❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED ❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ he pushed her harder than anyone, and in those quiet moments, she realized it was because he believed in her more than she did herself. ❜

𝐻𝐴𝑅𝑃𝐸𝑅 𝑁𝑈𝐷𝐺𝐸𝐷 Charlotte with a mischievous grin as they stood by the gym lockers, both catching their breath after a grueling round of sparring.

The faint, lingering scent of sweat and disinfectant filled the air, mingling with the hum of conversations from other officers milling around. Sunlight filtered in through the gym's high windows, casting streaks of warm light across their worn mats.

"Heard you're seeing someone?" Harper teased, her voice low but gleeful as she leaned in, eyes alight with curiosity.

Charlotte laughed, a genuine, almost embarrassed sound escaping her as she reached for a towel, dabbing the sweat off her forehead. "Yeah, four month anniversary today," she admitted with a small, sly smile.

"He works for my dad. And he thinks my dad's a total douche too, so, y'know—common ground," she added, her eyes twinkling as she thought about him.

She didn't give away too much, but there was a softness in her voice that hadn't been there before, and Harper noticed it immediately.

"Ohhh, it's like that, huh?" Nyla smirked, crossing her arms as she gave Charlotte a knowing look.

Charlotte just shrugged, trying to play it cool. But Harper could see right through her, she slapped Charlotte lightly on the shoulder. "Well, go see your man. Tell me all about it on Monday, yeah?"

Charlotte grinned, feeling a surge of warmth from her friends' support. "Oh, you know I will," she said, a little chuckle slipping out. The thought of the weekend stretched ahead of her, and she felt lighter, like a kid sneaking out for a late-night adventure.

"You have a great weekend, alright?" she called back as they headed their separate ways.

It had been a whirlwind few months—around four, to be exact—since she'd spoken to Tim. A long stretch of silence, even by her standards. The past weeks had passed in a blur, but she found herself smiling, a contented warmth settling in her chest.

Things with Nyla had grown, evolving from an initial mentor-student relationship into something more like friendship. Nyla had become her confidante, her ally in the sometimes harsh reality of rookie life, and they'd spent countless evenings practicing together, locked in drills until their bodies ached.

Every other night, after a day of patrolling, they'd hit the gym or head to the empty training rooms. Nyla drilled her with intensity, pushing her limits, testing her responses—teaching her everything from tactical maneuvers to close combat.

The faint echoes of shouts, scuffling feet, and clattering mats became as familiar to Charlotte as her own heartbeat. Her footwork had improved, her instincts sharpened.

There were moments in their training sessions when she surprised herself, reacting just a second faster than the last time, her body moving almost on its own.

And Nyla noticed. After one particularly brutal drill, where Charlotte had managed to disarm Nyla in record time, she'd given her a quick nod of approval—a gesture as rare as it was valuable coming from someone like Nyla.

Even Sergeant Grey had tossed her a few words of praise during lineup that morning, his gravelly voice betraying a hint of pride as he mentioned her name.

Charlotte couldn't help the small swell of pride that filled her chest. She was growing, becoming the cop she'd always wanted to be. As she made her way down the hall, the gym lights flickering out behind her, she felt more ready than ever to face whatever came her way.

But life has a way of surprising us all.

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐷𝑂𝑂𝑅 creaked open, and as soon as Charlotte stepped inside, Matthew was there, his arms already outstretched, an easy, familiar grin lighting up his face.

She didn't hesitate—she slipped into his embrace, feeling his arms wrap around her in that way that felt safe, unchanging.

He gave the top of her head a lingering kiss, playful warmth filling his voice as he teased, "Mmm, missed that smelly rookie smell."

"Shut up!" Charlotte laughed, scrunching her nose and giving him a light shove. "I actually showered after training."

"Really? That's gotta be a first." He arched an eyebrow, his grin widening.

She rolled her eyes and let out a mock huff, crossing her arms. "Keep talking like that, and I'm leaving."

He didn't miss a beat. With a smirk and a gleam in his eye, Matthew scooped her up, her startled laugh ringing through the apartment as he lifted her bridal-style.

In one smooth movement, he kicked the door shut behind them, the sound echoing through the quiet space. The scent of his apartment—clean laundry mixed with a faint trace of his cologne—wrapped around her, grounding her.

He carried her over to the couch, his hold secure but gentle, and settled down, easing her onto his lap. She sprawled across him, still catching her breath from laughing.

The way his hands rested on her hips, steady and warm, sent a calm through her that she hadn't realized she was craving.

"Seriously, though," he murmured, his voice softer now, his thumb tracing gentle circles over the fabric of her shirt.

"I missed you." He leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her jawline, his stubble grazing her skin in a way that sent a warm thrill through her. She hummed, closing her eyes for a moment, letting herself savor it.

She opened her eyes, the corners of her mouth tugging down slightly. "I know. M'sorry, though," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "You know how it is with the rookie hours... hardly a minute to myself."

Her gaze dropped, fingers tracing idle patterns on his arm. She didn't have to explain; he knew better than anyone how demanding the job was, but saying it still felt like an apology.

He cupped her cheek, lifting her face to meet his gaze. "You don't have to apologize, baby. Really." His smile was soft, reassuring, and in it, she saw the patience he'd always had with her. "I think we make it work pretty damn well."

His words were like a balm, easing the little worry lines that had crept onto her face. She felt a smile breaking through, one she didn't even try to hold back. "Yeah," she murmured, nodding slightly, "we do, don't we?" She laughed softly, the sound mingling with his own chuckle, the kind that felt as familiar as it was comforting.

"Happy four-month anniversary, baby," Matthew murmured, his voice soft and warm as he leaned down, brushing his lips over hers in a gentle, lingering kiss.

The scent of his cologne—a subtle, woodsy fragrance—filled her senses, grounding her after a long day. His hand rested on her cheek, thumb grazing her skin as if savoring every second of this quiet moment between them.

Charlotte's lips curved into a soft smile against his, and she kissed him back, letting the day's stress melt away. As their kiss deepened, she let out a low hum. "I've had a really long day," she murmured in between lingering kisses, her voice barely above a whisper.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, mischief glinting in her eyes. "But I'd love to make it a little longer..."

A grin tugged at the corners of Matthew's mouth, his laughter warm and low as he shook his head, clearly both amused and taken by her. "You are a walking turn-on," he teased, his hands finding their way to her waist, lifting her effortlessly.

She instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms draped over his shoulders as he carried her through the softly lit apartment, his grip firm and steady.

The quiet hum of the city outside faded as they moved toward the bedroom. Charlotte's fingers traced light patterns along the back of his neck, her breath hitching as he kissed her again, deeper this time, a kiss that seemed to convey every word they hadn't yet spoken.

She let out a quiet, involuntary moan, her hands pulling him closer, feeling the reassuring strength in his arms as he held her.

Once inside the room, he laid her down gently on the bed, his hands lingering, fingers trailing down her arm as if savoring every touch, every moment.

The room was filled with the faint scent of lavender from a candle flickering on the nightstand, its soft glow casting warm shadows across the walls. Matthew's gaze held hers, intense yet tender, a silent promise in his eyes.

As he leaned over her, his hand moving to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, Charlotte felt a warmth blooming in her chest, a feeling that went beyond simple attraction, beyond the thrill of the moment.

She reached up, touching his face, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone as she whispered, "I can't believe I found someone like you,"

He smiled softly, his eyes not leaving hers, and leaned down, his lips pressing against her forehead in a gentle, unhurried gesture that made her heart ache in the best possible way. "Well, you know what they say, Char—sometimes the universe brings two people together for a reason," he murmured, brushing his fingers over her cheek. "I think you were meant to find me."

He paused, as if savoring the words, then added with a faint, almost chilling smile, "It's like... fate had something special planned for us."

Charlotte laughed, oblivious, and nestled closer, unaware of the calculating look in his eyes as he watched her.

He let his hand drift down her back, pulling her in a little tighter, a little closer. "I'll take care of you, Charlotte," he whispered. "No matter what."

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐶𝐴𝐿𝐿 had come through with an annoyingly sharp tone that cut through the early morning quiet. Charlotte blinked, groaning as she wrapped herself in the warmth of the sheets, her bare skin chilled by the morning air.

With a heavy sigh, she pulled her phone closer, pressing it to her ear as she tried to blink the sleep away, her eyes unfocused and still heavy-lidded. It was Nyla on the other end, her voice just as groggy, though it held the urgency of duty.

"Sorry for the early call, Sergeant wants all hands on deck," Nyla murmured, sounding like she'd just been dragged out of her own dreams.

Charlotte nodded slowly, running a hand over her face. "Right... I'll be there in like... thirty. Let me just tell Matthew," she mumbled, glancing instinctively over her shoulder.

Her brows knitted as she registered his absence—the sheets beside her were cool, his place in bed empty. He must have stepped out early or was in the bathroom, she reasoned, dismissing the faint prickle of unease.

"Mhmm, and what's that grin for?" Nyla's voice teased, laced with a tired humor.

"Grin?" Charlotte huffed, her cheeks heating up as she recalled last night. "That wasn't a grin; I yawned." She tried to keep her voice steady, though she could practically feel Nyla's playful eye-roll through the phone.

"Yeah, sure. Just hurry up, lovebird," Nyla chuckled before hanging up.

Charlotte tossed her phone onto the bed and climbed out of the sheets, wrapping them around herself for an extra second of warmth before she padded to the bathroom.

She splashed her face with cold water, the refreshing shock cutting through the last remnants of sleep. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror, hair mussed and skin still marked faintly from Matthew's rough, playful kisses.

After slipping on her scattered clothes, she hurried into the kitchen, navigating around half-drunk glasses of water and the faint remnants of a late-night snack they'd made together.

She started the coffee maker, its low hum filling the quiet, and took a deep breath as she stood against the counter, trying to shake the slight, nagging feeling that settled at the back of her mind.

Where was he?

She shook her head, brushing it off as she quickly combed her hair, taming it into the tight, neat bun she always wore.

With her coffee steaming in hand, she took a sip, the warm bitterness jolting her fully awake. She took one last look around the empty apartment, a lingering sense of oddness pricking at her, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

She pressed the pen to the paper, her handwriting a little slanted in her drowsy state. "Got called in for work. Might be a late night. Love you!!"

The words felt simple, almost too small to capture the rush of affection she felt for him. She folded the note in half and set it on the counter, next to the coffee machine where he'd be sure to see it when he woke up.

The kitchen smelled faintly of last night's dinner, a cozy mix of garlic and herbs, now cold but still lingering in the air. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering slightly as she glanced around the quiet room, noting the small details of their life together—the mug he always used, the slightly lopsided stack of dishes he'd washed.

It felt grounding, a soft reminder that even on mornings like this, with the world tugging her away, this was still here. He was still here.

She grabbed her keys, took one last look at the note, and slipped out the door, the lock clicking softly behind her.

Charlotte moved briskly, adjusting her uniform in the locker room with the kind of hurried precision only a cop with too little sleep could pull off. Her fingers fumbled slightly as she tugged her shirt into place and grabbed her belt, already feeling the weight of the day settle onto her shoulders.

She took a quick breath, inhaling the faint scent of cleaning solution mixed with the worn leather of her holster, a grounding smell that somehow always managed to steady her nerves.

As she stepped out, she spotted John and Jackson waiting just ahead in the hallway. John, rubbing his eyes and yawning, gave her a look somewhere between 'glad to see you' and deep exhaustion.

"Someone's in a cheery mood even though it's 6 in the morning," he grinned, a tired but genuine smile spreading across his face.

Jackson smirked, giving her a playful nudge as they moved toward the briefing room. "That's because someone probably got laid last night," he teased, raising an eyebrow with a mischievous grin.

Charlotte let out a laugh, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure no one else had caught the comment. Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she nudged Jackson back, muttering, "Shut up," under her breath.

But as she turned, her gaze snagged on Tim, who'd appeared behind them with that silent, almost predatory grace he seemed to carry everywhere.

He was close—so close that she could make out the faint scowl creasing his forehead, his jaw clenched just enough to betray his tension. He didn't look at her, didn't even acknowledge her presence, just brushed past, radiating a cold, impenetrable distance that left her momentarily stunned.

She swallowed, watching him walk ahead, his shoulders stiff, as if he were holding back words that would burn if spoken.

The quiet buzz of the room stilled as the Sergeant took his place at the front, his voice cutting through the sleepy murmurs of officers.

"A big thanks to the officers who scrambled up at 5 am today to join us, even on their rest day." His words drew everyone's attention, silencing the remaining whispers. There was a weight to his tone that brought a slight prickling to the back of Charlotte's neck.

"At four am this morning, guards at Central California Women's Facility prepared prisoner 081316 for transport. Rosalind Dyer," he announced, letting the name hang in the air, a subtle chill settling over the room.

"The most rare of unicorns—a female serial killer. For the last five years, she's been on death row, confined to an 11-by-8 cell. Today, she's coming to us." He paused, letting the gravity of the statement sink in, his eyes scanning the room to ensure every officer was fully present, fully alert. "Now, before I get to assignment details, I want to defer to Assistant District Attorney Del Monte for background on Ms. Dyer. Sean?"

The man stepped forward, his expression as serious as it was practiced. "Thank you, Sergeant. Good morning, everyone." He gave a curt nod, and a faint chorus of responses echoed back in unison. Charlotte felt the energy of the room shift, the officers around her growing tense, alert.

"My name is Sean Del Monte," he continued, his voice steady and calm, a professional demeanor that didn't entirely mask the underlying tension.

"For those of you who are not familiar with this case, in 2015, Rosalind Dyer was convicted in the torture and mutilation killings of seven individuals." His words hung heavy in the air, casting an invisible pall over the group, each officer absorbing the horror with a stoic mask of their own.

"Though," he added, "there's evidence that the body count is much higher." A voice cut through the solemn silence—Nick's, his words laced with a dark certainty, the kind that came from years of seeing the worst humanity had to offer.

Del Monte nodded, his gaze drifting momentarily across the room, as if weighing each officer's reaction. "In three of those seven murders, the bodies were never recovered. Now, Dyer has agreed to show us the location of those three victims." His voice was steady, yet his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease, as though he knew the price they were paying for this deal.

Charlotte, her brows knitted, lifted her hand slightly. "Sorry, sir—um, in exchange for what?" Her voice was low but carried a hint of incredulity, and as she spoke, a quiet stillness seemed to settle around her, like everyone was waiting for an answer they already feared.

Del Monte's gaze rested on her for a beat longer, a hint of sympathy mixed with the resolve in his eyes. "Well, her sentence will be commuted from death to life without parole." His answer fell like a stone in the room, rippling through the officers as they exchanged uneasy glances.

Tim's reaction was instant, his voice a quiet fury as he crossed his arms, his entire body taut with indignation. "Why the hell are we cutting her that break?" His words were laced with an anger Charlotte could feel from where she stood, his fists clenched, jaw set so tightly she could almost see the muscles straining.

Del Monte's eyes softened, just a touch, as he answered, "Well, it's not for her. It's for the families of those victims. They've been waiting a long time for closure." His voice carried a subtle weight, something that spoke to the countless hours he'd spent with grieving families, the endless calls and conversations over the years. It was a familiar resignation, one born of a system that rarely let anyone leave unscathed.

Nick, standing stiffly near the front of the group, didn't miss a beat. "Yeah, what about the other families? The ones we promised the death penalty?" His frustration was palpable, jaw set tight, the kind of righteous anger that could only come from someone who'd looked those families in the eyes.

"What do we tell them? 'Cause they're calling me." His words had a bitter edge, one that rippled through the officers around him, each feeling the tension.

Del Monte barely flinched, his professionalism a stark contrast to Nick's raw frustration. "Just tell them it's above your pay grade, Detective," he said, his tone as smooth as it was final.

The Sergeant clapped his hands together with a sharp, decisive motion that cut through the tension. "Okay, let's get down to it," he said, gathering everyone's attention. "First, the station needs to be locked down for her arrival. Processing is officially closed for business. All suspects in our holding cells will be shipped to the Twin Towers Correctional Facility."

Around him, officers began spreading out, their murmurs a blend of anticipation and disbelief as they moved to carry out the orders. Charlotte found herself moving through the bustle, the quiet hum of adrenaline buzzing in her veins.

She felt her pulse quicken, each step a reminder that today was different, heavier. They were bringing in a serial killer—an actual serial killer, not just another petty criminal or gang member. The reality of it felt almost surreal.

John, standing beside her, seemed to read her thoughts. He looked around at the officers shuffling into position, his face a mix of fascination and unease. "This is so surreal. An honest-to-God serial killer?" he muttered, his voice low, almost reverent.

Charlotte's eyes sparkled a bit with that familiar excitement she felt whenever psychology crossed paths with their work. "The psychology is pretty fascinating—well, biology, really," she said, a small grin creeping onto her face, her fingers tapping against her belt in an unconscious rhythm. "Brain-scan research shows clear differences in the amygdala and the supramarginal gyrus of a signature killer."

Jackson, standing nearby, raised his eyebrows, looking almost offended by the sudden dive into scientific terminology. "Uh, English, woman?" he huffed, shaking his head.

Charlotte chuckled, shifting her weight as she explained, "They lack the ability to feel empathy. There's also data suggesting some psychopaths could have a decreased sense of smell." She moved toward the holding cells, her gaze momentarily catching on the inmates they were about to transport.

As she reached one cell, she leaned in, guiding a suspect out, cuffing him with quick, practiced hands before passing him off to another officer. The man mumbled under his breath, the sharp tang of sweat and stale air thick between them.

John grimaced as he watched the exchange, his face twisting as though he could already imagine the gruesome images Dyer's case brought to mind.

"Making it easier for them to deal with dead bodies? Man, the universe has a sick sense of humor," he muttered, stepping back as he prepared another inmate for transport.

Jackson nodded, shifting his grip on a suspect's arm. "Yeah, it's like a whole different species than the normal riffraff we handle," he murmured, glancing at Charlotte with an unreadable expression. She nodded, the tiniest shiver running down her spine.

John took in the man he was currently guiding out of the cell, his curiosity momentarily piqued by the sight of his disheveled appearance, the unbothered look on his face. "What did we arrest you for?" the older rookie asked.

The man looked at her with an almost childlike honesty. "I stole my neighbor's sex doll," he answered, his voice devoid of shame, as if confessing something mundane.

Charlotte cringed, caught between disgust and amusement. John's face twisted in a similar expression, and he shook his head. "Said with no shame at all," he muttered, nudging the man forward.

She exchanged a wry look with John, who snorted softly, muttering, "Gotta love the morning crowd,"

The criminal let out an indignant huff, his face twisted in a mixture of defiance and odd satisfaction. "A man has needs," he muttered, his voice low but unapologetic, eyes flicking from Charlotte to John, as if daring them to challenge him.

Charlotte raised a brow, the corners of her mouth curving in a small, disbelieving smile. She folded her arms and shook her head slowly, her gaze traveling over the man as though he were some baffling specimen on display.

"Right," she replied dryly, her tone tinged with equal parts disgust and faint amusement.

"And they're usually transactional in nature. You're horny, you steal a sex toy from your neighbor, and then you get caught because no thought or planning goes into the act." Her words lingered in the air, heavy with a mixture of judgment and weary familiarity with the impulsive, thoughtless crimes she encountered daily.

John handed the man over to another officer with a subtle grimace, a quiet sigh slipping from his lips as he watched the guy stumble off. He wiped his hands on his pants as if ridding himself of the memory.

The conversation shifted as John glanced at Charlotte, his face darkening. "Only, with Rosalind..." His voice trailed off, and for a moment, his gaze became distant, as if conjuring the chilling memories of Rosalind's history in his mind.

He turned to Jackson, nodding slowly as he continued, "The act that fulfilled her need was torture. Man, woman, black, white—each one scratched a different itch."

A shiver ran through him, his eyes darting to the clock on the wall, ticking toward Rosalind's imminent arrival. He couldn't quite shake the hollow feeling in his chest that came whenever he thought of her—a woman who had so completely abandoned any shred of humanity.

He ran a hand over his face, rubbing his temples as if trying to erase the unsettling thoughts.

Jackson, exhaled sharply, a note of something close to disbelief edging his voice. He shook his head, his fingers tapping anxiously against the baton at his side, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Damn," he muttered, almost to himself, his words carrying a mixture of horror and resignation. "That girl is messed up."

OHHH here we go again!!!! be scared yall i'm gonna put Charlotte through so much this act muwhaha

please feel free to engage with the story !!
– comment, like, & interact. your participation keeps me motivated! thank you!!

❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 03.11.24 ❞