8:00 a.m.
Ezra arrived early. Not because he had to—but because that's what people who want to observe without being observed tend to do. The precinct was quiet, humming with the metallic buzz of vending machines and faint echoes of footsteps. He liked it best before the chaos fully clocked in.
Then chaos clocked in.
Specifically, Hitchcock and Scully.
They entered the bullpen like two confused mall Santas who'd taken a wrong turn somewhere near retirement.
Hitchcock was mid-sentence: "—and I told her, if there's not a dipping sauce for the wings, we riot."
Scully nodded solemnly. "Rioting's a bit strong, but yes. Also, I brought leftover wings."
Ezra blinked. "It's 8 a.m."
Scully: "Breakfast of champions."
They walked past him, arguing about the merits of ranch versus bleu cheese. Ezra stared after them like a man realizing his security clearance didn't cover this level of unpredictability.
Before Ezra could fully process the absurdity of breakfast wings and condiment debates, he heard the low growl of the vending machine coughing up someone's snack selection.
"Damn thing ate my dollar again!" Scully declared heroically.
"I warned you last week," Hitchcock added, tapping on the glass. "You gotta caress the button. These things are emotional."
Ezra watched as Scully began lightly patting the machine while muttering what sounded suspiciously like compliments.
Jake appeared beside him without warning. "Classic mistake. You gotta slap it on the top-right corner like it's Fonzie fixing a jukebox."
"You do that?" Ezra asked.
"I did that. Broke it. Then pretended I'd found a secret snack portal. Boyle cried."
Ezra blinked. "Understandable."
"And then he blogged about it. Titled it 'Jake Peralta and the Snack Portal of Betrayal.' Still gets traffic."
McGintley was yelling again.
Not at anyone in particular—just yelling in general. The man had two moods: gruff annoyance and gruff silence.
Today was the louder one.
Ezra sat at his desk pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. The tirade was about proper stapler maintenance, the department's snack budget, and why someone had used all the colored ink printing a meme.
Jake reappeared from the vending machine zone, now holding a coffee in each hand and wearing sunglasses indoors.
"You missed a McGintley special," Ezra muttered.
Jake took off the glasses. "Oh, I didn't miss it. I just emotionally ducked."
Ezra pointed to the extra coffee. "One of those mine?"
Jake handed it over. "Nope. Both mine. But I admire your optimism."
Ezra took one anyway. "Finders keepers."
Jake gasped. "He's adapting! Next thing you know you'll be quoting Die Hard and emotionally oversharing about your middle school trauma."
Ezra sipped. "Too late."
McGintley's rant rolled on for another twenty minutes before ending in a grumble about 'rookie coffee etiquette' and a cough that sounded like a dying leaf blower. Ezra was reasonably sure the man survived off Red Vines and pure spite.
At one point, Boyle tried to comfort him with a cucumber sandwich. McGintley muttered something about "rabbit food" and threw it in the recycling bin with alarming accuracy.
Meanwhile, Jake started a countdown with Rosa on how long it would take for the vending machine to eat Scully's next dollar. It took eleven seconds.
"Pay up," Rosa said, pocketing a five.
Ezra watched the whole thing with quiet fascination.
He hadn't had a normal day since joining, and he wasn't sure if that was bad.
He was starting to hope it wasn't.
A petty theft case came in. McGintley wanted Ezra to work it with Amy.
Amy showed up with a binder and a pencil sharpener. Ezra showed up with a lockpick kit he swore he "found."
She narrowed her eyes. "Are we doing this by the book or by your book?"
Ezra shrugged. "The important thing is that we read."
Despite their opposing methods, the case went smoothly. Ezra noticed things Amy missed—like the way the lock had been twisted slightly off-center, or how the security camera had a thirty-second reset gap. Amy, on the other hand, had the witness statements filed and analyzed before Ezra finished charming the receptionist.
They made a weirdly effective team.
"Still not sure I trust you," Amy said as they returned.
Ezra smiled. "You shouldn't."
And for some reason… that made her smile too.
After wrapping up the paperwork, Ezra and Amy returned to the bullpen. Ezra was just beginning to relax when Gina approached with her phone and zero context.
"Hey, I ran your vibe through my astrology app," she said.
Ezra blinked. "Is that a thing?"
"Oh, absolutely," she replied. "According to this, you're a Scorpio sun, Virgo moon, and definitely hiding something criminal but stylish."
"That's... surprisingly accurate."
"I know, right?" Gina smiled, triumphant. "Anyway, if you want to achieve your true spiritual potential, you'll need to pick a favorite Spice Girl and tell me how many crimes you've committed. Minimum ballpark."
Ezra opened his mouth. Closed it. "Sporty. And define 'crime.'"
Gina just winked and walked away.
Hitchcock was asleep with a sticky note on his forehead that said "OUT OF ORDER."
Scully was watching a grainy YouTube video of someone cooking ribs in a washing machine.
Ezra passed them slowly.
"This place is a simulation," he muttered.
"Of flavor," Scully added, without looking up.
3:12 p.m.
"Okay, but hear me out," Jake said, sliding into Ezra's personal space like a caffeinated raccoon. "If we replace all our chairs with beanbags, we increase both morale and bounce-back during stressful interviews."
Ezra didn't even look up from his file. "Is this a serious proposal?"
Jake grinned. "Oh no. I lost a bet with Rosa. I have to pretend to be the new morale officer for twenty-four hours."
Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Was the bet vending-machine-related?"
"Gina made me bet I could guess her middle name. I said it was Laserbeam. It's not. She hasn't told me what it is. But she did steal my wallet, so I feel like I won something."
Ezra turned a page, murmuring, "That's not how bets work."
"That's not how Gina works either," Jake said, throwing himself into the chair next to him. "Anyway—why are you reading 2014 burglary reports? You into retro crime now?"
"McGintley dumped them on my desk. Said I need to understand the precinct's 'criminal geography.' I think that means his wife yelled at him again."
Jake leaned over. "You looking for patterns?"
Ezra hesitated. "Always."
Jake grinned. "You're such a nerd."
Ezra didn't argue.
4:40 p.m.
Terry walked by carrying three chairs—two under one arm, one balanced on his shoulder—like it was nothing.
"Desk check in ten," he said. "Captain wants the bullpen to not look like a landfill. Let's hustle."
Jake groaned dramatically. "But my desk has achieved the perfect ratio of clutter to chaos!"
Terry didn't even glance back. "That explains your career."
Ezra stood and stretched. As he reached for a binder, he noticed Rosa standing by the window, arms crossed, watching the street like it owed her money.
He moved beside her. "You always stare out like that?"
"Not always." She didn't look at him. "Just when things feel too normal."
Ezra blinked. "This is normal?"
Rosa gave him a smirk that could cut steel. "You'll get used to it."
5:15 p.m.
Ezra's desk was now the cleanest in the bullpen. Not by much, but enough to draw Amy's attention.
"You alphabetized your case folders by priority and color-coded them?" she asked.
Ezra nodded. "It soothes the chaos."
Jake peeked over. "That is the most Virgo thing I've ever heard, and I don't even know what that means."
Amy, half impressed and half suspicious, leaned closer. "Are you secretly trying to out-organize me?"
"Absolutely not," Ezra said, flipping a page. "That would require you being beatable."
Amy squinted. "That was either humble or deeply insulting."
Ezra smiled. "Yes."
6:00 p.m.
Just as everyone was beginning to pack up, Hitchcock came barreling across the bullpen holding a greasy paper bag.
"Wing night! Charles says he's found a new spot!"
Scully, close behind, added, "They deep-fry the bones. The bones, Kael."
Ezra stared. "That seems...unnecessary."
Boyle popped his head out of the break room. "It's artisanal!"
Jake clapped Ezra on the back. "Don't ask questions. Just follow the smell of sodium and possible regret."
Ezra looked around—at the shouting, the chaos, the wing-deep discussions, and the slowly forming line by the elevator.
He smiled.
He still didn't trust any of them completely.
But for the first time, he was starting to feel like he could.
8:45 a.m. – Next Day
Ezra arrived to find Boyle under his desk.
"Morning," Ezra said cautiously.
Boyle's voice floated out like he was in a very meat-themed bunker. "I dropped my lucky salami coin. Don't worry. This is standard."
"Is it?" Ezra asked.
Jake popped up behind him. "Oh yeah. Classic Tuesday. Last week he got stuck under Terry's desk for twenty minutes trying to rescue a fortune cookie with his name on it."
Ezra just nodded. "Noted."
Boyle re-emerged, triumphant. "Found it! Still smells like fennel and destiny."
Jake whispered, "Please don't ask."
Ezra didn't.
10:15 a.m.
They had a petty theft call—a stolen bike from outside a juice bar. McGintley assigned it to Ezra and Jake.
Jake grabbed his sunglasses. "Bikes and beet juice! It's like a crime committed by a hipster ghost. Let's roll."
On the way, Jake talked nonstop—about his favorite bike movies (there were three), how he once tried to skateboard in a suit, and the time he arrested a mime for pretending to rob a bank.
Ezra mostly listened, occasionally adding just enough to keep Jake going. It was like handling a podcast with legs.
At the scene, Jake interviewed the barista with intense, overly sincere eye contact. Ezra scanned the area, noting the skid marks, bent rack, and a discarded flyer under a nearby bush.
By the time Jake was mid-theory about a rogue cycling gang, Ezra had already found the security footage angle and requested it.
12:30 p.m.
Back at the precinct, they reviewed the footage.
Jake leaned in. "Okay, plot twist: it's not a gang. It's one guy with two different disguises. That's movie villain behavior!"
Ezra agreed. "That's someone who's done this before."
Jake beamed. "We're syncing. You're slowly becoming one of us. Soon you'll be making Die Hard references without shame."
"I already do," Ezra replied. "I just don't label them."
Jake clutched his chest like he'd been emotionally punched. "Secret Die Harder. I knew it."
Rosa walked by. "Don't enable him."
"Enable? I'm embracing," Jake called.
She rolled her eyes. "Just don't let him make you eat Boyle's lunch. That's how he tests loyalty."
Ezra: "Good to know."
3:00 p.m.
Ezra found himself alone in the break room with Scully. Which was fine, until Scully pulled out a can labeled "Mayo Cider."
Ezra stared. "You drink that?"
Scully looked confused. "Why wouldn't I?"
He opened it. It hissed ominously. Ezra backed away.
Boyle entered, sniffed the air, and said, "Ah. Vintage."
Ezra made a silent decision to never eat anything from the communal fridge again.
5:00 p.m.
Jake and Ezra submitted the bike thief's file just as McGintley was yelling at someone over the phone about printer toner.
Jake leaned against Ezra's desk. "You know, you're kind of like a spy who accidentally became a cop."
Ezra looked up. "You say that like it's a compliment."
"It is. All the best people are a little suspicious."
Ezra cracked a small smile. "Good. I plan to keep it that way."