Bounded By The Badge

dow. The old bell above the door jingled each time a customer entered or left, but it was the only sound that punctuated the otherwise silent, rhythmic clatter of dishes and the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. S

faint freckles, had never seemed to hold much life in it. Her brown eyes, once a spark of curiosity and hope, were now distant-almost hollow. They flicked over the menu board above the counter, not seeing i

Mia's fingers tightened around the cloth she was holding, the rough fabric biting into her skin. She didn't know why she noticed him so sharply, but there was something about the way he was staring-an odd kind o

mber the last time she had taken a full day off. Her life had become a blur of work, silence, and the occasional interactions that barely register

idn't belong in a diner. His presence immediately filled the room, shifting the energy in a way Mia didn't quite understand. It wasn't just the sharpness o

kept her eyes trained on the coffee pot in her hand, refilling a cup for the old man at the counter without looking u

nd smooth, with an edge of authority sh

want to, she felt herself grow self-conscious. It was stupid-this was just another customer, just another day-but for some reason, her skin

g passed between them, though she couldn't name it. He didn't smile. Didn't even acknowledge her beyond that single, steady gaze. Mia quickly turne

n a way to survive, to find some kind of rhythm in a life that had once been filled with chaos. She had come to this diner years ago, young and naïve, a girl looking for a

r whole, and hope had faded into something darker, more painful. And

s finger tracing the words as though deciding what to order. Mia kept her gaze on the coffee pot, feeling the familiar stirr

r. Mia caught a glimpse of the holster beneath his jacket-his movements sharp and deliberat

nger than necessary, and Mia's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't say why, but s

side, and Mia released a breath sh

amiliar sensation jolted through her, a sharp reminder of the world she tried s

wn Ca

ered, keeping her voice steady despit

distorted, the static making

u're being

ears like a warning, a sentence. The voice clicked off befo

eing alone-used to being invisible. But now, a creeping sense of paranoia seepe

ssing down on her, a constant reminder that she was never really alone. Not in thi

ve the door