Brain Rot

Featuring whatever celebrity with an uncomfortable age gap is my current fixation

[hyper-trash-panda]

Writer’s block be writer BLOCKING 😖😖😖

I have the whole outline worked out, I just can’t seem to connect the dots 😭😭😭

Doesn’t help that I work in retail and have been given so many extra shifts to help train the seasonal staff, gotta love the holidays 🥲🥲

[hyper-trash-panda]

Bad Boys — Legacy

Pt 2/?

Warnings: Blood, violence, cursing

Rated R

Chile, I’m over here bootlegging the Bad Boys movies trying to make gifs 😆😆

The clink of silverware against plates echoed through the dining room. The smell of smothered chicken and roasted vegetables filled the air, but the usual warmth of Theresa's cooking were overshadowed by the heaviness that had settled over the table.

Marcus, sitting at the head, glanced around the table, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took a bite from his fork. To his right, Theresa meticulously adjusted her napkin, her lips pressed into a thin line, betraying her discomfort. Next to her, their daughter picked at her food, her usual chatter replaced by an uncharacteristic silence. Reggie was focused on his plate, completely unhindered as he scarfed down every bite. Marcus grimaced.

Mike, sitting to Marcus' left, was still; his fork hovering over his plate as he stole glances towards Valerie. She sat beside him, her smile polite but strained. The air between Mike and Armando, who sat beside Valerie, was charged with unspoken words. Armando's jaw was tight, his eyes flicking between his father and his fiancée, the muscles in his neck taut.

From the living room, the sound of the kids' cartoons provided a distant, cheerful contrast to the uncomfortable quiet at the table, but it only seemed to deepen the discomfort in the dining room.

The scrape of Marcus' chair against the floor as he leaned back to take a sip of water seemed louder than it should have. An awkward, "Sorry." Left his lips before silence overtook the table once more.

Theresa cleared her throat softly. "So, Valerie," she began, her tone warm but slightly forced, "how was your flight?"

Valerie, mid-sip of her water, swallowed quickly, her eyes widening in brief surprise. "Oh, um, it was good," she replied, her voice steadying as she placed her glass back on the table. "It's only a two hour flight from the Dominican Republic, but it was hard leaving my kids."

Mike perked up. “You got kids?"

"In a sense," Valerie admitted, "I'm a school teacher."

Megan's eyes lit up, a spark of enthusiasm breaking through the tension. "Really?," she said, leaning in. "I'm actually working on my master's right now to teach English. What grade do you teach?"

Valerie turned to Megan, her expression brightening. "It's a small district, so we don't really have grade levels. I teach kids from about six to ten years old."

"Oh, those are the fun ages, I should know," said Megan, eyes gesturing to her brood in the next room. "What do you teach?"

"Science," Valerie answered, her smile widening. "My degree is in chemistry, but I also teach them astronomy, earth science, physics, the general basics."

As she spoke, Valerie's eyes drifted to Armando; his arm rested protectively along the back of her chair as he leaned back, picking at his plate. Sensing her gaze, Armando glanced at her and then straightened up, his posture shifting as if already anticipating what she was about to say.

"Actually, that's how I met Armando," Valerie added.

Armando's eyes softened, his usually guarded expression easing for a moment as their eyes met. If one were to squint hard enough, they might believe him to be smiling back.

Marcus interjected with a smirk. "Well don't leave us in suspense, Valerie. I've got to know who managed to melt the warlock baby's heart."

Before anyone could react, Mike's foot shot out under the table, landing a swift kick to Marcus' shin. Marcus winced, but the pain went unacknowledged by everyone else at the table.

"Well," Valerie began, her voice gentle as she thought back, "I was teaching my kids about the rock cycle at the time. My home is set near a small dock, so I was walking along the shore collecting rocks when I noticed a boat floating out in the distance."

Valerie paused, her brow furrowing slightly at the memory. "At first, I didn't think much of it—there are fishermen who pass by all the time—but the person inside this boat wasn't moving, and it gave me an eerie feeling."

The table was silent, everyone leaning in a little closer as Valerie continued. "I got my neighbor, who owns a boat, we set out to check on it. That's when we found Armando. He—um—" Valerie paused, taking in the audience, realizing some of the finer details to be inappropriate, "Wasn't in the best condition. We got him to shore and set him up in my spare room. I spent the next two days helping him through a fever, rehydrating him, and sewing up his wounds until he was strong enough to leave."

Theresa, her eyes twinkling, cut in with a knowing smile. "Well, clearly, he didn't, did he?" she teased, glancing at the engagement ring on Valerie's finger.

Armando picked up the story, his voice steady. "Val got me a job working maintenance for the school. It gave me time to find a fresh start. It was honest work, something I needed."

Valerie nodded. "It took two years, but eventually, Armando proposed." She smiled softly, the memory still fresh in her mind. "And, well, here we are."

Marcus grinned, "Ain't that something," he said, his voice warm. "Congratulations, you two." He nodded approvingly as he noticed Armando's arm had moved from resting behind Valerie's chair to holding her hand on the table.

Mike, who had been quiet, focused on the ring on Valerie's finger. It was a simple design—a double gold band encasing a half-line of small stones. Mike knew that with the kind of money Armando's former cartel life would’ve have afforded him, he could've easily bought something far more extravagant. But this ring, it was a testament to Armando's honest work, to the new life he was trying to build. Mike felt a swell of pride for his son.

Just as Mike was lost in thought, Megan broke the silence with a playful tone. "So, when's the big day?"

Valerie started to answer, "We've decided to wait until Armando joined—"

But before she could finish, Armando interjected smoothly, his voice firm. "Until I've fulfilled my contract with Miami PD," he said, his words carefully chosen.

Valerie blinked, momentarily confused by the shift in their story, but before she could question him, the simultaneous ringing of both Mike and Marcus' phones cut through the room. They exchanged a look, already knowing what it meant.

"Duty calls," Marcus muttered, already pushing back his chair as Mike did the same. Marcus leaned down to kiss Theresa on the cheek, then turned to Megan, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead. "Take care, alright?" he said before turning to Reggie.

"Let’s move," Marcus ordered.

Reggie stood up immediately. "Yes, sir." he replied with a nod, wiping gravy from his lip. He then turned to Megan, his expression softening as he leaned in and gave her a tender kiss before following his father-in-law.

Mike turned to Theresa as he grabbed his jacket. "Dinner was amazing, Tee. I'm coming back for them leftovers."

Theresa smiled, already heading to the kitchen. "I'll pack some up for you."

As Mike headed toward the door, he looked back at Armando, who was still seated, clearly conflicted. "Armando, you're coming with us," Mike said, his voice carrying a hint of expectation.

Armando hesitated, his gaze shifting from his father to Valerie, who looked at him with a mix of confusion and concern. He didn't want to leave her without explaining, but he knew he had to go.

Leaning in close to Valerie, he spoke softly, "Hablamos después, ¿sí?" *we'll talk later, okay?* His voice was firm but gentle before giving her a quick, reassuring peck on the lips.

Valerie nodded, though the worry in her eyes remained. She watched as Armando rose from the table, his movements deliberate as he joined Mike, Marcus, and Reggie at the door.

Eclipse was a far cry from its usual scene. The neon lights that once pulsed in sync with the deafening beats of the music were replaced by harsh, clinical overhead lights that washed the space in sterile white. There was no music now, only the mechanical rhythm of camera shutters and the soft thud of boots across the slick, glossy floor. Crime scene tape flapped gently in the artificially chilled air, marking off areas that had been vibrant just hours ago but now lay in silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of a body bag being zipped up.

Forensics teams combed through the wreckage of the night, dusting for prints, collecting fibers, and snapping close-ups of every bloodstain. Detectives huddled in quiet conversation, their voices low, while uniformed officers kept curious onlookers at bay outside. A few clubgoers who hadn't made it out before the chaos were lined up against a wall, their once-carefree expressions now replaced with shock and confusion.

The hum of an Porsche 911 rolled up to the scene, its tires barely making a sound as it came to a smooth stop just beyond the tape. From the driver's seat, Mike stepped out, his crisp black shirt catching the glint of the overhead lights. Beside him, Marcus followed, already tugging at his shirt collar like the tension of the scene had wrapped itself around his neck. Reggie hopped out of the back, eyes wide, taking in the grim scene. Last out was Armando, his posture cool, but his sharp gaze sweeping over the mess in front of them.

The four moved as a unit, heading toward the yellow tape that separated them from the chaos. Mike led the way, his badge flashing like a beacon in the dim light as he approached the officer guarding the entrance. Without a word, the officer lifted the tape for him, nodding in recognition as Mike passed. Marcus followed, flashing his own badge. Reggie was next, getting a quick nod from the officer who had seen him enough times to know he was with them. But as Armando reached for the tape, the officer stepped in front of him.

"Whoa, hold up. Where's your badge?"

Armando didn't flinch, but his jaw tightened slightly as he glanced at Mike. Before he could say anything, Mike stepped back, his usual cocky grin in place as he clapped a hand on the officer's shoulder.

"He's with us. AMMO consultant," Mike said, his voice leaving no room for argument. The officer hesitated for only a second, then gave a quick nod, lifting the tape higher for Armando to pass through.

"Gracias," Armando said, his voice cool and even as he followed Mike and the others toward the center of the club.

They made their way through the scene, weaving past clusters of investigators, toward Kelly, who stood over a body in the middle of the dance floor. Her gloved hands rested on her hips and sharp eyes scanning the evidence in front of her like a puzzle that hadn't yet revealed all its pieces. She didn't look up when the group approached but spoke, her tone matter-of-fact.

"Took you long enough," Kelly muttered, finally turning to face them, her gaze locking on Mike and Marcus. "You're not gonna like this one."

Marcus tugged on his gloves, flexing his fingers as he glanced over at the body Kelly stood over. "Who we looking at?" he asked, his tone casual. Mike, following suit with his own gloves, gave the body a quick glance before focusing on Kelly.

"ID says Maddison Harrison, age twenty-two," Kelly started, but the flatness in her voice gave away the truth. "Dorn ran facial recognition. Real age is sixteen."

Marcus grimaced, his usual bravado slipping for a moment as the reality of the situation hit him. "Sixteen? What the hell's a kid doing in a place like this?"

Kelly handed the fake ID to Mike, her jaw tight. "Good question. And she's not the only one. Found the same quality ID on two other bodies over at the booth." Her eyes flicked toward the far corner of the club, where another pair of black body bags lay zipped up, waiting for the morgue to claim them. "Same story, both kids."

Mike turned the ID over in his hand, barely needing a second glance to recognize the poor craftsmanship. "Who's the genius letting a bunch of kids in with this shit?"

Before Kelly could answer, Dorn approached, tablet in hand. His sudden presence made Kelly stiffen, her posture visibly more rigid, but Dorn didn't seem to notice—or he pretended not to. "The bouncer. He was distracted by a fight that broke out just as the kids were coming in. He let them slide so he could deal with the guys throwing punches."

Mike exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Hell of a time to drop the ball."

"Bouncer remembered the two boys at the booth," Dorn continued, tapping on his tablet to pull up more info. "Said they came in with their dates. Names were Tyler James and Zachery Harris, both seventeen."

Marcus sighed, the weight of it all getting heavier by the second. He crouched down next to the body bag, reaching for the zipper. "Let's see what we're dealing with."

Mike's brow furrowed, and he stepped closer. "Marcus, don't-"

But Marcus ignored him. With a quick, sharp pull, he unzipped the body bag and uncovered the face of the girl. What he saw made him jerk back instantly, swearing under his breath. The teenager was streaked with dried blood that had poured from her eyes, nose, and ears, her expression frozen in a final moment of agony.

Mike, used to his partner's squeamishness after all these years, shot him an irritated glance. "Seriously? After everything we've seen, you still can't handle it?"

"Man, shut up," Marcus snapped back, holding his hand up defensively as he gathered himself. "It's gotta be Helios. Only that nasty shit does this."

Reggie, who had been lingering nearby, furrowed his brow. "Helios? What's that?"

Mike crossed his arms, glancing at the bodies being wheeled away. "Its a new drug. Fucked up shit. Started out west, moving its way east. In the last six months, it's been tearing through the southern coast from Louisiana to here. More addictive than heroin, deadlier than fentanyl."

Kelly picked up where Mike left off, her voice clipped and precise. "It's potent. A little too much, and your body goes into overdrive. By the time you know something's wrong, it's too late."

Dorn, still holding his tablet, added, "Gets its name from the warm feeling it gives you. Like you're being hugged by the sun."

Kelly snorted softly, the sound bitter. "Yeah, but it's more like being roasted alive. Burns you from the inside out."

Marcus, having regained his composure, stood up, though his face was still pale. "Helios literally melts your brain. Cooks you. Blood comes out of everything-nose, eyes, ears. Fucks up everything."

He gagged, clearly visualizing the horror in too much detail, and had to cover his mouth. Mike shot him another annoyed look. "Come on, man?"

"I'm good, I'm good," Marcus muttered, waving him off.

Reggie, his eyes drifting toward the row of body bags being taken out by the forensic teams, swallowed hard. "All of this... was because of overdoses?"

The silence that followed was heavier than any answer. Mike and Marcus exchanged a glance, the weight of it unspoken but shared. Kelly turned back to the body at her feet, her jaw clenched, while Dorn stood by, still tapping through files on his tablet before clearing his throat, "Well, there's some good news. We've got one survivor." He tapped on his tablet for a moment before holding it out to show a picture of a teenage girl with bright eyes and a wide smile, frozen in a moment of happier times. "Hannah Davis. She was rushed to the hospital. Unresponsive, but showing signs of life. Her mother's on her way there now."

Marcus, still shaken from the gruesome sight, glanced at the photo with some relief. "That's something, I guess."

"Yeah, but she won't be ready for questioning until tomorrow," Dorn added, lowering the tablet. "Docs need to stabilize her first."

Mike nodded, his gaze shifting toward Armando, who had been standing silently on the edge of the group, his sharp eyes taking everything in but saying little. "What about you, man? You know anything about this Helios stuff?"

All eyes turned to Armando. He shifted slightly but remained composed, meeting their stares without flinching. "Not much experience with it personally," he admitted. "But my mother buying a batch a few years ago. Back when it was still in its testing phases."

Marcus, leaning against one of the club's broken-down tables, raised an eyebrow. "What was it like back then? Anything like this?"

Armando shook his head. "Weak. Barely gave a buzz. Nowhere near lethal. It was sloppy, low-grade. I didn't think much of it."

Marcus let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Times have changed. This shit now—it's evolved."

Mike crossed his arms, his mind already working on the next step. "You remember who was selling it back then? Might give us a lead."

Armando paused, thinking back, before finally answering. "No clue which gang it came from. My mother handled most of the deals. But I picked it up from a man named Rojas in Mexico City."

Mike exchanged a look with Marcus before turning back to Dorn. "Look into it. Find out everything you can on this Rojas."

Dorn gave a quick nod, already typing away on his tablet as he walked off, disappearing into the maze of flashing cameras and bustling investigators. Kelly watched him leave, a tension settling over her that didn't go unnoticed by Mike. He stepped toward her, voice low, his concern clear. "You good?"

Kelly blinked, snapping back to the present. She gave a tight smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just... gotta help bag evidence." She turned quickly, heading toward one of the forensics teams before anyone could push the question further.

Mike's eyes followed her for a moment, his brows knitting together in thought before he let it go. He turned back to Marcus, who was now pulling off his gloves with a sigh.

"Looks like we'll be stopping by the hospital in the morning," Marcus said. "Hannah's the only witness we've got." He tossed his gloves into a nearby bin. "If she makes it. Who knows how much of her brain was fried from this shit."

The two stood in silence for a moment, the flashing lights and hum of the crime scene continuing around them, as the weight of what was ahead settled in.

The warehouse loomed in the shadows, hidden behind a strip of rotting dockyards on the outskirts of Miami. Once a bustling center for trade, it now stood as a crumbling monument to neglect. Its corrugated steel walls were rusted, streaked with years of saltwater spray from the nearby bay. Weeds and wild grasses had forced their way through the cracks in the concrete, their jagged edges curling around broken pallets and abandoned shipping containers. A cracked neon sign, long since burned out, clung to the roof by a single bolt, creaking in the wind like the last whisper of something forgotten.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of chemicals and mildew. The interior, gutted from years of decay, had been crudely transformed into an underworld den. Makeshift tables lined the walls, strewn with plastic tubs and half-empty bottles of unknown liquids. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting the room in a sickly yellow glow that made everything look like it was drenched in oil. The floor was sticky, littered with cigarette butts, empty fast-food bags, and discarded needles.

In the far corner, near a stack of dented metal drums, a group of men worked silently, mixing powders with practiced hands. They wore torn tank tops and bandanas over their faces, their eyes dull and focused on the tasks in front of them. A radio, perched on a filthy crate, hummed out muffled Spanish music, its static blending with the low hum of machines churning in the background. Beyond them, a staircase rose up to a second-floor office. The steps were rusted, each one groaning underfoot as if they might collapse at any moment. Their railings, once painted red, were now chipped and peeling, revealing raw iron beneath. The stairs led up to a large glass window, cracked but still intact, through which the shadow of a man could be seen.

At the bottom of the stairs, a hulking figure emerged from the shadows. His body filled the space, almost too large for the narrow corridor leading to the staircase. Alejandro’s heavy boots thudded against the floor as he moved, the sound cutting through the murmur of the workers and the hum of machinery.

He reached the bottom of the rusted staircase, paused for a moment, and then ascended. Each step groaned beneath his weight, and the metal beneath his boots seemed to scream in protest. His eyes, dark and unyielding, flicked toward the window of the office above. The dim light reflected off the cracked glass, but he could still see the figure inside waiting for him.

Reaching the top, Alejandro stopped in front of a door, its once-white paint chipped and faded to a dull gray. He didn't bother to knock. He shoved the door open with a grunt, the hinges squealing in protest.

Inside, the office was surprisingly neat compared to the chaos below. The furniture was sparse but modern, a sleek black desk with polished edges, two leather chairs positioned neatly in front of it. Behind the desk stood a man with slick black hair, combed back so sharply it looked like it had been painted onto his scalp. He wore a black button-up shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal smooth, tanned forearms. His expression was calm, almost bored, as he turned to face Alejandro.

The man with the slick hair raised an eyebrow, awaiting an explanation that brought Alejandro to his office. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together on the desk in front of him, his eyes sharp and calculating. Behind him, a large map of Miami was pinned to the wall, red pins marking locations across the city. A small, gold-plated revolver sat on the desk next to a half-empty glass of whiskey, glistening under the dim light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Alejandro’s eyes flicked to the gun before meeting the man's gaze again, shifting on his feet. He ran a hand over the tattoos snaking up his forearm before speaking, “That girl," he said, his voice low. "She survived. They've got her at Mercy. Cops all over it."

The man behind the desk didn't flinch. His expression remained unreadable as he stared out the window, watching the silent hum of activity below.

"I see."

Alejandro nodded, though his face remained stone cold. The man picked up his glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid inside. "I trust you won't disappoint me, Alejandro," he said, his tone soft but laced with menace.

Alejandro cracked his knuckles, a slow, deliberate sound that filled the silence between them. "I never do."

The man's smile widened just a fraction, his eyes gleaming. "That's what I like to hear." The man gave the slightest tilt of his head, a shadow of a smile ghosting across his lips. “Prepare everything for the morning."

Alejandro's eyes narrowed, his face hardened with understanding.

The headlights of Mike's Porsche cut through the quiet suburban street as they pulled into Marcus's driveway. The hum of the engine faded into the stillness of the night as Mike killed the ignition, but the tension in the car remained thick.

Marcus opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air. The others followed suit, the tension still hanging over them as they approached the front door. Theresa stood waiting, framed by the warm glow of the porch light. Beside her, Valerie stood, her arms crossed and expression unreadable.

"Hey, baby," Theresa greeted Marcus softly, her arms wrapping around him in a comforting hug. She pulled back, studying his face. "You okay?"

"Real bad scene out there." Marcus muttered, running a hand over his face.

Theresa's brow furrowed with concern. "What happened?"

Marcus shook his head, his voice low and tired. "Kids, T. Three teenagers. Overdosed right on the floor of that club. All three gone before we even got there."

Theresa's hand instinctively squeezed Marcus's arm, a soft gasp escaping her lips. "Oh my God..." She knew how much it tore him apart to see kids caught up in the darkness of drugs and crime.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her thumb rubbing small circles on his arm.

Marcus nodded, his jaw tight as he forced the images away.

Reggie cleared his throat and gave a quick nod toward the house. "Where's Megan and the kids?" he asked, looking over at Theresa.

"They're in the back room," Theresa said, her voice soft but steady. "I'm sure they're ready to head out."

Reggie nodded gratefully and disappeared down the hall, eager to see his family and escape the weight of the day.

While Theresa comforted Marcus, Armando drifted toward Valerie. She stood stiffly, her arms still crossed, avoiding eye contact. He stepped closer, hesitating for a moment before wrapping his arms around her. The embrace was tentative, but there was no warmth in her response. She barely moved, her body cold against his.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low and careful.

Valerie pulled back slightly, her expression distant. "Fine," she replied, her tone clipped. "What’s the case?"

Armando frowned, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. "That's not what we need to talk about," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I don't wanna keep dodging this, Vee.“

Valerie sighed, rubbing her temple. "Armando, I'm not doing this tonight. I just got off a long flight."

His patience, already thin from the night's events, was wearing even thinner. "Val—"

Before he could press any further, she cut him off, glancing at the yellow suitcase by the door. "I'm staying at a hotel.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. The distance between them felt more than physical now, and the coolness in her voice made his chest tighten. Mike, Marcus, and Theresa, caught in their own conversation, suddenly fell silent as Valerie's statement hung in the air.

Armando turned to her, trying to mask his frustration, though the edge in his voice was hard to miss. "That's fine," he muttered, "I'll go get my stuff."

Before he could move, Mike spoke up, his voice casual but firm. "Hey, hold up. You cant do that, man. You're still under contract to stay here at Marcus' house."

Armando shot him a look, but the reality of his situation left no room for argument. With a quiet sigh, he glanced at her, searching for some kind of compromise.

Theresa, sensing the tension and trying to defuse the situation, stepped forward. "Valerie, really, it's no trouble. You can stay here with us if you want. You don't have to go to a hotel."

Valerie gave her a tight smile, polite but firm. "Thanks, Theresa, but I've already called a ride. They're pulling up now.“

True to her observation, a dark, four door sedan pulled up to the curb. Armando clenched his jaw as he grabbed her yellow suitcase. "I'll walk you out," he said quietly.

Valerie gave a small nod and thanked Theresa again before heading down the pathway. Armando followed closely behind, his frustration mounting with every step.

The night air was cool and still. The soft hum of the idling car was the only sound as they approached. Armando opened the backseat door, and Valerie slid in without a word. He handed her suitcase to the driver and then stepped over to her window as it rolled down.

His voice softened, almost pleading. "Text me when you get there, okay?“

Valerie met his gaze, her expression softer now but still guarded. "I will." She paused, hesitating before adding, "Maybe we can talk tomorrow. Meet up for lunch?"

Armando nodded, a flicker of hope in his chest. "Yeah, come by the station. We can grab something."

Valerie gave a small nod and leaned forward, placing a brief kiss on his cheek. It was quick, more of a gesture than anything intimate, but it left Armando feeling both grateful and hollow at the same time.

He watched as the car pulled away, the taillights fading into the night. The silence settled back over the street, heavier than before. After a long moment, Armando turned and walked back toward the house, the weight of the day pressing down on him.

Mike stepped out of his car; the late evening breeze carrying the scent of saltwater as it drifted up from the bay. His bachelor pad, perched on the edge of Miami's waterfront, stood like a modern fortress of glass and steel. The house was all sharp lines and wide windows, the city's skyline reflecting off the shimmering surface of the infinity pool out back. Inside, dim lights spilled out, casting a soft glow over the manicured steps that led to the front door.

Balancing a container of leftover smothered chicken in one hand and a stack of mail in the other, Mike felt a flicker of recognition at the car parked in his driveway. The Mustang. His lips twitched into a smile. As he stepped through the front door, the comforting hum of home washed over him—the quiet thrum of the air conditioning, the faint sound of the water lapping against the shore. But it was the sight on his couch that really brought the warmth.

Rita, dressed in one of his crisp, white button-downs and a pair of black leggings, was comfortably sprawled out on the couch, chopsticks in hand as she deftly twirled noodles into a bite. The Chinese takeout box balanced on her lap, its open top revealing their favorite order from a spot they hit up way too often.

She paused mid-bite, her eyes darting to him as he entered. "Yours is on the counter," she said with a grin, swallowing her mouthful.

Mike set the leftovers and the mail down on the kitchen island, his gaze catching the familiar red and gold logo of their usual spot. "Damn, you didn't wait for me?" he teased, crossing the room with easy strides.

Rita chuckled, shifting slightly on the couch to make room. "You know I can't resist their noodles."

He leaned down, brushing a kiss against her cheek, the soft scent of her perfume mingling with the savory aroma of takeout. "Good to know I'm not the only thing you can't resist," he murmured, his voice low with amusement.

Rita rolled her eyes, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Please, you're not that irresistible," she shot back, her tone laced with mock exasperation. Mike chuckled as he shrugged off his leather jacket, draping it over the arm of the adjacent couch. The light scent of leather and his cologne lingered in the air as he headed toward the kitchen, flipping open the stainless steel fridge.

"I already ate, by the way," he called over his shoulder. "Marcus had me over for dinner."

Rita raised an eyebrow and followed him, curiosity piqued. "Oh yeah? What did Theresa cook this time?"

Mike turned around, one hand rummaging through the fridge while the other held up the plastic bag of Tupperware with the leftovers. "Smothered chicken," he said with a grin, waving the container slightly as proof.

Rita's eyes widened as she groaned dramatically, resting her hand on the kitchen counter. "Did she use the special gravy?"

Mike gave her a knowing look and nodded. "The one and only."

"You should've brought me some!" Rita half-pouted, stepping closer.

Mike laughed as he began placing the takeout box inside the fridge. But before he could close the door, Rita reached for the container in his hand, making a play for the coveted leftovers.

"Oh no, you don't," Mike said, swatting her hand away as she grinned mischievously. "Woman, don’t you touch my chicken."

Rita threw her hands up in surrender, eyes twinkling with amusement. "You're really going to be greedy like that?"

"Hell yeah," Mike quipped, slipping the container safely onto a shelf. "You've got your noodles. This right here"—he tapped the fridge door for emphasis—"is sacred territory."

Rita chuckled, leaning back against the counter. "You're lucky Theresa's food is worth it. Next time, though, I'm claiming first dibs."

Mike leaned forward, resting both hands on the edge of the counter, his dark eyes locking onto Rita's as he absentmindedly fiddled with the buttons of his shirt she wore. The playful tension between them simmered down, replaced by something heavier. "You know," he began, his voice quieter, "if Theresa knew you and I were together, she might’ve packed enough for both of us."

Rita's sigh was almost immediate. She straightened up, crossing her arms in front of her chest as she avoided his gaze. This wasn't the first time he'd brought it up, and she knew where this was going.

"Michael—"

"Nah, don't do that." He shook his head, cutting her off. "It's been almost a year, Rita. A year since we got together, and it's still a secret." His words were firm but not angry, like he was trying to understand, to make her see his side.

Rita closed her eyes for a moment, frustration bubbling up inside her. "We've already had this discussion," she muttered, her tone clipped as she pushed away from the counter.

"We haven't, though," Mike countered, following her movement with his eyes, his voice rising a little. "Every time we try to talk about it, you change the subject or dodge the question. You’re it doing right now."

She turned to face him, her frustration evident in the way her lips pressed into a thin line. "Michael, it's not as simple as you make it sound.“ said Rita as she made her way back to her spot on the couch, wanting the conversation to end.

Mike exhaled, following her movements as they stood by the window. "I'm not saying it's simple. I get that. But we're not just coworkers, Rita. We're… this is more than that."

"And that's exactly the problem," she shot back, pacing now, her voice tight with the weight of what she was trying to say. "I am your captain. The moment people know about us, they'll start questioning everything. Whether I can make unbiased calls, whether I'm doing my job because it's right or because of you."

Mike ran a hand over his face, trying to keep his cool. He knew she was right, but it didn't make it any easier. "I just don't want to keep hiding," he said, his voice softer now. "I don't want to feel like we're sneaking around, like we're doing something wrong."

Rita paused, her back to him for a moment before she finally turned around, her expression softening just a bit. "I don't want that either. But you know how this works. We don't get to have it both ways. And I can't risk everything I've worked for—everything we've worked for—just because we're... together."

Mike let out a long breath, the tension between them hanging thick in the air. "Alright, I'll drop it," he muttered, stepping back.

Rita glanced at him, sensing they both needed a shift. "Since we're already talking work," she began, her voice lighter but still carrying the weight of their jobs, "how was the crime scene? The one you went to tonight."

Mike took a seat on the adjacent sofa to Rita, his arms spreading out across the back, "Seven bodies. All overdosed on Helios. Three of them were underage kids. One of 'em survived, though. She's in the hospital right now, barely hanging on."

Rita nodded, her arms coming to cross over her chest as she crossed her legs on the couch, “Helios is spreading fast. And with this many bodies, someone's got to be moving a lot of it. You know Ernesto Vargas, right? Cuban gang leader?" Mike’s expression tightened as Rita continued, “His body was found this morning at the docks. Him and several of his guys. Shot to hell."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Do you know who did it?"

Rita shook her head. "We're still piecing it together. No witnesses, no clear leads. All we know is it was a bust—there was a bag of money left at the scene, untouched. No product.”

Mike crossed his arms, the wheels turning in his mind. "You think it's connected to the nightclub case?"

Rita sighed. "That's the theory. The timelines match up too perfectly. Vargas was a known distributor of Helios and he dies the same day we've got seven OD cases from that same drug. It's too big of a coincidence."

Mike nodded, his expression hardening. "Tomorrow, me, Marcus, Reggie, and Armando are heading to the hospital. See if that witness knows anything that can help us get a lead."

Rita's lips pressed into a line as she considered that. "How's Armando settling in?"

"He's doing alright," Mike replied, though there was something off in his tone. "He gave us a solid lead on someone in the Helios distribution line. Dorn is looking into it"

Rita studied him closely, her sharp instincts kicking in. “That's good news," she said slowly. "But you don't seem thrilled. What's bothering you?"

Mike exhaled, leaning forward. "It's not the intel. Armando's sharp, and he's been pulling his weight." He looked away for a moment, his frustration creeping back in. "It's just... he's got a whole fiancée. Showed up at Marcus' place tonight."

Rita's eyebrows shot up. "A fiancée? And you had no idea?"

"None," Mike said, shaking his head. "Two years and I didn't know a damn thing about it."

Rita's shock softened into confusion. "Is she connected to his past? To the cartel?"

Mike gave a small, bitter laugh. "No. He met her after the McGrath mission. When he was laying low in the Dominican Republic. Her name's Valerie. She nursed him back to health, gave him a place to stay while we were negotiating his deal with the DA."

Rita took a deep breath, processing the new information.

Mike's voice grew quieter, his frustration giving way to something more vulnerable. "I'm his father, Rita. We're supposed to be building something here, and he's still keeping shit like this from me."

Rita moved from her place to sit beside him, her voice softening as she spoke. "Michael, you've both been through a lot. He's spent most of his life not knowing you. This isn't going to be easy for either of you, but he's here now. You're working together, and that's a start."

Mike nodded, but the frustration still lingered in his eyes. "I just thought by now... I don't know. I guess I hoped we'd be closer. That he'd trust me at least.”

Rita placed a hand on his arm. "Give it time. He's working with you, with AMMO. He's in the states now, which means you have a chance to build that relationship. It's not going to happen overnight, but it will happen."

The tension in Mike's shoulders slowly eased, and he gave Rita a small, appreciative smile. Rita gently squeezed his arm, sensing that he'd had enough of heavy conversations for one day. "Come on," she said softly, standing up and offering her hand. "It's late, and we've got a long day tomorrow."

Mike watched her for a moment before taking her hand and letting her lead him. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the lingering frustrations and doubts as they reached his bedroom. Rita was already at the foot of the bed, pulling the covers back, her movements fluid and familiar. Mike watched her for a beat, appreciating the quiet routine they'd developed, even if it wasn't something he could show off to the world. Here, in the dim light of his home, it felt... real.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing a bustling hospital corridor bathed in the unforgiving light of late morning. The scent of antiseptic and the quiet murmur of medical staff hit them immediately. Mike led the way, his crisp, tailored jacket cutting a sharp contrast against Marcus's more laid-back attire, while Reggie and Armando followed closely behind, their eyes scanning the sterile surroundings.

They approached the reception desk, where a nurse in light blue scrubs sat typing on a computer, her fingers moving with practiced precision. Mike, ever the charmer, leaned in slightly, flashing his badge with a brief smile.

"Miami PD. " he said, his voice smooth. "Can you tell us if Hannah Davis is able to answer a few questions?"

The nurse's fingers stilled, and she glanced up at the four men before her eyes settled on Mike. She exhaled softly, a shadow passing over her face.

"She's awake in room 324," the nurse said, her voice measured. "But... she's suffered severe damage to her brain." She paused, her gaze shifting slightly as if unsure of how much to reveal. "Her short-term memory has been... hindered."

Marcus, standing just behind Mike, frowned and stepped forward, his brow creasing in confusion. "What does that mean exactly?"

The nurse's eyes flicked to Marcus, her expression softening as she elaborated, "She's lost the ability to make new memories. She won't remember anything that's happened since the incident. Every few minutes, it resets."

A cold, heavy silence settled over the group. Marcus shifted uncomfortably, his usual humor drained from his face as he processed what the nurse was saying. A kid, just sixteen years old, stuck in a loop, her life paused indefinitely because of a drug overdose.

Mike nodded slowly, the gravity of the situation written in the tight set of his jaw. "Thank you," he said quietly, stepping back from the desk. The nurse gave them a sad, knowing look before returning to her screen.As they made their way down the hall, the weight of the news sat heavy on their shoulders.

Marcus stopped just outside the door, his hand on the handle, and glanced over his shoulder at Reggie and Armando. "Hey, y'all hang back. We don't want to overwhelm the girl with too many faces."

Reggie gave a small nod with a sharp, “Yes sir.”while Armando just shrugged, not taking it personally. They both found chairs along the wall in the hallway, Armando into them while Reggie took to standing.

With a quick exchange of looks, Mike and Marcus steeled themselves before entering the room. Inside, the soft hum of machines filled the space, and the sterile white walls were softened only by the presence of an older woman sitting at the bedside. She had dark hair streaked with silver and light eyes that glinted with fatigue and heartache. Beside her, a young girl lay propped up on pillows, her complexion glowing with youthful health that seemed at odds with the reality they had just been told. Hannah Davis looked like any other teenager, but the hollow space between who she had been yesterday and who she was now seemed to fill the room.

The two men greeted the woman, their voices quiet but professional.

"Ma'am, I'm Detective Mike Lowrey, this is Detective Marcus Burnett," Mike began.

The woman stood and offered her hand, her grip firm despite the tremble in her lip. "I'm Helan Davis. Hannah's mother."

Mike nodded, glancing over at Hannah. The girl's eyes flitted between the detectives and her mother, a nervous energy radiating from her. Marcus softened his stance a little.

"Mrs. Davis," Marcus began, "if you're okay with it, we'd like to ask Hannah a few things. We'll take it slow. If she needs a break at any time, just let us know."

Helan hesitated, looking down at her daughter, her fingers brushing lightly against Hannah's hand. "It's okay, honey," she said softly. "Just tell them what you can remember."

Mike stepped closer to Hannah's bedside. "Hannah, we just need to know what happened last night. Anything you remember can help us."

Hannah swallowed, her eyes darting to her mother, seeking permission or maybe forgiveness. When Helan nodded, Hannah looked back at Mike, her voice barely above a whisper. "Maddie... my friend... she wanted to go out with this guy from her Geometry class—Tyler."

Marcus raised a brow, waiting for her to continue. She paused, her eyes welling up with the weight of the truth.

"But Tyler didn’t want to go out unless Maddie found a date for his friend, Zach. So... Maddie asked me to go with them."

Marcus exchanged a look with Mike, both sensing the nerves in Hannah's words.

Hannah hesitated, glancing down at the blanket in her lap. "I thought we were just going to the movies." Her voice wavered. "But then... in the car... Maddie gave me a fake ID. She said we were going to sneak into a club."

Helan's jaw tightened, though she stayed silent, squeezing her daughter's hand.

Mike nodded, taking this in. "Do you know who gave you the fake IDs?"

Hannah shook her head. "Zach got them. From some guy at a gas station... in an alleyway."

Marcus cut in, his tone gentle. "Did you or Maddie plan to meet anyone at the club?"

"No," Hannah whispered, shaking her head again. "At least, not that I knew of."

Mike pressed forward, his voice soft. "What about the vape pen? Where'd you get that?"

Hannah hesitated again, looking back at her mother. Helan squeezed her hand tighter this time, offering a small nod of encouragement.

"Maddie... Maddie went up to a guy at another booth. She got the pen from him. The same guy Zach got his from." Her voice cracked, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She turned to her mother fully now, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to—"

Helan wrapped her arms around her daughter, pulling her close as she started to cry. "Shh, honey. It's okay. We'll get through this," she whispered, her voice steady, though her eyes betrayed her fear.

Mike waited a beat before asking the final question. "Hannah, can you describe the guy Maddie talked to? The one with the vape pen?"

Hannah sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I never saw his face... but I remember he had wings."

"Wings?" Marcus asked, puzzled.

"Yeah," she nodded slowly, her voice distant, like she was trying to reach for the memory through fog. "Tattooed on his chest. They were... big, like angel wings."

Mike and Marcus exchanged a glance. It was a small detail, but one that could make all the difference. Mike nodded, taking a mental note of it.

Just then, Hannah turned to her mom again, her voice smaller this time. "Mom... I need to use the bathroom."

Helan nodded quickly, helping her daughter out of bed. Hannah stood shakily but managed to walk the short distance to the bathroom door on her own, closing it softly behind her.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Helan's composure shattered. Her body slumped as she pressed a hand to her face, choking back sobs that came in short, sharp gasps. Mike shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to approach, while Marcus stood still, giving her a moment.

Helan's voice was choked with emotion as she spoke. "I just... I don't know what happened. I normally keep such close track of her. I'm always so careful. But with my husband away on his business trip—he hasn't answered a single call—and the workload piling up at the office... I thought she was fine. She's always been so independent. I never imagined..."

Marcus stepped forward, his tone comforting. "None of this is your fault, Mrs. Davis. Kids make mistakes, and sometimes things slip through the cracks. It's not a reflection of your parenting."

Helan's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and despair. "Not all kids end up dead or with their memory permanently damaged, Detective. It's not just a mistake. It's—" Her voice cracked, and she buried her face in her hands, sobs escaping despite her attempts to stifle them. “She'll never be the same, will she? She won't even remember this conversation in a few minutes."

The weight of that truth hung in the air, pulling all their hearts down with it.

Marcus cleared his throat, trying to find the right words. "We'll find the people responsible for this, Mrs. Davis. I promise you that."

Helan's eyes met his, searching for something—hope, maybe, or a reason to believe. She gave a small nod, wiping her tears away as best she could. Helan wiped her eyes, trying to pull herself together. "The doctors want to run a few more tests before they discharge her later today. They said it's important for Hannah to return to familiar surroundings to minimize her distress when her memory resets."

The weight of Helan's words settled heavily in the room. Mike and Marcus shared a solemn look.

"Mrs. Davis," Mike said gently, "we'll make sure to keep you updated on our progress. We're committed to finding the people responsible for this."

Helan nodded, her face pale but resolute. At that moment, the bathroom door opened, and Hannah emerged, her face fresh from washing up. She looked between her mother and the detectives, her confusion evident.

"Mom, who are they?" Hannah asked, her voice tentative.

Helan's face fell as she realized the implications. "They're detectives from Miami PD, sweetie. They were asking about last night."

The realization hit Mike and Marcus simultaneously. Hannah's memory had reset; the last twenty minutes had vanished from her mind as if they never happened.

The hallway was quiet, the kind of quiet that amplifies every small noise. Armando sat leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest. Across from him, Reggie stood like a sentinel, his posture rigid, the muscle memory of his Marine days still alive in the way he held himself. His eyes were fixed forward, scanning the hall as if waiting for something—anything—to happen.

For several minutes, the only sound was the hum of distant hospital machines and the quiet shuffle of medical staff moving in and out of rooms. But soon, Armando became aware of another sound—a rapid, relentless tapping. His eyes stayed closed, but his brow furrowed in annoyance.

Reggie's foot was tapping against the tile floor, the pace picking up every second. Armando let out a small sigh, trying to ignore it. The tapping, though, became impossible to drown out. After a few more moments, Armando's frustration peaked.

Without opening his eyes or changing his posture, he asked, voice casual yet irritated, "You waiting for permission to piss, or what?"

The tapping stopped immediately. Reggie looked down at his foot, realizing Armando was addressing him. "Uh... no," he said awkwardly, "Detectives Lowrey and Burnett told us to wait out here."

At that, Armando opened one eye and cast a dubious glance in Reggie's direction. "Detectives Lowrey and Burnett, huh?" he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You always refer to them like you're in basic training?"

"It's called respect," Reggie replied, crossing his arms. "Something you wouldn't know much about."

Armando let out a low scoff, now sitting up a little straighter. “Yeah? What's that supposed to mean?"

Reggie shifted his stance, his voice calm but pointed. "You still call your father by his first name like you're a stranger. You clearly don't respect Detective Lowrey."

Armando straightened up completely, his easygoing facade slipping. His jaw clenched as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Watch it, man. You don't know anything about me."

Reggie didn't back down, though. "That's the problem, Aretas. No one knows anything about you because you don't let anyone in. Hell, your own father didn't even know you were engaged."

The tension in the air snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Armando shot to his feet, "Mind your fucking business, Sargent Boy Scout."

Reggie stood his ground, meeting Armando's intensity without blinking. The two stood there, locked in a silent standoff, their frustration bubbling to the surface. Just as it seemed things might escalate, a nurse wheeled a cart right between them, breaking through the tension with an obliviousness that only heightened the absurdity of the moment.

Armando clenched his fists, but as the nurse passed, he took a deep breath and forced himself back into the chair, muttering under his breath. He leaned back, trying to settle his irritation, while Reggie returned to his watchful stance, though the air between them remained thick.

It wasn't long, however, before the familiar sound of Reggie's foot tapping started up again, quieter at first but picking up speed just like before. Armando squeezed his eyes shut in exasperation before muttering a curse in Spanish.

"Por el amor de Dios, *For the love of God* go to the fucking bathroom already!"

Reggie, startled, looked down at his foot and then back at Armando. "Uh... yeah, okay. I'll be right back."

As Reggie hurried off down the hall, Armando finally allowed himself a moment of peace, the silence—at last—returning to the hallway.

Reggie rushed down the hospital halls, turning the corner and practically skidding into the men's room. He made a beeline for the first open urinal, the pressure of needing to pee finally releasing with a sigh. As he finished up, he made his way to the sinks, washing his hands with a few quick pumps of soap. His mind was still half outside door 324, keeping an eye on things.

Just as Reggie rinsed his hands, the sound of a toilet flushing drew his attention. From the stall emerged a massive man, easily towering over six feet, he rolled his white sleeves down to cover arms of heavy black tattoos that snaked up farther than Reggie could see. His surgical mask concealed most of his face, but his eyes were sharp, darting around like he was more alert than a typical medical staffer.

Reggie's instincts flared immediately. Something about the guy wasn't right. He washed his hands too fast, barely scrubbing before bolting from the restroom with a casualness that felt forced. Reggie shook the water from his hands and, without thinking, began to tail him.

The guy moved swiftly, but not with the purpose of someone who belonged there. Reggie followed him discreetly through a few turns in the hospital corridor until the man disappeared into a supply closet. Reggie waited a moment, leaning casually against the wall, his mind racing. Something about this situation screamed wrong. He glanced down the hallway but stayed put, waiting for the man to reemerge.

After a few minutes, he couldn't afford to leave his post any longer. He made his way back to Armando, who was still lounging in his chair with an indifferent expression. Reggie sat down, his eyes never leaving the supply closet.

Armando, noticing the tension, raised an eyebrow and followed Reggie's gaze. "Why you staring like that?"

Reggie leaned forward slightly, his voice low. "The man that just came outta the bathroom—big, tatted up, scrubs and a mask—he's not right. He went into that supply closet, but something about him... it didn't feel like hospital staff."

Armando straightened up in his chair, shifting to get a better look at the man, who had just emerged from the supply closet and was now rifling through some files at a nearby desk. Nobody else seemed to notice him, which struck Armando as odd. He wasn't interacting with any other staff, like he was trying too hard to blend in.

"You sure about this?" Armando asked, his eyes narrowing.

Reggie nodded. "Problem is, I can't act without approval from the detectives, you know? I’m still a rookie."

Armando rolled his eyes, pushing himself out of the chair. "Rookie my ass," he muttered, brushing past Reggie.

"Wait—Armando!" Reggie whispered urgently, trying to stop him. But Armando was already halfway across the hall, ignoring the warning.

Armando walked over to the vending machine, the perfect cover to observe the guy without being obvious. He punched in some buttons for a coffee, all the while stealing glances at the man rifling through the files. From his position, Armando could see the bulge at the man's ankle—a telltale sign of a concealed weapon. Definitely not standard hospital issue.

Just as Armando's eyes moved up from the ankle holster, the man turned, catching him watching. For a split second, their eyes locked.

Then, without warning, the man bolted.

The files scattered to the floor as he took off down the hallway, his heavy footsteps echoing against the sterile tiles. Armando cursed under his breath, spilling the hot coffee as he turned to run after the guy.

Armando's boots pounded against the hospital tiles as he sprinted after the tattooed man, his heart racing but his mind focused. He dodged nurses, rolling carts, and patients being wheeled down the halls, keeping his eye on the man as he knocked over everything in his path. Chairs clattered, trays crashed, and people were shoved aside as the guy barreled through the corridor like a wrecking ball.

Despite the chaos, Armando managed to avoid the obstacles, slipping past tumbling chairs and hurdling overturned carts with ease. Just when he was about to close the distance, the tattooed man sent an older woman's wheelchair spinning into the middle of the hall, knocking her to the ground. Armando gritted his teeth as he jumped over her fallen form. He cursed under his breath and, despite the rush of adrenaline and frustration, skidded to a stop.

"Damn it!" he muttered, turning back.

The tattooed man was getting farther away, but Armando couldn't ignore the woman. He rushed back, kneeling beside her as she reached out, confused and shaken. Her face was pale, her breaths shallow with shock. Speaking softly in Spanish, Armando reassured her as he gently helped her up and steadied her in her wheelchair.

"Está bien, señora. ¿Estás herido?" *Its okay, ma’am. Are you hurt?* he asked, his voice calm despite his urgency.

The woman blinked up at him, her hands trembling as she gripped the arms of the chair. "No, no, gracias... estoy bien. Solo me asusté..." * No, no, thanks... I'm fine. I just got scared...*

"Lo siento mucho," *I am very sorry* Armando said quickly, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze before checking her over one last time before he bolted back down the hall. The chase wasn't over.

Armando pushed the door to the stairwell open with his shoulder, his eyes scanning downward as he leaped down the first flight of stairs. The clattering of hurried footsteps echoed beneath him, and a flash of a bald head caught his attention a few floors below. That had to be him.

He jumped two steps at a time, his breaths coming in short bursts as he descended rapidly. The tattooed man had a good lead, but Armando wasn't about to let this guy get away. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, sharpening his senses. Every turn of the stairwell felt tighter, every floor a blur as he pounded down after his target. The sounds of the man's movements echoed in the concrete stairwell, guiding him like a beacon.

When Armando finally hit the ground floor, he could hear the heavy thudding of footsteps just ahead. He tore through the lobby doors, his eyes locked on the back of a man sprinting toward the exit. Armando lunged forward, closing the distance in a final burst of speed before he tackled the man from behind, sending them both crashing to the floor.

They hit the ground hard, sliding across the smooth tiles. Armando wrestled with the man, using every bit of strength he had to pin him down. It took a few seconds of struggling, but eventually, Armando managed to flip the guy over and press his arm into the man's chest to keep him still.

But as soon as the man turned, Armando froze. It wasn't the tattooed guy. Not even close.

The bald man beneath him, wide-eyed and gasping for breath, was in his fifties, a look of sheer terror plastered on his face. His hospital scrubs had become bunched up and he looked nothing like the muscular figure Armando had been chasing.

"What are you doing?!” the man shouted, trying to wriggle free.

Armando blinked in disbelief, the realization sinking in hard. He'd grabbed the wrong guy.

"Shit!" Armando muttered, quickly letting go and jumping to his feet.

The man scrambled to his feet, his face flushed with anger and confusion, but Armando was already scanning the lobby. His true target was nowhere to be seen.

[hyper-trash-panda]

[hyper-trash-panda]

Bad Boys — Legacy pt 1/?

No clue how many parts this is gonna be, just running on vibes

Warnings = blood, violence, cursing

Rated R

The first light of dawn stretched over the Miami skyline, painting the horizon with streaks of gold and crimson. A thick mist hovered over the water, shrouding the old dock in a cloak of shadows. On the weathered planks, a group of Cuban men stood in tense silence. Their faces were hard, eyes sharp, scanning the area for any sign of trouble; dressed in dark suits that clung to their muscular frames, the sheen of expensive leather shoes glinting with each subtle movement.

At the center of the group stood a man whose very presence commanded respect. He was tall, with broad shoulders and an air of authority that was undeniable. His suit was a shade darker than the rest, almost black, tailored to perfection. A blood-red tie stood out against the crisp white of his shirt. His hair slicked back with precision, and a thin scar ran down the side of his face.

The soft hum of an approaching ship broke the silence. All eyes turned to the water as a large freighter, its name obscured by rust and age, glided into view. The ship's engines rumbled low, echoing through the stillness as it came to a slow stop at the dock. A moment later, the creaking of metal rang out as the gangway was lowered, and from the bowels of the ship, men began to emerge. They were a stark contrast to the polished appearance of Vargas and his crew. These men moved with the silent, practiced steps of those who lived in the shadows. At their center was a figure that drew every gaze, even from those who were trying not to stare.

He was a mountain of a man, standing nearly a head taller than the others. His skin was a canvas of ink that told a story of violence, loyalty, and survival. The lines and shapes crawled up his neck and over his bald head, a mix of intricate designs and symbols that marked him as someone who had seen the inside of more than one prison. His eyes were dark, almost black, as they scanned the dock with a cold, calculating detachment. He wore a simple black hoodie and cargo pants that allowed for easy movement. His look was nondescript, designed to blend in yet his sheer size and the aura of danger made him impossible to ignore.

The tattooed man stepped off the ship, his heavy boots thudding against the dock. He paused, waiting as his men, similarly dressed in muted tones and rough fabrics, spread out in a wide formation, creating a perimeter around him.

Vargas took a step forward, his eyes narrowing as he appraised the newcomer. Despite the size of the man before him, Vargas showed no sign of intimidation. He extended a hand, the gesture formal, but his expression was anything but friendly.

"You're early," Vargas spoke in Spanish, his voice a low growl, thick with a Cuban accent.

The tattooed man did not immediately respond. Instead, he reached up, slowly pulling back his hood to reveal a face that was a patchwork of scars and faded ink. His lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"We don't like to keep people waiting," he replied, his voice a deep rumble, carrying a hint of an accent that was difficult to place, yet held Hispanic origins.

For a moment, it seemed as though the air itself had thickened; suffocating. Neither man moved, each waiting for the other to make the first gesture.

Finally, Vargas broke the silence. "You have what we agreed on?"

The tattooed man's smile widened just a fraction. "It's all here," he said, gesturing to the ship behind him. "But first, I want to see your end of the deal."

Vargas nodded, a brief, curt motion. He turned to one of his men, who quickly opened a large, steel case at his feet. Inside, stacks of cash were neatly arranged, the crisp bills reflecting the early morning light.

"Everything as promised," Vargas said, a note of pride in his voice. "Now, let's get this done."

The tattooed man's eyes flicked to the case, then back to Vargas. For a second, something like amusement flashed in his gaze before it vanished, replaced by the same cold indifference.

"Let's," he agreed, his tone almost mocking as he moved toward the ship.

The tattooed man turned on his heel, walking back up the gangway and disappearing into the shadows of the ship's hold. Vargas and his men watched him closely, their hands inching toward their concealed weapons, ready for anything. After a few moments, the tattooed man reemerged, carrying a large black duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He descended the ramp with deliberate slowness. When he reached the dock, he dropped the duffel bag at Vargas's feet with a heavy thud. The sound echoed through the stillness, but Vargas remained unmoved, his expression hardening as he glanced down at the bag.

"That's it?" Vargas asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "This is what you bring me after all the promises? This... pathetic little bag?"

The tattooed man's jaw tightened, a flash of irritation crossing his face. He folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes narrowing as he locked gazes with Vargas. "If you want more, you need to pay more.” he shrugged coldly. His voice was low, a warning that Vargas would have been wise to heed.

But Vargas was not a man to be threatened. His lip curled into a sneer as he gave a slight nod. In an instant, his men raised their weapons, the clicks of safety switches echoing in the quiet morning rays. Rifles and pistols were now trained on the tattooed man and his crew, fingers itching to pull the triggers.

"I don't think you understand how this works," Vargas said, his voice a deadly whisper. "You don't get to dictate terms here. I paid for a full shipment, not some half-assed delivery. Now, give me the rest of the supply, or I'll take it myself-starting with what you owe me."

The tattooed man remained still, his expression unreadable as he glanced at the weapons now aimed at him. He didn't flinch, didn't blink. Instead, a dark smile crept across his lips.

"You think you're in control, don't you?" he murmured, almost to himself. Then, louder, he added, "You talk a lot for someone who doesn't know what he's dealing with."

Vargas's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Don't play games with me. I know you're not the real leader here. You're just the muscle—the errand boy. I want to talk to the one in charge. I want to talk to—“

Vargas's words were cut off by the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot. The sound shattered the morning calm, reverberating off the dock and across the water. For a split second, time seemed to freeze. Then, as if in slow motion, Vargas's head snapped back, a single bullet hole appearing dead center between his eyes. The shock in his expression remained frozen on his face as he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Blood sprayed in a fine mist, some of it spattering across the tattooed man's face. The Cuban leader's men stood in stunned silence, their weapons still raised, but now useless in their trembling hands. The tattooed man didn't so much as blink as the blood dripped down his cheek. Without a word, he knelt down beside the fallen body of Emilio Vargas. The once-proud tyrant now lay in a growing pool of his own blood, eyes vacant, staring up at the dawn sky. The tattooed man reached into the dead man's jacket pocket and pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief. He unfolded it with a flick of his wrist, wiping the blood from his forehead with calm precision.

Rising to his feet, the tattooed man glanced at the remaining men, who were still frozen in place, their weapons slowly lowering as the reality of the situation sank in. He turned back to the ship, wiping the last remnants of blood from his cheek as he spoke, his voice laced with irritation. "You sure took your time making your entrance."

From the shadows of the ship's hold, a figure emerged, his presence immediately commanding. He was a tall, imposing man, his frame exuding both power and control. He wore a sleek black leather jacket that clung to his muscular build, the fabric smooth and unblemished, reflecting the dim morning light with a subtle sheen. Matching black gloves encased his hands, the leather creaking softly as he recalibrated the weapon he had just fired. His thick, jet-black hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his skin was deeply tanned.

As he descended the gangway, each step deliberate and measured. The men on the dock, both his own and the remaining Cubans, seemed to instinctively straighten. There was no doubt in anyone's mind now—this was the man in charge, the true leader of the Cartel. Reaching the bottom of the gangway, he looked down at the lifeless body of Emilio Vargas, his expression unreadable. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the scene before him with mild curiosity, then spoke in a calm, almost casual tone. "He wanted to speak with the leader," he said, his voice carrying a faint accent that hinted at his origins but remained elusive. "So I took that as his last dying wish." He shrugged.

The remaining Cuban gang members began murmuring to each other in rapid Spanish, their voices a mixture of panic and defiance. Their weapons rose once more, but their hands trembled, betraying their fear. They were outnumbered and outclassed, and they knew it.

The dark-haired leader turned to tattooed one, his expression softening only slightly as he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Handle the nuisances, Alejandro," he said, his tone both an order and a display of trust.

Alejandro nodded, understanding the unspoken command. He turned to the group of Cuban men, his eyes narrowing as he assessed them with the cold precision of a predator sizing up its prey. Without hesitation, the men under Alejandro's command moved into action, their weapons firing with deadly accuracy. The sounds of gunfire echoed across the dock, mingling with the cries of the Cuban gang members as they were cut down one by one. The air filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood, the once-peaceful dawn now shattered by violence.

The dark-haired leader didn't bother to watch the carnage unfold. He turned his back on the scene and began to walk back toward the ship, his posture relaxed, his hands casually slipping into the pockets of his leather jacket.

As he reached the top of the gangway, he paused for a moment, looking out over the city of Miami as the first rays of sunlight began to pierce the horizon. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. This was only the beginning. The real work was about to start, and soon, the entire city would know who truly controlled its streets. He disappeared into the ship's hold, leaving the chaos behind him, confident that when he emerged again, Miami would be his for the taking.

Mike gripped the steering wheel tighter than usual, his knuckles faintly turning white as he navigated the streets of Miami. The late morning sun cast a golden glow over the city, but inside the Porsche, the atmosphere was anything but warm.

Armando sat in the passenger seat, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed out the window. His expression was neutral, unreadable. Behind him, Marcus was wedged in the backseat with Reggie, both of them doing their best to pretend the tension wasn't thick enough to cut with a knife. Mike stole a glance at Armando, struggling to find the right words. He'd rehearsed this moment a dozen times in his head, yet now, everything he wanted to say seemed to evaporate into thin air. "So, uh..." Mike started, his voice low and hesitant, "you catch that game last night?"

Armando turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge Mike's attempt at conversation. "No."

Silence. Mike's jaw tightened as he searched for something, anything, to keep the conversation alive, but Armando's single-word response shut it down cold. The young man returned his gaze to the window, clearly uninterested in continuing.

From the backseat, Marcus watched the exchange unfold, his mind racing for a way to ease the tension. "Hey, nephew.” Marcus began, leaning forward slightly, "Can I call you that?” He began, “It’s nice to finally have someone I can say that to, you know?”

Armando turned slightly to the older man across him, his gaze indifferent and unreadable as Marcus continued to ramble. “My sister, Syd—ah Sydney, had a daughter last year, so I got a niece, but Mike and I have been like brothers since forever. My kids call him Uncle Mike, always have. He's family, you know?"

Armando's expression remained impassive, but his brows knitting together slightly. The word 'nephew' hung in the air. Marcus caught the look and felt a momentary twinge of regret.

"But hey," Marcus hurried to add, sensing his first attempt was a miss, "you don't have to call me Uncle Marcus or anything. It's just a formality, really. I mean, Mike never had kids, so I couldn't have a nephew until now, but that doesn't mean you have to, uh..."

"Okay," Armando interrupted, his tone flat. He turned back to the window, clearly done with the conversation.

Marcus blinked, his enthusiasm deflating like a balloon. "Okay," he echoed softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned back in his seat.

In the silence that followed, Reggie shifted uncomfortably beside Marcus. He glanced at Mike, then at Marcus, and then back again. Finally, he cleared his throat, setting his gaze on Mike, trying to lighten the mood. "Since I'm Mr. Burnett's son-in-law, Sir, does that make you my uncle too?"

Mike and Marcus both turned their heads sharply, their voices overlapping in an unplanned chorus. "Shut up, Reggie!"

Reggie nodded in understanding before he slouched back into his seat, clearly regretting his attempt at humor. The car returned to its strained silence, the only sound the hum of the engine and the soft whir of the air conditioning.

The silence persisted as they arrived at the police precinct, the car's tires crunching over the gravel before Mike parked in his usual spot. The four of them stepped out, the Miami heat wrapping around them like a blanket. Mike adjusted his sunglasses, his jaw set in that familiar hard line, while Marcus stretched, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the uncomfortable ride.

Armando followed Mike's lead, his face betraying nothing as he took in the precinct. He hadn't been here before, so the place felt foreign, like walking into enemy territory. Reggie brought up the rear, locking his hands behind his back and trying to blend into the background as they made their way inside. As they entered the precinct, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations dimmed, and the once-busy hallway grew quieter as officers and detectives turned to stare at Armando. Mike felt the weight of the stares as if they were aimed at him, too.

"Eyes front, people," Mike muttered under his breath, but he knew it was a futile command. Everyone knew who Armando was: The man who killed Captain Howard. The son Mike didn't know he had until it was almost too late. The kid who went from enemy to something...else.

Armando's reputation walked ahead of him, clearing a path through the crowd, but it wasn't respect that parted the sea of officers. It was fear, suspicion, maybe even hate. Mike could feel it, and he knew Armando did too. Marcus tried to deflect some of the tension by nodding at familiar faces, offering a few quick hellos, but it was like trying to stop a flood with a sponge. He could see the wariness in their eyes, the way they glanced at Armando and then away, as if looking too long might invite trouble.

Marcus glanced at Armando, then at the officers, and leaned in closer to Mike. "Man, you'd think they'd never seen a drug dealer before," he whispered, trying to sound casual.

Mike gave him a look, a silent warning to drop it. This wasn't the time or place to make light of the situation, not when the past hung over them like a storm cloud ready to break. They finally reached the glass conference room in the narcotics division. The door was slightly ajar, and Mike pushed it open without hesitation, leading the way inside. Rita was already there, her expression serious, though a flicker of something softer crossed her face when she saw Mike. She stood at the head of the long table, her crisp suit a stark contrast to the informal tension they carried with them from the car. Beside her, Dorn nodded in greeting, his usual stoic demeanor in place.

"Detectives," Rita greeted them, her tone professional but warm. Then her eyes shifted to Armando, and the warmth cooled, replaced by something more guarded. "Aretas."

"Captain," Armando replied, his voice even, giving her a respectful nod. But there was no warmth in his tone, just the acknowledgment of her rank and position.

Rita's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she looked at Reggie. "Officer Burnett," she greeted, her tone slightly less formal, almost as if she was relieved to address someone without the baggage.

"Captain Secada, ma’am" Reggie replied, throwing in a small salute that made Marcus roll his eyes.

"Man, I'm never going to get used to you changing your last name." Marcus comments before leaning back in his seat.

"I find it rather respectable that he didn't pressure Megan to change her last name and changed his instead." Rita nodded, returned a half-smile before getting down to business.

Everyone took their seats around the table, the tension lingering like a storm cloud. Dorn, ever efficient, moved to the side and retrieved a single folder, placing it directly in front of Armando. The half-Mexican man eyed the folder for a moment before flipping it open. His eyes scanned the first few lines, and Mike could see the muscles in his jaw tighten as he absorbed the contents.

Rita, watching Armando closely, began to speak, her tone measured and precise. "The folder contains the terms of your contract with the District Attorney. You're here because Detective Lowrey"—she glanced at Mike—"convinced the DA that you're no longer a threat, but an asset. Your expertise in the underworld is invaluable, and that's why we've offered you this deal."

Armando didn't look up as she spoke, his focus still on the document before him. Mike knew what was going through his son's mind; he could see it in the slight twitch of Armando's brow.

"The terms are simple," Rita continued, her voice carrying a note of finality. "You'll work as a consultant for AMMO for the remainder of your prison sentence. For every case you help us close, your sentence will be reduced. However, during this time, you'll be under 24/7 surveillance, as if you were still in prison."

Finally, Armando looked up, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked from Rita to Mike and then to Marcus, who sat stiffly in his chair.

"Detective Burnett," Rita continued "has agreed to open his home to you during this time. The DA felt it would be too unreliable for you to stay with your father." Her eyes flicked back to Armando, gauging his reaction. "This is a controlled environment. We can't afford any slip-ups."

Armando's gaze shifted to Marcus, who gave a small smile, but made no attempt at humor—just an acknowledgment of the reality they were all in.

Dorn stepped forward, a metal case in his hands. He placed it on the table in front of Armando and flipped the latches open. The case clicked, revealing a sleek ankle monitor nestled inside.

"This," Dorn began, his voice low and authoritative, "is your new accessory." He stepped back, nodding to Rita, who took over the explanation.

"You'll be wearing this monitor at all times. It's calibrated to track your whereabouts within a specific zone in the greater Miami area." She motioned to Dorn, who pulled up a projection on the screen behind her. A map of Miami appeared, with a large circle indicating the designated area. "This is your boundary. Step one foot out of this zone, and every patrol car in the area will be notified and instructed to arrest you."

Armando's eyes flicked to the screen, his face remaining stoic as he took in the information.

"You get three strikes," Rita continued, her tone firm. "Three violations, and the deal is off. You'll be sent back to prison to serve the remainder of your sentence. No appeals, no second chances."

The room was silent for a moment as the weight of Rita's words settled over them. Mike watched Armando closely, wondering what was going through his son's mind. He knew this wasn't the life Armando had imagined for himself, but it was the only path forward now.

Armando finally leaned back in his chair, his eyes meeting Rita's. "I understand."

Rita nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response. She glanced at Mike and Marcus, then back to Armando. "Good." Rita nodded to Dorn as he stepped forward, picking up the ankle monitor from the case. Armando watched him, expression neutral, as Dorn knelt and fastened the device around his ankle.

"This monitor is tamper-proof.” Dorn stated, “It's been calibrated to send an alert if it's removed or tampered with in any way." Armando remained silent, his face a mask of indifference as Dorn secured and activated the monitor. "If that happens, you'll be treated as an escaped convict and hunted down accordingly. You're also restricted from engaging in any unsanctioned activities, which include but are not limited to: contacting known felons, carrying unauthorized weapons, or entering areas flagged as high-risk for narcotics activity—those will get you strikes. Understand?"

"Sí," Armando replied, his voice clipped but clear.

"Good." Dorn handed Armando a pen, pointing to the necessary sections in the contract. "Sign here, here, and here."

As Armando began to sign, Mike stood and moved toward the door, catching Rita's eye. She raised a brow but followed him out of the room. Mike closed the door behind them, ensuring they were out of earshot of the others.

"Rita," Mike began, his voice softening, "I just wanted to thank you for helping me get Armando this deal. I know it wasn't easy."

Rita crossed her arms, her expression serious but not unkind. "Michael, you should be thanking Judy Howard. It was her testimony, along with Callie's, about how Armando saved her life that made the DA even consider giving him a chance."

Mike nodded, acknowledging the truth of her words. "I know, and I have. But I also know that your reputation, your standing as the Captain of the narcotics division, made a difference. Your dedication to protocol and procedures is what convinced the DA to let Armando stay here in Miami, instead of being shipped off to some precinct in the middle of nowhere."

Rita's tough exterior softened slightly, and she allowed herself a small smile. "I'll take that as a compliment. But remember, Michael, this is still a gamble. Armando's got a lot to prove."

Mike followed her gaze back into the conference room, where Dorn was pointing out the sections Armando needed to sign. "I know," Mike said quietly.

Rita nodded, her expression thoughtful. "But I can see the good in him. He just needs the right guidance."

Mike looked at her, his expression softening with affection. "And I can't think of anyone better for that job than you, Captain." Mike grinned, stepping closer to her, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone. "It's a good thing Armando has the chance to work under such a dedicated Captain. Someone who'll keep him in line."

Rita's smile widened, her eyes flicking up to meet his. "Keeping Armando in line won't be easy. He's a lot like his father, unfortunately."

Mike's gaze locked with hers as the distance between them shrank. "Is that right?" he murmured, inching even closer.

But before the moment could go any further, a sharp rap on the glass pulled them both back to reality. They jumped apart, turning to see Marcus standing on the other side, knocking on the window. Through the glass, his voice was muffled but still clear enough. "Hey, Mike, we're gonna show Armando around the station."

Mike sighed, annoyance flickering across his face. He waved Marcus off, trying to salvage the moment. "Go ahead without me, man."

Marcus gave a thumbs-up, not oblivious to the tension he'd just interrupted, but turned back to the room, leading Armando and Reggie out.

Mike turned back to Rita, attempting to pick up where they left off, but she had already taken several steps back. The flirtation in her eyes had cooled, replaced by her usual professionalism.

"I'm late for a meeting," she said, her tone polite but firm. "We'll catch up later, Mike."

"Rita, wait—" Mike started, but she was already halfway down the hall, her heels clicking against the tile floor as she made her exit.

Mike watched her go, a mix of frustration and admiration in his expression. He ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath.

The neon lights of Eclipse flickered, casting vibrant hues of pink, blue, and purple onto the sidewalk where a line of eager patrons stretched down the block. Among them were four teenagers, standing out just slightly due to their awkward mix of confidence and trepidation. The two boys, tall and lanky, wore their best attempts at looking mature, sporting button-down shirts and jeans that fit just a bit too loosely, while their dates were dressed to impress.

Zach, the taller of the two, kept running his hand through his hair, trying to look nonchalant as he leaned over to his friend Tyler. "Just play it cool, man. We're in."

Tyler nodded, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him. "Yeah, no sweat."

On the other side of the boys stood Madison and Hannah, the girls' heels clicking softly on the pavement as they shuffled forward with the line. Madison, with her confident smile and perfectly styled hair, was the picture of excitement, craving the thrill of sneaking into a place where they clearly didn't belong. Beside her, Hannah clutched her tiny purse a little too tightly, her eyes darting nervously to the bouncer at the door.

"I don't know about this, Maddie," Hannah whispered, her voice tight with anxiety. "These IDs are trash. We're gonna get caught. My dad will kill me if he finds out."

Madison rolled her eyes, though there was affection in her tone. "Relax, isn't your dad out of town for another week? And besides, all you gotta do is act natural. Mature." She threw a playful smirk at her friend, who didn't look convinced.

Hannah bit her lip, casting another glance at the bouncer, a hulking figure whose muscles seemed to strain against his black T-shirt. "What if he asks questions? Or calls the cops?"

"Hey, come on. We didn't get all dressed up just to bail now." Madison looped her arm through Hannah's, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You've got this. Just follow my lead."

The line inched forward, and suddenly they were next. The bouncer, with his stern gaze and clipboard, motioned for them to approach. Madison stepped forward first, handing over her ID with a smile that bordered on flirtatious. "Good evening."

Hannah let out a frustrated sigh at what her friend considered 'mature', but followed suit; though her hand shook slightly as she handed over her ID. The boys did the same, standing a little taller, a little straighter, as if they were trying to will themselves into adulthood on the spot.

The bouncer scrutinized the IDs, his brow furrowing as he flipped them over, once, then twice. Hannah's heart pounded in her chest, her nerves making her feel faint. She could practically feel her father's disappointment and the grounded-for-life sentence he'd no doubt hand down already.

But just as the bouncer looked ready to ask a question, a loud shout came from behind him. Two men burst out of the club, fists swinging as they grappled with each other, knocking over a trash can and sending a cascade of bottles clattering to the ground. The bouncer turned, momentarily distracted by the commotion.

"Hey, knock it off!" he barked, stepping away from the teens. He waved them on without another glance.

Madison nudged Hannah, a triumphant grin on her face. "See? Told you it'd be fine."

Hannah could only nod, her pulse still racing as they slipped past the distracted bouncer and into the club's pulsating interior. As the heavy bass of the music washed over them, she let out a breath—her nerves slowly giving way to the thrill of the night ahead.

The sun dipped low on the Miami skyline, casting the city in hues of burnt orange and deepening shadows. The late evening air was thick with humidity, seeping into the black interior of Mike's sleek Porsche as it glided through the streets. Inside, the atmosphere was stifling in more ways than one. Mike's hands gripped the steering wheel, his usual swagger muted by the tense silence that had settled between the four men.

It had been a long day, most of it spent at the precinct acclimating Armando to his new role. The morning and afternoon were a blur of briefings, introductions, and tense meetings. Armando had been called upon to weigh in on several current narcotics cases—mostly low-level operations that wouldn't normally warrant attention. But that was the point. These cases were a test, a way for the team to gauge Armando's trustworthiness and see if he could be relied upon for accurate intel. He'd done his part, offering insights and identifying key players with a level of expertise that even the most seasoned detectives had to respect. Yet, despite the productive day, the air between him and the rest of the team was still thick with unspoken mistrust.

Marcus sat in the passenger seat, his eyes darting between Mike and the rearview mirror, where he caught glimpses of Reggie and Armando in the back. Reggie, who sat directly behind Marcus, stared out the window, while Armando, seated behind Mike, kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his expression unreadable. Marcus fidgeted with his phone before finally clearing his throat. "So, uh, Armando, Theresa called me earlier. She wanted to know if you liked smothered chicken." He forced a grin, trying to inject some warmth into the moment. "She's makin' it for dinner tonight to welcome you to our home."

Armando, finally turned his head slightly, his voice flat and accented as he replied, "Never had it."

Mike glanced in the rearview mirror, catching Armando's eye for a brief moment before returning his attention to the road. "Trust me, man, Theresa makes the best smothered chicken. Ain't nobody do it like her."

Marcus nodded eagerly, "She's got this special gravy, right? Learned it from her grandma. It's somethin' else, man. You won't find anything like it anywhere else."

Reggie, who had been silent up until now, leaned forward, "Is Miss Theresa gonna be makin' quinoa with the chicken?" Reggie asked, his voice almost casual.

Marcus whipped his head around to stare at Reggie, his face twisted in a mix of confusion and mild disgust. "Quin-what now? What the hell is that shit? And why would you even think that goes with smothered chicken?"

Mike smirked, glancing at Marcus out of the corner of his eye. "Quinoa, man. It's like rice, but healthier. High in protein, fiber—good stuff."

Marcus wasn't having it. He threw his hands up in the air. "If he wanted rice, he should've just asked for rice! Why you gotta complicate things with some fancy shit nobody asked for?"

Reggie shook his head. "I don't want rice, sir. I want quinoa."

Marcus looked ready to argue back, but Mike cut him off, "Man, you really should be eatin' quinoa. It's good for your blood sugar, helps with cholesterol, and it lowers the risk of heart disease."

Mike put particular emphasis on the last part, and Marcus immediately bristled. "Oh, here we go," Marcus muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'm the picture of health, Mike. I don't need no damn quinoa."

"Alright, show of hands. Who here has *not* had a heart attack in the last five years?" Mike took one hand off the steering wheel, raising it high.

Reggie raised his hand as well, throwing a cheeky grin in Marcus' direction.

There was a moment of silence as all eyes turned to Armando, who had been watching the exchange with quiet interest. He hesitated, clearly uncertain whether he should join in on the banter or keep his distance. Mike caught his eye in the rearview mirror, a small, encouraging smile tugging at his lips.

"Come on, man," Mike urged. "You got something to tell me, or what?"

Armando glanced at Marcus, who was glaring daggers at Mike, then slowly raised his hand, a reluctant grin finally breaking through his stoic expression.

Mike let out a whoop, the victory sweet on his tongue. "There we go! Three to one, joker. You're outvoted."

With a defeated sigh, Marcus slumped back in his seat, facing forward once more. "Theresa better not be makin' no damn quinoa."

Hours passed in a blur of pulsing lights and thumping bass, the night fully enveloping Eclipse in a haze of sweat and alcohol. The four teens had long since shed their initial nerves, now fully immersed in the wild energy of the night. At their table, a collection of empty shot glasses bore witness to the evening's indulgence.

Maddie and Hannah clinked their glasses together, giggling as they downed another shot of tequila. Hannah, who had started the night tightly wound and wary, now felt a warm, buzzing sensation coursing through her veins; leaving her feeling light, carefree, and, for the first time all night, fully present. She swayed to the music, laughing freely as Maddie cheered beside her.

"Best night ever!" Maddie shouted, her words slightly slurred, but her excitement unmistakable.

Before Hannah could respond, Tyler stumbled over to their table, his eyes wide and unfocused. "Yo, guys," he started, a grin plastered on his face, "some dude just gave me this." He held up a sleek, black vape pen as if it were a trophy.

Zach raised an eyebrow. "What's in it?"

Tyler shook his head, his movements loose and uncoordinated. "No idea, man. Took a couple of hits, though, and it's way stronger than any drink we've had tonight."

Maddie reached out for the pen. "Let me see that."

But Tyler quickly pulled it back, wagging a finger at her. "Nah, the guy said you gotta get your own. But he's over there if you want one." He pointed across the dance floor to where two men dressed in all black were seated in a booth mostly obscured by the crowd.

Even through her drunken haze, Hannah felt a flicker of hesitation. "I don't know about this, Maddie," she muttered, though the sharp edge of her earlier fear was dulled by the alcohol.

Maddie, unbothered by Hannah's uncertainty, waved her hand. "If you're that worried, just stay here. I'll get us both one."

Hannah watched as her friend sauntered over to the men, her confidence unwavering even in her slightly tipsy state. From her spot at the table, Hannah couldn’t make out the words exchanged over the blaring music, but she noticed how Maddie gestured back towards her at one point. One of the men, his chest exposed by a loosely buttoned shirt, turned to look directly at Hannah, a strange smile playing on his lips. She noted the wings inked across his skin, barely visible under the dim lights.

After what felt like an eternity, Maddie returned, stumbling slightly on her heels as she handed Hannah a vape pen identical to the one Tyler had shown them. "Here you go," she said with a smirk. "The guy said this one's just for you."

Hannah frowned, her earlier apprehension returning for a brief moment. "Why would he say that?"

Maddie shrugged, unbothered. "Probably thought you were hot or something. Who cares? Let's just enjoy it."

The two girls walked back onto the dance floor, joining the swaying mass of bodies as they each took several huffs from their pens. The vapor filled Hannah's lungs, a strange but not unpleasant taste lingering on her tongue. The effects hit almost immediately, her entire body warming with a comforting, almost overwhelming heat. The warmth spread from her chest outwards, melting away any last traces of anxiety, leaving only a sense of blissful euphoria. Hannah felt herself floating, the world around her softening into a dreamlike haze. The lights danced in time with the music, every beat sending a ripple of pleasure through her body. She grabbed Maddie's hand, laughing as they spun together, the club seeming to pulse with life.

Everything felt perfect, the night a brilliant kaleidoscope of color and sound, until suddenly, the heat in Hannah's body began to intensify, shifting from pleasant warmth to an unbearable burning. She felt herself begin to sweat, her skin clammy as she tried to focus on her friend.

"Maddie, I—" Hannah reached out, but her words died in her throat as Maddie turned to face her.

Blood poured from Maddie's eyes, staining her cheeks with crimson tears. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a wet, gurgling sound came out before she began to cough violently. Her body convulsed, her limbs jerking uncontrollably until, with a final, shuddering breath, she collapsed onto the floor.

Hannah's mind refused to process what she was seeing. It had to be the pen, or the alcohol, or maybe just a twisted dream. She couldn't move, couldn't think, as she stared at Maddie's limp form, her eyes wide with shock. Around her, the nightmare only deepened. The same grotesque scene began to unfold with others nearby; people screaming as blood poured from their eyes, noses, ears, and mouths; their bodies seizing before crumpling to the ground. The music pounded on, deafening and relentless, but all Hannah could hear was the sound of her own ragged breathing.

A wetness dripped from her nose. She touched her top lip, feeling the slick warmth of blood. Her hand trembled as she pulled it away, staring at the crimson stain on her fingers. The pain in her head was unbearable now, like her skull was being split open from the inside. Her vision blurred, the world around her spinning out of control. With a final, desperate gasp, Hannah's legs gave out, and she collapsed beside her friend, the night's horror swallowing her whole as the darkness claimed her.

Mike eased the car into the driveway. The ride had become quiet as the banter died down, but a weight had been lifted from the air. As soon as the car came to a stop, Reggie was out, eager to determine just which side would be accompanied with dinner. He gave Marcus a quick nod before heading to the front door. Marcus followed, keys already in hand, ready to step into the familiarity of home.

But Mike stayed put, watching as Armando unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out into the warm Miami evening. Mike took a deep breath, then reached for the trunk release. The click of the trunk opening broke the silence as Armando walked around to the back, retrieving his bag. The sound of the trunk closing seemed to echo louder than it should have in the quiet night.

Mike leaned against the car, his eyes fixed on Armando. "You know this is just temporary, right?" he said, his voice steady but carrying an edge of concern. "A few months of good faith with the department, and I'll see if we can renegotiate your deal. Maybe get you your own place. Or..." He paused, weighing his next words. "You could live with me if that’s what you want."

Armando didn't answer right away. He just stood there, his bag hanging at his side, eyes staring into the distance as if searching for something. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but there was a heaviness to it. "I knew what I was signing up for before I came back here. It's all good, detective."

Mike nodded, understanding the burden Armando was carrying. He wanted to say more, to offer some kind of reassurance, but instead, he forced a small smile. "Come on, let's get inside before Theresa has our heads for letting dinner get cold."

Armando gave a small nod, his grip tightening on his bag as they headed toward the house, the warm glow of the porch light guiding them to the doorstep. As Mike and Armando stepped into the house, the first thing they heard was a chorus of voices shouting in unison, "Welcome to Miami!" The sudden burst of sound startled both men, causing them to glance around the room in surprise.

Before them, a group stood grinning beneath a banner that read "Welcome Cousin Manny," the letters becoming more smushed and chaotic toward the end of the phrase. Theresa was front and center, her warm smile a beacon of welcome. Beside her stood Megan, Marcus's daughter, with a little girl who couldn't be more than one perched on her hip. The toddler, with big curious eyes, clung to her mother's shirt, looking at the newcomers with quiet interest. Reggie was flanked by two boys who looked like they were ready to burst with excitement.

Marcus moved forward first, his usual swagger tempered by the genuine warmth in his eyes. "Welcome, man," he said, clapping Armando on the shoulder before gesturing to his wife. "This is my better half, Theresa."

Theresa stepped up with a welcoming smile, her hand extended. "It's great to finally meet you, Armando. Welcome to the family."

Armando shook her hand, feeling a little overwhelmed by the warmth of the welcome. "Thank you," he said, his voice soft, but sincere.

Theresa nodded, then gestured for Megan to come closer. "And this is our daughter, Megan, and her littlest one, Amala."

Megan shifted Amala to her other hip and smiled. "Hi, it's nice to meet you," she said, while Amala regarded Armando with wide, curious eyes.

Armando nodded to both mother and daughter. "You too," he said, his gaze briefly lingering on the little girl, who gave a shy wave.

Reggie nudged his boys forward. "Alright, boys, introduce yourselves."

The older of the two, who looked about six, flashed a big grin, showing a very visibly missing front tooth. "I'm Marcus Jr., but everyone calls me MJ," he said proudly. "And this is my brother, Dwayne."

Dwayne, who couldn't have been more than four, stared up at Armando in awe, his eyes wide and unblinking. There was a moment of silence before MJ, sensing his brother's hesitation, gave him a gentle push. "Go on, say hi.”

But Dwayne had a different question on his mind. "Have you ever killed anyone.” he asked, his voice filled with innocent curiosity.

The room seemed to freeze for a moment, the air thick with the adults' collective intake of breath. "Dwayne!" came the chorus of scolding voices, but Armando simply shrugged, unphased.

"Yeah," Armando answered simply, meeting the boy's wide eyes with calm seriousness.

Dwayne blinked, his mouth slightly agape. "How many?" he asked before Reggie could reach him, covering his mouth with a swift hand.

But Armando answered anyway, his voice steady. "A lot."

Dwayne, his father's hand still over his mouth, managed to pull it away just enough to whisper, "Cool," his eyes still locked on Armando in amazement.

Megan, catching the moment, stepped forward quickly, herding the boys with practiced ease. "Alright, you two, time to wash up for dinner," she said, her voice firm but loving as she guided them toward the bathroom.

As the kids shuffled off, Marcus gave Armando an apologetic smile. Theresa clapped her hands lightly, breaking the moment of introductions. "Reggie, why don't you show Armando to the room he'll be staying in? It's your and Megan's old room."

Reggie snapped into a playful salute. "Yes ma'am," he said with a grin, then gestured for Armando to follow him.

Armando hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking back to Mike as if silently asking for permission. Mike caught the glance and gave a small nod. Reggie led the way, and Armando followed, disappearing deeper into the house. As they vanished down the hallway, Theresa turned her attention back to Mike and Marcus. "Alright, you two, help me finish setting the table. Dinner's almost ready."

"On it," Marcus said, trailing after his wife. As they moved toward the kitchen, he leaned in closer to her, lowering his voice to a curious whisper. "Hey, babe, you know what quinoa is?"

Mike chuckled at the exchange and was about to join them when the doorbell rang. He paused and called out, "I'll get it!"

Mike strode to the door and opened it to find a young woman standing there, holding a tattered yellow suitcase. She was beautiful, with deep brown hair of twists and single-stranded curls cascading down to her shoulders. Her white and red floral dress, cut off the shoulder and stopping just below her knees, contrasted beautifully against her dark skin.

She wore a polite smile, her eyes warm as she asked, "Is this the Burnett residence?"

Mike took a moment to assess her, his instincts quickly deeming her non-threatening. He returned her smile. "Yeah, you're at the right place. And you are?"

Before the woman could answer, a voice called out from the hallway. "Val?"

Mike turned to see Armando standing there, a look of confusion and surprise on his face.

The woman, Val, however, seemed relieved and stepped into the house, closing the distance between them as she embraced Armando tightly.

Though he hesitated at first, his arms encircled her waist. He leaned in closer to her ear, speaking in a hushed tone of Spanish. "¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?" ("What are you doing here?")

Valerie pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a puzzled expression. She answered in Spanish, her voice at a normal volume. "Terminé el trabajo temprano y tomé un vuelo antes." ("I finished work early and caught an earlier flight.")

Their conversation continued in Spanish, but Mike, who was fluent, caught every word. He watched them carefully, still trying to piece together who this woman was.

As the couple spoke, Marcus reentered the room. "Hey Mike, who's at the—" His question trailed off as he caught sight of Valerie standing there.

Having heard Marcus's voice and the name he called, Valerie turned her attention to Mike. "You must be Armando's father," she said, switching back to English.

Mike nodded, still piecing things together. "Yeah, that's me."

Before he could say more, Valerie threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. "I've heard so much about you," she said, pulling back slightly to look at him. "Well, as much as Armando is willing to tell me. You know how he is."

Mike smiled, though the confusion didn't leave his face. "Yeah... I wish I could say the same about you."

Valerie chuckled, but as she glanced between Mike and Armando, she began to sense the awkwardness in the room. Her smile faltered, and she turned to Armando, speaking in Spanish again. "¿Le has dicho?" ("Have you told him?")

Armando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "No estabas supuesta a llegar hasta mañana por la mañana." ("You weren't supposed to arrive until tomorrow morning.")

Mike, having had enough of the half-whispered conversation in a language he was fluent in, spoke up, his tone firm. "Alright, who is she, Armando?"

Valerie looked at Armando, irritation evident on her face. The silence stretched out before Armando finally sighed again, this time in resignation. He straightened up and wrapped his arm around Valerie's waist, pulling her closer to his side.

"This is Valerie," he began, his voice steady but resigned. "My fiancée."

[hyper-trash-panda]

Jacob beard preference anyone?

Men’s facial hair does something to my brain where I cannot compute that this is the same person 🤭🤭

[hyper-trash-panda]

Teaser: Bad Boys - Legacy

Fandom: “Bad Boys” movie franchise

Storyline: Continues the franchise after “Bad Boys: Ride or Die”

Timeline: Three-ish years following ROD

Warnings: Guns I guess?

In the fifth installment of the Bad Boys franchise, Miami is under siege as a potent new drug dubbed Helios has flooded the streets, leaving a trail of chaos and mass casualties. The narcotic's rapid spread threatens to overwhelm the city, pushing Mike Lowrey and Marcus Burnett to the brink as they scramble to uncover its source with the help of their next in line: Former Marine Reggie and recently acquitted fugitive Armando.

The Miami skyline raced by in a blur as Mike Lowrey's Porsche 911 rocketed down the sunlit streets. Traffic parted reluctantly in the car's wake, horns blaring as the sleek vehicle wove through lanes with reckless precision. Mike's jaw was set, his eyes narrowed behind his Ray-Bans with determination as he ignored the pounding in his chest.

Beside him, Marcus Burnett clutched the door handle, his knuckles white, eyes wide with a mix of fear and frustration. He braced himself as they narrowly missed a delivery truck, the tires screeching in protest.

“Mike, man, slow down! I didn't sign up for the Daytona 500!" Marcus's voice was strained, each word laced with anxiety as his stomach churned, his breakfast threatening to make a return visit.

Mike didn't glance over, his eyes locked on the road ahead. "We're late. And if you hadn't stuffed your face with that stack of pancakes, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

Marcus groaned, leaning his head back against the seat. "I told you, my metabolism ain't what it used to be! I needed a good breakfast to get me through the day."

"You needed a good breakfast? Or you needed to sample the whole damn menu?" Mike shot back, swerving around a taxi that had stopped abruptly. The sharp turn caused Marcus's stomach to lurch, and he swallowed hard, regretting the third helping of bacon.

"I swear, you always gotta bring up my eating habits when we're in a life-threatening situation," Marcus muttered, clutching his stomach.

"Oh, your life gone be threatened alright if you so much as drool on my leather seats." Mike snapped.

From the back seat, Reggie, Marcus's son-in-law and new recruit to the Miami PD, leaned forward, his brow furrowed in concern. "Uh, sir, this speed is unlawful given that we're not in pursuit of a suspect. According to Miami's police code of conduct, officers are required to maintain—"

"Reggie, shut up!" Mike barked, cutting off the younger man. "We're late, and I don't need a lecture on driving.”

Reggie, still trying to process the banter, cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sir, I'm just trying to follow protocol."

"Protocol's for rookies," Mike snapped, turning his attention back to the road. "And last I checked, you're riding with the best. So buckle up, kid."

Marcus shot Reggie a sympathetic look, though he was clearly not thrilled about the situation himself. "Mike, he's got a point. The kid's just doing what he's been trained to do. Besides, we're supposed to be setting a good example as his shadowees."

Mike glanced at Marcus, an eyebrow raised. "Shadowees? The only reason he's even allowed to shadow us is because you're sweet on the receptionist who pushed the paperwork through."

Marcus bristled, his voice defensive. "I'm not sweet on her. I'm just polite and charismatic—something you wouldn't know nothing about."

"I wonder how 'polite' Theresa would be if she found out just how 'charismatic' you've been." Mike shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Hey, now!" Marcus's eyes widened, his voice dropping to a hushed tone. "Ain't nobody being anything but polite. Don't start something you can't finish, Mike."

Before either could respond, the radio crackled to life, cutting through the tension in the car. "All units, be advised, we have a 10-80 in progress near Biscayne Boulevard. Suspect vehicle is a black SUV, heading northbound. Requesting backup."

Mike's eyes lit up with sudden interest, and he gunned the engine, the Porsche surging forward with impossible speed. "Well, would you look at that. Sounds like our kind of party."

"Mike, you can't just—" Marcus began, but his words were drowned out by the roar of the engine as Mike made a sharp turn toward the boulevard.

"Can't what, Marcus?" Mike snapped, his voice edged with impatience. "According to Poindexter back there, we ain't supposed to drive like this unless we're chasing a suspect."

Mike smirked as he pushed the car to an even more reckless speed. "I'm just trying to set a good example as a shadowee."

Reggie fumbled for his seatbelt, his eyes wide as he prepared for whatever chaos was about to unfold. "Sir, are we engaging?"

"Hell yeah we are!" Mike grinned, his tension replaced with the adrenaline that only a high-speed chase could bring. "Bad Boys for life."

Marcus sighed, his stomach knotting even tighter. "Bad Boys for life," he muttered, knowing there was no turning back now.

The Porsche hurtled down the streets of Miami, the roar of its engine echoing through the concrete jungle as the radio crackled with updates from the chopper overhead, its pilot providing a bird's-eye view of the chase.

"Suspect is heading northbound on Collins Avenue, approaching the airport," the dispatcher's voice crackled through the speakers.

"Well, isn't that convenient," Marcus muttered, gripping the dashboard as Mike took another sharp turn, the tires squealing in protest.

"There he is!" Mike pointed ahead where a black SUV was weaving through traffic, trying to shake off its pursuers. "We're in this now, Joker. Time to show 'em how the big boys play."

Marcus squinted at the SUV speeding ahead, his heart pounding as he took in the chaotic scene. Civilians scattered, cars swerving out of the way as the chase tore through the city.

"Alright, Marcus, shoot out his tires!" Mike ordered, eyes locked on the target.

Marcus's eyes widened in disbelief. "What? Hell no! There are too many civilian vehicles out here, Mike. You trying to get someone killed?"

From the back seat, Reggie interjected with a nervous glance at the manual in his hand. "Actually, according to the handbook, we're supposed to request the driver to pull over through the intercom first—"

"Reggie, I don't care what the handbook says!" Mike barked, cutting him off. "Marcus, shoot out the damn tires!"

Marcus shook his head adamantly, his hands clenched tight. "I'm not shooting in the middle of all this traffic. Do a pit maneuver or something!"

Mike's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he scowled. "I'm not messing up the new paint job on my car for this fool."

Marcus shot him a disbelieving look. "So you'd rather I risk shooting a civilian than scratch your precious car?"

Mike huffed, frustration mounting. "You won't hit a civilian if you put on your damn glasses before you fire."

Marcus opened his mouth to argue, but Mike was done with the back-and-forth. He turned his head slightly to the back seat. "Reggie, shoot out the tires."

Reggie's eyes widened. "Is that an order, sir?"

"Damn right it is!" Mike snapped as he hit a button, opening the sunroof of the Porsche.

Reggie swallowed hard, then reached out, taking the gun Mike handed him with disciplined hands. Standing up through the roof, he positioned himself for the shot, his military training kicking in as he steadied his aim. The wind whipped around him, but Reggie's focus was unshakable.

With perfect precision, he fired two shots, the bullets hitting their mark and blowing out the SUV's back tires. The suspect's vehicle swerved wildly, its speed dropping as the driver struggled to regain control.

Reggie dropped back down into the car, his breath coming in short bursts, adrenaline pumping through his veins. "Tires neutralized, sir."

Mike flashed a grin as he maneuvered the Porsche closer to the now-crippled SUV which careened wildly as it barreled toward the passenger pickup area of Miami International Airport. The tires left dark streaks on the pavement as the driver fought for control. Smoke began billowing from under the hood, the engine pushed beyond its limits.

"Pull over and stop the vehicle!" Marcus's voice boomed over the intercom, but it was clear the SUV had no more fight left. The engine coughed, then with a final groan, it blew out, sending a cloud of smoke into the air. The SUV slowed to a crawl, finally rolling to a stop right in front of the airport's sliding glass doors.

Mike brought the Porsche to a screeching halt in front of the smoking SUV, his eyes sharp and focused. "Showtime, boys," he said as he threw the car into park.

In unison, Mike, Marcus, and Reggie exited the vehicle, guns drawn and pointed at the SUV. Civilians in the area scattered, some ducking behind pillars and parked cars as the trio approached the suspect's vehicle with the practiced precision of seasoned cops.

"Hands where I can see 'em!" Mike barked as they neared the driver's side.

The door creaked open, and a man stumbled out, coughing and waving his hands in surrender. Before he could even think about making a run for it, Marcus was on him. He grabbed the suspect by the collar, yanking him from the SUV and slamming him onto the hood of Mike's Porsche with a force that made the man wince.

"You're under arrest, jackass," Marcus growled, snapping a pair of handcuffs around the man's wrists. "Don't move unless you wanna get to know my bullets real well."

As Marcus secured the suspect, more officers arrived on the scene, their flashing lights adding to the chaos. Marcus handed the suspect over to a pair of uniformed cops, then turned back to Mike, who was still watching the scene with a careful eye.

"Alright, suspect's in custody," Marcus said, wiping his hands on his pants as he approached his partner. "Not bad for a morning's work."

But Mike wasn't listening. His gaze had shifted, his focus drawn to the figure standing just beyond the smoke, his silhouette becoming clearer as the cloud dissipated. Although it had been over three years since he last saw the man, Armando hadn’t changed since; standing there with his duffel bags slung over his shoulder, a bemused expression on his face.

Mike holstered his gun and approached his son with an apologetic smile. "Sorry I'm a little late for pickup," he said, trying for a light tone as he gestured back at the chaos behind him. "Got stuck in some traffic."

Armando stood there, his face a mask of indifference. Without a word, he rolled his eyes and walked right past Mike's open arms, heading straight for the trunk of the Porsche. He tossed his bags in with a casual ease, as if this kind of thing happened every day.

Mike lowered his arms, the smile fading as he watched his son's retreating back. He sighed, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

As Marcus walked over, having finished briefing the other officers, he took in the scene and couldn't resist. "Well, at least the kid's punctual," he joked, clapping Mike on the back.

Mike shot him a look that could melt steel. "Not now, Marcus."

"Hey, just trying to lighten the mood, man." Marcus raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face said he wasn't all that sorry.

Mike shook his head, glancing back at Armando, who was now leaning against the Porsche, waiting. The distance between them felt like miles.

"Let's just get outta here," Mike muttered, brushing past Marcus to head toward the car.

[hyper-trash-panda]

I can’t be the only one who gets like, countryside drive to a wine villa date vibes from this fit 😆😆😆😆 Whatever project this is, I will watch it a million times over

[hyper-trash-panda]

It’s giving school picture day for some reason 😂😂

[hyper-trash-panda]

Soooo, I know I’m new to posting fanfic (literally only have a Bridgerton rewrite up 😅) But would yall be interested in a Bad Boys V story where:

-Mike and Marcus pass the torch to Armando and Reggie

-Armando has a girlfriend with a dark past to be uncovered

-A new drug has hit the streets of Miami causing mass casualties

-Armando has to reconcile with his past in order to redeem himself while helping take down a new cartel

I’m probably still gonna write it regardless, but just wanted to gauge general interest 😊😊😊

[8lo8lo8lowmee]

ℙ𝕆𝕍: 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕁𝕒𝕔𝕠𝕓 𝔸𝕣𝕖 𝕆𝕟 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝔻𝕒𝕥𝕖🥰🙈

[hyper-trash-panda]

See, you know you’re down bad when you look at a man simply eating and think he’s adorable 🥰 Head empty, just Jacob 😅

[8lo8lo8lowmee]

ℙ𝕆𝕍: 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 ℍ𝕠𝕨 𝔹𝕦𝕚𝕝𝕥 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝔹𝕠𝕪𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕 𝕁𝕒𝕔𝕠𝕓 𝕀𝕤😫

[hyper-trash-panda]

Ma’am, how did you get a hold of my camera roll 🤭🤭

[8lo8lo8lowmee]

ℙ𝕆𝕍: 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝔸𝕝𝕨𝕒𝕪𝕤 ℍ𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕋𝕠 𝕋𝕒𝕜𝕖 ℙ𝕚𝕔𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕤 𝕆𝕗 𝕁𝕒𝕔𝕠𝕓 📸🫠

[happy-xy]

Jacob Scipio BAD BOYS: RIDE OR DIE (2024)

[tylerposey]

JACOB SCIPIO as Armando Aretas Bad Boys: Ride or Die (2024)

[jjacobscipioo]

YOUR KILLING US ATP JACOB (as if we mind pls keep doing what ur doing)🙂‍↔️

[hyper-trash-panda]

It’s unfair how rent free he lives in my head in THIS ECONOMY

[8lo8lo8lowmee]

ℙ𝕆𝕍: 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕒𝕪 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝔹𝕠𝕪𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕 𝕁𝕒𝕔𝕠𝕓 𝕃𝕠𝕠𝕜𝕤 ℙ𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔸𝕣𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕠 𝔸𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕒𝕤😫🤤