7 months later
The precinct buzzed with low conversation and the clack of keys as Mark leaned over the final case file on his desk. The report was clean—organized just the way he liked it—and he tapped the pen once more before scrawling his final signature across the bottom. Done. Closed.
He leaned back in his chair with a long exhale, rubbing the scar that still ached just above his ribs—a ghost of a nightmare that felt like it happened to a different man. Seven months later, his body had mostly healed. But his life? That had changed entirely.
He closed the folder, grabbed his keys, and gave O'Hare a quick wave on his way out. “Tell the Landon I’m gone for the night.”
“Home to the war zone?” O'Hare teased, sipping from his fourth cup of coffee.
“Something like that.” Mark smirked. “W
