He is down and beaten. He has given them two of the best years of his life. Hidden away behind locked doors. Fighting every day. In some way, shape, or form. He has all the scars, all the respect. He can get anything he wants here. The place could be his. He lets them think they have all of the power. If they only knew. His men would fallow him anywhere. He is hurting inside of his heart. For that is where they placed the knife when they took the stripes he was supposed to get and gave them to someone else. A cop he trained. A Judas. A back biter. A good cop because that is what he trained him to be. He spends his last night inside those walls telling his men to do the right thing in his absence. He tells his men not to do anything stupid to "the man". His men are hurting as much as he is. Two years. Two years of sharing pain when a loved one dies. Two years of fighting the new fish who is trying to get cred inside the bricks. Two years of carrying all of their weight on his shoulders. He is tired, but not out. He hears from some of the men from time to time. They carry on just like he told 'em to. Most are staying out of the way. Others are jumping in because they feel they have no more reason not to. He prays to see them all on the outside. He misses his men. He misses his team. He misses the fight. He walks a new path now. One not charted. He is in the unknown now, and he has to adjust yet again to a whole new life. He lays down his badge with grace. He writes a letter to his chain of command telling them how fubar they have the place. He walks out the door with a big stream of tobacco spat on the front steps. His letter has ignited a fire that he will not let die any time soon. Not until he has made it all right.