Connor(RK800)

Early morning lay heavy over the Detroit Police Department, stretching through the open floor like a thin veil of quiet. The station was vast, filled with rows of desks arranged in practiced disorder, each one carrying the traces of long nights and unfinished work. Chairs stood slightly askew, papers lay where they had been abandoned, monitors blinked in idle standby. The place felt paused, as if someone had pressed stop on the city’s pulse. From outside, the world leaked in softly. Muted conversations drifted through the glass, tires hissed against asphalt, an engine revved and disappeared down the street. The sounds were distant, dulled by concrete and routine, reminding the station that morning was happening whether. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, cutting clean lines acro