Location: NYPD 1st Precinct – Detention Wing Infirmary
Time: 5:52 A.M.
Date: November 2nd, 2007
---
The infirmary wasn't a hospital.
It was a back room with tiled walls, harsh lights, and two foldable stretchers that passed for beds. The scent of disinfectant hung thick in the air, stinging the nose. A small tray of instruments sat beside a sink. A battered first aid cabinet leaned open in the corner.
Chad sat on the edge of a bench, silent.
A female EMT — mid-thirties, short-cut hair, calm demeanor — crouched in front of him with gloved hands and a flashlight.
"Name's Keely," she said, gently. "Just here to make sure you're not bleeding out anywhere, alright?"
He didn't respond.
Didn't move.
She carefully reached forward and checked his pupils.
Dilated. Slight shimmer in the green irises. Unusual — but no sign of concussion.
She looked over her shoulder. The attending officer nodded from the doorway.
Keely spoke softly, but firmly. "Alright, champ. Let's get this stuff off you."
She peeled the blood-crusted hoodie up and over his head.
It clung. Dried red and brown along the inner lining. She grimaced.
The undershirt underneath was half-rotted, soaked in sweat, grime, and more blood. She cut it open with medical scissors.
And froze.
Not because he was wounded.
But because he wasn't.
His torso was lean — but defined. Too defined. Muscle clung tight across his frame like he'd been sculpted out of wire and bone. His ribs weren't sticking out in malnourishment — they were flanked by dense abdominal layers, like those of a young gymnast or climber.
There were scars. Scrapes. A roughness that came from years of crawling, fighting, surviving.
But there were no injuries that matched the blood he was covered in.
And that made her stop.
"What the hell…" she murmured.
She pulled off the rest of his clothes. Jeans stiff with mud and waste. No socks. Feet callused, toes cracked.
She guided him toward the infirmary's shower stall.
He didn't resist.
Didn't flinch when the water hit his back.
Just stood there.
Letting it wash away the blood and the dirt.
Steam rose. It carried a strange scent — not just sweat, not just grime.
Something muskier. Earthier. Wrong.
Keely backed off slightly, uneasy.
She handed him a towel and a set of oversized juvenile clothes. Grey sweats. Cotton shirt. A clean hoodie.
He dressed slowly.
Still silent.
She marked his chart.
> No major injuries. No signs of acute malnutrition. Muscular development beyond expected range.
The officer in the doorway — an older cop, grizzled — muttered under his breath.
"Kid looks like he's been raised in a cave by wolves."
Keely didn't answer.
She just kept watching Chad.
Because now that the dirt was gone…
He didn't look more human.
He looked less.
---
Location: NYPD 1st Precinct – Detention Wing Infirmary
Time: 6:02 A.M.
Date: November 2nd, 2007
---
The infirmary lights were still too bright.
Chad sat on the edge of the bench again, steam still rising faintly from his hair. The grey sweats hung loose on him, though his frame filled more space than they expected. The towel around his neck dripped quietly.
Keely finished her notes and stepped away, gloves off, brow furrowed.
In the hall outside, two uniformed officers exchanged glances.
The one on the left muttered, "That kid's not built right. He's what, eight? Nine? Looks like he could crack concrete."
Navarro had been standing nearby, listening.
She stepped into the room, holding a notepad, though her hands stayed at her sides.
Chad didn't react at first.
He was still staring at the floor.
She offered a quiet smile. Tried not to let the tension show.
"Hey, Chad," she said gently. "I made a few calls."
He looked up. Slowly.
His eyes were glass-green. Calm.
But too still.
Navarro continued, voice low, friendly. "There's a place. Just for a night. A warm one. With food. No cops. Just people who help kids like you. Would you like that?"
She stepped a little closer.
Chad stared at her.
Then—
His mouth twisted. Just a bit.
And he said, loud and sharp:
"No."
Everyone stopped.
Navarro blinked.
"Chad—"
"No." His voice cracked. A tremor rippled through his shoulders.
He stood up.
Hands clenched.
Not raised. Not violent.
But tight.
His breath came faster. Something surged in him — a pulse he couldn't control.
His feet shifted like he was preparing to bolt.
The two officers stepped forward on instinct.
"Whoa. Easy, kid."
Chad backed into the wall.
Not cowering.
Bracing.
> No more homes. No more locks. No more eyes.
He didn't understand the words Navarro was saying anymore.
Just that they meant going back.
And he would rather fight.
---
Location: NYPD 1st Precinct – Detention Wing Infirmary
Time: 6:06 A.M.
Date: November 2nd, 2007
---
The door hadn't even clicked shut when it began.
Chad stood stiff, hoodie halfway zipped, damp hair clinging to his forehead. The EMT had stepped out. The two officers lingered near the back wall, arms folded, silent, but ready. Navarro had barely spoken her offer:
> "Just a night, Chad. A warm bed. No bars. Somewhere safe."
And then:
"No."
His voice didn't shake this time.
It hit like a hammer.
The officers straightened.
Navarro's eyes narrowed. "It's not a group home. Just a place to—"
"NO!"
He screamed this time.
And that's when it snapped.
---
Officer Wynn stepped forward fast, reaching to restrain.
"Kid—calm down—"
Chad spun.
His shoulder slipped beneath the officer's hand like smoke.
The rogue instincts kicked in. He didn't even think—he acted.
Low stance. Pivot. Right elbow to Wynn's ribs. Not full force—but enough.
The man grunted and staggered half a step, eyes flashing with pain and sudden alarm.
Moretti reached for her baton.
Too slow.
Chad lunged.
Not for her.
For the wall.
His hand grazed the metal towel hook — and in one motion, snapped it free.
He held it like a blade. Not raised. But clenched.
Eyes wide. Breathing ragged. Back pressed to the tile.
> Don't lock me up.
Don't take me back.
I'll break everything.
Moretti's baton froze mid-draw.
"Jesus," she breathed. "He's gonna cut somebody."
Keely, still half in the doorway, let out a sharp gasp and backed into the hall, pressing her hand to her radio.
Navarro was already moving.
"Wait!" she shouted, stepping between them. "Don't you touch him!"
Chad's body shook now — not with fear, but with restrained something. Rage. Trauma. Panic. His arm trembled slightly with tension, but his stance was steady. Calculated.
Wynn, recovering from the hit, started to step forward again, but Navarro held out her hand like a blade.
"Don't."
For a second, no one moved.
Chad's eyes flicked between them, tracking every shift. Every finger. Every breath.
He didn't blink.
And the air in the room was suddenly thick.
"Chad!" Navarro stepped forward fast, palms raised. "Put it down!"
He twitched.
The officers froze.
Wynn's hand hovered near his taser now, knuckles taut, jaw clenched. One step from deployment.
Chad's body shifted — not forward, not back, just bracing like a cornered animal unsure whether to bolt or bite.
Navarro took one more step. Then two.
She moved between him and the cops. Slow. Deliberate.
"No one's going to hurt you," she said. Quiet. Even. Like a lullaby through broken glass. "I'm not sending you to a home. Not like the last one."
He blinked.
Once.
Then again.
His breath caught. His shoulders trembled.
> Home.
The word cut deeper than the fear.
Deeper than the steel in his grip.
He looked at her, eyes wild but wide, confused like a creature waking in the middle of a trap it built itself.
And then, slow and small—
The metal hook dropped from his hand.
It clanged to the tile.
A sharp, flat sound that echoed through the room like a final heartbeat.
He staggered back half a step.
Then dropped.
Straight to his knees.
Didn't cry.
Didn't shake.
Just folded.
Like someone had unplugged him.
Like something ancient had coiled in his chest and then just… let go.
His palms flattened against the floor. His forehead dipped close to his knees.
He made no sound.
Navarro didn't move.
Neither did the others.
Because whatever just left his body had left them all a little breathless.
---
Ten minutes later, Navarro stood alone in the hallway, phone in hand.
Dialing.
Ring.
Click.
A warm, sleepy voice picked up. "Elise? It's early—what's going on?"
Navarro exhaled through her nose, eyes fixed on the window into the infirmary.
"Lili," she said, "I need to ask you something I don't think anyone else can answer right now."
Inside, Chad sat alone on the bench, legs pulled up against his chest, arms wrapped tight around his shins. He wasn't trembling. He wasn't rocking. Just still. Blank. Like he was waiting for the world to decide what to do with him.
"I think I found your next one."
Lili's voice on the other end softened, alert now. "A kid?"
Navarro nodded, though the woman couldn't see her. "Not just any kid. This one's… different."
She paused. Words caught somewhere between her throat and her gut.
"He doesn't talk. Not really. He barely eats. Fought off two uniforms like they were cardboard. No ID. No history. He's… something else."
There was silence on the other end.
Then: "And you think I can help?"
Navarro looked back at Chad.
His eyes met hers through the glass.
Still no emotion.
Just the faint, eerie focus of someone who hadn't been a child in years.
"I don't know," she said. "But I think if someone doesn't try—he won't make it through the week."
Another beat. Then Lili's voice, steady.
"Send me everything."
Navarro allowed herself the barest nod.
"Thank you."