Chapter 1: Training Day

Morning.

After days of pouring rain, Chicago finally welcomed a clear blue sky.

Inside the Midtown precinct, Ginny walked briskly out of the Chief's office, holding a thick file in her hands. As she made her way through the station, she greeted every colleague she passed with infectious energy.

Her youthful presence lit up the usually gray precinct. Even the hardened veterans couldn't help but cast friendly glances her way.

But as soon as Ginny disappeared through the front doors, the old-timers turned into gossip machines.

"You hear? The rookie's been assigned to Butcher."

"Butcher? You mean that Rorschach Butcher?"

"Yep. Rorschach Motherfckin' Butcher* himself."

"Damn... things are about to get interesting."

Ginny, of course, didn't hear any of that—and even if she had, she wouldn't have cared. All that mattered was one thing:

Her childhood dream had finally come true—she was officially a patrol officer.

Still clutching the personnel file, she found her assigned patrol car in the precinct lot and instinctively opened the passenger side door.

As per protocol, all new recruits were paired with a senior officer.

The idea was simple—train the rookies fast and weed out the weak. Fail your field evals? You're out.

Feeling both nervous and excited, Ginny opened the file to check her assigned partner:

Name: Rorschach Butcher

Age: 26

Hometown: South Side, Chicago

Her eyes quickly locked onto the photo in the upper-right corner.

The man in the picture had slicked-back black hair, a sharp jawline, piercing eyes, and a mouth set in a thin, unreadable line. He radiated a cold, dangerous aura.

Her first thought?

Damn... this guy's a certified badass.

Suppressing a grin, Ginny punched the air in excitement. A hot partner? Way better than being stuck with some donut-chomping, gut-swinging old-timer.

She flipped to the next page:

Enlisted at 18. Selected for the elite 101st Airborne due to exceptional performance. Earned two Distinguished Service Crosses.

After discharge, attended the Federal Police Academy. Graduated top of his class. Declined offers from the FBI, DEA, and Intelligence agencies—returned to his hometown to join the Chicago PD as a homicide detective.

Solved more cases than anyone in the state three years running. Awarded the Medal of Valor and Heroism. Fast-tracked to Detective Sergeant—the youngest in department history.

Notes:

Demoted after assaulting Black Lives Matter protesters in public. Allegedly forced a group leader to say "Black Lives are sh*t."

Promoted a year later due to outstanding performance.

Demoted again two weeks ago after assaulting trans activists during an LGBT protest.

"........"

Ginny blinked, rubbed her eyes, and read the last part again.

What the hell is this guy?! A war hero... or a walking lawsuit?

Why was someone like him—clearly federal agency material—just a local cop?

And how the hell was he still on the force after beating up minorities twice?

He got promoted after one of them?!

Confused and mildly terrified, Ginny scratched her head. On one hand, he was hot and clearly a capable badass. On the other... she wasn't sure if he'd punch her too.

Maybe she should ask the Chief for a different partner?

Just then, a deep, gravelly voice boomed outside the car window—so loud it felt like a slap to the eardrum.

"WHO THE F*CK ARE YOU?!"

Ginny jumped, head snapping toward the source.

There he was.

A towering figure with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, donut in hand, leather jacket half-zipped, and a full beard shadowing his jaw.

His eyes sliced right through her.

"You're..."

Ginny looked down at the file, then up at the man.

Same face as the photo—but the aura? Way more terrifying in real life.

Still, remembering her training, she snapped open the door, stepped out, and stood straight as a rod.

"Badge 43627! Ginny Bauer reporting for duty, sir! I'm your assigned trainee."

Butcher looked her up and down, frowning at her Barbie-doll good looks.

"You're the rookie they dumped on me?"

Ginny nodded nervously.

Butcher took a long drag of his cigarette and glared back toward the station.

"That son of a b*tch Chief... always dumping crap on my lap."

A woman. A pretty woman. Just what he didn't need.

"Get in."

"Huh?"

"Do I need to f*cking repeat myself?! Get in the damn car!"

"Y-yessir!"

Ginny scrambled into the seat, avoiding all eye contact.

Butcher shook his head and muttered:

"Goddamn old man... always giving me the sh*t detail."

He pulled the door open, climbed in, and started the engine.

"Let's get this straight. I don't like rookies. I didn't ask for you. But orders are orders."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Second—don't touch the wheel. Don't touch the radio. You follow my lead, got it?"

"Understood! What area are we patrolling?"

Butcher grinned and winked.

"South Side, baby."

Chicago—third-largest metro in the U.S. To outsiders, it's basketball, Michael Jordan, Al Capone, maybe even Kanye.

But dig deeper, and you'll find one of the highest murder rates in America.

Over the past three years:

2,500 fatal shootings

12,000 victims

#1 in the nation.

And within this crime-ridden city, one name strikes fear deeper than most:

The South Side.

A warzone packed with minorities, undocumented immigrants, and a darkness that no amount of city funding can fix.

As their cruiser rolled into the neighborhood, Ginny saw the scenery shift from yoga mats and business suits to saggy pants, gang signs, and death stares.

Even the kids pointed finger guns at the patrol car.

She stared back, unflinching.

Then—screech!

Butcher hit the brakes.

Ahead: a group of tattooed Black men loitered in front of a diner, hogging the sidewalk, scaring off customers, puffing smoke, spitting curses.

"Get out. Make them leave. No one messes with business on my watch."

"Alone?" Ginny blinked.

"Want me to call SWAT for backup?"

"..."

Clutching her taser, she stepped out of the car.

Butcher sat back and took out his donut.

Showtime.

Ginny marched up and shouted:

"Gentlemen, if you've finished your meals, please leave. You're obstructing business."

Butcher nearly choked.

"Rookie mistake #1: you don't ask nicely in the South Side."

The gang members laughed in her face. One massive man stepped right into her personal space.

She reached for her weapon, but before she could pull it—

THUD.

The car door slammed shut behind her.

The gang froze.

All taunts died in their throats.

Butcher stepped out, strolled past Ginny, and stared down the ringleader.

"Go on. Keep talking."

"We... we didn't know she was with you, Butcher."

"And now you do."

He patted the man's cheek mockingly.

"But you don't get to come and go like it's your living room."

The man flared with anger. "We didn't break any laws. You can't touch us."

"Oh really?"

In a flash, Butcher slammed into him—and somehow, the man ended up holding Butcher's gun.

"Whoa! You're holding a firearm?"

"I—what?!"

Before he could process it—CRACK!—a brutal headbutt.

Butcher snatched the gun back, grabbed the man's hair, and smashed his face into the steel table over and over.

"Assaulting an officer?! Grabbing my piece?! I should f*cking END you!"

Blood splattered. Screams erupted. Then silence.

Butcher wiped his hands clean with a handkerchief.

"I don't care if you're citizens or gangbangers, male or female, helicopter or plastic bag. If you're Black, keep your f*cking head down when you see me."

He turned to Ginny, raised one finger.

"Lesson One: Raise your standards when dealing with South Side suspects."

Ginny nodded, dazed. How did that gun end up in the guy's hand?

Later.

The cruiser cruised slowly through the streets.

Ginny glanced at Butcher—cigar clenched between his teeth, casual as hell.

"You know... the bodycam caught everything back there."

"Mm-hmm."

"He tried to steal my gun. I acted to protect public safety. You got a problem?"

Ginny frowned.

"He was just loitering. That was excessive force."

Butcher laughed.

"You know why I became a cop?"

"To protect the innocent?"

She didn't even believe it herself.

"Hell no. I thought being a cop looked cool. Badge, gun, and a free pass to crack skulls."

"...You're hopeless."

Ginny turned away, already planning to request a transfer.

But Butcher didn't care.

If she'd seen what he had—she'd hate the South Side too.

For now, at least, mission accomplished.

He was about to decide between beer and burgers when the radio crackled to life:

"Amber Alert, South Side unit. Anonymous report of a child abduction, 7310 Madeira Avenue. All nearby units respond immediately!"