Echoes and Edges

8:00 a.m. – 99th Precinct, Bullpen

Ezra arrived at 8:00 sharp. Again.

This time, the bullpen felt oddly charged—like static in the air before a summer storm. Amy was already reorganizing the evidence board for the third time since sunrise, muttering about font inconsistencies on the printouts, while Jake was pacing in tiny, dramatic circles around his desk. He clutched an empty coffee mug like it was a sacred artifact and narrated his own thought process like a detective noir voiceover.

"I knew the dame was trouble," Jake muttered, lowering his voice to a gravelly whisper. "She walked in with eyes that said 'I stole your secrets,' and heels that said 'good luck catching me.'"

Boyle sat nearby, nodding with total sincerity. "Classic femme fatale vibes. Very Double Indemnity. I respect that."

Ezra moved through the familiar noise with practiced calm, coffee in hand, his thoughts still tangled in the events of the past few days. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The whiteboard said enough: another heist. Same MO. A silent alarm, overwritten digital trail, and a mocking signature tucked neatly in the corners.

Only this time… the thief had left behind something else.

A note.

One line, typed on an old-school typewriter.

"See you soon, Ghost."

Ezra's jaw had tightened when he'd read it the night before. Now, even with Gina humming Beyoncé in the background and Hitchcock attempting to microwave a sandwich still wrapped in foil—again—his mind kept returning to those four words.

Someone was playing a game.

And they weren't playing fair.

Jake flopped dramatically into his chair. "Do we know this new art thief? Because I'm telling you, this reeks of theatrical ego. And believe me, I know theatrical ego. I once wore a trench coat to a PTA meeting just to prove a point."

"Which was?" Ezra asked.

Jake paused. "Unclear. But it was dramatic."

8:12 a.m. – Ezra's Desk

"Hey, Shadowman," Gina said, sidling up beside him with a coffee cup that smelled more like crème brûlée than caffeine. "Looking extra haunted today. Who ghosted you this time?"

Ezra didn't look up. "You wouldn't believe me."

"Try me," she said, blowing on her cup like it was soup.

He tapped the sticky note on his desk. The one with Selina Kyle written in perfectly neat letters.

Gina read it, then gave a low whistle. "Ooooh. Sounds femme fatale. Let me guess. Cheekbones that could cut glass?"

"And vanish without a trace," Ezra muttered.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

She sauntered off, leaving behind glitter from her sleeves and a vague sense of chaos.

Ezra took a sip of his coffee and turned to his drawer. From it, he pulled a plain file folder—one he hadn't touched in years. Inside were three newspaper clippings, a flash drive with encrypted schematics, and a printed photo: him and Selina, both in costume, their faces half in shadow, mid-laugh on a rooftop in Prague. It had been one of those nights that didn't belong to the real world.

Amy passed by next, balancing a tablet, clipboard, and three highlighters like she was auditioning for a productivity commercial. "Morning! You were unusually quiet during the debrief yesterday. Are you okay? Want me to do a background check on that Selina person?"

"No," Ezra said quickly. "That won't turn up anything. Trust me."

Amy paused, frowning. "You're hiding something."

"That's a strong accusation," Ezra replied mildly.

"You literally carry a decoy wallet and a real one with a false address."

Ezra blinked. "How did you—"

"Jake tried to steal your wallet last week and it self-destructed into glitter."

He sighed. "It was confetti."

She shrugged. "Still, very dramatic."

"Let's not pretend Jake doesn't deserve glitter-based consequences."

Amy smirked, conceding the point.

Before he could respond further, Terry's voice rang out across the bullpen.

"Ezra! We need to talk."

Ezra stood, composed his thoughts, and followed.

Whatever this was—it wasn't going away quietly.

8:25 a.m. – Briefing Room

Terry didn't wait for pleasantries. As soon as the door shut behind them, he pointed to the screen mounted on the far wall. It displayed surveillance stills from the previous night's heist. The thief was masked—standard black attire, no identifiable gait or height estimate, not even a gloved fingerprint left behind.

But Ezra saw it immediately.

In the upper-left corner, partly obscured by a shadow cast from a rooftop ventilation unit, was the faintest trace of a chalk symbol. A cat. Minimalist. Stylized. A flourish only someone arrogant—or personal—would dare to leave.

"I know that mark," Ezra said.

Terry crossed his arms. "Thought you might. Care to elaborate?"

Ezra paused. "It's a taunt. A signature. Meant for me, not the NYPD."

Terry raised an eyebrow. "You think someone's targeting you?"

"I think someone wants me to notice." Ezra stepped forward and tapped the screen lightly. "This isn't about money. This is about history."

Terry exhaled slowly and nodded. "We'll keep this tight. Need-to-know. But Ezra, if this is personal—"

"It won't interfere," Ezra interrupted, but even he wasn't convinced.

"Who is she?"

Ezra didn't answer.

Terry let the silence drag for a beat before continuing. "Fine. Just keep me looped in. We've got enough secrets in this building already."

Ezra gave a small nod. "Understood."

As he turned to leave, his mind played back that single line of text. The note. The smirk behind the message. He was already moving two steps ahead—mapping out possibilities, predicting outcomes. But the truth was simpler: she had found him.

And that meant she wanted something.

8:40 a.m. – Back in the Bullpen

The moment Ezra stepped out of the briefing room, Boyle was waiting with a peanut butter-stuffed celery stick and a hopeful expression.

"Did Terry yell? He gets that line on his forehead when he's stressed. Like a thundercloud."

"No yelling," Ezra replied, accepting the celery stick with a nod. "Just… echoes."

Boyle squinted. "That sounds deep. Or traumatic. Or both."

"It's a Thursday. Take your pick."

"Hey," Boyle said, lowering his voice, "just know we've got your back. All of us. Even if it's, like, a secret French thief or your old mentor-turned-nemesis or whatever."

Ezra gave him a look. "That's… oddly specific."

Boyle just smiled. "I read a lot of mystery novels."

Across the bullpen, Jake was trying to interrogate a vending machine.

"I know you ate my change, and I know you have my granola bar," he was saying to it. "You can't gaslight me, Greg the Machine!"

Amy, watching from nearby, sighed. "Greg isn't sentient, Jake."

"That's exactly what Greg wants you to think."

Ezra passed them, amused. Despite the tension pressing into his thoughts, the chaotic rhythm of the 99th Precinct still felt oddly grounding. He watched as Scully and Hitchcock loudly debated the best deli sandwich within a three-block radius.

"You need the pastrami melt at Jimmy's!" Scully insisted.

"No, no, the turkey-pickle combo at Big G's hits harder!" Hitchcock retorted.

"Guys, you ordered both yesterday," Rosa deadpanned, walking past. "You don't get to argue if you don't remember what you ate."

"But it's important, Rosa!" Scully called after her.

Ezra shook his head. For a moment, the chaos was comforting.

8:58 a.m. – Ezra's Inbox

At his desk, his computer pinged.

A new email. No subject. No sender.

Just one line of text:

"Remember the opera house in Venice? This time, no mask."

Ezra stared at it for a long moment. The cursor blinked at him like a dare.

Venice. The one job that had gone sideways. The one time he'd almost been caught.

The only time Selina had saved him instead of vanishing first.

His thoughts twisted back to that night: opera echoing through marble halls, stolen blueprints tucked into his jacket, and Selina at his side—faster, sharper, quieter than even he was prepared for. She had made him better—and worse. She knew his tricks because she'd helped invent them.

He deleted the email instantly, then opened a blank tab and began running a trace. He wouldn't find her—not through digital means. But she'd left it on purpose.

Another breadcrumb.

And Ezra Kael never ignored a trail.

He leaned back and exhaled slowly. The ghosts of his past weren't staying buried.

This time, they were coming home.

He leaned back and exhaled slowly. The ghosts of his past weren't staying buried.

This time, they were coming home.

9:17 a.m. – Alley Behind the Precinct

Ezra didn't smoke. But he stood like someone who should have been. One foot braced against the brick wall, arms crossed, gaze unfocused.

He was reviewing angles, escape routes, building layouts—not out of paranoia, but out of habit. His instincts, honed through a life spent outwitting security systems and stealing from the shadows, told him something was coming. Or someone.

Behind him, the metal door creaked open. He turned slightly. Rosa.

"You don't do smoke breaks," she said flatly.

"Not breaking. Just thinking."

"Loudly?"

Ezra smirked faintly. "Loud thoughts. Sharp edges."

Rosa stepped beside him, a quiet presence. "The heist. You know who it is?"

Ezra hesitated. "Yeah. I do."

Rosa didn't ask for more. Instead, she offered him a flask. "Cinnamon tea. Don't ask."

He took it. Warm. Spicy. A surprising comfort.

"Don't let ghosts pull you back," she said, eyes still on the opposite wall. "We all got 'em. Doesn't mean they get to win."

Ezra nodded once. He appreciated her brevity.

9:31 a.m. – Briefing Room

Captain McGintley's voice boomed louder than necessary.

"I want leads. Actual ones. Not just theories and tension."

Amy's hand shot up. "Sir, if I may, I've correlated the times and locations—"

"Correlations aren't conclusions, Santiago."

Jake leaned toward Ezra. "This guy makes most drill sergeants look like a Snuggie."

"Shhh," Boyle whispered. "He can smell fear."

Ezra raised a brow. "He's not a shark, Boyle."

"Yeah," Jake muttered, "sharks blink less."

McGintley glared at them, but Ezra met his eyes without flinching.

"Detective Kael, since you're suddenly the most silent man in this room, any actual insight?"

Ezra turned to the board and tapped a particular timestamp. "There. That camera caught more than a shadow. Freeze the second frame."

Amy moved to comply, and the grainy frame focused.

A gloved hand. But the ring—unmistakable. Silver, with a jagged edge.

Amy gasped. "That's the same ring seen in the Prague job footage."

Ezra nodded once. "And she only wears it when she wants to be seen."

"'She'?" McGintley narrowed his eyes. "Is this a personal lead or a professional one?"

Ezra didn't blink. "It's both, sir. And it's our best shot."

McGintley studied him for a long, silent beat. Then finally grunted. "Then follow it. And bring results. Or I swear to God, Kael—this whole place becomes your babysitting detail."

Jake raised his hand. "Clarification—do we get babysat, or does he get babysat?"

"Peralta."

"Right. Shutting up."

10:00 a.m. – Archive Room

Ezra entered the Archive Room, half-expecting it to be empty.

Instead, Gina was perched on a metal filing cabinet, legs swinging, flipping through an astrology guide like it held national secrets.

"You have the energy of someone avoiding a reckoning," she said without looking up.

Ezra stopped. "That accurate?"

"You tell me. Venus is in retrograde and you're acting like a haunted wind chime."

He couldn't help but smile. "That's… creative."

"You're welcome." She closed the book and hopped down. "So, what's the move?"

"I follow the trail."

"And if it leads you into a trap?"

Ezra hesitated. "Then I make the trap mine."

Gina looked intrigued. "Hot. Dangerous. Predictable."

He turned, about to exit.

"Oh," she called after him, "and Kael?"

He paused.

"She's not better than you."

He didn't answer. But the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes said he'd needed to hear it.