Erica Sinclair - The Haven (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

When a late-night robbery turns violent, Erica Sinclair follows the trail to a struggling youth shelter with secrets of its own. Together with her intern, Megan Herold, she launches an initiative to help the kids - only to uncover a dangerous web of crime and corruption. As threats mount and violence escalates, Erica must take a stand. Can she expose the truth before it’s too late?

If you can't wait, you can view the full story over on Wattpad at: https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing

[Jenny_S]

West 72nd Street and Columbus Avenue are quieter than usual, the steady hum of late-night traffic muted by the hour. It’s just past 10 PM, and the 24/7 market owned by Albert Leslie - an older man with graying hair and a friendly smile - is a familiar refuge for the locals. The fluorescent lights flicker softly overhead, casting a dim glow over the neatly stacked shelves, their contents bathed in a sterile, almost clinical brightness. A small bell above the entrance door chimes, though there’s no one coming in or out right now - just Erica Sinclair, hurriedly making her way through the aisles.

Erica is behind schedule, her long day catching up to her. She’s been meaning to get groceries since the early evening but hadn’t gotten a moment to breathe until now. Her cart moves lazily in front of her as she picks out items for the week. The usual things - fresh vegetables, almond milk, yogurt. Her main concern tonight, though, is Spot and Tiger, her kittens. She grabs a package of chicken breasts, her preferred lean protein for them, along with other things for her own healthy diet. The store smells faintly of cleaning detergent, mixed with the scent of fresh bread from the small bakery section.

Mr. Leslie’s voice floats from the register area, humming softly as he rearranges a stack of gum near the counter. Erica smiles to herself, thinking how he always seems to have something to hum about. In his early 60s, Mr. Leslie is a staple in the neighborhood - an old school shopkeeper, kind and always willing to chat. He’s seen Erica move in some years ago, watched her go from a new face to a regular, always remembering her preferences and asking about her work in that knowing, neighborly way.

As she rounds the corner of the refrigerated section, her phone buzzes in her jacket pocket. A news notification. “Breaking News” flashes across the screen, but Erica barely glances at it. She’s been getting those a lot lately - another robbery, another shooting, all things that felt far removed until recently. She pushes her cart toward the register, her attention split between her shopping list and the glowing screen of her phone.

Then she hears it - a sharp, low voice cutting through the store. Her eyes snap up from the phone, and she freezes.

At the front of the store, near the register, a young man stands, tense and jittery, his hoodie pulled low over his eyes. He’s holding a gun - a small, black pistol, shaking in his hands as he aims it directly at Mr. Leslie. The older man, ever calm, doesn’t flinch, but his body is stiff, his hands hovering just above the cash register. Erica stops, her heart pounding in her ears.

From her vantage point, half-hidden in the dim glow of the back aisle, she watches in disbelief. Mr. Leslie’s expression hardens, his gaze flicking toward something under the counter. Erica knows what it is - he’s reaching for the short baseball bat he keeps there. He’s always joked about it, calling it his "last line of defense." But tonight, this isn’t a joke anymore. She knows that against a man with a gun, the bat won’t be enough.

“Give me the money, old man!” The robber’s voice is sharp, agitated. His hands are shaking more now, as if he’s not sure if he’s ready to follow through with his threat.

Erica feels a cold wave wash over her. She’s stuck - too far from the register to intervene, too close to avoid seeing what’s about to unfold. She glances around, frantically calculating her next move. Her phone is still in her hand, but dialing 911 and calling in the incident would make the robber snap. She’s trapped in that moment of indecision, the weight of helplessness pressing down on her.

Then it happens.

Mr. Leslie, with a quick, sharp motion, pulls the bat from beneath the counter. It’s a reflex - one last attempt to take control of the situation. But the young man reacts faster than anyone expected. The gun goes off. A deafening crack echoes through the store.

Erica’s heart lurches. She watches in horror as Mr. Leslie stumbles back, the force of the bullet throwing him off balance. His baseball bat clatters to the floor as his body slams into the shelves behind him, a sickening thud following the impact. He collapses behind the counter, out of sight.

For a split second, time stands still. Erica feels the world narrow to that moment, the sound of her heartbeat roaring in her ears. The robber swivels toward her, the corner of his eye catching her movement as she stands frozen near the end of the aisle. His gun swings in her direction, the barrel pointed straight at her.

Erica’s breath catches in her throat. Her hands shoot up instinctively, palms facing forward, showing that she’s unarmed. Her voice dies in her throat, but her eyes lock with the robber’s. He’s panicking, his breaths coming in quick, ragged gasps. There’s fear in his eyes - he clearly wasn’t prepared for this.

He doesn’t say anything. He just bolts.

With a frenzied rush, the young man sprints toward the door, his foot catching a candy display near the entrance. Boxes of chocolate bites and bags of chips scatter across the floor as he barrels out into the night, the bell above the door ringing wildly in his wake. The door slams shut behind him, leaving the store in an eerie silence, broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerators.

For a second, Erica can’t move. Her eyes are locked on the spot where Mr. Leslie fell, her mind struggling to process the shock of what just happened. Then it hits her.

Mr. Leslie.

She rushes to the counter, sliding around to the back. Mr. Leslie lies crumpled on the floor, blood pooling from his side, staining the linoleum tiles. His face is pale, his breaths shallow and labored. Erica drops to her knees, her hands trembling as she pulls her phone from her pocket.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Gunshot wound!” Erica gasps, her voice barely holding together. “Corner of 72nd and Columbus, Mr. Leslie’s store. He’s been shot. Please - please send help.”

[Caesar73]

What a Start! I do like the Contrast between the first Paragraphs and the Moment Erica registers the News. The Tempo changes instantly from one Moment to the next. Gone is the Hope for a quiet evening at home after Work. Instead we find ourselves inmidst a new gripping Tale!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, seems like it is sheer luck that the robber was just as shocked as Erica, else he might have shot her, too. We'll see if Mr Leslie lives or dies in the next episode...

[LunaDog]

A very promising start.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I'm glad this story kicked off right for you. Big promise, there's much more to come.

[Jenny_S]

The dispatcher’s calm voice contrasts the panic surging through her body. While making the call, she presses a roll of kitchen towels, grabbed blindly from under the counter, against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. Mr. Leslie’s eyes flutter open, and he gives her a weak smile, as if to say, “I’ll be alright.” But the pain etched across his face tells a different story.

The sirens wail in the distance, growing louder by the second, but for Erica, it feels like a lifetime. All she can do is sit there, press her hands into the wound, her mind racing through a thousand thoughts. The robber, the gun, the bullet. The blood.

And then the sirens are outside, red and blue lights flooding the windows as the paramedics and police rush in.

But even as the chaos unfolds around her, Erica can’t shake the image of that young man - the fear in his eyes, the way his hand trembled on the trigger.



The blue and red lights of the police cruisers flicker outside the windows, painting the corner store in a surreal glow as the chaos of the aftermath settles in. Erica waves the cops and paramedics over to the counter, still kneeling beside Mr. Leslie, her hands pressing the blood-soaked paper towels into his side, doing whatever she can to stop the bleeding.

One of the paramedics rushes to Mr. Leslie’s side, quickly kneeling beside her and taking over. His hands move with practiced precision, assessing the wound, applying gauze and starting to stabilize him, checking vitals. Erica stumbles backward, her mind still racing, her heart pounding in her chest as she watches the paramedic work. Mr. Leslie is pale, his breaths shallow, but he’s alive.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” A second paramedic gently touches her arm, pulling her aside from the flurry of activity around Mr. Leslie. His face is full of concern as he glances at her bloodied hands and the streaks staining her coat.

“I’m fine.” Erica says, her voice rough and unsteady. She looks down at her hands, sticky and trembling from the blood. “It’s not mine.”

The paramedic nods but doesn’t press her further. “We’ll take it from here.” he says softly, and she watches as they place Mr. Leslie on a gurney, his body limp and small against the white sheets.

A female police officer approaches, her uniform crisp and badge gleaming under the fluorescent lights, guiding Erica toward the side of the counter, away from the paramedics working on Mr. Leslie. "Come with me, ma'am." the officer says. Her voice is firm but not unkind. She leads Erica to a quieter corner of the store.

“I just need to ask you a few questions, alright?” The officer takes out her notepad and pen, giving Erica a quick once-over. She notices Erica’s blood-streaked hands, her clothes stained red from where she had knelt beside Mr. Leslie.

Erica nods, the adrenaline slowly ebbing away, leaving her slightly lightheaded. She leans against the shelf for support, trying to focus. “Of course.”

The officer glances at her and starts writing. “So, you were in the back of the store when it happened?”

“Yes.” Erica breathes, her voice still shaky. “I was picking up some groceries - stuff for my cats - and my phone buzzed. I was looking at it, just...wheeling my cart toward the register when I saw what was happening.”

The officer’s brow furrows, and she tilts her head. “You had your phone in your hand? Why didn’t you take a picture of the suspect?”

Erica blinks, caught off guard by the question. She could have said something smart like “Sure, and getting shot, too, you fool.”, but as her mind flashes back to that awful moment, she lays it out like it really happened: so fast. “I didn’t expect to walk into a robbery.”

The officer gives her a long, appraising look, then nods slowly. “I get it.” she says, her tone softening somewhat. “But you should know, robberies and burglaries have been on the rise. Even in upscale neighborhoods like this one.” Her eyes drift down to Erica’s left wrist, the Rolex dive watch catching the light. Then they flick to the gold class ring on her finger, a subtle, expensive piece of jewelry that gleams against her bloodstained hand. “Those can make you a prime target, Miss Sinclair.”

Erica glances at her wrist, then back at the officer, her lips curving into a grim smile. “They’d have to kill me for them.”

The officer raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press the point. She scribbles more notes in her pad, her pen moving quickly across the page. “Anyways.” she says, flipping to a new page. “Can you describe the robber?”

Erica takes a deep breath, focusing on what she saw in that split second. “He wasn’t tall. Maybe five-six, five-seven. Definitely shorter than me.” She pauses, recalling the moment the gun swung toward her. “He was wearing baggy jeans, an oversized black hoodie. Sneakers. His face...I didn’t get a great look at him, but he seemed young. Maybe sixteen, eighteen, tops.”

The officer nods, jotting down every detail. “You’re sure about the age?”

“I only saw his face briefly,” Erica says, biting her lip. “But yeah, he didn’t seem much older than that.”

The officer scribbles a few more notes, then Erica reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. “Here.” she says, handing it to the officer. “In case you need to follow up.”

The officer glances at the card, her eyes flicking to the bold print of “Erica Sinclair, Attorney-at- Law”. She nods and slips it into her jacket pocket. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” she says as she hands over her own card.

Behind them, the paramedics carefully strap Mr Leslie into the gurney as they prepare to move him to the ambulance. His face is drawn, pale, but his eyes flutter open for a brief moment, meeting Erica’s from across the room. She offers him a small, hopeful smile, though her heart clenches at the sight of him so frail, so vulnerable.

The ambulance crew pushes him toward the door, the wheels of the gurney squeaking across the linoleum floor. As they maneuver him outside, one of the paramedics shouts to his partner, “He needs emergency surgery as soon as we get him to the hospital!”

Erica watches, feeling a knot form in her stomach. It’s hard to see the man who’s been such a constant presence in her life, the friendly face behind the counter, now fighting for his life because of some kid with a gun. The store feels colder, emptier without his usual warmth.

Just then, a male officer steps over to his partner, the one taking Erica’s statement. His face is tight with tension, but there’s relief in his eyes. “I reached Mr. Leslie’s daughter.” he says, glancing between Erica and his partner. “She’s on her way to close up the store. Then she’s heading straight to the hospital to wait for news.”

The female officer nods, scribbling the last of her notes and tucking the notepad away. “Alright. I think we’ve got everything we need for now, Miss Sinclair. You’ve been through a lot tonight. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Erica gives a small nod, but her mind is far from settled. As the officers and paramedics move around her, she feels the weight of the robbery pressing down on her. The sirens outside, the flashing lights, the shattered quiet of her neighborhood - it all feels too close, too real.

She watches the ambulance pull away, its siren wailing into the distance. Mr. Leslie, that kind old man, is inside, his life now hanging in the balance.

Erica knows that this isn’t over. The robbery, the shooting - it’s just the beginning of something much darker. And she’s already too deep to walk away now.




The fluorescent lights buzz quietly above Erica as she stands near the front of the store, the cool air of the evening slipping in through the cracked-open door. The two officers are standing by the entrance, leaning against the shelves, casually talking to each other about trivial things - weekend plans, a new burger joint that just opened downtown. Their voices are low, indifferent, as if this is just another routine call for them. For them, maybe it is.

But for Erica, everything feels off-kilter. The adrenaline that had spiked during the robbery is slowly draining from her, leaving her feeling raw, her nerves tingling. She glances down at her hands, still stained with Mr. Leslie’s blood, the sight of it too stark, too real. Reading about these things in a police report or expert’s statement is one thing…being in the midst of it, that’s something else.
Erica realizes that the boy with the gun could have easily shot her, too, leaving no witnesses…

Without thinking, she walks toward the hygiene section, finding a pack of wet wipes on the shelf. She rips it open, her hands trembling as she pulls out a couple of wipes, their cold wetness stinging her skin as she scrubs at her fingers, trying to erase the blood. The wipes turn crimson as she rubs them over her palms, but the feeling of unease clings to her, stubborn as ever. She curses herself for having been caught off-guard, for being absorbed by her thoughts of a quiet evening at home, cat food, looking at her phone instead of paying attention to what was happening around her.
Situational awareness…she hadn’t been switched on.

[LunaDog]

Only To be expected, not being switched on. Imagine if one walked around expecting the worst EVERY moment, one would go nuts.

Brilliantly described B.T.W.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, this is the Upper West Side, nobody wouldn't expect to run into an armed robbery, and it definitely left Erica shaken.

[Caesar73]

She curses herself for having been caught off-guard, for being absorbed by her thoughts of a quiet evening at home, cat food, looking at her phone instead of paying attention to what was happening around her.
Situational awareness…she hadn’t been switched on.

I think, Erica is too hard here on herself. She would have put herself into Danger. The young Robber was nervous, pulled the Trigger quickly. Imho Erica did the right thing, even if she scolds herself for that. There is nothing wrong with looking forward to a quiet evening with Tiger and Spot

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, you're right, there's nothing she could have done, but let's see how the story unfolds further.

[Jenny_S]

It isn’t long before Helena arrives. Erica recognizes her immediately - Mr. Leslie’s daughter, a young woman with dark hair pulled into a ponytail and a familiar, worried expression etched into her features. She’s dressed in jeans and a loose sweater, her eyes already wide with concern as she steps through the door. The two officers stop talking long enough to give her a brief rundown, their tone efficient but impersonal. One of them asks her for the store’s security footage, to which Helena nods, saying she’ll get them the tape in the morning.

With a few more curt words, the officers return to their cruiser, one of them speaking into the radio, “Dispatch, we’re done here.” The cruiser pulls away from the curb and disappears into the night. Just like that, they’re gone, and the store falls into an uneasy silence.

Erica watches Helena for a moment, then steps forward, wiping her hands on the last wet wipe. She tosses it in the nearby trash bin, then holds out her hand. Helena takes it, her grip firm but shaking, both of them still rattled by what has just happened.

“You were here when it happened?” Helena’s voice is tight, strained, as if she’s barely holding it together. Her eyes flicker to the blood stains on the floor, as if searching for some clue about her father’s condition.

Erica nods. “Yes. I was in the back of the store and didn’t hear anything.” she says, her voice quieter now, the weight of the evening starting to settle in her bones. “I was pushing my cart when I came around the corner over there.” She points to the end of the aisle where it all happened, the sight of it still fresh in her mind, like a photograph that won’t fade. “I saw what was going on. Your father...he reached for his baseball bat. But the robber...he shot him. Almost point-blank. It happened so fast – within maybe two, three seconds. Four, at most.”

Helena’s breath catches, and she presses her lips together, her eyes darkening with fear. “And you...you called 911 for him?”

Erica nods again, wishing she could do more, could say more. “Yes. I did everything I could, Helena. I wish...I wish I could’ve done more.”

Helena swallows, her fingers twitching nervously. The gravity of the situation hangs between them, heavy and thick. Erica can see the mix of fear and anger in her eyes, the dread of not knowing what might happen to her father. The helplessness is palpable, something Erica knows too well.

Feeling the weight of the moment, Erica reaches for her purse, fumbling with the strap. “I don’t want to keep you any longer.” she says gently. “I know you’ll want to go to the hospital. But I…" She glances at the shopping cart filled with groceries, half-forgotten in the midst of all the chaos. “I still need to pay for my groceries.”

Helena looks at her, almost startled by the normalcy of the statement. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the sounds of the city outside muffled by the thick glass of the door. The contrast between the mundanity of buying groceries and the violence that just tore through the store is jarring.

Helena blinks, then gives a small, weary nod. “Of course. Let me...let me just ring you up.” Her voice cracks a little as she moves behind the counter, her hands slightly shaking as she swipes Erica’s items across the scanner. The beep of the register seems loud in the quiet store, almost too normal, too routine.

Erica watches her, her mind racing with a mix of concern and guilt. She feels like she should be doing something more, something to help. But all she can do is stand there, pay for her groceries, and watch as Helena tries to hold herself together.

The total comes up on the screen, and Erica taps her card against the reader. The transaction completes with a soft ding. Helena places the bagged groceries on the counter, her movements stiff, mechanical. Her eyes are red, but she’s holding it together, barely.

“Thank you.” Erica says quietly, taking the bags.

Helena nods, forcing a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I should go.” she whispers, almost to herself. “I need to get to the hospital.”

Erica watches as Helena grabs her coat from the back room, her steps hurried, her mind clearly already with her father at the hospital. She doesn’t know what awaits her there, and Erica can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for her. She wishes there were more she could say, more she could do.

As Erica leaves the store with Helena, standing on the pavement while Mr Leslie's daughter switches on the alarm system and locks the front doors, the now empty space, usually open 24/7, feels somehow cold and more distant than it had just an hour ago.
The city outside moves on, uncaring, but for Erica and Helena, this night will linger long after the police reports are filed and the groceries are unpacked.


The late evening air is crisp against her skin as Erica walks the half block up West 72nd towards her home. The faint echo of the siren still rings in her ears, and the weight of the evening presses down on her chest. In her head, she mulls the female cop's words that robberies and burglaries – even in upscale neighborhoods like this one – have been increasing and she catches herself looking over her shoulder repeatedly.

She knows this isn’t over. Something dark is stirring beneath the surface, and tonight was only the beginning.





Erica steps into her apartment, immediately enveloped by the warmth and familiarity of home. The smell of polished wood, leather, and lavender from her air freshener gently embraces her, creating a stark contrast to the chaos she’s just left behind at Mr. Leslie’s store. It’s as if the world outside doesn’t exist here. Only this quiet, personal sanctuary.

Before she can even fully close the door, she hears the telltale scrabble of tiny paws on hardwood floors. Her two kittens, Spot and Tiger, come charging toward her from the living room, their little bodies a blur of fur and excitement. They barrel into her legs, meowing in delight, oblivious to the danger and violence lurking just a half-block away.

Erica sets the grocery bags down on the floor and immediately scoops them up, one kitten in each hand. They climb her like she's a living jungle gym, crawling over her arms and shoulders, Tiger batting playfully at her hair while Spot purrs against her cheek. They are so innocent, so untouched by the harshness of the world beyond this apartment. Erica buries her face in their soft fur, closing her eyes and letting their warmth and familiar scent - each kitten with its own unique smell - pull her back from the edge of tonight’s horrors. She kisses their heads, softly, savoring the small comfort they bring.

After a few more moments of peace with her kittens, Erica sets them down gently and turns her attention to the kitchen. The grounding routine of unpacking her groceries begins, each motion deliberate, as if she’s trying to wash away the chaos of the evening. Vegetables in the fridge, chicken breast for Spot and Tiger in the freezer, almond milk on the top shelf. Each movement feels automatic, a small semblance of control in an evening that spiraled wildly out of it.

Without thinking, she finds herself filling the kittens’ food and water bowls, washing them out as she always does, then refilling them with fresh water and kibble. Spot and Tiger eagerly descend upon their food as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks, devouring it with the same carefree energy they greet every meal. Erica watches them for a moment, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips. They have no idea what’s out there, how dark the world can be.

Her eyes drift to her own hands, still faintly stained with Mr. Leslie’s blood, and the smile falters.

Erica walks into her bedroom, peeling off her clothes - still marked with Mr. Leslie’s blood. She throws them into the laundry basket with more force than she intended, the fabric hitting the bottom with a sharp, unsatisfying thud. Her pulse quickens again as she remembers that moment. The gunshot. The flash of panic in the young robber’s eyes. “I’m lucky he didn’t shoot me, too.” Erica says to herself.

She can’t help but think back to Tony Maze - the first time she had faced a gun pointed directly at her. But that situation has been different. Maze was a hardened criminal, a predator who had already spent half his life in and out of prison by the time he tried to kill her. A man who had murder in his eyes. The kid at the corner store tonight? He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and he was terrified. It didn’t make him any less dangerous, but there had been a moment - just a flicker - when their eyes had met, and she had seen something Maze never had. Uncertainty.

Shaking off the memory, she steps into the bathroom and turns the shower on, letting the water run hot before stepping beneath the spray. The heat soaks into her skin, washing away the traces of blood, the grime of the evening, the sense of violation. She scrubs herself as if she can erase the entire night, rinse it all down the drain. For a few moments, it almost feels like she can.

When she’s done, she towels off, blow-dries her hair, and brushes it out. Standing naked in her bathroom, she feels like she’s starting to reclaim herself from the evening’s events. She pads back into the kitchen and pulls a bottle of Nero d'Avola from the wine rack. She’s been saving this one for a special occasion, but tonight...tonight feels like the right time. She uncorks the bottle, pours herself a generous glass, and takes a long sip. The rich, deep flavor of the wine coats her mouth, washing away the metallic aftertaste of blood that has lingered ever since she held Mr. Leslie, trying to keep him conscious, trying to do something, anything.

The wine works its way through her system, helping to settle the storm in her chest. She walks into her bedroom, glass in hand, and slips on her red silk kimono. The cool fabric glides across her skin, a soothing, sensual sensation she always loves. She closes her eyes for a second, letting herself be lost in that small pleasure, trying to ground herself in the familiar, the safe.

But as she sits down on the edge of her bed, the weight of the night creeps back in. She knows it’s not over. This wasn’t some random robbery. The female cop’s words echo in her mind: "Robberies and burglaries are on the rise, even in neighborhoods like this."

She takes another long sip of wine, her gaze drifting toward the window. The city outside is full of shadows, and tonight one of those shadows had stepped into her world. And something tells her it’s not done with her yet.

For now, though, she listens to the soft sounds of Spot and Tiger, happily playing over in the living room, blissfully unaware of the darkness beyond their walls.

[LunaDog]

As is usual from you Jenny, this is utterly superb. The raw emotion brilliantly described. Reading this one almost feels like you are actually present. Magnificent!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thank you so much for your comment. I'm glad I could convey the stress phase Erica goes through after witnessing the robbery, dealing with the badly injured Mr. Leslie and the indifference of the cops.

[Jenny_S]

Sleep finds Erica quickly that night. No nightmares come for her, just a heavy, dreamless slumber. Whether it’s the red wine taking its toll or her body growing accustomed to the high-tension edge of her life, she doesn’t know. But she can't shake the image of the two indifferent cops who answered her call the night before - so detached, so used to violence that it barely touches them anymore. Erica wonders if that could ever be her. She can't see herself becoming that cold, that distant.

At exactly 5 AM, her phone alarm buzzes, a soft vibration against the nightstand that wakes her instantly. She turns it off with a quick swipe and rises from bed, her body already moving through the familiar rhythm of her morning routine. She refills Spot and Tiger’s bowls, running her fingers through their fur as they sleepily stir in their bed, curled up next to the heating vent. They stretch lazily but don’t follow her this time. They know she’s leaving for a little while and then be back.

Erica pulls her long hair into a high ponytail, the strands tight and neat, then slips into her black running outfit - a lightweight, form-fitting set she loves for its comfort and efficiency. Her reflection in the bedroom mirror shows no traces of the chaos from the previous night. In this moment, she looks like her usual self: focused, determined, ready.

She closes up her running top, sliding her phone and keys into the zippered pocket on the side, and heads for the elevator. While waiting for it to arrive, she does a few stretches, warming up her legs and loosening her muscles. She rolls her shoulders, feeling the slight tension in her right shoulder where some months ago Tony Maze's bullet had hit her, but now it’s nothing that would slow her down. As soon as the elevator doors slide open, she steps inside and continues stretching, the quiet hum of the descent down to street level calming her, preparing her for what’s to come.

As she exits the building, the early morning greets her with a cool, still air. The city that never sleeps is waking up, slowly. The streets are quieter than they’ll be in a few hours, with only the occasional car rumbling by, headlights slicing through the dim pre-dawn. The distant sound of a garbage truck and the low murmur of street vendors setting up for the day fill the space between the buildings.

Erica starts running.

Her feet hit the pavement with a steady, practiced rhythm. She heads west along 72nd Street, the soles of her shoes absorbing the impact as she picks up her pace. The street is mostly empty, save for a few early risers. Her breath syncs with the cadence of her strides, her muscles falling into the familiar groove. Central Park looms ahead, a dark mass of trees and winding paths.

Running has always been her time to clear her head, a ritual that keeps her grounded, but today it feels like more than that. It's her way of reclaiming control after the violence of last night. She knows the risks. The city has been getting more dangerous - robberies, burglaries, people who feel desperate or reckless. Last night was proof of that. But she refuses to let it scare her into submission. She won’t let criminals dictate how she lives her life.

As she enters Central Park, the first rays of morning light begin to peek through the trees, casting long shadows over the wide paths. The park is still mostly empty, with only a few runners like herself braving the early hour. It’s quiet here, almost peaceful, with the occasional birdcall breaking the silence. She can feel the tension easing out of her body, the rhythm of her run calming her mind.

Her feet move in steady strides along the familiar course, and with each step, her resolve hardens. She won’t cower. She won’t let fear make her a prisoner in her own neighborhood. This is her city, her life, and no one - no desperate kid with a gun, no petty criminal looking for an easy score - will take it from her. She’s fought too hard to get here.

As she loops back onto 72nd Street and heads toward home, her breath is steady, her body warm from the run, but there’s something more. A sense of determination settles in her chest. She knows this isn't over. The events of last night were just the start of something bigger, something lurking in the shadows. But Erica Sinclair is not the kind of woman to run away from danger. She’s the kind to run straight through it.

By the time she reaches her apartment building again, the city is more awake, with the early-morning buzz starting to build. She pauses for a moment, catching her breath, then heads inside, feeling more ready than ever to face what comes next.


Spot and Tiger are still fast asleep, their tiny bodies rising and falling in the steady rhythm of deep sleep, a sign that they spent most of the night playing. Erica smiles softly at them as she walks past, heading for the bathroom. Her post-run routine is as automatic as it is necessary: shower, hair, makeup. Today, like most days, she selects one of her tailored silk blouses and pairs it with a black pencil skirt, matching jacket and low heels. The ensemble is monochromatic as her friend Andrea would tease, but for Erica, it signifies professionalism - a shield she wears every day.

She slips her gold class ring onto her finger, feeling the familiar weight of it, then clasps her most prized possession, her Rolex dive watch, around her left wrist. It sits cool and heavy against her skin, the engraved words on the back - Stand for something or fall for anything - almost vibrating with the gravity they carry. Her father had given her more than just a watch; he had passed down his principles, his creed, and in moments like these, she feels his presence more strongly than ever.

In the kitchen, she takes a quick breakfast: oatmeal with sweetener and cinnamon, a bowl of yogurt, and coffee with two Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk. The simplicity grounds her. "Funny." she mutters to herself as she spoons the yogurt into her mouth. “Milk bothers me, but yogurt’s fine.”

After rinsing the dishes and placing them in the dishwasher, she grabs her handbag, her leather briefcase, phone and keys. The familiar weight of her belongings provides a sense of normalcy as she locks the door twice behind her and heads out. Today, she has questions, and she isn’t going to let the police off the hook easily.





Her black Volvo slides down the ramp into the underground parking lot of the office building on Park Avenue. The sleek steel and glass tower looms above, its sharp lines and imposing architecture a reflection of the world she operates in. The elevator ride to the 25th floor feels longer today, tension building in her shoulders. She rolls them slightly, the soreness in her right one a constant reminder of the bullet that had torn through it - a memento from Tony Maze.

When the elevator dings open, she steps out, greeted immediately by Holly Beck, their receptionist, and Megan Herold, the young intern who’s here to learn the ropes.

“Good morning, Miss Sinclair.” Holly says with her usual warmth and cheerfulness.

“Morning.” Erica replies with a faint smile, in her mind already sorting through the day’s tasks.

Just as she’s about to slip past, Holly calls after her, “Miss Sinclair! Claire called in sick today.”

Erica stops, her hand already reaching for her office door handle. Claire, her assistant, is her right hand, the one who keeps everything running smoothly. Without her, today’s schedule would likely be a mess. Everything would be a mess!
Holly, reading her mind, quickly adds, “I’ll have Megan stand in for her.”

The intern straightens, a flicker of nerves in her eyes. She’s young, eager, but far from ready to fill Claire’s shoes. Erica offers a small, reassuring smile and a wink. “We’ll make it work, Megan. Holly will help you get settled.”

“Thank you, Miss Sinclair.” Megan says, visibly relieved.

With a nod, Erica closes her office door behind her. The view from the 25th floor of Park Avenue stretches across Manhattan, but she doesn’t linger on it today. Instead, she pulls the card from her jacket pocket, the one Officer Christina Bianchi handed her last night. Her fingers trace the lettering as if it might reveal something more, some hidden commitment to justice that she’d missed in Bianchi’s cool demeanor.

She sits behind her desk, placing the card down and reaching for the phone. As she dials, her gaze flickers to the Rolex on her wrist. Stand for something or fall for anything. Her father’s voice echoes in her mind - this is one of those moments.

The phone rings twice before an operator picks up. “20th Precinct, how may I direct your call?”

“This is Erica Sinclair. I’d like to speak with Officer Christina Bianchi, please.”

“Hold the line. I’ll see if she’s in.”

Erica leans back in her chair, drumming her fingers lightly on the desk, trying to keep her frustration in check. The hum of the city outside fills the space, but all she can hear is the ticking of the seconds slipping away. She knows what’s coming. Her father had warned her many times: bureaucracy has a way of dulling urgency, of turning people into numbers.

The line clicks, and she hears the unmistakable sound of Officer Bianchi’s voice. “Bianchi.”

“Hi, this is Erica Sinclair. We met last night at Mr. Leslie’s store, after the robbery.”

There’s a pause, then the sound of Bianchi leaning back in a chair, the faint creak unmistakable. Erica can almost picture her, the same detached expression she wore the night before.

“I remember. What can I do for you?” Bianchi’s voice is as indifferent as it had been last night.

Erica straightens, her grip tightening on the phone. “I’d like to know what steps are being taken to find the young man who shot Mr. Leslie.”

The sounds of the precinct buzz in the background - phones ringing, voices overlapping. Erica hears the squeak of Bianchi’s chair as she sits up. “Look, Miss Sinclair, I wrote my report, stapled your business card to it, and passed it on to the detectives. They’ll add it to their caseload and look into it…sooner or later.”

Erica’s jaw clenches. “Sooner or later.” The words hang in the air like a sentence. She has been through this before. Her father always warned her about the wheels of justice turning slowly and in her professional life she has been caught up in this time-proven practice often enough. “So, just another statistic.” she mutters under her breath.

“There’s not much else we can do at this point. The security footage was completely out of focus, so unless Mr…” Bianchi pauses.

“Leslie.” Erica supplies, the name bitter on her tongue, as the indifference she is facing feels even harder to stomach.

“…unless Mr. Leslie can ID the shooter, there’s no lead.” Bianchi’s words come with the weight of someone who’s moved on from this case the moment they handed it off.

Erica inhales slowly, fighting the urge to lash out. She’s no stranger to how the system works, but that doesn’t make it any less infuriating. “Thank you, Officer. Stay safe.”

“Yeah. You too.” Bianchi’s voice is already distant, as though she’s already forgotten the conversation.

Erica hangs up, the quiet in her office suddenly feeling oppressive. She glances out the window, the city stretching out before her. It moves on, as always, indifferent. But for Erica, this isn’t over. She’s not one to just let things go, and this time it won’t be any different.

Her father’s voice comes back to her again, clear and firm: “When you’re attacked, don’t just lie low. Counterattack. It’s what they don’t expect.” This was a lesson he had learned in the jungles of Vietnam as a young man, but it applies to so many situations not connected with war.

[LunaDog]

Your usual very high standard is being fully maintained here, NO doubt about that! The indifference displayed by the female cop both chilling and revealing. I guess when violence becomes SO normal, it's almost a natural reaction. As far as she's concerned it's someone else's problem now, she's made her report and simply passed the matter on. It's the Detective's case now, in her mind, i guess.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, tonight we'll see if Erica can just leave it at that. I'm soo happy to see that you enjoy this story.

[Jenny_S]

Erica sits behind her polished mahogany desk, gazing briefly out of her office window at the Manhattan skyline. The morning light floods her space, but her thoughts are elsewhere - with Mr. Leslie and his condition after last night's harrowing events.

She taps her fingers rhythmically against the edge of her desk, then lifts her gaze toward the door. Through the pane of frosted glass, she can see Megan’s shape standing by Claire's desk. Megan is eager, ready, and maybe a little nervous, still fresh in the world of high-profile legal work. This might be a good moment to let her test the waters.

Erica presses the intercom button, her voice calm but firm. "Megan, can you come in here for a minute, please?"

Within seconds, the door swings open, and Megan steps inside, clutching her notepad tightly, her eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

"Good morning, Miss Sinclair." Megan says, her voice chipper yet respectful.

Erica gestures toward the chair opposite her desk. "Have a seat, Megan."

The young woman quickly obliges, sitting straight-backed and attentive, pen poised over her notepad, clearly determined not to make any rookie mistakes on her first assignment for the boss lady.

"I have a task for you, and it’s important." Erica says, watching Megan's eyes widen just a touch. "I need you to find out which hospital Mr. Albert Leslie was admitted to last night. He was shot during an armed robbery, and I’d like to follow up on his condition."

Megan's pen hesitates over the page for a fraction of a second before it starts scribbling furiously. She looks up, eyes full of concern but also eager determination. "Yes, of course. I'll get on that right away. Do you know if it was the closest hospital, or should I…"

"I don’t know which hospital they took him to." Erica interjects, her voice measured but urgent. "You'll have to make some calls. Start with the 20th Precinct. Officer Christina Bianchi was there last night - she might be able to help you."

Megan nods, her hands trembling slightly as she jots down the information. The mention of the police precinct, the robbery, the shooting - it’s clearly more intense than she expected from an ordinary internship. But there’s also a flicker of excitement in her eyes, the thrill of being entrusted with something more than just filing paperwork or running errands.

"I’ll handle it right away." Megan says, her voice firm but betraying a slight waver of nervous energy.

Erica gives her a steady look. "Take your time, do it right. This is sensitive. Don’t rush and don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it. I want accuracy over speed."

Megan’s face flushes slightly, but she nods, determined. "Yes, Miss Sinclair. I'll make sure it’s done properly."

Erica watches as Megan leaves the office, her posture straight but her steps quick. She can almost feel the weight of the assignment on the young intern’s shoulders - but it’s a test, an important one. In the world Erica operates in, getting small details wrong can mean the difference between success and disaster. And this is Megan’s first real opportunity to prove herself.

As Megan steps out into the hallway, her heartbeat quickens. Her first real task in this prestigious law firm. And not just any task - she’s calling the police, hospitals, trying to track down a man who was shot on behalf of the boss, not just for any of the Associates. She feels a small thrill of excitement mixed with a heavy dose of nerves.

Back at Claire’s desk, Megan takes a deep breath before picking up the phone. The dial tone seems to last forever, and for a moment, she wonders if she’s in over her head. But she knows she has to prove herself. This isn’t just about getting information. This is about showing Erica that she’s capable. And Megan isn't about to let herself fall short on her very first task.





Megan sits at her desk, staring at the number on the card Erica gave her. Officer Christina Bianchi. The name feels heavy in her hand, as if the weight of the task is pressing down on her. She swallows hard, the nervous excitement still bubbling inside her, but this is what she’s here for - her first real task for Erica Sinclair. She takes a deep breath, lifts the receiver, and dials.

The phone rings once…twice…three times. Megan taps her fingers on the desk, feeling the rhythm of her heartbeat in her throat. Finally, a voice clicks through, casual and somewhat bored.

“Bianchi.”

Megan straightens up, trying to channel some of Erica’s professionalism. “Hi, Officer Bianchi, this is Megan Herold. I’m calling from Sinclair & Associates on behalf of Erica Sinclair. She wanted to get an update on Albert Leslie, the man who was shot during the robbery last night.”

There’s a long pause. Megan can hear muffled sounds in the background - phones ringing, conversations, a door slamming shut.

“Right.” Officer Bianchi responds, her voice heavy with indifference. “Look, as I said earlier, I moved the case on to the detectives. Nothing I can do about it now.”

Megan feels a slight twinge of frustration, but she pushes it down. “I understand, but we were hoping to find out which hospital he was admitted to.”

Another pause, longer this time. Then a sigh. “I don’t have that information. The paramedics handled that part. Like I said, the case is with the detectives now.”

Megan presses her lips together, her mind racing. She knows she’s hitting a wall here, but she can’t stop now. Not when Erica’s counting on her. She takes a deep breath, trying to sound polite, but persistent. “Is there any way to contact the paramedics or the ambulance service? Maybe they can give me the information?”

Bianchi’s response is almost instant, as if she’s eager to shut down the conversation. “I wouldn’t know. FDNY handles that. They’ve got different channels. Try them if you want.”

And with that, the line goes dead.

Megan pulls the phone away from her ear, staring at it for a moment. She’s been stonewalled. Bianchi didn’t seem to care in the least, and it’s clear that the detectives won’t be dealing with this anytime soon. Her first real task feels like it's already slipping through her fingers.

But Megan isn’t ready to give up just yet.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard as she starts searching Google for fire stations near the 20th Precinct. It doesn’t take long before a result pops up: FDNY Engine 74, just a few blocks away. She taps the address into her notes and quickly dials the number listed on their site.

The phone rings, and this time, Megan feels a bit more in control. When a firefighter answers, she keeps her tone steady but friendly.

“Hi, I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for information on an ambulance that responded to a shooting at a store near the 20th Precinct last night. I’m trying to find out which hospital the victim was admitted to.”

There’s a pause, and Megan feels the familiar tension return, but the firefighter’s response is more helpful. “Yeah, that was one of our calls. Hold on a sec, let me check the log.”

She breathes a sigh of relief, tapping her fingers again, but this time with anticipation. The moments stretch, but eventually, the firefighter returns. “It looks like the ambulance took him to Mount Sinai West.”

Megan’s heart leaps. “Thank you! That’s exactly what I needed.”

She hangs up, scribbling down the hospital name in her notes, feeling a surge of satisfaction. Her first task, and she managed to pull it off - despite Bianchi’s indifference and the hurdles along the way. She can’t wait to report back to Erica.

Megan bites the end of her pen, staring at the note she just jotted down: “Mount Sinai West”. She feels a wave of relief after finally tracking down where Mr. Leslie was taken, but something nags at her. What if he’s already been moved? Or what if she got the wrong information?

No, she thinks. I need to be sure.

Picking up the phone again, she dials the main number for Mount Sinai West, her fingers tapping the desk in a quick rhythm as the line connects. After a few rings, a calm, professional voice answers on the other end.

“Mount Sinai West Hospital, how may I direct your call?”

Megan sits up straighter. “Hi, this is Megan Herold from Sinclair & Associates. I’m calling to check on a patient who was admitted last night - Albert Leslie. He was involved in a shooting.”

There’s a brief pause, followed by the sound of typing in the background.

“Please hold while I check.”

Megan leans back in her chair, heart racing a little. This is her moment. She can't shake the feeling that something could still go wrong. What if they transferred him somewhere else? Or what if she got the wrong hospital altogether?

But then the voice returns, reassuring and clear.

“Yes, Mr. Albert Leslie was admitted last night. He’s in stable condition following surgery. He’s currently in recovery.”

Megan exhales, her shoulders relaxing for the first time in what feels like hours. She quickly jots down the confirmation in her notes.

“Thank you so much.” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Is it possible to visit him today?”

“Yes.” the receptionist responds gently. “The doctors will decide how long visitors can stay with him.”

“Understood. Thanks again.”

Megan hangs up the phone, a smile spreading across her face. She did it. Mr. Leslie is alive, recovering, and now Erica has the information she needs. This is what it feels like to really contribute, she realizes. This is why she’s here.




Taking a deep breath, she straightens up in her chair, ready to report back to Erica. Today, she feels like she’s earned her place in Sinclair & Associates, no matter how small the task may have seemed at first.

Megan knocks lightly on Erica’s office door, peeking in. “Miss Sinclair?”

Erica looks up from her desk, her expression composed but curious. “Did you find him?”

Megan steps into the office, her heart fluttering with a mix of nerves and pride. “Yes, I called Mount Sinai West. Mr. Leslie is stable after surgery and in recovery.”

Erica’s face softens with relief. “Good work, Megan.” she says, her voice steady. “I appreciate that you followed through. It makes all the difference.”

Megan feels a surge of warmth at the praise. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair.” she replies, trying to keep her voice calm, though inside, she’s practically buzzing.

Erica leans back in her chair, considering for a moment, then says, “Would you like to come with me to see him?”

Megan’s eyes widen in surprise. Did she really just say that? “I...yes, absolutely!” she blurts, trying not to sound too eager but unable to hide her excitement. “I mean, I’d love to.”

Erica smiles slightly at Megan’s enthusiasm and stands, smoothing her black pencil skirt. “All right then. Grab your jacket.”

Megan scrambles back to her desk, snatching her jacket from the back of her chair and throwing it on in one swift motion. “This is it.” she thinks. “I’m going out on a real case with Erica Sinclair.

As they pass through the lobby, Erica stops briefly to speak with Holly. “We’re stepping out for a couple of hours.” she says, her tone calm and professional, as if this were just another item on her daily to-do list. Holly nods, giving Megan an encouraging look as they head toward the elevators.

Megan’s heart pounds as they descend to the underground parking. She steals a glance at Erica, who stands beside her, composed and quiet. “So cool.” Megan thinks. “She always looks like she has everything under control.”

When the elevator doors slide open, they step out into the dimly lit garage. Erica leads the way to her sleek black Volvo, unlocking it with a quiet beep. Megan barely has time to take in the luxury of the European car before she climbs in and buckles up, feeling the soft leather under her hands.

[LunaDog]

Glad to see that Mr Leslie is still alive, and well considering what he's been through. Still can't believe Officer Bianchi's attitude, has the woman no soul? Megan does well to rise above it though.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I guess, Bianchi is one of the types who puts her soul in the locker when she changes into the uniform for her tour. Let's visit Mr Leslie, shall we?

[Jenny_S]

Erica starts the vehicle, the engine humming smoothly as they pull out into the flow of morning traffic. For a while, they ride in comfortable silence, the city buzzing around them, but Megan can’t help herself. She has questions - so many questions - and now, finally, she feels like she’s part of something bigger than filing legal briefs.

“Miss Sinclair?” Megan asks hesitantly, glancing at Erica’s composed profile. “Can I ask...what exactly happened? I mean, with Mr. Leslie?”

Erica’s eyes remain on the road, but there’s a slight shift in her expression - something a little darker, more intense. “I was at his store last night.” she begins, her voice steady but with an edge of gravity that makes Megan sit up straighter. “A kid - barely old enough to drive - came in to rob the place. He had a gun. I saw him shoot Mr. Leslie.”

Megan’s breath catches in her throat. “You...you were there?” she asks, her voice quieter now, realizing the gravity of what Erica’s saying.

Erica gives a slight nod, her jaw tightening. “I was. The robber fired, and then he bolted. Didn’t even take anything. Just panicked and ran.”

Megan swallows hard, imagining the scene unfolding with her boss being in grave danger herself.

Erica continues, her voice level but firm. “After he ran, I called 911. But there was no time to waste - I had to try to help Mr. Leslie. He was bleeding badly from his side.”

She glances over at Megan, gauging her reaction. “I did what I could. Tried to stop the bleeding. It was not as clean and pretty as they show it on TV.” Erica says, her tone sharpening a little, more blunt. “It was messy, Megan.”

Megan’s fingers tighten around the edge of her jacket, her mind racing. “You...you were trying to stop the bleeding?”

Erica nods, her face serious. “Yes. I was holding pressure, trying to keep him conscious. He was struggling to breathe...it felt like I was losing him.”

Megan stares ahead, her thoughts swirling. The excitement of going on this "case" suddenly feels more grounded, less glamorous. She feels a slight chill at the thought of being in Erica’s position, facing something so raw.

Erica gives her a side glance, catching the hint of shock on Megan’s face. “Often things are not easy.” she says, her tone softening slightly, but still firm. “Sometimes the reality is kind of gritty and you don’t get clean answers or successful results. You just do what you can.”

Megan nods, processing it all. “I didn’t...I guess I didn’t realize it could be like that.”

“Most people don’t.” Erica says. “But that’s the truth of it. We deal with real people, real situations. It’s not always going to be neat or clear-cut. But we keep going.”

Megan lets the words sink in, feeling both a sense of awe and responsibility. Erica’s calmness, even in the face of that chaos, is something she both admires and feels humbled by. She’s beginning to see that this isn’t just a thrilling adventure - it’s about being able to act when it matters most, even when it’s hard.

As they approach Mount Sinai West, Erica slows the car, turning into the hospital’s parking structure. “This isn’t about solving a crime, Megan.” Erica says as she pulls into a free space. “We’re just visiting a friend who’s been hurt. That’s our role for today.”

Megan nods, quieter now, feeling the weight of what’s ahead. She pulls her jacket tighter around herself as they get out of the car and make their way toward the hospital entrance.

Her first "case" has become something far more than she ever imagined.





Mount Sinai Hospital hums with the quiet energy of a weekday morning. The polished floors gleam under the fluorescent lights, and the air carries that distinct sterile smell of antiseptic, masked faintly by the ever-present scent of hospital-grade air freshener. Nurses in scrubs move purposefully through the corridors, doctors speak in hushed tones over charts, and the occasional beep of a heart monitor echoes through the halls. As Erica and Megan step inside the main lobby, the familiar hum of a busy hospital surrounds them - a blend of life-saving urgency and the quiet tension of those waiting for news.

Megan stays close to Erica, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and anxiety as they make their way to the reception desk. Erica, as composed as ever, asks the woman behind the desk for the room number. The receptionist checks her screen, points them toward the right ward, and with a nod of thanks, Erica leads Megan through the maze of corridors. The tension mounts as they approach Mr. Leslie's room, the reality of the violence that occurred the night before sinking in with each step.

They reach Room 317, and Erica pauses at the door for a moment, exhaling slowly before knocking. Megan lingers a step behind her, clutching her jacket, unsure of how to act but eager to follow Erica’s lead.

"Come in." they hear a weak voice from inside.

Erica pushes the door open, and there is Mr. Leslie, lying in bed, his body frail against the crisp white sheets. He is hooked up to monitors that beep softly, and two IV bags drip fluids into his arm. His face is pale, but when he sees Erica, a small, brave smile touches his lips. His eyes are tired, still heavy with the weight of the trauma he endured, but there's a spark of recognition and relief in them. He turns his head slowly to greet them.

"Hi, Mr. Leslie." Erica says gently, stepping closer to the bed. She nods to Megan, who hovers near the doorway, unsure of how to introduce herself. "This is Megan, my new assistant. She tracked you down for me."

Megan smiles shyly and gives a soft, "Hello, Mr. Leslie." her voice barely more than a whisper. She seems unsure whether to approach or stay back, glancing at Erica for cues.

"Hi there." Mr. Leslie responds, his voice gravelly but warm, nodding at Megan before looking back at Erica. "You…you saved me, Erica. Doctor says I came real close to dying." He takes a labored breath, clearly still weak, but his eyes shine with gratitude.

Erica shakes her head slightly. "I didn’t do much, Mr. Leslie. I called 911, that’s all. After the guy ran away…" She pauses, her gaze softening. "I’m just really glad you're still with us."

Silence lingers for a moment, filled only by the soft hum of the machines around them. Mr. Leslie's eyes drift upward to the ceiling, lost in thought for a second before he speaks again. His voice is quiet, and there’s a rawness to it that suggests the memory is still fresh, still vivid in his mind.

"I was writing down what to restock...like I do every night." he begins, his brow furrowing. "Didn’t even pay attention to the kid at first. Looked like any other kid, y'know? Don't think I've ever seen him before." His voice wavers, and Erica nods, encouraging him to continue. Megan watches intently, hanging on every word, her earlier shyness now replaced by fascination.

Mr. Leslie shifts a little, wincing at the pain in his side. "But then, looking back...it was like he checked the place real quick, seein' if anyone else was around. Then he came to the counter...pulled out a gun, just like that. And he told me...bills only."

His hand twitches, as if recalling the moment he saw the gun. He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes darkening. "I told him to get lost...figured he was just some punk trying to scare me." He swallows a painful cough, a tremor in his voice now. "He pointed the gun right at me. Said he'd shoot. But I didn’t believe him." His eyes meet Erica's, pained. "I reached for my bat...thought I could scare him off. Didn’t think he’d really pull the trigger."

There’s a long pause as the memory of that moment seems to hang heavy in the air. Mr. Leslie’s voice drops to a hoarse whisper. "Next thing I know...I’m on the floor. Hurtin’. Couldn’t even move." He stares at the ceiling, lost in the horror of it all, before his eyes flicker back to Erica.
"He was just a kid, y’know. Just a damn kid."

Erica takes a deep breath, placing her hand on the edge of the bed. "You’re lucky to be alive, Mr. Leslie. That kid...he didn't take anything. He just ran. I stayed with you till the paramedics arrived, tried to stop the bleeding..." Her voice trails off as she relives the chaotic moments after the shooting.

Megan's eyes widen slightly, the reality of the situation hitting her in a way she hadn't anticipated. This wasn’t some detached legal case or academic problem to solve - it was real, it was messy and two people could have died yesterday evening. Her fingers tighten around the edge of her jacket as she processes the gravity of what happened.

Mr. Leslie nods slowly, his expression grim. "It’s a miracle I’m still here. If you hadn’t been there..." He trails off, not finishing the thought, but the gratitude in his voice is unmistakable.

Erica squeezes his hand gently. "You focus on getting better. We’ll worry about the rest later."

The room falls into a moment of silence, the steady beep of the heart monitor and the soft hiss of the IV the only sounds breaking the tension.


Erica gives Mr. Leslie an encouraging smile as she stands by his bedside. "If you need anything, call my office, alright? We’ll be happy to get you whatever you require." Her tone is gentle, filled with calm reassurance, and Mr. Leslie nods, clearly touched by the offer.

"Thank you, Erica. I’ll let you know." he says weakly, his voice carrying both gratitude and weariness.

Megan echoes a quiet goodbye, and Erica offers a final nod before they turn to leave, walking out of the room and letting Mr. Leslie rest. As the door closes softly behind them, the sterile quiet of the hospital corridor envelops them. Their footsteps echo softly as they make their way down the hall, the weight of the conversation hanging between them.




Megan walks a step behind, clearly lost in thought, her eyes flicking to Erica as they navigate the labyrinth of hallways toward the parking structure. Finally, as they push through the glass doors leading outside, Megan breaks the silence, her voice tentative at first but building with frustration.

"Miss Sinclair...what do you think is going to happen now?" she asks, genuine concern lacing her words.

Erica pauses, giving Megan a thoughtful glance. She knows the answer Megan wants to hear, but she also knows the reality of the system - how cases like Mr. Leslie’s tend to fade into the background once they don’t scream for immediate attention. As they walk across the parking lot toward her Volvo, Erica sighs softly, running a hand through her hair before speaking.

"Realistically?" she says, her voice measured. "The police will take Mr. Leslie's statement, put it in a report, and then...well, they'll decide there's not much they can do. He’ll become part of the statistic on armed robberies in 2025. Just another file on someone’s desk."

Megan stops in her tracks, her expression one of disbelief and frustration. It’s clear from the fire in her eyes that this answer doesn’t sit well with her. "That’s it?" she asks, almost incredulously. "That’s all they’re going to do?"

Erica shrugs lightly, though her expression is not without sympathy. "That’s how it works sometimes, Megan. It’s not right, but that’s the reality. They have so many cases, and unless there’s a solid lead or someone of importance is involved, most of the victims don’t get the attention they deserve."

Megan’s lips press into a thin line, her brows furrowing as she struggles with this reality. "But that’s not how it should be." she says, her voice firm, carrying a moral conviction that reminds Erica of herself. "Mr. Leslie got shot - he could’ve died…you could have died - and we just let the guy walk? Just like that?"

Erica watches Megan, sensing the passion and determination behind her words. There’s something stirring in the intern’s frustration, something that echoes her own frustrations with the system. Megan continues, her voice rising slightly with her emotions.

"I mean, what if we did something? What if we tried to find him? I don’t know..." Megan hesitates, then looks at Erica, her eyes wide with hope and a little bit of nervous energy. "Maybe look around the neighborhood and see if we could find someone who looks like the robber? You saw him too, right, Miss Sinclair?"

Erica stops, turning to face Megan fully now. There’s a certain fire in her intern, a sense of justice that’s hard to ignore. Megan's suggestion is far from foolproof, but there's something in it - a willingness to act, to do something rather than accept the status quo. Erica crosses her arms, considering her words carefully.

"You really think walking around the neighborhood could help?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. There’s no judgment in her voice, just curiosity.

Megan nods eagerly, her face flushing slightly with enthusiasm. "It might be a long shot, but at least it's something, right?"

Erica glances down at her watch, the weight of the Rolex suddenly more noticeable than usual. The heavy steel seems to burn on her wrist as her father’s voice, stern yet warm, echoes in her mind. "Stand for something or fall for anything." It’s a principle she’s lived by - one she can never ignore, no matter how difficult the situation.

She hesitates, the cold reality of the situation sinking in. Megan is young, idealistic, and eager, but she doesn’t know the risks. Erica’s instinct is to protect her intern from diving headfirst into something potentially dangerous.

But looking the other way? That’s never been an option.

She inhales deeply, her resolve solidifying, and when she looks back up at Megan, there’s a renewed sense of purpose in her eyes. This isn’t just a simple case anymore - it’s about standing for something.

Erica doesn’t answer right away, her eyes narrowing slightly as she weighs the idea. It’s risky, and in all likelihood, the robber has already fled. But Megan’s right - sometimes it takes more than waiting for the system to catch up. Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands.

After a moment, Erica gives a small, thoughtful nod. "You have a point, Megan." she says, her tone firm but contemplative. "Sometimes waiting on the system to act isn’t enough."

Megan’s eyes light up, her earlier uncertainty giving way to excitement. She almost interrupts Erica before catching herself. "Does that mean...we’re going to do it? We’re going to look for him?"

Erica tilts her head, a faint smile playing on her lips as she studies Megan’s eager expression. "Let’s say I’m considering it. But we’ll need to be careful. If we do this, it has to be smart and discreet. I don’t want to put either of us in danger."

Megan nods vigorously, her energy unmistakable. "Of course, Miss Sinclair. I’m ready. Just tell me what to do."

Erica gives a slight chuckle, feeling a sense of purpose brewing inside her. “Maybe Megan is a little green, but that’s not a bad thing. It reminds me of someone...”
"Alright." she says, unlocking her car. "We will start where it happened and see what we can dig up."

As they climb into the Volvo and pull into traffic, Erica glances over at Megan, who’s brimming with energy, her knee bouncing with barely contained enthusiasm. The dynamic between them has changed. Megan’s passion and moral conviction have sparked something in Erica, and now, they are no longer just boss and intern - they are allies, bound by a common goal.

Erica feels a flicker of anticipation in her chest. The day has just begun.

[Caesar73]

I just read the third Chapter.

Erica sets the grocery bags down on the floor and immediately scoops them up, one kitten in each hand. They climb her like she's a living jungle gym, crawling over her arms and shoulders, Tiger batting playfully at her hair while Spot purrs against her cheek. They are so innocent, so untouched by the harshness of the world beyond this apartment. Erica buries her face in their soft fur, closing her eyes and letting their warmth and familiar scent - each kitten with its own unique smell - pull her back from the edge of tonight’s horrors. She kisses their heads, softly, savoring the small comfort they bring.

After the Horrors of the previous Hours, we see Erica returning to her Safe Place. And the Contrast to the previous two Chapters is stark. Tiger and Spot are like a Sunray breaking through dark clouds. This Paragraph I quote above is so wonderfully written. It is easy to imagine the Scene before my inner Eye. Well done!

[LunaDog]

For a moment it almost seems that Erica has sunk into the general apathy displayed by Officer Bianchi, until young Megan reminds of her own father's words. Good for Megan then.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you may want to watch Megan in this story.
Dear @Caesar73, I'm glad you're captivated by the story. There's more to come tonight.

[Caesar73]

Normally running helps Erica to focus, to clear her Head. This time it does not. The Call with Officer Bianchi does nothing to raise her Spirits. Even if she knows how the System works. That Erica won´t let go, is for sure. I read the first four Chapters and I concur with @LunaDog: It is a brilliant Tale - and it will be interesting where her Quest will lead Erica this time ....