The quiet felt suspicious. Alice woke before sunrise, staring at the faint lines of light creeping across her ceiling. No nightmares. No phantom buzzing from the dead burner phone. No messages waiting to ruin her morning. Just silence. She sat up slowly, testing the air—listening the way she had been trained since childhood. There was nothing but the neighbour's shower running and a delivery truck grinding past outside. Normal. She wasn't used to normal. Alice moved through her morning like a ritual: a cold shower that jolted her awake, hair tied back, and her badge clipped to her belt. She made coffee strong enough to burn and drank it leaning against the counter, allowing the simplicity of the routine to ground her. No ghosts. No calls. No shadows. Just the job. She didn't tell anyone at the precinct that she was still going. Dr Evelyn Moore kept her office warm and dim, with soft light against soft colours—the opposite of a precinct interrogation room. That made it harder for Alice to stay guarded, but she forced herself to anyway. Today, Moore sat across from her, legs crossed, with a pen resting idly on her lap. "You look rested," the psychiatrist observed. "Is work calmer?" "Yeah. Normal cases. Normal messes." "And you're handling them?" "Of course." Moore tilted her head. "People often say 'of course' when it's not as simple as they want it to be." Alice smirked. "Doc, I grew up with a guy who taught me how to snap a wrist before teaching me the alphabet. Handling things is the one skill I trust." "Is that… pride?" Moore asked. "Or exhaustion?" Alice shrugged. "Both." Moore didn't push—she let the silence do the heavy lifting. It irritated Alice more than the questions. "You're doing well," Moore finally said. "You're not unravelling. You're recalibrating." Alice blinked. "Is that shrink talk for 'you're not crazy'?" Moore smiled faintly. "It's shrink talk for 'keep going.' Consistency helps." Alice didn't say it out loud, but she liked the sound of that. The precinct felt different when she arrived—warm, loud, annoyingly alive. Logan tossed her a file as she passed. "Another robbery. Riverton side. Grocery owner says the perp didn't take anything valuable—just cash and some cigarettes." Alice flipped through the pages. "You woke me up for cigarettes?" "Technically, you were already awake," Logan replied. Ortega approached him from behind, holding a coffee cup that steamed like tar. "Be grateful," he said. "You get one peaceful week in this job every fiscal quarter." Alice arched a brow. "Is that an actual statistic?" "It is," Ortega said. "A depressing one." The three of them canvassed the neighbourhood. The store owner pointed to a grainy security camera clip: someone in a hoodie, face half-covered, clumsy but desperate. Not professional. Not connected. Just human. Alice felt the tension slide off her. She could do these cases in her sleep. They took statements. They knocked on doors. Logan made a joke that wasn't funny. Ortega bought a doughnut he didn't need. For once, the world spun normally. It was almost… boring. And boredom had never felt so good. Back at the precinct, Alice settled into her desk with her headphones on. She typed quietly, allowing the dull rhythm of work and music to settle her mind. Then her monitor flickered. Just once. A quick ripple of static—barely noticeable. She frowned and tapped the top of the monitor. It steadied. Loose connection, she told herself. She went back to typing. A few seconds later: another flicker. Then a soft hiss, like a dying radio signal. Logan looked over. "Your screen dying?" "Probably." She adjusted the cable. "IT will replace it when it completely gives up." Ortega cracked a grin. "Or when it bursts into flames. Whichever happens first." Alice forced a chuckle and kept typing. But the third flicker wasn't just static—it was a rapid blackout and return, like the screen had taken a breath. She paused. Her reflection hovered in the darkened glass a moment longer than it should have. Just her face. Just her imagination. Just stress. She dismissed it. Dr Moore noticed the exhaustion under her eyes the moment she walked in. "You look unsettled," the doctor said. "Long day." "No," Moore said gently, "this is something else." Alice hesitated. "I think my monitor's dying." Moore blinked. "And that's bothering you?" Alice almost laughed at how ridiculous it sounded. But she answered honestly: "It reminded me of… other things." "The burner phone incident?" Moore asked. "Yeah." Moore nodded slowly. "Hypervigilance isn't paranoia, Alice. It's an adaptation. Your body's trained to detect threat patterns. When the noise stops, your brain fills in the silence."Meaning what?" "Meaning the quiet feels dangerous to you." Alice looked away. Moore wrote something down. "You're not spiralling. You're adjusting. That's good. Truly." Alice didn't feel good. But she left the office steadier than she had entered. Back home, she tossed her jacket onto the chair in her bedroom. Her coat hung awkwardly—the sleeve bent, the fabric twisted like someone had moved it, then put it back wrong. Alice froze.
Just for half a second, she hesitated. Then, logic kicked in. She realised she had pulled her coat off carelessly that morning. She had been rushing. Still, she straightened it carefully. She told herself it was nothing. Lately, everything felt like nothing. And she needed it to stay that way.
She made dinner and watched an old police documentary. After that, she went through a few training repetitions until her muscles burned enough to silence her thoughts. By midnight, the city outside her window glowed softly and seemed distant. She pressed her palm against the glass and whispered, "Let it stay quiet."
On the sidewalk near the corner, a young woman in a leather jacket walked past Alice's building. She paused to tie her bootlace, glancing up at the windows out of idle curiosity.
Her gaze lingered just a moment too long. Then she stood up and continued walking, disappearing into the glow of a passing bus.
Alice never saw her.
That night, Alice slept more easily, believing the world was finally settling. She believed the static was nothing and that the quiet was real. For now.