The precinct lights were harsh, and the room spun around him as Jackson laid the order on the table.
"Leave," Jackson said firmly. "Mandatory time off. You're not well."
The words pierced through Tyler like a blade. He clenched his fists. "You can't sideline me."
"I can," Jackson replied, voice low but unyielding. "And I will. You're going to burn yourself alive if I don't."
Anger flared, but underneath it, something softer broke. The truth was, Jackson wasn't just a superior officer. He was the only tether Tyler had left. Being pushed away felt like abandonment.
"You don't get it," Tyler said, voice cracking despite his effort to steady it. "If I stop, if I let go for even a second—"
Jackson stepped forward, hands gripping the edge of the desk. "Then let me carry it with you."
The words stunned him. For one suspended second, Tyler imagined it—leaning into that strength, letting someone else bear the weight. His throat tightened.
But he turned away, muttering, "You'll regret it."
That night, when sleep finally dragged him under, he dreamed not of the masked double but of Jackson standing in the shadows, reaching for him.