January 1, 2019

The icy air of New York gripped Officer Shaan Patel as he clicked his seatbelt into place in the patrol car. His partner, Victor Velasquez, sat beside him, fiddling with the radio. It was New Year’s morning, early enough that the drunks from Times Square had all staggered home, and only the sirens remained to herald the city’s daybreak.

“We’re in for an easy shift,” Velasquez muttered. He glanced at Patel with a lopsided grin. “You still hanging onto that ‘New Year, new me’ stuff?”

Patel snorted. “Someone’s gotta make resolutions around here, Vic.”

Before Velasquez could retort, the radio crackled to life: “10/30-C. Armed robbery in progress. Convenience store, 182nd and Lexington.” 

Victor straightened up immediately, flicking the siren switch. “Time to make the New Year interesting,” he quipped, his voice carrying just a tinge of excitement. Patel nodded, fingers tightening on the wheel as he maneuvered through sparse early-morning traffic.

The Scene

When they arrived, the store lights shone far too brightly for the dark deeds occurring within. Two suspects—one armed with a handgun and another wielding a shotgun—were inside. A clerk lay trembling on the floor behind the register. 

Victor took point, edging toward the entrance with his weapon drawn. Patel scanned the streets as a precaution. The city was waking up, and bystanders were beginning to gather at a safe distance, eyes wide in morbid curiosity.

“Ready?” Victor whispered.

Patel nodded. “I’m with you.”

The two entered, fanning out as Velasquez barked commands. “NYPD! Drop your weapons! Hands where I can see them!”

The armed robbers turned, their weapons gleaming ominously in the fluorescent light. Time seemed to move sluggishly as both suspects hesitated. It was Velasquez who stepped forward, steady and commanding. 

One suspect dropped his weapon; the other raised his shotgun.

The Chaos

“Get down!” Velasquez shouted, diving to the right. Patel moved to subdue the first suspect, wresting him to the floor and cuffing him as quickly as possible.

Then came the deafening roar of gunfire.

“10/13! Officers in need of assistance!” Velasquez’s voice rang out as he sought cover behind a metal shelf. It crumpled under the force of shotgun blasts, doing little to protect him.

Patel had only a few seconds to act. The second suspect was retreating toward the back exit, firing wildly, but he hesitated before following. His instincts warred with each other: finish securing the first suspect, or help Velasquez. His mind screamed the latter, but his body remained frozen for a split second too long.

“Vic, I’m—” Patel started, rushing forward, but his partner's groan cut him off.

Velasquez stumbled to his knees, clutching his abdomen. Blood seeped through his uniform, an unrelenting crimson flood. Not a droplet, not a puddle. Not even a puddle. A flood.

Time seemed to slow down and twist as the backup finally arrived. Sirens blared. Officers shouted. Paramedics pushed Patel aside to tend to his partner, their hands red and frantic. But Velasquez was still. Too still.

Reliving the Moment

Shaan Patel relived January 1, 2019, every day of his life. In his dreams, in the corners of his mind where guilt made its home, he replayed every detail. 

He sat at his desk later, the metallic tang of blood forever imprinted on his senses. A photograph of him and Velasquez—a happier time—mocked him with the specter of who they used to be: partners, brothers in blue. They had taken down robbers, drug dealers and drug addicts, gangsters, domestic terrorists, belligerent drunks… They even managed to help dismantle the corrupt Blue Templars within the NYPD.

“I should’ve done more,” Shaan whispered one day, the words leaking out unbidden. 

“What else could you have done?” his therapist countered, her voice gentle but firm.

“I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off him. If I hadn’t—” Shaan’s voice cracked, breaking into a choked silence.

Her calm demeanor didn’t falter. “Let’s talk about what really happened, Shaan. Not the version you’ve created in your guilt.”

What Really Happened

Velasquez’s death wasn’t Shaan’s fault. Every report confirmed it. Even the therapists, his captain, and the widow at the funeral reiterated it.

Yet, the alternate narrative—Patel failing his partner—was easier to hold. He ignored how Velasquez had insisted on taking the most dangerous position or how the reinforcements hadn’t arrived quickly enough. 

None of it mattered to Patel. He only focused on his hesitation that morning, the microsecond he’d faltered. The stories built around the tragedy became his truth. 

January 1, 2020

A year had passed, but the day felt fresh. Shaan sat in his parked patrol car outside Velasquez’s grave. Snow blanketed the cemetery, muffling the world into an eerie stillness. He carried a single rose, its vibrant red petals stark against the white.

“I miss you, man,” he said softly, kneeling by the headstone. The silence welcomed his confession. “If I’d done more, you’d still be here. You’d... you’d probably laugh at me for saying that.” He gave a dry chuckle, tears forming in his eyes. 

Snowflakes settled onto the rose. The guilt weighed on him like the frost in the air.

Then a voice seemed to echo in his mind—Victor’s voice—playful, as always. “You’re doing it again, Patel.”

He swallowed hard and shook his head. He stood slowly, brushing the snow from his coat, as if attempting to shake off his guilt.

“I’ll do better this year,” he whispered to no one in particular.

A New Year, A New Partner

It was a cold January morning when Officer Shaan Patel arrived at the 54th Precinct. The weight of Velasquez’s death still clung to him like the gray clouds that hung heavy in the winter sky. For a year, Patel had operated alone, filling shifts with different partners as he avoided getting too close to anyone. The idea of having a new partner felt like betrayal, as if moving on from Velasquez would erase his memory.

But his captain, Maria Delgado, had made it clear: “You need someone at your side again, Patel. It’s time.”

Patel sighed as he stepped into the precinct. His boots left wet footprints on the tile, his breath clouding in the chill of the station's underheated lobby. At his desk sat a young man with sandy hair and an easy smile, casually flipping through a copy of the department’s policy manual. He looked up when Patel entered, stood, and extended a hand.

“Officer Jared Lee,” he said, his tone warm and confident. “Looks like we’re partners.”

Patel studied him for a moment. Lee couldn’t have been much older than 25. His uniform was neat, his boots polished, and he carried himself with a certain enthusiasm that Patel had long since lost. Reluctantly, Patel shook his hand.

“Shaan Patel,” he said tersely. He turned to his desk and began sorting through a stack of reports, hoping to end the conversation.

Lee, however, was undeterred. “So, I’ve been told you’re one of the best out there. Hope I can keep up.”

Patel grunted noncommittally, trying not to meet Lee’s eyes. “We’ll see.”

First Patrol

Their first assignment together was a routine patrol through a residential neighborhood on the outskirts of the precinct. The streets were quiet, lined with rows of brownstones whose windows glowed with the warmth of early morning lights. Children bundled in heavy coats shuffled to school buses, while shopkeepers swept fresh snow from their storefronts.

Lee drove, chatting intermittently. “I grew up around here, you know,” he said, gesturing toward a deli on the corner. “Used to get bagels there with my dad every Saturday. Best lox you’ll ever have.”

Patel stared out the window, letting Lee’s words wash over him without response. His thoughts wandered back to Velasquez—his steady presence, his sharp wit, the way he always managed to defuse tension with a joke.

“You’re quiet,” Lee remarked after a few moments.

“Just focused,” Patel replied curtly.

“Fair enough.” Lee tapped the steering wheel absently. “But for what it’s worth, I get it. Losing a partner… it’s not something you just move on from.”

Patel stiffened, the familiar weight of guilt settling in his chest. “Let’s keep our focus on the job.”

Lee nodded, wisely letting the matter drop.

A Test of Trust

The day had been uneventful until the call came in: “10/10, possible domestic disturbance, 192nd and Elm. Units respond.”

Lee glanced at Patel. “You want to take lead on this?”

Patel hesitated. This was the moment he had dreaded—the moment when he would have to rely on someone else again. He nodded slowly. “I’ll handle the door. Cover me.”

They approached the address, a small duplex with a peeling paint job and a sagging front porch. Inside, muffled voices carried through the walls—an argument escalating into something more dangerous. Patel raised a hand, motioning for Lee to stay back as he knocked on the door.

“NYPD. Open up.”

The voices inside fell silent. A moment later, a man in his late 30s opened the door, his face flushed and his eyes darting nervously. Behind him, a woman stood holding a crying child.

“Everything okay here?” Patel asked, keeping his voice calm but firm.

“Fine,” the man replied quickly. “We’re just talking.”

The woman flinched as he spoke, her gaze dropping to the floor. Patel’s eyes flicked to Lee, who had positioned himself strategically to the side, watching the man’s movements carefully.

“We’re going to need to come in and make sure everyone’s safe,” Patel said.

The man started to protest, but Patel’s calm persistence won out. Inside, it became clear that the woman had been struck. Patel stepped forward to speak to her, while Lee addressed the man, de-escalating the situation with surprising ease. Within minutes, the man was in cuffs, and the woman and child were being comforted by paramedics.

As they walked back to the patrol car, Patel turned to Lee. “You handled that well.”

Lee shrugged, though a hint of pride flickered across his face. “Just doing my job.”

Breaking the Ice

Later that day, as they sat in the car eating lunch, Lee broke the silence. “I know I’m not Velasquez.”

Patel froze, the name hitting him like a punch. He stared at the wrapper in his hands, struggling for a response.

“I’m not trying to replace him,” Lee continued, his tone sincere. “But I am trying to be someone you can count on.”

Patel looked at him, seeing not the eager rookie he had expected but a thoughtful young officer with a clear understanding of the weight they carried. He exhaled deeply.

“It’s not about you,” Patel admitted. “I just… I keep thinking about all the ways I could have done things differently. Velasquez—he was more than just my partner. He was my friend.”

“I get that,” Lee said. “And I’m not here to rush you. But we’re in this together now. And I’ll have your back, no matter what.”

For the first time since Velasquez’s death, Patel allowed himself to believe it. “Thanks, Lee.”

Lee grinned. “Don’t mention it. Now, about that deli—I think you owe me a bagel.”

Patel shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We’ll see.”

As they drove off to their next call, Patel felt the faintest stirrings of hope. It wasn’t a new beginning, not entirely, but maybe—just maybe—it was a step forward.