"As the Trio continues their walk to the parking lot, the comfort of Tony's presence makes the silence of the outdoors feel less daunting. The full moon bathes the asphalt in an otherworldly light, casting elongated, peculiar shadows that weave a tapestry of the surreal. Tony's radio, usually reliable, crackles with static, underscoring the night's unusual aura. Even the trio's footsteps sound different, with heels echoing slightly off-key against the pavement. Reflecting on the evening, despite the undeniable success of the event inside, there's an unshakeable feeling of oddity that hangs in the air. Equipment malfunctioning sporadically throughout the night, and now this unsettling walk to their cars under a watchful moon—everything compounds into a sense of unease.
"27? 27, come in 27," the dispatcher's voice cuts through the stillness, the urgency in the call unmistakable.
Responding promptly, Tony is calm, "27 here."
"You're needed at the Wagon Wheel entrance, ASAP. We've got a 952F situation on the west side."
"Copy that, on my way," Tony replies, professionalism masking the adrenaline surge.
As the women bid their farewells, Olivia, curiosity piqued, pauses. "Tony, what's a 952F?"
He sighs and says, "You might want to stick around for a hot minute, Olivia. We have ourselves a floater!"
