The first pale light of a cold Sunday morning filtered through the slats of the blinds, casting long, skeletal shadows across Officer Michael Miller’s kitchen. He stood by the counter, the low hum of the coffee maker the only sound in his quiet two-bedroom apartment. At forty-two, Michael carried the physical and emotional weight of fifteen years on the force; his salt-and-pepper hair was a bit thinner than it had been when he joined the academy, and his eyes held a permanent weariness that came from seeing the jagged edges of humanity. In his line of work, cynicism was a professional necessity, but Sundays were different. Sundays were his anchor, the one day of the week that felt untainted by the grime of the precinct.

Sundays were the days his seven-year-old daughter, Sophie, would return from her mother’s house. Usually, her arrival was heralded by the sound of running feet in the hallway and a whirlwind of exuberant energy that filled every corner of his modest home. He glanced at his watch, the steam from his mug curling around his face. Laura, his ex-wife, was many things, but she was consistently punctual with drop-offs. Their divorce had been finalized eleven months ago, and while the wounds of the separation were still raw and the silence of the apartment often felt oppressive, they had managed to establish a fragile, professional rhythm for the sake of their daughter.

The doorbell rang, a sharp, clear sound that broke through Michael’s internal checklist for the day. A genuine smile, rare and unburdened, finally softened his tired features. He set his coffee down and swung the door open, a cheerful greeting already forming on his lips. But as the door moved, the words died in his throat, replaced by a cold, leaden weight in his stomach.

Sophie was standing on the welcome mat, but she wasn’t the vibrant, chattering girl he had hugged goodbye forty-eight hours earlier. Her usual exuberant energy had been replaced by a heavy, unnatural stillness. Her eyes, usually bright with curiosity, were fixed on the tips of her sneakers, and her small shoulders were slumped in a way that signaled a profound, internal retreat. Michael’s heart clenched with an instinctive, paternal dread. Behind her, Laura’s car was already pulling away from the curb, a quick exhaust plume the only evidence of her departure.

“Sophie? Hey, baby, what’s wrong?” Michael knelt, trying to catch her eye, but she remained silent, clutching the straps of her backpack as if they were a lifeline. It was only when she reached out to take his hand that the sleeve of her light jacket pulled back, revealing a series of dark, purplish marks against the pale skin of her forearm. To any other father, they might have looked like rough bruises from a playground tumble, but to a veteran officer who had spent a decade and a half documenting evidence of struggle, they looked like something far more deliberate.