiltered terror warred on her face. The woman standing in her booking area, chained up like a common criminal, was the department’s top watchdog. The woman Walsh had mocked, degraded, and physically assaulted was the exact person sent to rip his badge off his chest.

“Sir,” Martinez managed to whisper, her throat dry. “What are your orders?”

“Release Captain Johnson immediately. Remove those handcuffs and treat her with the respect her rank and service deserve. And I want a full incident report on my desk within the hour. I am leaving headquarters right now. I will be there in fifteen minutes.”

Click.

Martinez slowly lowered the receiver. She stared at it for a long, terrible moment before looking up.

“Officer Carter,” Martinez said, her voice shaking but authoritative. “Please remove Captain Johnson’s restraints. Right now.”

Carter practically lunged forward, her hands fumbling with the key. The metal clicked open, and the heavy cuffs fell away.

I slowly brought my arms forward. My wrists were red and throbbing. I rubbed them deliberately, letting the silence stretch. I straightened my uniform jacket, adjusting the lapels, resetting my posture from detainee back to commanding officer.

I turned to face Walsh.

He was hyperventilating, his chest heaving under his vest. His eyes were wide, panicked, pleading.

“Officer Walsh,” I said. My voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. It carried the absolute, unshakeable weight of my office. “I believe you wanted to see my credentials.”

I reached into my breast pocket—the same pocket he had slapped my hand away from in the parking lot. I pulled out my leather badge wallet and flipped it open. The gold shield caught the harsh fluorescent light. Next to it, the solid gold bars of a Captain, and my Internal Affairs photo ID. Authentic. Undeniable.

Walsh stared at the badge as if looking directly into the sun.

“But… but you…” he stammered, his voice breaking. “I don’t understand.”

I took a slow step toward him. “What don’t you understand, Officer Walsh?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. “That a Black woman can hold a position of authority in law enforcement? That someone who doesn’t look like you might outrank you? Or that your assumptions about people might sometimes be wrong?”

He shrank back against the counter, physically recoiling from the truth.

“You didn’t know because you didn’t want to know,” I continued, closing the distance. “You saw what you expected to see based on your own rotten preconceptions. You refused to examine my credentials. You dismissed my radio communications. You ignored every single piece of evidence that contradicted your own bias. You didn’t do police work today, Walsh. You played out a power fantasy.”

I shifted my gaze to Miller and Davis, who were standing frozen near the door, their faces the color of ash.

“And you two,” I said. They both flinched. “You had eyes. You had training. You chose to follow a broken moral compass because it was easier than standing up and doing what was right. You are just as complicit.”

“Ma’am,” Miller stammered, tears welling in his eyes. “We didn’t know… we were just following his lead.”

“Following orders is not a defense for violating civil rights, Officer Miller,” I snapped. “That’s a choice. Not an excuse.”

Walsh swallowed hard, trying to find some scrap of salvageable ground. “Captain… surely you understand the confusion. I mean, IA usually sends advanced notice… we don’t usually see…”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence. He couldn’t say the words out loud.

“You don’t usually see Black women with power over you,” I finished for him. My smile was pure ice. “Officer Walsh, the entire point of a surprise inspection is that it’s a surprise. And based on what I’ve experienced firsthand this morning, my decision to come unannounced was completely justified.”

The wail of sirens cut through the thick air of the precinct. They were distant at first, but growing rapidly louder, multiplying. It sounded like the entire fleet was descending on District 7.

Commissioner Thompson was arriving.

Martinez swallowed hard. “Captain… is there anything we should prepare for the Commissioner’s arrival?”

I looked around the room. I looked at the broken, terrified faces of the men who had thought they were untouchable just thirty minutes ago.

“Sergeant Martinez,” I said calmly. “I suggest you prepare for a very thorough review of this precinct’s training procedures, supervision protocols, and complaint history. And Officer Walsh?”

Walsh looked up, his eyes glassy.

“I suggest you prepare for a career change.”

Exactly fourteen minutes after he hung up the phone, the glass doors of the precinct flew open. Three black SUVs had screeched into the parking lot. A small army of brass, Internal Affairs investigators, and departmental lawyers flooded into the building.

At the front of the pack was Commissioner Arthur Thompson. At fifty-eight, with thirty-five years on the job, the man was a force of nature. His face was thunderous.

He locked eyes with me instantly. “Captain Johnson. Are you injured?”

“I’m fine, sir,” I replied, squaring my shoulders. “But we have a significant problem here.”

Thompson’s jaw ground tight. He surveyed the room, his eyes landing on Walsh, who looked like he was about to pass out.

“Conference room. Now,” Thompson barked. The sound echoed off the concrete walls. “I want Officer Walsh, the two assisting officers, and Captain Johnson. Everyone else, clear this area.”

The walk to the precinct’s main conference room felt like a funeral march. Walsh stumbled, his legs barely supporting his weight. Davis looked like he was going to be sick.

Inside the windowless room, Thompson took the head of the long wooden table. He didn’t sit. He slammed a massive, thick personnel file down on the wood. It hit with the crack of a gunshot.

He hit a button on a digital recorder in the center of the table. “This conversation is being recorded. Everything said here will become part of an official investigation. Officer Walsh, you have the right to union representation.”

Walsh shook his head numbly, staring at the table. “I don’t… I don’t think I need…”

“Trust me,” Thompson interrupted, his voice laced with venom. “You need representation. But we are proceeding.”

Thompson opened the file. It wasn’t just my arrest report. It was a comprehensive history of Bradley Walsh’s eight years in uniform.

“Officer Walsh,” Thompson began, his voice dangerously low. “I have just reviewed the preliminary data on your arrest of Captain Johnson. You prevented a superior officer from entering a facility. You refused to examine her credentials. You ignored a direct dispatch call. You mocked her, physically restrained her, and charged her with a felony. Based on what? Your gut feeling?”

“Sir, I was protecting the station,” Walsh pleaded, his voice cracking. “I thought it was a security threat. My language was… unfortunate. But my intentions were good.”

“Your intentions?” Thompson roared. The walls practically shook. “Your intentions were built on a foundation of unchecked racism and ego!”

Thompson spread papers across the table. “Seventeen formal complaints in eight years, Walsh. Seventeen. Excessive force during traffic stops. Discriminatory language. A Hispanic woman questioned about her immigration status over a broken taillight. A Black teenager thrown against the hood of a car for asking why he was pulled over. A domestic violence victim told she was probably lying. Every single time, you were given the benefit of the doubt. Every single time, the system protected you.”

Thompson leaned over the table, his shadow falling over Walsh. “That ends today.”

I opened my own folder, the one I had brought with me, the one he had dismissed as a prop.

“Commissioner,” I said, my voice cutting through the ringing silence. “My inspection of this precinct was prompted by a sixty percent spike in citizen complaints over the last six months. My preliminary data shows that Officer Walsh accounts for nearly forty percent of those complaints alone.”

Walsh buried his face in his hands. A quiet sob escaped his throat.

“I have spent the last three weeks reviewing body camera footage,” I continued, relentless. “Officer Walsh consistently uses disparate treatment based on race. He de-escalates with white subjects. He immediately elevates to physical force and aggressive language with minorities. What he did to me today wasn’t a mistake. It was his standard operating procedure. He just finally picked the wrong target.”

Thompson stood up straight. He looked at Walsh, then at Miller and Davis.

“Officer Walsh,” Thompson said, his voice stripped of all emotion, delivering the executioner’s blow. “You are placed on immediate administrative suspension without pay, pending a full departmental hearing. Surrender your badge and your weapon. You are no longer authorized to act in the capacity of a law enforcement officer.”

Walsh wept openly now. “Sir, please. I have a family. I have a pension. I can do better.”

“You’ve had eight years to do better,” Thompson replied coldly. “Actions have consequences.”

He turned to Miller and Davis. “You two are suspended for thirty days, without pay. You will undergo mandatory retraining. If I ever see your names cross my desk for anything remotely resembling this again, I will personally strip your badges.”

The room was silent save for the ragged sound of Walsh crying.

Two days later, the formal disciplinary hearing convened downtown. The room was packed with union reps, lawyers, and command staff. Word had spread like wildfire. The story of the racist cop who accidentally arrested the head of Internal Affairs was too massive to contain.

Walsh’s union lawyer tried to spin it. He tried to claim confusion, stress, a misunderstanding of protocol.

It took me less than ten minutes on the stand to dismantle his entire defense. I played the body camera footage. I let the room hear Walsh tell me to go back to McDonald’s. I let them hear the word “sweetheart.” I let them watch him swat my real badge away.

The panel deliberated for forty-five minutes.

They fired Bradley Walsh. They stripped his pension. They permanently barred him from law enforcement employment in the state.

But it didn’t stop there. The incident blew the lid off the institutional rot in District 7. Commissioner Thompson instituted sweeping, aggressive reforms. Bias complaints were immediately routed to IA, bypassing local sergeants who might cover for their guys. Body cam footage was subjected to random, mandatory audits. The system had finally found its teeth.

Six months later, I parked my unmarked car in the exact same spot in the District 7 lot.

The crisp autumn air felt clean. I stepped out of the vehicle, wearing my uniform, the gold Captain’s bars gleaming on my collar.

I walked toward the employee entrance. The atmosphere was completely different. Officers passing by nodded respectfully, making eye contact. The heavy, oppressive tension that used to choke this precinct was gone. It had been replaced by accountability.

I paused at the door, the exact spot where Walsh had blocked my path.

I had heard through the grapevine that Walsh was currently working the graveyard shift as a security guard at a dying shopping mall out in the suburbs, wearing a cheap polyester uniform, stripped of the power he had so gleefully abused.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Commissioner Thompson.

Another department wants to consult on our new IA protocols. You available to fly out next week?

I smiled, typing my reply as I pulled open the heavy glass door of the precinct.

Absolutely. The work continues.

I walked inside, the door clicking shut behind me. The system was far from perfect. It would always require watching, fighting, and pushing back against the dark. But today, the building felt a little brighter. Today, the badge meant what it was supposed to mean.

And no one was going to ask me if I was playing dress-up ever again.

THE END.