The news cycle lasted four days.
Hero detective.
Serial offender stopped.
Hostages rescued.
Press asked about bravery.
Pocho gave short answers.
"It was a team effort."
"He made mistakes."
"We corrected."
He didn't mention the interrogation room.
He didn't mention grabbing Vincent.
He didn't mention the night in the car.
He didn't mention the phone calls.
That part stayed his.
---
His wife moved back home for two weeks.
They didn't argue.
They didn't fight.
That was worse.
Silence filled the spaces where conversations used to be.
One night she said, "You're calmer."
"Yes."
"You don't wake up at 2 a.m. anymore."
"No."
"You don't look at the map."
"No."
She nodded slowly.
"And I still don't recognize you."
He didn't defend himself.
Because he didn't fully recognize himself either.
A week later she packed again.
No yelling.
No threats.
"I can't compete with ghosts," she said quietly.
"I'm not chasing him anymore," Pocho replied.
"I know."
That was the problem.
He watched her drive away.
He didn't call her back.
---
Internal Affairs reviewed the interrogation footage.
He wasn't formally charged.
But the report was clear.
Loss of composure. Procedural risk. Unilateral surveillance.
Morrison called him into his office.
"You stopped him," Morrison said.
"Yes."
"You also lost control before that."
"Yes."
"Command thinks you need distance."
Pocho didn't ask from what.
"You're being transferred," Morrison continued. "Smaller district. Lower volume."
"Demotion?"
"No."
"Just distance."
Pocho nodded once.
"When?" he asked.
"Next month."
He stood.
"Thank you," he said.
Morrison looked surprised.
"You're not fighting it?"
"No."
That version of him had burned out.
---
The house felt larger after she left.
Every sound echoed.
He boxed up some of her things carefully.
Didn't rush.
Didn't cry.
Just worked through it.
One night, sitting at the kitchen table, he realized something simple.
The killer had said:
"You don't know who you are without me."
At the time, it sounded manipulative.
Now it sounded quieter.
More accurate.
The case had been structure.
Now there was nothing pushing him.
No urgency.
No voice calling.
Just space.
And he didn't know what to do with space.
---
He moved in with his sister two weeks later.
Spare room.
Small bed.
Desk by the window.
She didn't treat him like a hero.
She didn't treat him like broken.
She just handed him a key.
"You can stay as long as you need," she said.
He nodded.
The first night there, he slept without waking up once.
Not because he was peaceful.
Because he was exhausted.
---
The transfer went through quietly.
New district.
Lower crime rate.
Mostly domestic disputes. Small theft. Noise complaints.
Routine.
He didn't complain.
He didn't chase.
He did the work.
Steady.
Measured.
Colleagues there knew his name from the news.
But he didn't encourage it.
When they asked about the case, he kept it short.
"It ended."
That was enough.
---
Two years passed.
He stayed in the smaller district.
Didn't request promotion.
Didn't push for high-profile cases.
His sister said he talked more now.
Not about work.
About small things.
Food. Weather. Her kids.
He didn't laugh loudly.
But he wasn't silent anymore.
He didn't look for fights.
He didn't react sharply.
He wasn't the man who slammed a suspect into a chair.
But he also wasn't the man who lived before the case.
Something in between.
Scar tissue.
---
One evening, a call came in.
Construction worker injured at an abandoned lot.
Blunt trauma.
Pocho arrived with a rookie officer.
The scene was simple.
Drunk argument. Metal rod. Not premeditated.
The rookie looked nervous.
"First time I've seen something like this," the rookie said.
Pocho crouched near the injured man.
Checked breathing.
Spoke calmly to paramedics.
No flashbacks.
No shaking.
Just assessment.
The rookie watched him.
"How do you stay steady?" the rookie asked later, outside the ambulance.
Pocho thought for a moment.
Not long.
Then he said:
"Because stopping doesn't help."
The rookie nodded, not fully understanding.
Pocho looked at the metal rod on the ground.
For a brief second, the old case flickered in his mind.
Then it faded.
Not erased.
Just filed away.
He wasn't chasing it anymore.
He wasn't feeding it.
He wasn't trying to prove anything.
He was just doing the work.
---
That night, back at his sister's house, he sat at the kitchen table alone.
No maps.
No boards.
No red circles.
Just quiet.
He thought about the hospital room.
About the words:
"I finished."
The killer had believed he completed something.
Maybe he did.
But not in the way he wanted.
Pocho didn't become him.
He didn't collapse.
He didn't quit.
He adjusted.
And that was something the killer didn't predict.
His phone buzzed.
Routine dispatch question.
He answered calmly.
Gave instructions.
Hung up.
No adrenaline.
No anger.
Just clarity.
Two years earlier, silence felt like pressure.
Now it felt like balance.
He wasn't whole.
He wasn't untouched.
But he was functional.
Steady.
Present.
He stood up, turned off the kitchen light, and went to bed.
No maps waiting.
No voice calling.
Just another shift tomorrow.
And he would go.
Not because he needed the hunt.
Not because he was unstable.
But because the work didn't stop.
And neither did he.
THE END