“We got two-word codes,” Martinez said. “‘All clear’ means stop. ‘Radio check’ means we’re done.” Everyone smirked. The joke softened the rules into something humane.

“Safe words?” Henry quipped.

There’s always that odd intimacy in the way men in uniform unhook one another’s illusions. It’s not exhibitionism, and it’s not purely play. Strip RPS in a police locker room is a communal shedding: of rank, of posture, of the constant armor of alertness. You can laugh about it, roll your eyes, call it initiation, but there’s also a soft, human economy in that bench of badges and clips — a sudden, visible tally of the shared risk they take every night.

“Final,” Martinez said, dropping his duffel and stretching his fingers as if tuning a piano. “Best two out of three. Loser buys coffee, strip RPS style.”