She physically has to hold back herself from saying no when he says 'hang up'. Obviously, she's aware there's no reason to keep talking for now, and the last thing she'd want is to distract him. Whether it's Dylan or anyone else, tight corridors and dark staircases sound like a nightmare. So no matter how much she wants to keep hanging onto his voice, the knowledge of another presence like a lifeline, she humms, agreeing, and listens for a few more beeps of the disconnected call sound before lowering the phone.
Suddenly, the bathroom feels so much smaller, the air unmoving and stifling with panic. At first she only unlocks the door and cracks it open a little bit, while she haphazardly puts the bottles back where they belong. Once there's no more misaligned storage to tinker with, fill her head to the brim so there's no space left for worrying, she moves out to the hallway. The door stands the same way it did, and one of the neighbors must have decided to turn the volume up on the tv because now she can clearly hear the recap of the previous episode of some TLC show. If it wasn't for that barely recognizable line a few inches to the left of the lock, where the kicks strained the steel lock inserted between the plywood panels, she'd think she just woke up and imagined everything.
Because it didn't make sense. Whomever it was, they must have gotten in through one of the entrances, both of which has coded locks. She guessed they might have slipped past someone who didn't wait for the door to close behind them, but how did they end up in front of their door? It's the fifth floor, down about middle from the stairs. Why would anyone...
She almost forgot about the phone in her hand so it nearly causes her to jump when it buzzes with another notification. Motion detected outside your Front Door. A part of her expects to see Him, staring right at her through the door as if he knew.
She opens the door slowly, as if he was stranger danger personified, a hey, Mr. Policeman with the vague undertones of 'the marijuana you're smelling is purely medical'.
"Who's there?" she manages to say up to knock-knock joke code standard before slowly letting go of the door frame and wrapping her arms around his neck. The closeness, the voice in her ear, the familiar scent is nice, even if something's poking her in the stomach from his belt and any other times, this could be a great place for an are you this happy to see me joke. "He left, right?"
He wouldn't be here otherwise, right? She doesn't want to say got away, though; that sounds as if they had the chance and missed it.
She sniffs and wipes at her eyes before her gaze lands on the door. It looks a bit more splintered from the outside. A few kicks more, maybe.
"Do you think we can fix it?" comes the most important question of all. "We need it for the deposit back."

Jaywalking across the avenue, he lifts his head, eyes scanning the fire escapes facing the street. There’s nobody parkouring his way down, but there’s a gap between Mac’s building and the neighboring one further down the avenue. Meaning there’s probably a number of escape routes only accessible from inside the building, meaning if Dylan's done his recon and his cardio, he could just hop a fence or two and be at large.
Zheng motions at the second entrance, “He’s off, coulda entered through there.” Dale nods and changes course, “I’ll move around the back.”

Okay, we’re at the entrance. Gotta make sure everything’s clear, so I’mma hang up for now, aight? Just stay put ‘til I knock.

Buzzing himself in, he steps inside and listens. Stairway’s dead silent, the elevator’s display panel standing at 4. Lazy fuck might’ve skipped the stairs, but he ain’t dumb enough to exit the way he came, apparently.
Still, he draws his gun on his way towards the first flight. He’ll never fucking tell a soul, but he’s been kind of, uh… Not afraid, more like wary of stairwells ever since that bullet grazed him way back on patrol. Only reason he didn’t take a shot to the chest was thanks to the officer in front of him – and the only reason he survived was thanks to his vest. A black man had greeted them from upstairs with a straight-up cheerful “Aww, officers!”, his only warning before opening fire. His last statement as a free man was, “If I got on the ground like they said, they woulda killed me.”
Gun pointed to the ground, he shuffles his way up three floors. Leans onto the hallway with his back to the wall and takes one last peek – all clear, as to be expected. He mutters as much into the radio, both to inform Dale and to have the dispatcher relay the message. In a few seconds, surrounding units will be listening to her weary tone as she recounts the most underwhelming, most nobody-cares PSA ever, “Information for patrols... Suspect GOA at attempted home invasion onnn uh... 5-9-1 Franklin… Suspect took off onnn... foot..., six-foot male wearing a hoodie...”, so y’all keep your eyes peeled for what could be literally anyone.
Mac’s door is instantly recognizable just by the dusty footprints on it. He walks closer so that all of him is clearly visible to the camera – she’s obviously watching, so he kind of wishes he had something witty to say, something to lighten the mood a bit.
He can’t think of anything, though, not right now. So he just smiles into the lens and says, “Knock-knock.”

Seeing all the stuff chaotically spread across the surfaces of the bathroom – reusable cotton pads and moisturizer in the sink, the toothbrush stand tipped over, and shampoo that came open as it fell slowly oozing four dollars down the drain with every ounce – reminds her of the time she messed something up with dinner, can't evan recall what, and Dylan was in one of his moods, virtually the only mood since he got passed over for that promotion he wanted. One thing I've asked of you, he said, cleaning up the half-made food with frustrated motions, one thing and you can't fucking do it. Are you seriously this fucking stupid? And she really must have been, because then she asked if he took his meds that day, and the next thing she knew, she was on the floor with eggshells and half a box of pasta.

It always only lasted for a minute or two, and then he'd be back, like a different person, sometimes literally groveling on his knees, hugging her waist like a kid, sobbing, asking her to forgive him, that he hates those meds, he hates everything and wishes he could be different. And for the longest time, she did. Because the rest of the day, about six days a week, he was so nice.
She wonders if his minutes became longer. If he took his meds now. If she was right and he wasn't armed and didn't just give wrong information to Tay. If it really was Dylan, which she wasn't sure about, he'd be on probation. He wouldn't be this stupid, right? 

Y-yeah, I'm okay, it's... I don't think he's trying to kick the door in, I think he's just angry.

Which feels both better and worse. The apartment door still gives out a nauseating squeak when he kick is again. That's when she hears the faint yelling down the hall. She recognizes the voice but only by face.

One of the neighbour's yelling at him. But I don't think... That he knows.

He's yelling at the hooded figure to keep the noise down, because that's the important part. The wannabe burglar slash homeinvader looks sideways towards the voice, but if she's right, whomever yelled at him didn't want to actually come out. Probably has an early shift and wants to sleep, crimes be damned.

Um... Pacific. He just walked away, I-I can't see where.

It sounds like they're dealing with a single, unarmed offender – but what Mac can see on camera is no guarantee. He could still be carrying and there could still be some kind of accomplice on the lookout. The "A-rule of policing" – assume nothing – tends to fly straight out the window when you don't feel like playing Russian roulette on near-minimum wage, and that's probably how someone ended up shooting a guy in the eye. Oh, well.

Yeah, if he ain't picked it yet, he ain't pickin' it anytime soon,

he scoffs at the thought of this clown fiddling with the lock. Even kicking the fucking door down would get him in f...
His eyes shoot open at the sounds on the other end. Looks like the clown just came to the same conclusion, huh?

Mac?! You okay?

She's never mentioned the name Dylan to him before, but he's got a little hunch. It's starting to sound like Mac's been minimizing the magnitude of her problem a teeny bit – then again, judging by the amount of time it took her to recognize her ex, she herself probably didn't realize what a maniac she was dealing with.

One block down, almost there.

I'm turning the siren back on, keep an eye out and let me know if he's bolting.

Depending on a thousand factors including the door and whether this idiot skips leg day, he could very well be inside in seconds. It'd be nice to grab him by the collar, but this isn't a financially motivated break-in and Mac's safety is still a priority – some guys burst in, shoot their ex and then themselves, you never fucking know. If immediate risk can be prevented, then it should be prevented, so... Here's his chance to flee. Best case scenario, they meet him halfway.
Dale lifts the radio to his mouth, droning in a raspy monotone, “363-H-20, responding to home invasion in progress, approaching Pacific and Franklin”, and a female voice crackles back in a monotone to match, “Copy that”. Not the time and also not her job to question why this unit’s going rogue outside their beat near the end of their shift. Then again, everyone knows it's easier to ask for a “Whatever, just don’t do it again” than for permission.
Once parked, there's a “363-H-20 on scene, we’re headed inside the building” and then a “Copy”. The corner building has two sides facing the street, one entrance each. He looks around in a haste.

Aight, we're here. Which entrance, Pacific or Franklin?

Yeah, I... Yeah, okay.

She's sure she sounds absentminded, as if she had anything else to focus on right now. The problem isn't really that she doesn't want to talk, it's that she doesn't know how. Her thoughts have a hard time forming and moving along the neural pathways, like they're fighting against the current. The instructions help, following them is easier.

Dunno. I can't see him, he's, like, six foot... His hoodie is up and he keeps turning away from the, um, the camera. I think he's alone. Yeah, he is.

She can hear a faint tinkering noise, either through the bathroom door or from the camera's mic. Doesn't sound like a big tool, like when you see people breaking in with wrenchpipes and crowbars in movies.

He has something, to, like, pick the lock with. I don't... know what it is, but I can hear it, he had it in his front pocket when he was walking around.

Sixty dollar lockpicking guns, as it turns out, only work when you know what to do with them. The figure stands up, walks in a small circle, his palms still hiding his face as he lets out a loud, frustrated noise. Before she could comment on it, he takes a step back, and bang, his boot meets the door. She lets out an involuntary yelp, pushing up against the farthest wall, knocking down toiletries scattered around the sink. Now it might be important.

He kicked the door, I... I think he might be Dylan.

Or the stupidest fucking burglar to ever live.

Only one getting in an accident tonight is that waste of Medicaid outside your door.
Just this month, there's probably been at least one instance where he slowed his car down only to jab his tongue against the inside of his cheek, motioning Suck my dick at a driver like Dale. Still, he has to admit – this turning-red, foaming-at-the-mouth type road rage does come in handy sometimes.
184-52, fourth floor, right corridor, fifth door... Plant at the front. Of course there's a plant at the front. Bet Mac put it there.

Got it. Few more blocks to go.

Wait is a bitch, but that's as bad as your night gets, I promise.

Not much else you can say in a situation like this.

Hey, talk to me in the meantime. What’s he look like?

Is it only one guy? He got anything on him?

Seeing as Dale will be coming with him, he's not about to keep him in the dark. So he repeats the info, "One observed, weapon unknown." Doesn't sound like there's a need for a whole ass convoy of backup or a SWAT team here, but playing lone ranger's how you get your headshot next to an in memoriam tweet.

He sounds reasonable and calm, she knows she should be, too, and yet... This made her feel about the same like those active shooter drills back in school. Fucked up as it is, most people their age can't really recall the times before they became a casual part of their school days, the same as fire drills, all run and hide, stay quiet. Even though most of those were drills, in a big city there'd always be a lockdown every once in a while, even if it ends up being a false alarm. You don't know it's false until it's over, though.  

Don't get into an accident, please.

The thought of that makes her want to throw up; or it's just the anxiety of the situation. The few times she went home after being robbed, their family home or the youth center, the thought of someone who had ill intentions touching and searching through everything always felt nauseating and dirty. Not to mention the nights you'd then spend overreacting to every small noise, thinking they're coming back. The one place where you're supposed to be at ease and they take it away, snap, just like that. The same sinking feeling she'd get for a long time whenever Dylan showed up.
It has crossed her mind, obviously, but she doesn't really think it could be him. Still, she pulls up the feed, with the sirens echoing from the speaker. It's your average black hoodie, that's all she can see. She's sure Dylan owns one of these but so does Tay, her brothers, so does virtually everyone. There's the slightest glimpse of a small logo though; you can't really read the text, but the emblem is familiar and her breath hitches again.

Y-yeah, sure, umm... It's 184... 184-52. Fourth floor, right corridor, fifth door. There's, umm... A plant at the front.

It doesn't matter, that's the thought rolling around her brain as she decides to ignore tha possibilities. Because it's okay, and Tay said he's almost there.

Bathroom’s good, you’re safe for now, and that’s all you need to do.

He lists that off with audible punctuation, calm and firm as if she’d called an actual dispatcher. And that’s because he’s actively trying to pretend just that. Anyone that’s good in a crisis is really just good at doing what most people can’t: flicking a switch. You can’t tell if you were born that way or if you’ve been chosen by elimination – you couldn’t both be panicking, you couldn’t all be standing around, so it was on you. And once it’s On You, it’s staying, but it’s whatever. Right? You’ve had practice.

Less than five, we’re almost there. We’re taking the fast lane for you, lights on and everything.

He tries to come off light – again, he’s just a dispatcher and she’s just a caller, he doesn’t know her voice and he absolutely does not wanna yell at the van in front like, “What shade of green are you waiting foooor?!”. He does blare the horn though, womp-womp, and that’s all he can do ‘cause he couldn’t keep talking to Mac over the siren.
He knows they’ll get to her first, and even if they didn’t, that petty fuck would most likely be in and out in thirty seconds, settling for a MacBook. Still, even if he knows she’ll be okay, he actually does know her voice, and he hates to hear it tremble like that. There’s straight-up zero reason for crime to even exist in the same realm as Mac does, shit should be... More illegal than it already is. At least against Mac, then. Crimes against Mac should be punishable by death.

Hey, how ‘bout you take a deep breath for me?

SHE lowers the phone and stares at the door, half-hidden behind a wall now. The fact that someone was on the other side trying to get in seemed surreal. This wouldn't be the first time, you can't really live your whole life here and not get robbed every once in a while, but 99% of the time, you're not home. It's not in their interest for you to be home, right? Not in anyone's interest, really. She, for one, would have gladly not been home. Not have been home. Have been not been home? There's too much anxiety for tenses right now.

I... I mean I'm in the bathroom but I'm not sure if It's...

Should I be panicking? 'Cause I am, your tone tells me it's fine, but your words say 'hyperventillate'.

Textbook solutions go yeet out the window, because what he says sounds reasonable and logical, but her body's confused by the English language. The main thing it keeps telling her is to go 'out', get with people, people are safe.
Instead she only gets up to lock the door, voices jumping awkwardly off the tiled walls. Not seeing the door is simultaneously better and worse.

…Right.

His brows flash with an “Eeeeh...” kind of grimace. Right, because technology exists, dumbass. What a fucking neanderthal moment to be having in front of Mac.

Yeah, that ain’t no grandpa. Aight, get a move on, tell desk we're rollin' code three.

He’s talking to Dale there, who’s looking pretty irritated by now, “Care to enlighten me, 'boss'?”, to which Zheng just presses the red-and-blue lights on, “There.” Then a single, three-second wail nearing the intersection, weeeeEEEEEEooop–. Dale turns it off, raising his voice, “You want me to abuse that shit, you fuckin’ tell me what’s goin’ on,” and Zheng lowers the phone grudgingly, lying for brevity’s sake, “My girl’s getting burgled, aight? Now step on it.”

Let him fuck around, we’ll get there while he’s busy.

I... I meant through the app...? The, uh... Speaker?

Do I really give off THAT much white girl vibes? This wouldn't be the first time for someone to think her disfunctioningly naive, which is, you know, fair, her boundaries give a bit mire leaway than average. But the thing is with stupid people is that they usually don't know they are stupid, right? Maybe she is being weird.

They're out. Tom's working a late shift, Nina's on a date, and Allie's back to thinking...

There's some noise from outside, scattering and scratching coming from seemingly the neighbor's door. The camera feed shows a small patch of dark fabric moving on the periphery, appearing and disappearing.

... Uuuh, thinking Ryan's a good idea. It's not them. My cam just moved. I think... He's trying to take it off.

Weird thing to accidentally try to do, huh. She thinks about the 'lockable' part and wonders if the half-hollow apartment door would hold on for a few minutes straight on if someone tried to force their way in for the sake of coming in. No idea why someone would do that but that'd be only one of the bizarre details here.

N… What?

He squints out the window in confusion. Only told her the grandpa thing to try and comfort her, not to suggest she talk to him…! Could be anyone, could be a grandpa, her ex, a second stalker or some crackhead. He wonders how Mac even survived New York this long with that kinda self-preservation – was her angry lesbian friend actively keeping her alive all this time?

Hell no, don’t open the door.

Dale opens his palms on the wheel and shrugs, "Fuck’s goin’ on?" and his partner glances at him, "Take Atlantic to Barclays."

We’ll be there in seven.

She hesitates for a moment or two before saying the address in Prospect Heights, right on the side of the train tracks, near a busy junction. Nina used to joke that if she were to ever kill someone – hypotethically, of course –, she'd do it here, sometimes the wheels eeek so hard it hurts your brain. Who cares about a few pops or clanks here and there?
The way he says 'just this grandpa' makes her exhale in defeat.

You don't need to. It's probably the movie making me jumpy, it's fine.

What's the address?

We're headed back to the station, anyway. We'll go check up on you, okay?

Dale glances his way but doesn’t say shit. He knows he can’t, not with his wife working night shifts at JFK, not with the patrol car passing by his apartment whenever it’s bedtime for his kids. He usually has a short phone call with them, the kids blabbering on and on, pressing their noses against the window. They wave at Zheng at 2000 RPM, they laugh at Dad’s bunny-ears or squeal “No!” at the finger gun to his head. Dale usually plays along, looking behind him so his partner can turn away, “play innocent”. Raaaare moments of teamwork.

Got a call like this once, it was just this grandpa who forgot where he lived,

he chuckles.

But maybe stay somewhere lockable 'til we get there. Better play it safe.

No, I'm home. I was just watching this movie and...

It all starts sounding silly now, listening to the faint chatter on the other side. The same way your irracional fear of a killer clown straight out of 2016 hiding under your bed seems stupid once you've actually checked under, bedroom lights on, staring right at nothing. The bathroom is right at the end of the hallway, across the front door that's significantly less ominous now.

I got a notification from Ring, saying someone's at the door, but no-one's back yet, and then I heard, like, the doorknob...

I thought someone's just drunk, but it keeps going off every few minutes and... I don't know, he's just pacing around but it's so weird.

Good thing Mac’s in his contacts list, ‘cause he wouldn’t pick up on duty otherwise. And he could open his usual corny way, joke about her bedtime or some shit, but Mac’s name on his screen is kind of a bad omen in the dead of night.

Mac? You okay?

There’s a radio crackling in the background, “Rad sweep clear, comin’ through.” Driving the Tahoe through the gates, Dale waves at the guard seated inside the post, “Good night”.

Where are you right now? Are you out?

Tay, hi.

She lets out a  relieved sigh, a bit too quick to talk, voice low.

Sorry to call when you're working, its just...

Umm, it might be stupid but I'm alone and I'm kinda freaking out.