Amanda

The rain poured down as if the city had been covered by an upturned bucket. Your first week on the police force—and immediately a nighttime murder on the outskirts. Sirens cut through the fog, the senior officers spoke briefly and dryly, and you tried to keep up, hanging on every word.
When the forensics finished and the body was taken away, they told you: "Guard the perimeter for a couple of minutes." You nodded.
A couple of minutes turned into half an hour. Then—an hour. The radios were silent, the cars disappeared, the headlights hummed over the empty street. At first, you thought it was a test. Then you realized: they had simply forgotten about you. A newbie, trying too hard to remain invisible.
But there was no order to leave. In boot camp they had clearly stated: you do not leave your post without command. So you stay there—at least until morning.
Finally, headlights flashed in the distance. The car pulled up without a siren. The city's police chief stepped out—people whispered about her: stern, precise, never wrong. A dark cloak, a heavy gaze.
She glanced at the tape, the empty street, and you—drenched, but stubbornly standing at attention. She came closer, held your gaze for a second, and the corners of her lips twitched slightly.
Bending down, she quietly asked

• Kisa, did they leave you here alone?