Chapter Text
The year was 1998. The city seemed to have woken up in a foul mood that day, and the White Plains police station was the epicenter of this collective state of irritation. From early morning, the phones wouldn’t stop ringing, radios crackled incessantly, doors slammed harder than necessary.
Incidents piled up like poorly stacked papers: domestic disputes that started small and ended in shouts and purple bruises, thefts from neighborhood stores, a three-car accident caused by a slippery road, a belligerent man threatening supermarket employees because they refused to sell alcohol outside permitted hours.
The air in that precinct was thick, heavy with reheated coffee, sweat, and impatience.
Thomas Burke felt it on his skin. Every call seemed more urgent than the last, every voice louder, every report longer.
He moved through the corridors with steps that were too firm, jaw clenched, shoulders tense as if he were always bracing for the next blow. Two years working there, and still, a single bad day was enough to bring back the raw feeling of being swallowed whole by chaos.
Thomas had been on edge for hours. It wasn’t just the workload, but the constant sense of being tested.
Despite two years of service in a simple precinct in White Plains, they still treated him like a rookie. Not explicitly, but in the details: the evaluating glances at every decision, orders given with a slightly condescending tone, the most thankless cases that invariably ended up in his hands.
He knew the streets, the procedures, the repeat offenders’ faces, but it never seemed enough. There was always someone more experienced ready to remind him that he still had a lot to learn.
It built up inside him like water behind a poorly built dam. He took deep breaths, swallowed the frustration, and carried on, because that’s what was expected of a mere police officer.
Mid-morning, when the sky had darkened strangely for that time of day, the call came in with urgency. A suspect known for armed robberies had been spotted near a commercial complex, possibly trying to flee the city after a recent heist. The information was confusing, fragmented, but the tone on the radio left no room for hesitation.
Thomas was assigned to the call almost automatically, as if it were already obvious he would be the one sent. He grabbed the patrol car keys, feeling a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion, and drove out under a sky that seemed on the verge of collapsing entirely.
The rain fell as if it had been held back all day just for that moment. A heavy, aggressive downpour that hammered the windshield hard enough to drown out the city’s sounds.
The streets flooded quickly; drains couldn’t keep up, water pooled at intersections, reflecting traffic lights in distorted smears. Traffic became an immobile, irritable organism. Cars stalled, drivers honking, buses blocking narrow lanes.
Burke felt the stress mounting with every second inside the cruiser. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then started honking—one, two, three times—as if the sound could push the mass of cars forward.
The radio crackled with conflicting updates, and he breathed deeply, trying to stay focused, but the feeling of helplessness gnawed at him. The rain showed no mercy, streaking down the sides of the glass, turning the world outside into gray blurs.
Trapped in that traffic jam, surrounded by water, metal, and angry people, Thomas felt that even the air inside the car was heavier, as if the city itself were conspiring to delay him, to test him once again.
Meanwhile—on the other side of town—the storm was making its mark as well. Nick O’Bannon was buried up to his neck in schoolwork, even though it was only the beginning of the school year.
Senior year of high school, they said it would be lighter at the start—a lie he had learned to recognize far too early. Tests scheduled, group projects that ended up being individual, tight deadlines as if no one there slept or had a life outside school.
He walked the streets leaning forward, trying to shield himself from the merciless rain. In one arm, he carried a stack of carefully organized assignments—at least they had been before leaving home. On his back, his backpack seemed to weigh twice as much, pulling his shoulders down. In his free hand, a small, old, crooked umbrella that had seen better days and now hindered more than it helped.
The street was crowded, people hurrying, bumping into each other, each wrapped in their own rush. Nick was jostled from side to side, someone hit his arm, another collided with his shoulder, and he apologized automatically, even when he wasn’t at fault.
“Sorry, my bad!” came out of his mouth as he received dirty looks, grumbles, and whispered curses—some not so whispered.
The rain intensified, the wind began to blow hard, and Nick’s umbrella flipped inside out with a sharp snap, as if it had given up the fight. He tried to fix it, tugging at the ribs with trembling fingers, but it was no use.
Then came the final blow without warning. A car sped through a deep puddle, and the dirty, cold water rose like a wave, hitting Nick full force. Soaking his clothes, drenching his sneakers, running down his arms and, worst of all, striking the school papers he had carried so carefully.
The pages crumpled, the ink began to run, the words dissolved before his eyes. He stood frozen for a long second, feeling water drip from his hair and the useless umbrella hanging limp at his side.
It was total defeat.
Nick stared at the ruined papers, at the wet ground, at the street that carried on indifferently, and couldn’t believe what had just happened. It all seemed too absurd to be real, as if the day had decided to test how far he could go before breaking too.
In the midst of all that chaos scattered across the city, those two completely different paths were about to cross without either of them knowing it yet.
Thomas remained stuck inside the cruiser, surrounded by stalled cars, water up to half the tires, and impatient drivers. The radio finally crackled with an update he had dreaded hearing.
Dispatch reported that the suspect had been seen entering a side street near the train station and, taking advantage of the widespread congestion and confusion caused by the rain, had escaped on foot through a residential area. Minutes later came the final confirmation: the criminal had completely slipped the perimeter. Searches would resume later when the storm passed.
The officer clenched his jaw tightly, feeling irritation rise like an uncomfortable heat in his chest. All that effort, all that hurry, and he hadn’t even managed to get close to the scene in time. He slammed his hand on the steering wheel, muttered a low curse, and spent a few seconds staring at the motionless street ahead, as if he could force the city to move with his anger alone.
The sense of failure clung to him, heavy. It wasn’t just about the criminal escaping; it was about, once again, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, trapped by factors beyond his control.
The rain continued to punish everything around, and traffic remained gridlocked with no improvement in sight. Thomas turned off the siren, took several deep breaths, and tried to compose himself. He was soaked in frustration and exhaustion, nerves raw. The morning had been a complete disaster, and now the afternoon promised to be no different.
With the call closed and little else he could do at the moment, he decided to escape that suffocating situation for a few minutes. He needed a place to take shelter, clear his head, cool the irritation before returning to the precinct carrying yet another silent frustration on his shoulders.
Meanwhile, still on the other side of town, Nick was also completely prevented from continuing his way. The rain had turned the route to school into an impossible journey. The streets were crowded, slippery, and every step seemed to require more effort than usual.
He was nervous, frustrated, his entire body soaked from the unpleasant mix of rainwater and street grime. His clothes clung to his skin, his sneakers made an annoying squelch with every step, and the school papers, now sodden and warped, seemed to mock him each time he glanced down.
Nick paused for a few seconds under some random awning, breathing deeply, trying to decide whether it made sense to keep heading to school or simply accept that the morning was already lost. The feeling was one of total defeat, a weariness that came not from the body but from the mind. Everything was going wrong at once, and there wasn’t much to do besides try to survive the rest of the day.
The frustration of both, though coming from entirely different places, was similar. Both were irritated, tired, facing a morning that seemed tailor-made to test anyone’s patience. And it was precisely this shared exhaustion that pushed them in the same direction.
Separately, almost at the same time, Thomas and Nick decided to seek shelter in a downtown coffee shop, a simple place where they could escape the rain for a few minutes and breathe without the constant feeling of fighting the entire environment.
Thomas took side streets, avoiding the worst flooding, until he parked the cruiser near a small coffee shop on a quiet corner, between a pharmacy and a convenience store. The place didn’t draw much attention: modest facade, windows fogged from the temperature difference, a simple sign advertising hot coffee and sandwiches.
He got out of the car carefully, opened his umbrella, and crossed the already soaked sidewalk, dodging deep puddles. Upon entering, he snapped the umbrella shut and leaned it near the door alongside others equally wet. The sound of the rain became muffled as soon as the door closed behind him.
Thomas walked to the counter, shoulders still tense, ordered a strong black coffee, and sat on one of the stools, elbows on the counter as he waited, trying to steady his breathing and organize his thoughts.
Shortly after, Nick arrived from the opposite direction, on foot, practically running the last few meters to the coffee shop as the rain intensified again. He pushed the door open with difficulty, entered drenched, and dropped his things on the floor without care: heavy backpack, wet papers, and broken umbrella tossed aside.
The expression on his face was pure frustration, as if he were one step away from completely losing patience. He ran a hand through his wet hair, took a deep breath, and went to the counter almost on autopilot. He ordered a coffee, anything hot, and sat on the empty stool next to Thomas, without even glancing at him.
At that moment, they were just two strangers sharing the same cramped space, united only by exhaustion, the rain outside, and the urgent need for a few minutes of shelter before facing the rest of the day.
Thomas was lifting his freshly placed cup when, almost reflexively, he turned his face sideways and noticed the young man sitting beside him. The kid had just ordered an espresso, voice a little tired but firm.
The officer observed without any clear intent to judge, simply taking in the scene. The young man was completely disheveled by the rain: dark jacket soaked, clinging to his body, drops running down the sleeves; the T-shirt underneath equally wet, marking the fabric unevenly; jeans darker than they should be from the water; sneakers dripping on the floor. Short hair stuck to his forehead, and there was something about the whole messy ensemble that didn’t seem like carelessness but accumulated fatigue.
Thomas felt something strange and immediate—a sudden curiosity, almost a physical impulse to break the silence. Maybe it was just the terrible morning, maybe it was not wanting to be alone with his own thoughts, or maybe it was that attentive look in the kid’s eyes, even tired. Before overthinking it, the older man decided to start a conversation.
“Rough day?”
Nick turned his head slowly toward him, still half-slumped over the counter. He studied Thomas silently, noticing first the heavy police uniform jacket, then the rigid posture, and finally the dark eyes staring back with a weariness similar to his own.
He held the gaze for a few seconds, as if deciding whether it was worth responding. Then a half-smile appeared, shy and ironic at once.
“If the rain had a personality, I’d say it woke up angry today.”
Thomas let out a short laugh, running a hand over his face, clearly relating.
“I can confirm. When even the city decides to stop along with the sky, there’s not much to do but accept it.”
“Accept it and get soaked to the soul,” Nick replied, looking at his own dripping jacket. “And lose any hope of getting anywhere dry.”
“Or on time,” Thomas added, leaning slightly toward him. “Traffic jammed, streets flooded… seems everyone had the same bad idea of leaving home.”
“I just wanted to get to school,” the dark-haired one commented, letting out a humorless chuckle. “Now my assignments look like they survived a shipwreck.”
“That sounds like the kind of thing that should earn extra credit,” he joked. “Urban survival in extreme conditions.”
“If it depends on the rain, I’ll graduate in natural disasters,” Nick replied, arching an eyebrow slightly.
“There are days when the world seems to test people’s patience on purpose,” the officer shook his head.
“And it always ends up winning,” Nick shot back quickly, with a crooked smile.
Burke laughed louder this time, and Nick joined in, relaxing his shoulders a bit.
“At least the coffee still works,” he commented.
“For now. If the rain knocks out the power, I officially give up on the day.”
At that moment, the barista appeared behind the counter, placing another strong coffee for Thomas and another espresso for Nick in front of them. The two thanked him almost simultaneously.
Thomas carefully picked up his cup, feeling the warmth in his hands, while Nick wrapped his cold fingers around the small cup. For a few seconds, they sat in silence, just drinking, listening to the distant sound of rain pounding the coffee shop windows.
Thomas was the first to break the silence again.
“Do you always go around facing storms, or is today a special case?”
“Today’s special,” he answered. “Normally I try not to challenge the weather.”
“Good policy,” Thomas joked again. “The weather tends to take that very personally.”
“Noted,” Nick said, laughing. “Next time I’ll stay home.”
“You study around here?” Thomas asked, nodding slightly toward the papers tossed near Nick’s feet.
“Yeah. Senior year of high school,” Nick took a sip of his coffee. “Supposedly it was going to be easy.”
“They always lie about that. About everything, really.”
“I can imagine…” Nick replied, looking at him curiously. “Your day doesn’t seem to have been exactly great either.”
“Let’s say the storm and I didn’t reach an agreement today,” Thomas said, shrugging.
The two laughed again, and this time the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. They looked at each other for a few seconds longer than necessary, faint smiles still on their faces, as if there were something there that neither could name but both felt.
Thomas cleared his throat, as if suddenly realizing something obvious.
“My God, how rude of me,” he said with an ironic smile. “Complaining about the rain with a complete stranger without even introducing myself.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Thomas Burke. I swear I’m less grumpy on days without storms.”
Nick looked at the outstretched hand, then at his face, and smiled before shaking it.
“Pleasure,” he smiled. “I’m Nick. Nick O’Bannon.”
They exchanged one more simple, almost distracted smile, unaware that this chance encounter on that awful, drenched day was merely the beginning of something that would go far beyond that downtown coffee shop.