Prelude to a Storm

8:00 a.m. – 99th Precinct, Bullpen

Ezra Kael stepped through the precinct doors exactly as the clock struck eight a.m. sharp.

As always.

This time, though, there was a quiet difference in his walk. Not hesitation—he didn't do hesitation—but a sharpened awareness, like his senses were dialed just one notch higher than usual. Something was coming. He could feel it humming beneath the surface, threaded through the very air of the precinct.

Jake was already mid-monologue at his desk, holding two pieces of toast like they were suspects in a food-related crime.

"Listen, Amy. If the toast asks to be eaten with jelly, and I eat it with jelly, am I a criminal? Or a culinary savior?"

"You're a grown man who still calls it 'jelly,' so yes," Amy said, not looking up from her clipboard.

"Ah, but who among us has not been seduced by grape-based spreads?"

"People with dignity," Rosa muttered as she passed.

Ezra smiled faintly. The morning chaos had a rhythm now—a cacophony that somehow managed to be comforting. But comfort never lasted long in his world.

Not when you got messages from ghosts.

He made his way to his desk. No notes today. No mystery email. Just a thin envelope. No return address. Inside: a single train ticket to Baltimore. Date: tomorrow. Time: midnight. No seat assigned.

The others didn't notice him freeze.

But Terry did.

8:03 a.m. – Conference Room

"Something wrong with the mail?" Terry asked.

Ezra held up the ticket. "Not exactly Amazon Prime."

Terry studied it. "You going?"

"It's not an invitation. It's a breadcrumb."

"Another ghost?"

"Maybe the one that started it all."

Terry folded his arms. "Look, man. I don't know who you were before this precinct, and I don't care unless it starts interfering with your badge. But if this breadcrumb leads to a bomb? I need to know you're walking in with the team."

Ezra met his eyes. "I'm not going alone."

"Good. Because I don't like cleaning up international messes before lunch."

8:30 a.m. – Breakroom

Boyle was attempting to brew artisan-level coffee with a French press he clearly did not understand. Gina was giving a live commentary.

"This is either going to taste like regret or enlightenment. There is no in-between."

"I watched three YouTube tutorials," Boyle said proudly.

"Was one of them not about making soup in a shoe? Because you used the same technique."

Jake leaned against the counter, watching the spectacle. "Hey, Ezra. Want to come with me and Boyle on a quick follow-up? That pawn shop on Flatbush finally responded."

"Sure. You driving or narrating your life in noir again?"

Jake narrowed his eyes. "That's rich coming from you, Shadowfax."

"Shadowman," Gina corrected. "Shadowfax is a horse. A noble one, but still."

"Can horses lie?" Jake asked, sidetracked immediately.

"Only about love."

Ezra blinked slowly. "You people are exhausting."

9:15 a.m. – Flatbush Pawn, Brooklyn

The pawn shop was dimly lit, cluttered, and smelled faintly of copper and old regret. Boyle perked up the moment they walked in.

"Oh my God, is that a limited-edition Spice Girls thermos?"

Ezra ignored him and approached the counter, showing a photo. "Have you seen this pendant?"

The shopkeeper squinted. "Looks like custom work. We don't take pieces like that. Too traceable."

Jake leaned in. "What about clients who want traceable?"

"Then they don't come here. Try Levington. Shady as hell."

Ezra's eyebrow twitched. He'd just cleaned up a mess at Levington last week. Small world. Smaller network.

Boyle whispered, "He totally knows something. Want me to distract him with some artisanal beef jerky talk?"

"No. Not unless he pulls a gun."

10:00 a.m. – Outside the Shop

Jake tilted his head at Ezra. "You okay? You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"Where your jaw tightens, your left eye narrows, and I feel like we're in a Mission: Impossible montage."

"Something's building."

Jake nodded slowly. "Cool. Mysterious doom. Can't wait. Just don't go full Ethan Hunt without us."

Ezra actually chuckled.

Jake grinned. "Progress! Next stop, friendship bracelets."

Ezra started walking. "You're in charge of glitter."

"Yessssss."

Ezra didn't say it aloud, but the sense of unraveling tension was growing tighter. A storm was coming. And this time, he wouldn't be able to out-think it.

Not alone.

10:15 a.m. – 99th Precinct, Bullpen

Jake was trying to balance an entire packet of mustard on a single tortilla chip. It wasn't going well.

"Why?" Amy asked flatly, arms crossed.

"Science," Jake said. "Also, I ran out of hot sauce and personal restraint."

Amy walked away. Boyle leaned in, whispering, "If that's science, I failed chemistry."

Ezra returned to his desk, ticket still in his pocket, but his focus split. Levington. Baltimore. The breadcrumb wasn't just a clue—it was bait. The question was who had set the trap.

As if summoned, Terry walked over, clipboard in hand.

"Got a new case. Jewelry store hit last night. Same M.O. as the Greystone job you helped close in April. Could be related."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "How similar are we talking?"

"Security system bypassed like it was made of cardboard. Targeted only the rarest stones. Took their time. Left behind a counterfeit calling card: black rook stamp."

Ezra's face shifted just slightly. Not fear. Not shock. Just a pause—a small flicker of the past crawling back into the present.

"You know it," Terry said.

Ezra nodded once. "She's here."

"She?"

"Someone from before. I'll fill you in in the car."

10:45 a.m. – Surveillance Van, On Route to Greystone

Jake was munching loudly on dry cereal, each crunch sounding like a personal challenge to the concept of silence. Boyle was holding a wrinkled printout upside down.

"So wait, this woman—she used to work with you?"

Ezra nodded. "We were partners. She learned from me."

Jake perked up. "Ooh, mentor-turned-maybe-mortal-enemy. Love those. Like me and Santiago, if she ever bests me at Die Hard trivia."

Amy, from behind the file folders: "Which I already have."

"Exactly," Jake muttered.

Ezra's eyes were locked on the road. "She was smart. Learned fast. She didn't just pick locks—she read rooms, predicted behavior. But I always stayed one step ahead."

Boyle blinked. "So… she's like you, but with better nails?"

Jake leaned forward. "Was it just work? Or was it... y'know... work and... 'work'?"

Ezra hesitated, just long enough to answer.

"It was brief. Complicated. Her first, maybe."

"Awwww," Boyle whispered, clutching his chest.

Jake grinned. "I knew it. Spies, secrets, and ex-flames—this is like if Ocean's Eleven had feelings."

Terry cleared his throat. "If we're done romanticizing international crime, can we focus?"

Ezra flipped open the folder Terry handed him. The images were grainy, but the technique was unmistakable. Alarm systems were looped, not just cut. Pressure sensors bypassed. No fingerprints. No signs of struggle.

Professional. Deliberate. And loud, in a way only the silent could understand.

Jake looked over Ezra's shoulder. "This pendant. Same one from the pawn shop earlier?"

"Not the same," Ezra said. "But similar enough. She's mocking me."

Boyle blinked. "Like… artfully?"

"Like leaving clues I'm meant to follow. Like breadcrumbs."

Jake grinned. "So it's a game. A high-stakes, adrenaline-soaked, internationally criminal chess match."

Terry muttered, "I hate games."

Ezra's voice was dry. "Then you'll hate this next part."

11:30 a.m. – Greystone Jewelers, Crime Scene

The shop was cordoned off, glass glittering like fallen stars. Shards caught the morning sun in vicious little flashes. Inside, the display cases looked hollowed out. Terry was already there, gesturing to the security panel.

"Disabled from the outside. No alarms. No alerts."

Ezra leaned in, eyes narrowing. The panel had been bypassed with a sequence only someone like him—or one of her kind—would know. A coded fingerprint. A legacy trapdoor.

He turned to the display cases.

"Only the rubies and antique emeralds were taken. Everything else was untouched."

Boyle peered at the shattered glass. "Why leave the diamonds?"

Ezra didn't answer at first. He moved carefully, retracing the steps, aligning angles, mentally placing the thief where she'd once stood.

Jake filled the silence. "Because it's not about the value. It's about the signature. It's her version of a mixtape."

Ezra nodded slowly. "Exactly."

Terry frowned. "You think she's leading you somewhere?"

"I don't think. I know."

And in the smallest crease of Ezra's expression, something else: not fear.

Recognition.

And anticipation.

"She's calling me out."

Jake leaned on a broken case. "Question is… what are you gonna say back?"

Ezra stared at the glinting glass beneath his shoes, the gleam of memory and challenge fused in one.

"Check."

1:00 p.m. – 99th Precinct, Evidence Room

The room smelled like bleach and dust, two signs of secrets and attempts to erase them. Ezra stood alone, fingers gliding over a velvet-lined evidence box. Inside lay the black rook stamp, recovered from the Greystone crime scene. Just touching it sent a jolt of memory through him—an echo of whispers in Parisian alleys, rooftop escapes in Venice, and a long kiss in a moving elevator.

He smiled faintly.

"She always liked theatrics," he murmured.

"Talking to yourself is the first sign of guilt," said a voice from the door.

Jake.

Ezra didn't turn. "Then I must be innocent. I've been talking to myself for years."

Jake stepped inside, hands in pockets. "You ever think she might be trying to pull you back in?"

Ezra shrugged. "She knows I won't fall for that. She also knows I'll follow. It's a performance she's staging, and I'm the only one who knows the script."

Jake leaned against a metal rack. "And what's the ending?"

Ezra finally looked at him. "Depends how long she wants to dance."

2:15 p.m. – Interrogation Room B

The suspect they had pulled from a stolen car downtown sat stone-faced. Early twenties, nervous eyes, and hands that wouldn't stop twitching. Ezra entered with Amy, who handed over the rap sheet.

"Found driving a car used as the second getaway vehicle from Greystone," Amy said. "Doesn't match Selina's usual precision."

Ezra nodded. "Because she wanted him caught."

Amy blinked. "A distraction?"

Ezra looked through the glass at the suspect. "Or a delivery boy. Let's see what package he dropped."

Ezra entered alone. The suspect perked up. "I want a lawyer."

Ezra sat calmly. "You'll get one. But first, how about a question? Just one. Did she tell you my name?"

The kid's brow furrowed. "She? What—"

Ezra leaned in. "Short. Shoulder-length black hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that see too much. Moves like a whisper. Dresses like a fortune. You didn't meet her. You experienced her."

The suspect swallowed hard.

"She said if you showed up, I should give you this."

He reached into his jacket slowly and pulled out a small white envelope. Ezra took it. The handwriting on the outside was unmistakable.

E.

Ezra opened it. A single chess piece card inside. The white queen.

On the back: Checkmate comes in three.

He smiled. "Classic Selina."

4:00 p.m. – Bullpen

The precinct was unusually quiet. Jake and Amy were leaning over Boyle's shoulder as he tried to sketch a possible path the thief could've taken between rooftops.

"Boyle," Jake said, pointing, "there's no way a person jumped that gap unless they're part squirrel."

"Or a circus performer," Amy added.

"Oh great," Jake said. "Now I'm picturing squirrel circus acrobats with tiny hats. Thanks."

Ezra walked past, a rare smirk on his face. Terry intercepted him.

"You got something."

"She's not just stealing jewelry," Ezra said. "She's setting the board."

"For what?"

Ezra looked toward the bullpen, at the chaos, the coffee, the banter.

"To see if I still remember how to play."

Terry crossed his arms. "Do you?"

Ezra met his gaze. "Let's find out."