[Captain Holt's Office] [Later That Day]
Captain Holt stood at his desk, reviewing the latest case files, when the door creaked open. He didn't look up. He already knew who it was.
"You're five minutes early," he said flatly.
Deputy Chief Madeline Wuntch entered with an uncharacteristic poise, her tailored suit immaculate, her posture as poised as a sculpture carved from confidence.
"I would hate to keep a legend waiting," she replied smoothly, eyes scanning the room like a predator sizing up a familiar cage. "Besides, you've been busy. That arson case... Quite the show."
Holt set his file down and folded his hands behind his back.
"My detectives were excellent. They worked tirelessly and neutralized a violent criminal operation in less than forty-eight hours. We recovered narcotics, weapons, and over six million dollars in unreported assets. The team performed beyond expectations..." He paused for exactly five seconds before saying, "...as usual."
Wuntch walked to the window and looked out at the precinct lot. "I've read the reports. Raymond White disarming a gunman mid-hotdog. Rosa and Peralta climbing down from the third floor with only parkour to chase the criminal. Scully leveling the ring leader with a single body slam. If I didn't know better, I'd say someone's turned this building into a military-grade operation."
Holt's expression didn't change. "We are a well-led precinct. That is all."
Wuntch turned to him now, her face calm. There was no venom in her tone, no smugness, no needling sarcasm. And that made Holt flinch a bit. He could smell a trap somewhere.
"I came here to congratulate you, Raymond. You and your squad made me look good in front of the commissioner. He was skeptical about the Nine-Nine. He isn't anymore."
Holt narrowed his eyes slightly. "Are you being... sincere?"
She stepped closer and pulled a single sheet of paper from her coat.
"This is an official budget amendment. Effective next quarter, the Nine-Nine will receive a twelve percent funding increase. That includes equipment upgrades, expanded training hours, and the approval of three pending vehicle requests. The vending machine will stay. I've also approved a second smoothie slot."
She placed the paper on his desk, then met his eyes.
"Good work, Captain Holt."
With that, she turned and walked out without another word.
Holt stood in silence, eyes on the door long after it had closed. He blinked once, then again, as if trying to recalibrate his own understanding of reality.
The quiet was broken by the sound of the door opening again.
Terry poked his head in. "Captain? I saw Wuntch leave. Everything alright?"
Holt was still staring at the paper.
"She gave us a budget increase."
Terry blinked. "That's good news, right?"
"Twelve percent. Including the vehicles and the vending machine."
Terry stepped into the room, confused. "Twelve percent?"
Holt continued. "Yes. And she smiled and praised the team. There was no insult, no backhanded compliment, no rhetorical booby trap."
Terry approached slowly. "That's... weird."
"Deeply," Holt said. He looked down at the paper again. "Wuntch never does anything without motive. Every gift she offers hides a blade. Every smile is a mask. And I am going to tear apart that mask and reveal her real face."
Terry crossed his arms. "So you think this isn't a reward?"
"I know this is a setup," Holt replied. "She wanted us to succeed just long enough for someone more dangerous to take notice. She gave us what we wanted so we would stop looking for what she really wants."
Terry nodded slowly. "Then what do we do?"
Holt's eyes lifted, cold and sharp.
"We prepare. We stay alert. This isn't the end of anything. It's the beginning of something far worse. And whatever Wuntch is planning next... we will not be caught off guard."
Terry gave a grim smile. "Nine-Nine doesn't go down easy."
Holt adjusted his cuffs.
"No. We don't."
[Bullpen | 3:18 PM]
Jake Peralta sat at his desk, wiggling his fingers like a jazz pianist who had just discovered arthritis. One finger refused to move. Specifically, his left pinky. It was sticking out at a weird angle, like it had beef with the rest of the hand and was now protesting independently.
Jake stared at it. Then poked it. Then wiggled it again. It didn't hurt. It just flopped.
"Huh," he muttered. "Weird."
Amy walked past holding two coffee mugs. She did a double take when she saw the pinky doing its little interpretive dance.
"Jake. What's wrong with your hand?"
Jake looked up with a smile that said he definitely did not think this was a big deal.
"Nothing, just... my pinky thinks it's in a boy band now. Look, it's doing choreography."
He started humming a fake boy band song while attempting to make his pinky do a spin. It flopped sideways instead, hitting the edge of his desk with a faint thunk.
Amy gasped. "Jake, that's not choreography. That's a compound fracture. Your pinky is broken."
Jake laughed. "Nah, come on. It's just... dramatic. You know how fingers are. Always trying to get attention."
He poked it again. It did not poke back.
"Jake," Amy said, placing the coffee down like she was prepping for surgery. "When did this happen?"
"I don't know. Maybe when I fell out that third-floor window and into the dumpster full of rotting cabbage. You know, classic Wednesday stuff."
Amy's eyes widened. "You fell three stories into a dumpster and you didn't notice your finger was broken?"
Jake shrugged. "I was more focused on my dignity. Which, by the way, is also in the dumpster."
Boyle leaned over the partition. "Jake, your finger looks like it's trying to escape your hand. You need to go to the hospital before it falls off and joins the witness protection program."
Jake waved him off with his good hand. "It's fine. Just a little pinky rebellion. It'll get over itself."
Amy stood up straight. "I'm taking you to the hospital. Right now."
"Nooo," Jake whined. "I don't want to sit in a waiting room next to some guy who swallowed a pen. Again."
Terry walked over, took one look at the finger, and immediately stopped chewing his protein bar.
"Jake. That's not a funny injury. That's a real injury. You could lose that finger if it doesn't get treated."
Jake blinked. "Wait. Like... lose it lose it? Like it could just fall off one day while I'm tying my shoes and roll into a sewer?"
"Yes," Terry said bluntly.
Gina popped her head up from behind her phone like a meerkat sensing drama.
"Oh my God," she said. "Jake. That's your texting finger. Your emoji game will suffer. You'll only be able to express three moods max."
Jake looked down at his hand again. His pinky twitched like it was trying to do a sad little wave goodbye.
"No no no. I need that finger. That's my 'dramatic sip of coffee' finger. That's my 'adjusting sunglasses while making a pun' finger. That's the finger I point with when I say, 'Bingo, baby.'"
Rosa walked by, glanced at the finger, and grimaced like someone had just stepped on a puppy made of glass.
"If that were my finger, I'd cut it off myself just to stop looking at it."
Jake stared at the pinky. Then at the squad. Everyone was watching him now. Even Scully and Hitchcock had turned around in their chairs, chewing slowly and looking mildly horrified.
Amy leaned in. "Jake. Hospital. Now."
"But what if they cut it off?" he said, voice rising.
"They won't," Amy replied, grabbing her keys.
Jake stood up, eyes wide. "But what if they do?"
Boyle patted his shoulder. "One of my cousins has an extra finger. If you lose it, I'll have him donate one of his fingers."
Jake shook his head. "That's not how fingers work, Charles."
Amy grabbed his elbow and guided him toward the door.
As they walked out, Jake called back over his shoulder, "Tell my pinky's story! Let it be known that it died in the line of duty! Fighting crime and gravity!"
"Your pinky tripped and faceplanted into a dumpster," Rosa said.
"IT WAS HEROIC!"
As the door closed behind them, Holt stepped out of his office, holding a cup of tea.
He looked around.
"What is the commotion?"
Terry answered without turning. "Peralta might lose a finger."
Holt sipped his tea. "Hmm. I always suspected he was hanging on by a thread."
Gina nodded. "Literally."
Hitchcock raised his hand. "If he loses that pinky, does that affect his eligibility for vending machine operation?"
Everyone ignored him.
..
[Shaw's Bar – That Night]
The lights at Shaw's were warm and dim, casting a familiar golden hue over the worn brick walls and scuffed tabletops. Music played low from the jukebox in the corner. The Nine-Nine had taken over their usual booth, the one near the dartboard. Despite the exhaustion still clinging to their shoulders, there was laughter in the air and drinks on the table. A case closed, a precinct budget saved, and a vending machine defended.
Raymond stood by the bar, his presence as quiet as always but undeniably solid. He held a tumbler of neat bourbon and surveyed the room for a moment. Then he raised his glass.
"To the Nine-Nine," he said. "For doing what they always do. Exceeding expectations."
The toast caught everyone by surprise. Raymond rarely spoke during celebrations, and certainly never made toasts.
Jake lifted his beer with a grin. He had a cast on his left arm. "Who are you and what have you done with Raymond White?"
Raymond gave him a single, almost imperceptible smirk.
"And," he added, lifting his glass a little higher, "drinks are on me."
The entire bar cheered. Jake whooped so loudly he almost dropped his glass. Boyle clutched his heart like someone had just proposed to him. Even Terry cracked a wide grin and clinked his glass against Amy's.
Rosa raised her whiskey, her eyes already tracking Raymond through the crowd. She didn't smile, but her gaze softened slightly. She watched him chatting with the bartender like someone who belonged in every room he walked into.
Then Gina arrived.
She appeared beside him like a conjuring trick, perfectly styled as always, holding a drink with a candy cane stirrer. Rosa watched as Gina leaned in slightly, tilted her head, and started talking. She couldn't hear the words, but she didn't need to. Gina's smile and body language told the whole story.
Raymond listened. He didn't speak much, but he didn't walk away either. He tilted his head at something she said and gave a rare, actual smile.
Rosa narrowed her eyes.
Amy, across from her, saw it first. The sharp focus. The small shift in posture. The tension in Rosa's jaw that could chip granite.
Then it happened.
Gina laughed at something. She touched Raymond's arm lightly. She leaned closer, pulled her phone out, and handed it to him. He took it. His fingers moved briefly. Then he handed it back.
Rosa felt her heart stall.
Amy muttered, "Did he just give her his number?"
Rosa's drink stopped halfway to her lips. Her eyes locked on the screen in Gina's hand as she tapped and smirked. And then, as if scripted by the universe to personally test Rosa's last nerve, Gina wrapped her arms around Raymond in a quick, light hug.
It lasted exactly two seconds.
It was enough.
Rosa's body tensed like she'd just been plugged into a live wire. She placed her glass down too gently. She stood up like she was about to storm a bunker.
Amy reached out and grabbed her hand.
Rosa froze, her pulse pounding in her ears.
"Don't," Amy whispered.
"She's hugging him," Rosa said, her voice lower than a growl.
Amy didn't let go. "It's a hug, not a marriage proposal."
"She got his number."
"Wait! You don't have his number?" Amy asked in confusion since Rosa and Raymond most of the time work together.
"No," Rosa said.
Amy's eyebrows shot up. "Are you telling me you've never asked for it?"
Rosa shook her head slowly. "We talk in person. We work together. It never came up."
Amy squeezed Rosa's hand once before letting go. "Okay, that explains the problem, but not your reaction. Gina asking for his number doesn't mean anything."
Rosa looked back across the bar. Gina was now laughing with Holt and Scully while Raymond leaned against the counter, sipping his drink in silence. He was still close enough to Gina to look like part of the conversation.
Rosa's voice dropped to something heavier. "It does if she uses it."
Amy gave her a sidelong glance. "Rosa. Didn't you say that you wanted to do certain things with him?"
"Yeah. I did," Rosa said. "And then I watched someone else hug him before I got the chance to do anything about it."
Amy leaned in. "So do something about it now."
Rosa looked at her like she'd just suggested she bench press the bar. "What? March over there and invite him to my apartment? What are we, in high school?"
"No. You're a grown woman. He's a grown man. And if you wait too long, you're going to be watching Gina go on a dinner date while you sit here drinking bourbon and pretending you're okay with it."
Rosa looked down at her glass. Her jaw flexed. Her heart felt louder than the jukebox.
Amy kept her voice calm. "He's not going to wait forever. Not because he's losing interest. But because you are always raising a wall between you two."
That line hit something. Rosa exhaled slowly, rolled her shoulders, and looked back across the room. Raymond was no longer near the bar. He was now leaning against the wall near the pool table, alone, sipping his drink and watching the room.
As for Gina, she was dancing with herself in the corner, twirling her drink like it was a prop in a music video.
Rosa stood up.
Amy blinked. "Are you doing it?"
Rosa nodded once. "I'm not letting Gina steal my mystery weaponized man I've set my eyes on."
"Power move," Amy said with a grin. She was clearly excited and somewhat jealous. But she decided to bury those feelings for her best friend. "Don't hesitate."
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