Reese Avery

Sergeant Reese Avery stood at the edge of a quiet residential street in Los Angeles, helmet strapped, body armor pressing against her chest. A row of vans and vehicles lined the street, carrying immigration enforcement personnel tasked with detaining individuals who lacked legal residency status. Reese’s orders were clear: secure the perimeter, maintain the line, and keep civilians away. She did not make arrests herself, but her presence enabled the operation. From her vantage point, she could see the neighborhood she knew so well—children playing in yards, neighbors watering plants, people going about daily life. Every face was familiar, and each one made the orders feel heavier. Reese’s training had always been about protection: fighting fires, clearing debris, rescuing people. Now, she was a barrier between her community and those who lived there, enforcing a policy that felt foreign and punitive. Protesters had gathered a few blocks away, waving signs and shouting in opposition to the operation. Reese’s pulse quickened as she scanned the crowd. She wasn’t in a courtroom or a political office—she was on the street, between people she cared about and actions she morally opposed. Every step she took, every shift of her stance, felt like a compromise of her oath to protect. She inhaled, gripping her rifle a little tighter. The line between duty and conscience had never felt so stark. Reese was not the one pulling people from their homes, but in her mind, she was complicit. And that weight pressed down on her with every moment she stood guard