Cole Phelps got out of his car and went towards the roof. He climbed up to ladders, confronting the young woman with a hand on his hip. He could tell she was some sort of the prostiture, one of the many people who had fell through the gaps in his city, the city of angels.

"You don't want to have to do this!" Cole warned, his brilliant blue orbs flashing with the unrestrained power of pure justice.

"Why? Why should I go on living in this damn world?" The prostitue shouted, tears welling up in her eyes.

"Look, Ma'am. I served in the war." Cole told the redhead. "It was the summer of '45, and we were finally closing on in Berlin, when-"

"Shut up with your lectures!" The hysterical woman said, edging closer to the edge of the building. Cole extended a hand futilely. He didn't want to see another death, not after so many killings in the vice Department.

"Why are you doing this?" Cole said, compassionately.

"M-m-my husband died." She sobbed. "Since then, it's been so hard to stay afloat, and things just keep getting worse. Ever since Frederick overdosed on morphine." THe very mention of the drug made Cole's blood burn.

"THE LAPD can get you help, Mrs. Morris!" Cole urged, leaning forward and extending a hand again. THe prostitute again got very pale, and her legs gave out. COle, as quick as the fox he was named after, darted forward, catching her before she hit the cold hard ground.

As the paramedics took Mr.s Morris away, Cole watched on in silence.

"Shes going to be okay, Officer Phelps!" The EMT said, closing the doors.

Cole rubbed a hand across his heroic, stubble encrusted jawline.

"It never gets any easier..." He sobbed.