#precinct

Los Angeles was a city built on illusions.

The kind that shimmered on the horizon like heatwaves, promising more than they ever delivered. A place where beautiful masks were worn like second skin — on screens, behind desks, even in precincts. People came here to chase dreams, to bury pasts, to disappear into the noise. Most of them failed.

Marcus Pierce had no interest in dreams. He preferred facts. Clean, cold, and brutal.

The city was loud, fast, and full of people who talked too much and listened too little. It stank of ambition and bleach, a mix of desperation and control. He knew its rhythm like a heartbeat — traffic at a crawl before dawn, sirens screaming into the night, headlines soaked in blood and gloss. Nothing shocked him anymore.

He didn’t need Los Angeles to make sense. He just needed it to obey.

Marcus sipped his coffee, bitter and black, as he stepped through the precinct doors. The building exhaled its usual blend of burnt caffeine, printer ink, and stress. Phones ringing. Voices rising. Footsteps. Paper. Nonsense.

His jaw tightened as he moved through the bullpen, ignoring the greetings tossed his way. He didn’t do casual conversation before noon — or ever.

“She’s here,” Lopez said, falling into step beside him. “The new behavioral psychologist. Alya Varon. Transferred in from Quantico.”

He said nothing. Just kept walking.

Marcus didn’t slow his pace. He hated introductions. Especially when they were to people who didn’t belong here. Shrinks were all the same — talking in circles, analyzing everything except what mattered. Another fragile academic sent to “help” the real world without understanding it.

He pushed open his office door with the heel of his hand. The door groaned, then fell silent.

She was already there.

Seated. Straight-backed. Composed. She was younger than he expected. Elegant in a way that didn’t match the precinct — soft lines, polished hair, a quietness to her presence that almost felt out of place. Almost. She looked like she should be on the arm of someone powerful at a museum gala, not inside a homicide division.

Alya Varon.

She stood when she saw him. “Captain Pierce,” she said, voice soft — like a whisper wrapped in silk.

Her green eyes met his. Steady. Unflinching. But there was something beneath them — something watching. Calculating. Not judgmental. Just aware.

Marcus nearly did a double take. Not because of the dress — light, flowing, pink — delicate in a way that didn’t belong here.

No — it was the contrast that caught him.

Ruffles, floral patterns, gold trim — not a single sharp edge in sight. But behind it all, her eyes remained the same: green, steady, unreadable. Like they didn’t care what you thought of her. Like they dared you to misjudge her.

And that was the trick, wasn’t it?

She used softness like sleight of hand — a distraction, a whisper of fragility to lower defenses. People saw the dress, the perfume, the small voice, and thought they had her figured out before she even opened her mouth.

Good. That’s exactly what she wanted.

Because while they were busy underestimating her, she was already two steps ahead — slipping past walls, watching without being watched, moving through this hard-edged world like a scalpel wrapped in silk.

It wasn’t weakness. It was strautegy.

She played the part so well, most people never saw it coming.

But Marcus Pierce did.

And he didn’t like being played.

Not by criminals. Not by colleagues. And definitely not by a woman who walked into his precinct looking like a summer afternoon and talking like she could read your nightmares.

She extended her hand.

He looked at it, then at her and walked past her without taking it.

Alya didn’t react. Just lowered her hand as though she had expected nothing else. The captain set a file on the desk, not because he needed it, but because he wanted her to know the silence belonged to him now.

She didn’t try to speak again.

Pierce let a beat pass. Two. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t force a smile. She simply watched him the way someone might watch storm clouds — carefully, silently, without blinking.

Finally, he spoke.

“You transferred from Quantico.”

A slight nod. “Yes.”

“You left federal work for this?”

“I chose this.” Her tone was even. Not defensive. Not proud. Just a statement of fact. He didn’t trust it.

“No offense,” he said, “but people like you usually don’t last long here.”

“I’m not here to last,” she replied. “I’m here to do the job.”

He studied her for a moment. The delicate features, the soft-spoken manner — all a carefully balanced illusion. People would underestimate her. She was counting on it.

“You don’t look like someone who belongs in this building,” he said bluntly.

Alya tilted her head, just slightly. “Then I’ll fit right in.”

Marcus Pierce didn’t trust it.

“Get settled,” he said finally, without looking up. “You start tomorrow. 8 a.m.”

She gave a single nod. “Of course.”

And then she left — silent, graceful, like she hadn’t even touched the floor.

Marcus stared at the door after it closed. Something about her stayed behind.

There was something off about her. Not in a dangerous way — not yet. But in the way she carried herself. The way she spoke like her words had been weighed before she let them go. The way she didn’t flinch when he pushed, didn’t shrink in the shadows he cast.

She looked like glass, but there was strength behind her eyes. Too calm. Too collected. Like she knew something he didn’t.

And if there was one thing Marcus Pierce could not stand — It was not knowing.

He turned back to his desk, jaw tight, eyes narrowing on the file she’d left behind.

He didn’t like mysteries.

Especially the kind that walked into his precinct dressed in pink and laced in misdirection.

Jake Peralta x reader

It was 7 in the morning when Y/n woke up, unusually early for a Saturday. She had the sudden urge to eat a pancake and her stomach considered it a great idea as well, forcing her to wake up.

The Precinct First: CHAZ Flag Redesign