The first thing I notice when I wake up is the hum of the radiator.
It's loud enough to be annoying, but not loud enough to drown out the faint sirens drifting through the cracked window. Brooklyn morning air slips into the apartment, cold and sharp, smelling faintly of bagels from the deli downstairs.
For a few seconds, I lie still, staring at the ceiling. It's smooth plaster, painted off-white, and nothing about it is familiar.
Not because I've just moved in. Because I've been here for only a year. Because before that, I was someone else entirely.
It's been long enough that I don't jolt awake wondering where I am anymore. The shock of reincarnation fades after the first few months, replaced by a quiet, unsettling acceptance. I know the streets outside. I know my neighbors' habits. I know the way the sunlight hits the wall at exactly 6:52 a.m. every morning.
What I still don't know is why I'm here.
Or why I got a second life.
I sit up and stretch, muscles groaning. The Army had given me discipline, the CIA had given me paranoia, and both had left me with the kind of scar tissue that doesn't fade.
Physically and otherwise. I run a hand over my jaw, feeling the faint scratch of stubble, then glance at the clock.
6:58.
Jake's going to call any second now. He's like that — excited, impulsive, incapable of respecting the sanctity of mornings. I stand and cross to the small kitchen, pouring myself coffee from the pot I set to brew at 6:45. I don't believe in chaos first thing in the morning. Controlled routines only.
The phone buzzes at exactly 6:59. I don't need to check the caller ID.
"Morning, Jake."
"Bro! Guess what? New captain starts today. Rumor is, total hardass. I'm talking… Marine-level hardass. You're gonna love it. Or hate it. Probably hate it."
"I'll reserve judgment until I meet him." I take a sip of coffee. "Also, you do realize I'm not even officially on your team yet?"
"Semantics." Jake's voice is pure energy. "Today's the day you join the big leagues. Detective's desk, fancy nameplate, me teaching you all my tricks—"
"Please, no."
"—and, bonus, you get to watch Boyle try to impress you with some overly specific cooking reference."
"I look forward to it." My voice is flat, but he knows me well enough to hear the faint amusement.
By the time I hang up, I've already decided to take the subway instead of the car. The streets are still waking up, and I prefer to blend in. Old habits — never take the same route twice, watch for tails, stay aware of exits. The CIA drills those into you until they become muscle memory.
The Nine-Nine looks exactly like it does on TV.
Not literally — that's my old world talking — but in the sense that it feels alive the moment you walk in. Desk clutter, the faint smell of burnt coffee, the low murmur of conversations mixed with keyboard clicks.
Jake's waiting near the bullpen entrance, hands in his leather jacket pockets, grinning like a kid about to show off a new toy. Which, apparently, is me.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he calls out dramatically. "May I present… my older, wiser, more ruggedly handsome brother!"
I raise an eyebrow. "Two years older. And I'm not confirming the 'handsome' part."
Amy Santiago looks up from her desk first, giving me the kind of professional once-over that tells me she's cataloging everything from my shoes to my haircut. Rosa Diaz glances at me briefly, unreadable behind her dark hair, then goes back to cleaning her sidearm. Charles Boyle approaches with the kind of open enthusiasm that makes me want to take a step back.
"Welcome to the Nine-Nine," Boyle says warmly. "So, Jake's brother, huh? You must have stories."
"Plenty," I say, deadpan. "Most classified."
Boyle's eyes widen, like I just told him I used to be in a secret rock band. Jake beams, clearly enjoying the reactions.
Before I can meet everyone else, the room goes quiet. Captain Holt walks in. Crisp suit, perfect posture, expression like carved granite. I've met leaders before — colonels, station chiefs — but Holt carries authority in a quieter, heavier way.
Jake, naturally, tries to break it. "Sir, this is my brother—"
"I'm aware," Holt says evenly, his gaze shifting to me. "Your personnel file is… interesting."
"That's one word for it."
His eyes narrow, not in suspicion exactly, but in calculation. "We'll talk later. For now, welcome to the Nine-Nine." He moves past us toward his office.
Jake leans closer, whispering, "See? Marine-level hardass."
I don't answer. I'm still thinking about the way Holt said interesting, like he knows there's something in my file that doesn't add up. Which, to be fair, there is.
Case of the day: murder in a local grocery store.
Jake is already hyped, bouncing between theories. I follow, letting him lead but watching the details — the cashier's nervous glance toward the alley, the fresh scrape on the back door. While Jake interviews witnesses, I quietly check security camera angles and note which ones are mysteriously offline.
We regroup outside.
Jake grins. "So, I'm thinking: crime of passion, cashier's ex-boyfriend, love triangle gone wrong—"
"Or," I cut in, "someone knew exactly where the cameras were blind, slipped in through the alley, and left before anyone noticed."
Jake pauses, considering. "Okay, yeah, that's good too."
By the time we get back, Holt is in the bullpen, asking for updates. Jake launches into his theory with his usual flair. I offer mine in two sentences. Holt listens, nods slightly at me, and says, "Follow both leads. Report back by end of day."
Jake mutters, "Show-off," under his breath as we walk away.
End of the day.
Case isn't closed yet, but we've narrowed suspects to two. Jake's convinced it's the ex-boyfriend; I'm leaning toward a former employee with access to the back room. We'll see who's right tomorrow.
Everyone starts packing up. I'm about to leave when Holt's voice cuts across the room.
"Detective. A word."
Jake freezes, mouthing what did you do at me. I ignore him and follow Holt into his office.
He closes the door. "Your transfer request was… unusual. Most former intelligence operatives don't transition to local law enforcement. Especially not without recommendation letters from their previous employers."
"I'm done with that world," I say simply.
"I see." He studies me for a long moment. "I don't know why you left, and I suspect you don't intend to tell me. That's fine. But understand this — the Nine-Nine is not the CIA. We work as a team. We follow the law. If your methods… deviate, we will have a problem."
I meet his gaze evenly. "Understood."
He nods once. "Good. Dismissed."
As I leave his office, I catch Rosa watching me from her desk, unreadable as ever. I look away first.
That night, lying in bed, I can't shake Holt's words.
If your methods deviate, we will have a problem.
It's not that I can't follow the rules. It's that I know, eventually, a case will come along where following them won't be enough. And when that happens…
Well.
That's a problem for another day.