As I burned rubber onto Main, the scanner kept chirping updates, but I tuned it out. My hands were steady for the first time in forever. The dull gray of the streetlights, the deep blue swirl of the patrol LEDs, the reflection of my own face in the windshield—all of it came into focus so sharp I could have drawn it from memory after one look.
Inked Rebellion was only three blocks away, but I took the turn so hard the tires squealed, the adrenaline giving me back the five pounds I’d lost. The shop’s sign was visible even at night: gold leaf, hand-painted, the logo a mockery of class in a town full of shit-shoveling utilitarians. The side entrance was lit up, door hanging crooked on its hinge, light pouring out over the sidewalk like a wound.
I radioed dispatch: “Arrived on scene. Entering to secure premises. Advise backup—” But even as I said it, I was already out of the car, boots hitting concrete, weapon drawn. It wasn’tprocedure. It was personal. If anyone was going to desecrate that space, they’d have to go through me.
I stood outside the door for a second, letting the adrenaline pool at my feet, and then I took it in one hard kick, badge out, voice at full volume:
“Police! Show yourself!”
Inside, the walls were a riot of color, flash art in rows, the air thick with disinfectant and aerosol. Something crashed deeper in, past the divider, a sound of glass shattering and then footsteps. I went after it, heart going wild in my chest, every step bringing me closer to whoever thought this was just another score.
I didn’t know what I’d do when I found him. But for the first time in three weeks, it didn’t matter. I was alive again, and I was ready for blood.
The back of the shop was chaos—smell of paint, sting of aerosol, the high chemical reek of spray that had just been loosed on a wall that had never done anything but try to be beautiful.
The first thing I saw past the divider was the vandal: tall, skinny, dressed in a hoodie so deep it swallowed the face, arms up and tagging the wall with all the desperation of someone who knew they’d already lost.
He was writing with both hands. The left sprayed a crooked line through a piece of flash—one of Ransom’s award-winners, a watercolor wolf that bared its fangs in an impossible gradient of blue and white.
The right hand smeared something red—lipstick? Paint? Blood?—across the counter, carving out words I didn’t want to read. Behind him, the glass in the display case had gone to gravel, shards reflecting a mess of color and broken neon.
I shouted, “Police! Freeze!”
The kid—he had to be a kid, the way he moved, all elbows and panic—bolted for the back. In the two seconds it took to register the mess, he had cleared the divider, trampled a tattoo chair, and nearly took down the shelf with the bottles of green soap and disinfectant. I followed, vaulting the counter, boots crunching through broken glass, hand on the grip of my service weapon but not trusting myself to use it with the blood in my eyes.
He darted left, toward the break room, but the floor plan was burned into my skull from too many hours spent staring at Ransom’s ass from that exact spot.
I cut him off at the pass, driving my shoulder into the hollow of his chest and slamming us both against the wall. The drywall buckled with a sound like a tree trunk splitting.
I heard him grunt—voice gone high, almost girlish—but he wriggled out of my hold, arms slippery with sweat and cheap cologne.
“Stop! I said stop!” I grabbed for him again, but the kid ducked under, popped up behind me, and swung a metal toolbox at my head. The corner caught me right on the temple, stars detonating across my vision. Blood instantly hot and sticky down the side of my face.
The world went to half-speed, and for a split second I remembered the feeling from Basic, the bell rung in the sparring ring that tells you this is the last thing you’ll ever know.
But I’d taken harder hits from Ransom with a smile on my face. I grabbed the hoodie at the neck, twisted, and yanked hard enough to spin the kid around. He came at me with both fists, but had nothing behind it; I absorbed the blows, pinched him in a bear hug, and tried to get us both back on our feet.
He wasn’t just skinny—he was desperate. The fight went wild, sideways, limbs everywhere. My vision blurred at the edges, but I locked in on the task: subdue, detain, don’t let him wreck anything else that mattered to Ransom.
He thrashed, and in the mess of elbows and knees, we crashed into the display of vintage motorcycle parts. Ransom’s prize collection—old Harley badges, a set of chrome handlebars, a battered piston ring—came down in a glittering, catastrophic hail. The noise was deafening, the clatter of metal and the punctuated crash of something ceramic hitting tile.
The kid tried to use the distraction to break free, but I had a cop’s instinct for leverage. I twisted his arm, pushed him face-first into the wall, and started to reach for my cuffs.
He shrieked, actually shrieked, and mule-kicked backwards, heel catching my kneecap so hard I felt the cartilage grind. My grip loosened for a second, and he spun, ducked, and lunged for the open door to the alley.
I chased, vision still full of static. The alley was lit by a single sickly bulb, but it was enough. I tackled him from behind, brought us both to the pavement. In the scramble, his foot connected with my ribs—sharp, blunt, then hot. The wind left me, but I rolled and got a knee on his back, pinning him while I fumbled for the cuffs again.
That’s when he reached back with a free hand, caught my shirt, and raked at my side with something sharp. Maybe it was a piece of glass, maybe it was one of Ransom’s busted tattoo needles—I didn’t care.
The pain hit like a lit fuse, and I heard myself growl, an animal noise I’d never made in my life. Blood ran down my side, hot and slick, but I finally got the cuffs on. He twisted under me, still trying to bite or spit or do any damage he could, but I was done being careful.
I dragged him to his feet, shoved him against the alley wall, and put my hand flat to my side, checking the damage. The cut wasn’t deep—surface wound, but long, and the shirt was already ruined.
The kid went limp, and for a second, I thought he might have knocked himself out. But he looked up at me, eyes wild, teeth bared, and hissed, “He’s never coming back, you know. Nobody wants him here.”
I saw red. Not just in my eye, not just on my shirt, but in the center of my mind. I shook him once, hard enough to rattle his teeth. “He’s worth more than you’ll ever be, you little shit,” I spat.
The kid sneered, spat back at me—missed, but it was the thought that counted.
