Ezra had been at the Nine-Nine for just under four hours, and he'd already collected the following data points:
Jake Peralta was 70% child, 30% crime-solving raccoon.
Amy Santiago could file a homicide report and correct your grammar in the same breath.
Rosa Diaz hadn't spoken to him. But she had stared at him once—for two full seconds. Ezra was pretty sure that counted as an acknowledgment.
Terry Jeffords was terrifyingly muscular and in love with yogurt.
And Charles Boyle… had offered him five different kinds of homemade sausage before noon.
So far, things were going great.
Ezra sat at his assigned desk, spinning a pen between his fingers like a man who was either very bored or very calculating. Truthfully, he was both. The precinct had a rhythm—messy, loud, addictive. It was like a sitcom crossed with a locker room, sprinkled with murder reports and microwave popcorn.
"Kael."
He looked up. Terry Jeffords loomed over him like a chiseled statue brought to life by the power of high-protein snacks.
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"You good?"
"Define 'good.'"
"Not lost. Not broken. Not hiding under your desk wondering if you made the worst decision of your life."
Ezra leaned back in his chair. "Three out of three so far."
Terry nodded, arms crossed. "Let me be clear: this is a good squad. Smart. Messy. Functional chaos. But I don't need another wild card."
Ezra tilted his head. "No offense, but you hired Jake Peralta before I got here. I feel like the wild card quota was maxed out years ago."
Terry didn't smile. But his eyebrow twitched, just slightly. "Jake may be chaos, but he's our chaos. We know how to handle him."
Ezra put a hand on his chest. "I promise to be a different flavor of disaster. More cinnamon, less dynamite."
"Just don't get anyone hurt."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Good. You've got a case coming your way. Simple follow-up. You'll be tagging along with Boyle."
Ezra blinked. "Is that the one with the tie that keeps changing colors?"
"Yup. That's Charles."
A moment later, Boyle jogged over, a manila folder clutched in one hand, a mini sausage roll in the other.
"Partner!" he beamed. "Ready to rock this petty theft case? I already mapped out the route. And the snack stops. And the top five bagel shops in the area. Just in case."
Ezra smiled. "Charles, I already feel safer than I have in years."
2:45 p.m.
The case itself was forgettable—a hardware store owner whose missing drill set turned out to have been borrowed by his brother-in-law and returned quietly to avoid an argument. No arrests. No drama. But Ezra wasn't paying attention to the case.
He was watching Boyle.
Boyle, who asked the same question three different ways just to make a nervous witness feel heard. Boyle, who offered a granola bar to a crying kid. Boyle, who let Ezra take the lead halfway through and didn't flinch when he did.
"You've got a weird energy," Boyle said as they got back into the squad car.
"Thanks?"
"I mean that in the best way. You're like... smooth but not slimy. Like if Rosa smiled more and wore cologne."
"That's oddly specific."
"Yeah, I journal. Anyway, you're cool. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Ezra chuckled, pulling the seatbelt across his chest. "You're not what I expected, Charles."
"I get that a lot."
He looked out the window as the car rumbled back toward the precinct. Ezra sat back, glancing at the rearview mirror.
"Something wrong?" Boyle asked.
"Nope," Ezra said. "Just making sure we weren't being followed."
Boyle blinked. "Should we be?"
Ezra grinned. "Not today."
4:32 p.m.
Back at the Nine-Nine, the vibe had shifted. McGintley was yelling at someone about a printer jam, and Rosa was dragging a guy in cuffs through the bullpen while casually texting.
Ezra dropped the case report on Terry's desk with a neat thud.
"Drill recovered. No charges pressed. One angry store manager, one cowardly brother-in-law, and a small dog named Sprinkle that bit my ankle."
Terry looked up. "Did you bite back?"
"Tempted. But I figured HR might frown on that."
Jake popped up from behind a stack of folders. "Did I hear dog attack? Man, the new guy's living the dream."
Ezra raised a brow. "You want ankle scars? I could gift-wrap mine."
"I knew I liked you." Jake slung an arm around Ezra's shoulder. "So how was your first case?"
"Mildly confusing, surprisingly heartwarming, and a little chewy."
Jake laughed. "Yeah, that's about average here."
Gina walked by, looked Ezra up and down. "Still not fired? Impressive."
"Give me time."
Amy appeared with a stack of papers. "Don't encourage him."
Ezra smirked. "You say that like it's a choice."
She rolled her eyes. "If you screw up paperwork, I will destroy you."
"I'll file my mistakes in triplicate, just for you."
She muttered something about chaos goblins and walked away.
Terry groaned. "Why do I feel like this is the beginning of a very long headache?"
Jake clapped him on the back. "Because it is."
Ezra picked up his pen, returned to his desk, and jotted something in the corner of his notebook:
First case: survived. Squad: weird, wonderful, slightly terrifying.
He paused, then added:
I think I'm going to like it here.
1.10 p.m.
Ezra had been at the Nine-Nine for just under four hours, and he'd already collected the following data points:
Jake Peralta was 70% child, 30% crime-solving raccoon.
Amy Santiago could file a homicide report and correct your grammar in the same breath.
Rosa Diaz hadn't spoken to him. But she had stared at him once—for two full seconds. Ezra was pretty sure that counted as an acknowledgment.
Terry Jeffords was terrifyingly muscular and in love with yogurt.
And Charles Boyle… had offered him five different kinds of homemade sausage before noon.
So far, things were going great.
Ezra sat at his assigned desk, spinning a pen between his fingers like a man who was either very bored or very calculating. Truthfully, he was both. The precinct had a rhythm—messy, loud, addictive. It was like a sitcom crossed with a locker room, sprinkled with murder reports and microwave popcorn.
"Kael."
He looked up. Terry Jeffords loomed over him like a chiseled statue brought to life by the power of high-protein snacks.
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"You good?"
"Define 'good.'"
"Not lost. Not broken. Not hiding under your desk wondering if you made the worst decision of your life."
Ezra leaned back in his chair. "Three out of three so far."
Terry nodded, arms crossed. "Let me be clear: this is a good squad. Smart. Messy. Functional chaos. But I don't need another wild card."
Ezra tilted his head. "No offense, but you hired Jake Peralta before I got here. I feel like the wild card quota was maxed out years ago."
Terry didn't smile. But his eyebrow twitched, just slightly. "Jake may be chaos, but he's our chaos. We know how to handle him."
Ezra put a hand on his chest. "I promise to be a different flavor of disaster. More cinnamon, less dynamite."
"Just don't get anyone hurt."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Good. You've got a case coming your way. Simple follow-up. You'll be tagging along with Boyle."
Ezra blinked. "Is that the one with the tie that keeps changing colors?"
"Yup. That's Charles."
A moment later, Boyle jogged over, a manila folder clutched in one hand, a mini sausage roll in the other.
"Partner!" he beamed. "Ready to rock this petty theft case? I already mapped out the route. And the snack stops. And the top five bagel shops in the area. Just in case."
Ezra smiled. "Charles, I already feel safer than I have in years."
2:45 p.m.
The case itself was forgettable—a hardware store owner whose missing drill set turned out to have been borrowed by his brother-in-law and returned quietly to avoid an argument. No arrests. No drama. But Ezra wasn't paying attention to the case.
He was watching Boyle.
Boyle, who asked the same question three different ways just to make a nervous witness feel heard. Boyle, who offered a granola bar to a crying kid. Boyle, who let Ezra take the lead halfway through and didn't flinch when he did.
"You've got a weird energy," Boyle said as they got back into the squad car.
"Thanks?"
"I mean that in the best way. You're like... smooth but not slimy. Like if Rosa smiled more and wore cologne."
"That's oddly specific."
"Yeah, I journal. Anyway, you're cool. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
Ezra chuckled, pulling the seatbelt across his chest. "You're not what I expected, Charles."
"I get that a lot."
He looked out the window as the car rumbled back toward the precinct. Ezra sat back, glancing at the rearview mirror.
"Something wrong?" Boyle asked.
"Nope," Ezra said. "Just making sure we weren't being followed."
Boyle blinked. "Should we be?"
Ezra grinned. "Not today."
4:32 p.m.
Back at the Nine-Nine, the vibe had shifted. McGintley was yelling at someone about a printer jam, and Rosa was dragging a guy in cuffs through the bullpen while casually texting.
Ezra dropped the case report on Terry's desk with a neat thud.
"Drill recovered. No charges pressed. One angry store manager, one cowardly brother-in-law, and a small dog named Sprinkle that bit my ankle."
Terry looked up. "Did you bite back?"
"Tempted. But I figured HR might frown on that."
Jake popped up from behind a stack of folders. "Did I hear dog attack? Man, the new guy's living the dream."
Ezra raised a brow. "You want ankle scars? I could gift-wrap mine."
"I knew I liked you." Jake slung an arm around Ezra's shoulder. "So how was your first case?"
"Mildly confusing, surprisingly heartwarming, and a little chewy."
Jake laughed. "Yeah, that's about average here."
Gina walked by, looked Ezra up and down. "Still not fired? Impressive."
"Give me time."
Amy appeared with a stack of papers. "Don't encourage him."
Ezra smirked. "You say that like it's a choice."
She rolled her eyes. "If you screw up paperwork, I will destroy you."
"I'll file my mistakes in triplicate, just for you."
She muttered something about chaos goblins and walked away.
Terry groaned. "Why do I feel like this is the beginning of a very long headache?"
Jake clapped him on the back. "Because it is."
Ezra picked up his pen, returned to his desk, and jotted something in the corner of his notebook:
First case: survived. Squad: weird, wonderful, slightly terrifying.
He paused, then added:
I think I'm going to like it here.
He was still staring at the page when Rosa dropped a folder on his desk. She didn't say a word.
He glanced up. "Is this for me, or a test of my reflexes?"
Rosa shrugged. "You tell me."
Ezra opened the folder slowly, half-expecting a snake. Inside: a messy burglary report and a post-it that read "Come with. Now."
He grabbed his jacket, scribbled a quick line in his notebook—
Note: Rosa doesn't knock.
—and followed her out.
5:20 p.m.
The suspect's apartment was in Bay Ridge. Small, cluttered, and smelled like expired protein powder. Rosa barely spoke on the way over, and Ezra didn't press. He watched the way she scanned corners, clocked every sound.
Professional. Intense. But not unkind.
They cleared the apartment in under a minute.
Ezra glanced at a shattered photo frame on the floor. "Family drama?"
"Guy skipped town. Brother trashed the place looking for him."
"You always handle domestic stuff this personally?"
Rosa glanced at him. "You always ask this many questions?"
"Only when I'm new and trying to avoid mysterious accidents."
That earned him a very small, very quick smirk.
Progress.
They headed back in silence until Rosa finally said, "You're not what I expected."
"Let me guess: you expected cufflinks and an exit plan."
"I expected someone fake."
Ezra smiled. "Then I must be doing something wrong."
Rosa didn't answer, but when they got back to the bullpen, she handed him another file.
"Tomorrow. Don't be late."
Ezra watched her go, then flipped the folder open. He liked puzzles. And this place? This place was full of them.
He pulled out his pen again and scribbled:
Note: Rosa might not kill me. Yet.
Then he put his feet up and smiled at the ceiling.
Day one wasn't over yet—but so far, it was one hell of a con.
And he was playing it beautifully.
6:02 p.m.
Ezra had just dropped the file Rosa handed him into his drawer when the room went quiet. Not silent—but that particular kind of lull that only meant one thing: something ridiculous was about to happen.
It was Gina who announced it, arms thrown dramatically in the air like a prophet delivering chaos.
"Mandatory squad dinner!"
Jake looked up from his desk. "Wait, who decided that?"
Gina snapped her gum. "The universe. And also me. But mostly the universe."
Amy groaned. "Gina, we're not doing another 'team-building' night at that weird karaoke place with no working toilets."
"Correction. One toilet. No door."
Ezra raised a hand. "As the newest member, I feel like I should pretend I have no opinion. But also—this sounds deeply regrettable. I'm in."
Jake clapped. "YES. New guy gets it."
Terry emerged from his office, arms already folded. "You all better not be planning something that results in glitter, injury, or me writing reports."
"Too late," Rosa said, walking by with her jacket. "I already brought the glitter."
Jake stared at her. "You're joking, right?"
She didn't respond.
Ezra leaned toward Boyle. "Is this a threat or an invitation?"
Boyle grinned. "With Rosa? Both."
7:15 p.m. – Sal's Diner, Three Blocks from the Precinct
Sal's was not fancy. It had sticky tables, flickering lights, and the best corned beef sandwich Ezra had tasted in a decade. Which was saying something, because he used to fake his way into high-end charity galas strictly for the catering.
He sat between Jake and Amy—who, despite the eye-rolls, was clearly having a good time correcting the menu typos—and across from Rosa, who hadn't spoken in ten minutes but was absolutely winning the silent who-can-eat-more-hot-wings contest against Boyle.
Jake leaned over. "Alright, Kael. Spill. What's your most embarrassing story?"
Ezra sipped his soda. "You first."
"I once shot myself in the foot. With a confetti cannon. While proposing a stakeout plan. During a press conference."
"Wow." Ezra blinked. "Okay, you win. But now I have to at least try to top it."
He leaned back. "There was this one time I convinced an entire black-tie event I was an Estonian tech investor named Arvo Krahn. Got on stage. Accepted a lifetime achievement award. Gave a full speech."
Amy choked on her water. "That didn't happen."
"Sadly, it did. I even got a plaque."
Jake laughed so hard he slapped the table. "You're insane. I love it."
Rosa raised an eyebrow. "Was that... before or after you became a cop?"
Ezra smiled slowly. "Depends who's asking."
Amy narrowed her eyes.
Jake whispered to her, "He's definitely hiding something. Isn't it great?"
Amy sighed. "You two are going to get us all fired."
"I'll make sure it's worth it," Ezra said with a wink.
9:03 p.m.
Back at the precinct, things had quieted. The bullpen lights were dimmed, only a few desks still active. Ezra stayed late, partly because he didn't want to go home yet… and partly because it let him poke around unnoticed.
He wandered the halls, notebook in hand, jotting lines, impressions, things he noticed:
Santiago organizes her folders by color and date. Respect.
Peralta has three snacks hidden in his desk, and one of them has expired twice.
McGintley's office has a faulty ceiling tile—potential access point.
Rosa… doesn't lock her drawer. Interesting.
He wasn't being malicious. Just curious. Ezra had always observed. That was the first rule of surviving as someone who was always hiding something:
Know the room.
And this room? It was slowly, irresistibly, beginning to feel like something he hadn't had in a long time.
Not a game. Not a con.
Something like home.
He flipped the page in his notebook.
Day one complete. No arrests. No lies caught. No regrets.
He tapped the pen to his chin.
But they're watching. And I think I want them to.
He stood, stretched, and turned out the light at his desk.
Tomorrow, the real work would begin.
And Ezra Kael was ready.