One Week Later – 7:43 a.m.
Mondays in the 99th precinct had a unique flavor. It wasn't just the air thick with burnt coffee and vague regret—it was the sound of Jake arguing with the vending machine while Boyle whispered affirmations to his lunchbox.
Ezra had grown familiar with this flavor. It wasn't comforting—not exactly—but it was predictable. And for someone like Ezra Kael, predictability was a luxury.
He adjusted the cuffs of his rolled sleeves, heading toward his desk just as Gina whirled into the room like a caffeine-fueled hurricane.
"There's a donut emergency," she announced. "I repeat: emergency. Scully dropped the entire first box in the parking lot and then claimed the five-second rule."
"I didn't drop it," Scully defended from behind a suspiciously glazed box. "It slipped."
Boyle poked his head up. "That's the same thing!"
"No," Scully replied. "A drop is aggressive. A slip is fate."
Jake raised a hand. "Can we please put that on the wall somewhere?"
Ezra slid into his chair, half-smirking. "What's the emergency protocol for rogue donuts?"
Jake spun around dramatically in his chair. "Step one: panic. Step two: accept your fate. Step three: eat pancakes instead."
"I'm sensing a breakfast-based crisis trend," Ezra said, opening a new case file on his screen.
"Welcome to Monday," Rosa muttered as she walked in, already holding a black coffee and radiating don't-talk-to-me energy. "We've got a vandalism report near the Red Hook ferry stop. Looks like someone's drawing mustaches on city posters again."
Ezra blinked. "Still?"
"They evolved. Now it's monocles too," Rosa said.
Jake gasped. "The sophistication!"
9:10 a.m.
Ezra was assigned the Red Hook case—low priority, technically, but he didn't mind. Minor crimes were puzzles, and puzzles were safe.
He rode out with Jake in the squad car, which meant music, snack wrappers, and monologues about movie reboots.
"I'm just saying," Jake said, mid-rant, "a gritty reboot of Air Bud could totally work. Dog's got trauma. Dog's got grit. Dog's got a badge."
Ezra glanced sideways. "You want to turn a golden retriever into a noir cop?"
Jake snapped his fingers. "Exactly! Air Bud: K-9 Confidential. Rated PG-13 for mild barking and tragic backstory."
"Sounds unwatchable."
Jake grinned. "And yet, you'd watch it."
Ezra didn't respond. He would. Of course he would.
10:00 a.m.
The ferry stop was already buzzing with Monday commuters. The posters in question had been neatly vandalized—each mayoral face now sported a twirled mustache and a monocle drawn with absurd precision.
Jake crouched dramatically by one. "This," he said, gesturing to the graffiti, "is either the work of a cartoon villain or someone with way too much time."
Ezra took a photo. "And excellent penmanship."
Jake nodded. "Never underestimate a criminal with decent handwriting."
They canvassed the area, interviewed vendors, and took witness statements—nothing exciting, but enough to get a feel for the scene. Ezra noticed Jake's casual charisma, the way people opened up around him. It was disarming.
He envied it a little.
11:45 a.m.
They returned to the precinct just in time for a precinct-wide email titled "LUNCHROOM INCIDENT - DO NOT MICROWAVE FISH."
Gina leaned over Ezra's desk. "I feel like the email was passive-aggressively about me."
Ezra looked up. "Did you microwave fish?"
"No," Gina said. "But I considered it. Which means I'm still a suspect."
Boyle walked by with a bucket labeled 'fermented protein salad.'
Jake paused mid-sip. "Boyle, I'm begging you. One day of food that doesn't require an exorcist."
Boyle grinned. "The probiotics build character."
Ezra held up a folder. "I'd rather face another mustache artist."
Jake raised a brow. "You're saying you want to take the lead on our new petty crime spree?"
Ezra blinked. "There's a spree?"
Jake grinned. "Oh, buddy. There's always a spree."
1:30 p.m.
Back on the streets, they followed a tip from the Red Hook graffiti case. A local art student had posted a time-lapse of her sketching by the ferry stop—right around the time the posters were tagged.
They visited her in a shared studio filled with chaotic murals and half-painted mannequins.
"I didn't see anyone doing it," she said, brushing pink paint off her jeans. "But I heard humming. Classical. Like some cartoon villain's theme song. Super weird."
Jake perked up. "Did it sound like this?" He hummed something suspiciously close to The Imperial March.
"No," she said slowly. "More like Mozart, but deranged."
Ezra scribbled notes. "That narrows it down to eccentric criminals with musical taste."
Jake snapped his fingers. "Told you—every good spree has a soundtrack."
3:00 p.m.
Back at the precinct, Ezra stood before a whiteboard with photos of tagged posters, interview notes, and a large title that read: The Gentleman Vandal.
Boyle offered him a donut. Ezra stared at it.
"It's not from the parking lot batch," Boyle promised. "It's fresh. Ish."
Ezra accepted it with polite suspicion.
Gina strolled by. "You know, if this turns out to be a mime with a vendetta, I will personally fund the documentary."
Jake added, "I still think it's an art student trying to be ironic."
Rosa passed. "Or someone who hates politicians."
Ezra looked up. "That narrows it down to… everyone."
They all nodded grimly.
5:00 p.m.
They didn't catch the vandal that day. No big break. Just more clues, scattered and weird.
But by the end of the shift, Ezra felt it: the rhythm of the team. The banter, the shared snacks, the ridiculous code names and case titles.
He still overthought everything. Still kept a part of himself behind glass.
But when Jake tossed him a marker and said, "You're in charge of naming the next case," Ezra didn't hesitate.
He scrawled on the whiteboard in neat, serif letters:
Operation: Twirl and Swirl.
The room applauded. Even Rosa smirked.
Ezra sat back.
Maybe this was what belonging looked like.
8:00 a.m. – Two Days Later
Ezra walked in precisely as the clock ticked over. Not a minute early. Not a second late. The bullpen was mostly quiet save for the clatter of Scully trying to wedge a muffin into the coffee machine.
"Don't worry," Scully said, not looking up. "It's pre-packaged."
Ezra blinked. "That doesn't help."
Moments later, Jake strolled in with a loud yawn and a louder cup of coffee. "Kael! What's up, shadow operative? We cracked that monocle case yet, or are we still in the 'posters are people too' phase?"
Ezra opened his laptop. "Still in the data sweep. We logged three more hits overnight. Midtown. Same signature."
Jake leaned in, impressed. "Our guy's expanding. Bold. I respect that in a petty criminal."
Terry walked by with a clipboard. "You two following up on the Red Hook case again?"
Jake pointed finger guns. "It's not a case, Terry. It's a movement."
Terry raised an eyebrow. "Then move faster. We've got a precinct cleanup scheduled this week, and if that whiteboard isn't erased, McGintley's going to explode."
"Spiritual explosions only," Gina added, walking by. "His chakras can't handle it."
9:00 a.m.
Ezra, Jake, and Rosa reviewed surveillance from the three newest graffiti hits. The culprit still eluded them—never caught on camera, always precise, always fast.
"What's weird is the symmetry," Ezra said. "Every monocle is aligned the same. Every curl identical. This person's rehearsed."
"Sounds like an art school dropout with OCD," Rosa muttered.
Jake tilted his head. "Could it be performance art?"
Ezra stared at him. "Performance art that's illegal and anonymous?"
Jake grinned. "Exactly."
Ezra said nothing. He wasn't even sure Jake was wrong.
11:40 a.m.
Boyle set up a box labeled "Operation Fancy Face Files" beside Ezra's desk. Inside: half-eaten donuts, crime scene sketches, and one suspiciously sticky monocle prop.
Jake clapped. "This is the greatest evidence box I've ever seen."
Gina leaned on Ezra's chair. "You're officially one of us. Congrats. You've been Boyle'd."
Ezra looked up. "Is that…good?"
Gina smiled. "It's irreversible."
1:00 p.m.
Ezra found a thread—someone on a local art forum posting caricatured versions of city posters under the pseudonym InkSaint.
Jake gasped. "That name is either genius or a deodorant brand."
They traced the IP to a public library terminal in Park Slope. Ezra and Rosa went to check it out.
The librarian squinted at them over her glasses. "Yeah, someone comes in every few days. Always wears gloves. Quiet. Brings their own Mozart CD."
Ezra nodded. "Of course they do."
Outside, Rosa asked, "You okay? You've been tense."
Ezra hesitated. "I've just been thinking about how invisible someone can be in a crowd. How easy it is to vanish."
Rosa glanced sideways. "You're not invisible here."
Ezra gave a small smile. "Thanks. I think."
3:30 p.m.
Back at the precinct, Boyle excitedly unveiled a sketch he'd commissioned from a street artist based on witness descriptions.
Jake stared. "That's just Ezra with a mustache."
Boyle frowned. "No, it's different. The eyes are… more mysterious."
Ezra looked between them and sighed. "We're going to need actual footage or a mistake. This person's careful."
Terry approached. "Don't burn out, Kael. You're doing good work. McGintley even muttered something that sounded like 'nice.'"
Ezra arched a brow. "I'll take it as a compliment."
"Just don't tell him," Terry added. "He'll revoke it retroactively."
5:15 p.m.
As the day wound down, Ezra sat with his headphones on, reviewing case notes. He didn't notice Amy standing behind him until she cleared her throat.
"Your timelines are immaculate," she said. "Also mildly terrifying. I color-code mine too, but this is like watching someone play chess with yarn."
Ezra glanced up. "Thank you?"
Amy looked thoughtful. "You know… you're not bad at this. For a mysterious outsider type."
Ezra cracked a rare grin. "Coming from you, I'll take that as high praise."
She nodded, satisfied. "Just don't get used to it."
Jake passed by and whispered loudly, "Are you two bonding? Should I call Boyle? He has a piñata for this."
Ezra shook his head.
But he smiled anyway.
8:00 a.m. – The Next Day
The next morning, Ezra arrived just as the clock hit 8:00 again. He didn't need to check it—he knew. Consistency was his comfort food.
The bullpen was in a state of controlled nonsense: Boyle trying to reorganize a storage cabinet by meat category, Gina filming a video titled "How to Be Iconic and Still Underpaid," and Scully somehow asleep with one hand in a bag of chips.
Jake, predictably, was by the snack machine. "Okay," he muttered, pointing to a Snickers. "You think you're better than me? Let's dance."
"Still losing to the machine?" Ezra asked, dropping his bag on his desk.
Jake sighed. "I'm down 3-1. It's a best-of-seven series. But I've got the heart of a champion and a spare dollar."
Ezra cracked a smile. "That's what got me in trouble last time I gambled."
Jake blinked. "Wait. You gambled?"
"Figuratively," Ezra said.
Jake narrowed his eyes. "Is this one of those cool metaphors or one of your 'actually I was a grifter but don't ask me about it' things?"
Ezra gave no reply.
Jake pointed. "See. That! That's the thing. You're still an enigma, wrapped in a secret, dipped in sarcasm."
Gina popped her head up. "And dressed in Banana Republic. Honestly, it works."
10:45 a.m.
A new tip came in—a blurry photo of someone mid-vandalism, caught in the act near Battery Park. Only one clear feature: a long, flowing coat and fingerless gloves.
Jake stared at the image. "Okay, that's a villain outfit. This guy definitely monologues in elevators."
Amy brought over a traffic cam report. "We might've caught a glimpse of him jumping into a delivery van. No plates. But we do have a company name: 'GoGo Gluten.'"
Ezra raised an eyebrow. "So our gentleman vandal is hitching rides with a rogue bakery?"
Boyle was already at his desk Googling. "GoGo Gluten does artisan bread delivery, mostly downtown. They have six vans and a weirdly aggressive social media account."
Terry added, "And apparently no idea their van is being used for escape routes."
Ezra tapped the board. "We'll stake out the delivery zones. Catch him mid-paint."
Jake looked thrilled. "Stakeout! Rosa, bring the beanbags!"
Rosa did not bring beanbags.
2:00 p.m. – Van Watch
Ezra and Jake sat crammed in an unmarked car outside one of the delivery spots, watching bread being delivered with the intensity of FBI agents watching a high-stakes handoff.
Jake took a sip of cold coffee. "Okay, serious question: If this guy gets away again, can we start calling him The Baguette Bandit?"
Ezra considered. "No. But I'll allow 'The Floured Phantom.'"
Jake slapped the dashboard. "YES. Kael, that's the spirit!"
They watched two vans come and go, both uneventfully. But the third one stopped—and someone slipped out the passenger side. Tall. Coated. Hooded.
Ezra and Jake exchanged a look, then slid out of the car in sync.
By the time they rounded the corner, the figure had vanished—but a fresh poster sat on the wall: the mayor, this time with a top hat and cane drawn in stunning detail.
Jake whispered, "We're being toyed with."
Ezra looked around. "And he's good."
5:00 p.m.
Back at the precinct, Ezra uploaded footage and scribbled down timeline notes. Jake flopped into the chair across from him.
"Alright," Jake said. "Real talk. This guy's too good. Like, you good."
Ezra didn't look up. "I'm not flattered."
"You should be," Jake said. "You're like...a magician who forgot he was a magician. You've got that sleight-of-hand, whispery mystery vibe."
"That's not a real vibe."
"Is too," Jake insisted. "Boyle wrote a song about it."
Ezra sighed. "Please tell me he didn't."
Boyle, from the other side of the bullpen, started humming.
Ezra buried his face in his notes.
Still, underneath the exhaustion, the unanswered leads, the public murals and mystery, Ezra felt something strange.
He was enjoying this.
And for the first time in a long time, the mask didn't feel quite as heavy.