Chapter 5: Eye of Judgment

Morning.

Though it was another bright sunny day, tension hung like a cloud over Chicago's Midtown precinct. Officers sat stiffly at their desks, silent, alert, their ears subconsciously tuned toward the chief's office.

"You're the most irresponsible cop I've ever seen!"

"Mother—F*CKER!"

"You killed a suspect and just walked off?! Are you a cop or a gangbanger?!"

"Do you have any idea how many complaint calls I got yesterday?!"

"I should have your badge!"

Chief Griffin's roars were clear through the wooden door, echoing across the station.

Outside, every officer exchanged knowing grins.

It wasn't that they wanted to see Rorschach suffer—they just enjoyed watching a legend get chewed out like the rest of them.

As for suspension?

Yeah, right. Griffin said that every other week, yet Rorschach's rank always bounced back faster than a SpaceX rocket.

Inside the office, Rorschach calmly faced the verbal spitstorm.

Hands raised, he shrugged. "He shot first. Glock 43X. Emptied ten rounds. I returned fire—just one. It was self-defense."

"Self-defense?!"

Griffin—white uniform, big belly—stabbed a finger at a photo on the desk.

"Eight shots! 12-gauge! He was Black, not Blade the Daywalker!"

"Hey, Chief, you know I've always had trust issues."

"You smartass son of a—"

Griffin lunged for an ashtray, ready to lob it at Rorschach's head.

Ginny, silent until now, rushed forward to intervene—but Griffin's bulk shoved her back.

Rorschach sighed, stood, and draped an arm around Griffin's shoulders.

"Come on, Chief. It was a live-fire hostage situation. Had to protect the kid, cover the rookie... maybe my methods were rough, but the intent was pure."

"Pfft, don't lecture me on gunfights. I've seen combat, dammit! Nineteen, enlisted. Twenty-five, Desert Storm vet. Top of my class two years running. FBI begged me. Pentagon wanted me! I turned 'em all down for family."

Rorschach muttered, "And ended up in Commercial Crime... never fired your gun once."

"You little—"

Griffin fumed but stopped short. It was true.

He'd spent decades chasing paper trails, not bullets.

"Don't talk crap, kid. I busted more conmen than you've had hot meals. I was the best safecracker in the unit! I could smell offshore accounts like bloodhounds smell coke."

He harrumphed, basking in faded glory. Then, tired of yelling, he waved Rorschach off.

Rorschach gave a lazy salute and turned to leave.

Passing Ginny, he leaned in with a mock scowl and whispered, "No snitching, rookie."

She rolled her eyes. "Pfft."

Once Rorschach left, Griffin eyed the young woman, movie-star pretty, out of place in a precinct full of grizzled men.

"Ginny, your father called again."

Half an hour later.

Rorschach was back in the squad car, munching on fried dumplings. Without warning, the door opened and Ginny slid in, stone-faced.

He glanced at her, said nothing, and finished the last dumpling before firing up the engine.

As a recently demoted patrol officer, his job was to aimlessly cruise the South Side and rough up a few street punks along the way.

Not exciting, but stress-free.

And judging by the look on his partner's face, she wasn't good at keeping things bottled up.

"Aren't you curious what I talked about with the chief?" Ginny asked, eyeing him. "Aren't you worried I ratted you out?"

"Ha. The chief and I? We've bled together. You think a rookie's words matter to him?"

She pouted, then muttered to herself, "My dad called him again. I've only been in Chicago two days, and he's already called ten times demanding I be reassigned—preferably back to D.C."

"He treats me like a child. I graduated police academy, I'm in my twenties, but to him I'll always be his little girl."

Rorschach rolled his eyes.

He hated rich kids who whined about wanting to be 'independent' while standing on mountains of privilege.

"So who's your dad? Senator?"

"He's... CTU. Washington branch. Runs a whole counter-terrorism unit. Name's classified."

Rorschach's brow arched.

CTU? Now that was interesting. Homeland authority, international reach, answerable only to the DOJ. No wonder she'd grown up in a bubble.

"Your turn. Answer my question."

She turned toward him. "Yesterday, at the kidnappers' house—you said the guy shot ten times. In a closed room. Point-blank. How the hell did you come out without a scratch?"

She eyed his body. He was fit—but not bulletproof.

Rorschach stayed silent. Eyes on the road.

Before she could press again—

SCREEEECH!

The squad car braked hard. Ginny lurched forward, smacking her head on the dash.

"Ow! What the hell?!"

"I've been shot!"

"What?!"

She looked around. No broken windows. No blood.

Rorschach shouted, "Where are we, rookie?! What's our 20?! I'm bleeding out! You need to call it in! What's our location?!"

"I—uh—"

She stuck her head out the window, trying to find a street sign.

"I don't know! I just transferred! I haven't memorized the streets yet!"

"Then I'm dead."

Rorschach yanked her back inside and glared.

"First rule of patrol: know your territory. Streets, alleys, landmarks—memorize everything. You just let your partner bleed out."

"I'm sorry... I didn't—"

"Out of the car. As punishment, you're running behind me today."

"Wait—what?!"

"Need me to repeat it? Move!"

He shoved her out and sped off.

Ginny stood in the street, dumbfounded.

"That bastard... he faked the whole thing just to avoid answering me, didn't he?!"

Meanwhile, Rorschach smirked at the rearview mirror.

She'd learn. This was how cops got better.

Not laziness.

Discipline.

And as for why he walked out of that room unscathed—

His eyes narrowed. Inside his mind, four blood-red words glowed like embers:

Eye of Judgment.