The Imitators Game

8:00 a.m. – 99th Precinct, Bullpen

Ezra arrived, as always, at exactly eight.

The bullpen was already buzzing. Jake and Boyle were deep in discussion over what appeared to be a bracket titled "Greatest Cop Movie One-Liners of All Time." Terry was hunched over paperwork in the corner, and Hitchcock and Scully were—miraculously—awake and alert, albeit mid-chew on what looked like double-decker breakfast sandwiches.

Ezra slipped past the chaos and made his way to the break room for coffee, nodding at Gina who was dancing alone to music no one else could hear. She paused only to give him a once-over.

"You look extra shadowy today," she said. "Like a trench coat came to life and learned sarcasm."

"Thanks, Gina," he said. "That's the vibe I was going for."

As he reached for the coffee pot, Jake popped in behind him, slapping a printout onto the counter.

"Behold!" Jake declared. "My theory wall. Now available in color-coded spreadsheets thanks to Amy's need to control chaos!"

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Is this related to the case or your movie one-liner bracket?"

Jake hesitated. "...Both. But mostly the bracket."

Ezra poured his coffee and sipped, mind already circling around the photos again—the signature smudge, the hidden symbol, the eerie precision. Last night hadn't brought sleep. It had brought memories. And formulas. And faces he thought he'd long buried.

Someone out there wasn't just taunting him. They were studying him.

And that made it personal.

8:37 a.m. – Conference Room

The precinct had gathered for their daily briefing. McGintley, unusually punctual, stood at the head of the table, grumbling about budget cuts and someone replacing his desk chair with an exercise ball.

Ezra sat between Boyle and Amy, his gaze fixed on the slideshow Jake had insisted on preparing. It consisted of five slides, three memes, and one picture of Jake flexing next to an unrelated crime scene.

McGintley sighed so hard it rattled the blinds.

"Focus," he barked. "We've got another high-end art theft. Third one in two weeks. Same method—disable cameras, no sign of forced entry, and the alarm's overridden by someone who clearly knows what they're doing."

Ezra's fingers twitched.

Amy leaned over. "Sound familiar?"

Ezra didn't answer.

Because yes. It sounded very familiar.

Too familiar.

Jake clicked to the next slide. A blurry security photo. Just a silhouette. Coat. Hat. Walking away from the camera.

Ezra's heart stopped for a second.

Because it was a silhouette he knew.

Because it looked like him.

9:00 a.m. – Roof of the 99th Precinct

Ezra needed air.

He climbed the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door to the roof. Brooklyn sprawled out beneath him, noisy and real. A grounding contrast to the storm in his chest.

He stared out over the buildings, Polaroids still in his pocket, weighty and silent.

The silhouette in the photo.

The technique.

The symbol.

This wasn't just someone from his past. It was someone who had been watching him. Not from afar. Not recently.

From before.

"Kael."

Ezra turned.

Terry stood at the door, arms crossed.

"You okay?"

Ezra nodded. "Yeah. Just… collecting my thoughts."

Terry studied him. "You've been solid since you got here. Smart. Quiet. Maybe a little too quiet. But if something's coming for you—we've got your back."

Ezra blinked.

Then nodded again. Slower.

"Thanks, Terry."

The older man nodded and turned back down the stairs.

Ezra remained for a moment, the wind tugging at his coat.

His past wasn't just catching up.

It was overtaking him.

9:30 a.m. – Ezra's Desk

Ezra returned to his desk and laid both Polaroids flat across a clean pad of paper. He stared at them for a moment before pulling out a red pen and circling the faint signature mark on the bottom corner. It was so subtle, someone would have to know exactly what to look for. And Ezra did.

A micro-insignia. Stylized with a broken loop—once his signature tag back in the days when he left messages instead of footprints.

Someone was recreating his old jobs. Down to the exact framing. Down to the code.

"Whatcha doing?" Boyle asked as he leaned over the desk, holding a yogurt parfait that looked far too healthy for him.

Ezra quickly flipped the top photo face down. "Comparing photographic techniques."

Boyle squinted. "Like lighting ratios? I took a photography course once. We mostly studied how to take photos of terriers in motion."

"Different kind of motion," Ezra said. "Thanks, though."

Boyle beamed and walked off, cheerfully humming what Ezra was almost sure was the theme to The Golden Girls.

He turned back to the photos.

There was a rhythm to the thefts—a signature buried in style, not content. Whoever this was, they were operating with elegance. Precision. Ego. Not someone just trying to get rich.

Someone making a statement.

Ezra flipped open his drawer and pulled out a small notebook. He turned past pages filled with tightly inked scripts, diagrams, pressure points of old targets—past lives encoded in neat, dangerous shorthand.

He wrote one name.

Silas.

Then underlined it.

If it was him…

Things were going to get complicated.

Ezra leaned back, lost in the hum of the precinct. Phones rang, chairs creaked, somewhere Jake let out a dramatic gasp and shouted, "Boyle, you can't seriously think 'I am the law!' beats *'Yippee-ki-yay, mother—'!"

Despite the noise, Ezra felt a quiet click in his brain. A piece shifting.

He reached into his desk, pulled out a plain manila folder marked with a single dot on the corner. Inside were three sheets—details from an old case. A job in Prague. A mark that went bad. A pattern nearly identical to the ones showing up now.

He scanned the names. One caught his eye.

Selina Kyle.

Not a suspect. Not a victim. A ghost—and once, briefly, something else entirely.

Ezra's gaze lingered on the name longer than it should have. Selina Kyle. In certain circles, she was whispered about—never confirmed, never caught. A burglar with ballet in her blood and smoke in her voice. She didn't steal out of greed—she stole for the thrill, the dance, the challenge.

She had learned her earliest tricks from him. The sleight-of-hand. The misdirection. The getaway that left no dust behind. But she'd never quite caught up to the master.

Ezra had always been one step ahead—subtly, effortlessly. Where she brought flair, he brought control. Where she liked the spectacle, he thrived in the silence. Still, she had her moments. Enough to intrigue him. Enough to complicate things.

They'd partnered on a job meant to cripple a corrupt billionaire's empire—and in the stolen moments between planning and peril, something real had sparked. A short affair, unspoken and intense. It had been her first—unguarded and messy, sharp with emotion neither of them wanted to name. And when the job was done, Selina had vanished with half the score and just enough charm to make him almost forgive it.

He never held it against her.

Not really.

She had disappeared after Prague. No records. No exit. Just... vanished. suspect. Not a victim.

An observer. A ghost.

She had disappeared after Prague. No records. No exit. Just... vanished.

Ezra scribbled her name on a sticky note and pressed it to the side of his monitor.

He didn't know if she was involved, but if she was anywhere in New York, she'd be watching this unfold. Just like Silas would.

And if they were working together again…

This wasn't going to be a chase.

It was going to be a reckoning.

10:00 a.m. – 99th Precinct, Tech Room

Ezra stared at the feed on the monitor. Again and again, the silhouette moved down the hallway of the private gallery. Hat tipped just enough to hide the face. Coat flowing with the ease of a practiced escape.

The detail was unsettling. Not just the posture or the timing—it was the rhythm. A step too long at the edge of a corner. A brush of fingers against the frame. Like someone retracing his old steps from memory. Not perfectly. Just… intimately.

Rosa leaned against the counter, arms folded.

"You look like you're watching your own ghost," she said.

Ezra didn't look away from the screen. "That's the problem. I might be."

She raised a brow. "Want to explain that, or are we still doing the brooding mystique thing?"

He let the question hang, eyes narrowing. "I knew someone who used to walk like that. Not exactly—but close. They liked precision. Stole with a certain... pride."

"You think it's that Silas guy you mentioned to Terry?"

Ezra's pause was telling. "Maybe. But Silas never copied. He innovated. This feels like mimicry."

Jake burst in through the door, holding a coffee cup and a half-eaten donut like he'd been born to multitask chaos.

"Guys, guys! I did some digging, and guess what? Our mystery burglar used the same rare RFID jammer that was stolen from a museum tech expo in Prague five years ago!"

Ezra froze.

Jake noticed immediately. "Wait. That means something to you. Your eye twitched."

"My eye didn't twitch," Ezra said flatly.

Amy appeared behind Jake, tablet in hand. "Yes, it did. I documented it. I track micro-expressions. And Boyle tracks gluten intake. We're a system."

Ezra sighed. "It's just... that jammer wasn't supposed to exist anymore. I thought it was destroyed."

Rosa leaned closer. "Destroyed when?"

Ezra met her gaze. "Back in Prague. During a job that went sideways."

Amy's eyes lit up. "Wait—like the Prague job you keep not talking about?"

Jake grinned. "I knew it! You're like the con-man version of Jason Bourne. But with better cheekbones."

Before Ezra could reply, Terry's voice boomed from the hallway.

"Briefing. Five minutes. Let's move."

As the group filtered out, Ezra took a final glance at the screen. The silhouette vanished through the exit door—smooth, silent, clean.

He reached into his pocket and turned over the photo of Selina Kyle.

If she was involved, she was playing a longer game than usual.

And if someone was copying both their methods…

This wasn't an echo.

It was a message.

11:00 a.m. – Briefing Room

Terry paced in front of the whiteboard as the squad gathered.

"We've got a pattern forming," he said, clicking through a series of slides. "Three thefts. Same security override. Same zero trace entry. And now this—RFID ghosting confirmed by Jake and Amy."

Boyle raised a hand. "What's RFID ghosting?"

Jake jumped in, excited. "It's when someone duplicates a badge or chip signal, fakes the system into thinking they belong there. Like Mission: Impossible—but nerdier."

Gina, without looking up from her phone, added, "So... a nerdy ghost. Great. What's next? Wi-Fi hauntings?"

Terry ignored her. "We need a list of every person in the city with access to this kind of tech. Cross-reference with any known aliases from the Prague archives."

Ezra remained silent. His mind drifted to Prague's rooftops, to smoke and glass and a girl in black leather who kissed like she had a deadline.

Jake turned to Ezra. "Hey, you okay?"

Ezra looked up. "Yeah. Just… remembering someone who made a habit of stealing spotlights."

Jake leaned in. "She hot?"

Ezra didn't blink. "Very."

Jake pumped a fist. "Knew it."

McGintley poked his head in, scowling. "Unless you're discussing which suspect's hotter, shut it and get back to work."

Jake raised a finger. "We kind of were, sir."

McGintley blinked. Then left without another word.

The room chuckled.

Ezra didn't. He was already flipping through mental files. Silas. Selina. Prague. One more name kept surfacing—but he hadn't dared write it yet.

Whoever this copycat was, they weren't sloppy.

They were deliberate.

And they wanted Ezra's attention.

They had it.