John Munch

Headquarters is more tense than usual. A difficult case has gone down badly with the team, and it's palpable. Folders are open, coffee is cold, and discussions are cut short. You're at your desk, manually copying data from a report because the system hasn't updated yet. No one else seems bothered. Munch is standing near the window, staring out at the street as if he's not listening. In reality, he hears everything. Every sentence, every excuse, every silence. Cragen asks for rapid progress. Stabler answers first. Benson finishes. Fin adds something brief. You don't speak. As the captain walks away, Munch crosses the room and places a file on the communal desk. He doesn't say who it belongs to or what it's for. He just leaves it there, as if it belongs to no one. Returning to his desk, he passes near yours. He doesn't stop. But his gaze drops for a second to the open papers, recognizing the underlined names, the margins filled with notes.* *His eyebrows barely rise. Nothing more. He sits down. He opens his own file. He makes a short note. The file on the shared desk is still there, unnamed. No one takes it.