The rain had stopped, leaving the city in a cold, grey wash of morning mist. Regina Oliver sat on a stone bench in the precinct’s small memorial garden, a quiet pocket of green hidden behind the concrete and steel of the station.
She was wearing her dress uniform—crisp, dark, and heavy. It felt different now. It didn't feel like a costume or a shield; it felt like a choice.
A shadow fell over her. Detective Stalone Holme stood there, his neck still wrapped in a high-collared bandage to hide the dark bruising from the factory. He held two cups of coffee, steam rising into the damp air.
"The Chief is still cleaning up the mess at the factory," Stalone said, handing her a cup. "He’s calling it a 'justified use of force.' Internal Affairs is satisfied, mostly because they don't want to explain how a psychiatrist hypnotized half the city’s socialites."
Regina took a sip. Her hands were steady. The four-count tapping in her fingers had finally stopped. "And the girls? The 'Angels'?"
"Recovering," Stalone sighed. "Without Thorne to ring the bell, the triggers are fading. They’re starting to remember who they were before the walk."
The Offer
Stalone leaned against a stone pillar, looking out at the city. "Listen, Reggie. You did something no one else in this building could do. You fought a war inside your own head and won. I talked to the Captain. I want you upstairs. I need a partner who sees the patterns I miss. You’ve got the instincts of a Tier-1 Investigator."
He looked at her, his voice softening. "Join me. We’ll be the duo that actually clears the cold cases. You won't be a rookie anymore."
The Choice
Regina looked down at the coffee cup, then at the badge pinned to her chest. For a moment, she felt the phantom pull of the "Toy"—the part of her that wanted to be told what to do, to have a "Master" or a "Partner" lead the way.
She took a long, deep breath. The air didn't smell like almonds. It smelled like wet pavement and old stone.
"No, Stalone," she said, her voice quiet but absolute.
Stalone blinked, surprised. "No? You’ve been chasing a promotion since your first day."
"I have," Regina agreed, standing up. "But I realized something when I was under his thumb. I spent so much time trying to prove myself to you, to Miller, to the department... that I left the door open for a man like Thorne to step in. I let my need for validation become my trigger."
She smoothed the front of her jacket. "I’m staying on the beat. I’m staying a patrol officer for now."
"Why?" Stalone asked, genuinely confused. "You're better than that."
"Because I need to learn how to walk my own path again," Regina said, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. "I need to be the officer who sees the people on the street before they break, not just the detective who counts the bodies afterward. For the first time in my life, I'm not doing this for a rank. I'm doing it because it's my choice."
The Final Walk
Stalone watched her, a look of grudging respect crossing his weathered face. "You're a hell of a cop, Oliver. Even if you are stubborn as a mule."
"I learned from the best," she teased.
She turned and began to walk toward the precinct doors. Her gait was natural—no four-count cadence, no rhythmic head tilt. She moved with the steady, grounded pace of a woman who owned her own mind.
As she reached the door, she heard a distant sound—the sharp, metallic clink of a bicycle bell on the street.
Regina froze for a heartbeat. Her pulse spiked. But she didn't tilt her head. She didn't look for a master. She simply exhaled, adjusted her duty belt, and stepped back into the world she had fought so hard to reclaim.
The Sandman was gone. Regina Oliver was back on duty.
ns216.73.216.98da2
and then Add to home screen.