‘The Wire’ kicked off in 2002. Five seasons of pure, unfiltered Baltimore. Drug dealers, cops, politicians- everyone’s tangled up. It’s like a soap opera, but with more grit and fewer wedding dresses. Themes? Oh, just corruption, inequality and a little thing called the war on drugs. Realism? Check. Detail? Double check. People say it’s one of the best dramas ever. And they might be right. Or maybe they just really like sad stories.

Meet the characters from The Wire

James McNulty

McNulty is the classic brilliant mess of a cop — loves the chase more than his own life, drinks like it’s a hobby, and somehow always gets the job done even when he’s doing it sideways. He’s furious at bureaucracy one minute and flirting with it the next (he hates promotions but will take credit with a grin). Deep down he’s a romantic about the job, which is both noble and kind of ridiculous, and he cries at funerals he never planned to attend. Also, he wears suits that look like they lost a fight with a rainstorm — somehow charmingly disheveled.

Cedric Daniels

Daniels is the steady spine of the department — calm, principled, and annoyingly good at chess (literal and political chess, ugh). He wants rules to mean something but will bend when the city demands it, so yes, principled but pragmatic — and yes, those two things fight inside him all the time. He can be quiet to the point of inscrutable, then explode into an absolutely withering lecture (in a very courteous way). Fun detail: he probably makes his coffee in a thermos like a man plotting a long campaign.

Shakima Greggs

Kima is tough, smart, and sharp-edged in the best way, like someone who grew up on the streets and read the law for bedtime stories. She’s the heart on the frontline — fierce with a gun and softer than she pretends with her friends, and also a literal addict to staying late at the office (workaholic alert). She smokes when stressed, but also plants tiny succulents on her windowsill, because she has a soft spot for things that hang on. Occasionally she gets shaken and you can see the whole wall come down for a second, which makes her real and terrifyingly human.

William Moreland

Moreland reads like the guy who schedules meetings that never need to be scheduled — polite, career-minded, and allergic to drama unless it makes the papers. He projects bland authority (in a smooth suit) but sometimes that blandness hides a shrewd, slow calculation — he remembers details you assumed nobody did. People think he’s all bureaucracy but he surprises you with a backbone when the right crisis hits, weirdly heroic in a passive way. Also rumor has it he still uses an old fountain pen and writes memos like he’s composing poetry — or maybe I made that up, not sure.

William A. Rawls

Rawls is the roaring engine of management-yelling: brutal, career-first, and spectacularly unamused by anyone not toeing the line. He lives for rank and he’ll slice through excuses with a voice like gravel, but it’s performance — a carefully calibrated performance that protects something small and vulnerable under all that bluster. He loves golf, public humiliation, and spreadsheets in that order; also somehow he’s a master of the dry put-down. Don’t expect hugs, expect reprimands and impeccably ironed shirts.

Rhonda Pearlman

Rhonda is sharp, professional, and impossibly competent — the kind of prosecutor who organizes her feelings into neat evidence folders and then forgets where she hid the feelings. She’s warm in a civilized, exasperated way (especially about McNulty), and she can make you feel guilty for the right reasons. She drinks tea like it’s ritual, argues law like scripture, and occasionally lets a joke slip that brightens the whole room. Also — she has a laugh that’s almost too pretty for the courtroom, which is delightful and slightly suspicious.

Ellis Carver

Carver is that young cop trying so hard to be “one of the guys” but also wrestling with what that even means — eager, loyal, and sometimes painfully awkward. He wants to do the right thing and often does, though he learns the hard way that “right” can be messy. There’s a goofy sort of dignity to him: he might wear an old jacket but keep his badge polished, and he has a secret love for cheesy action movies (don’t ask). He grows up in front of you, which is the best/worst part about watching him — adorable but occasionally reckless.

Thomas Hauk

Hauk is the janitor-of-troubles and the department’s resident reluctant comedian — loyal to his pals, morally flexible, and also strangely sentimental about the wrong things. He’ll break protocol with a grin and then worry about it for days, like a dog who knows it stole your sandwich and is sorry but not sorry. He’s scrappy, has a million little vices (cheap jokes, cheaper lunches), and somehow remains useful even when everyone else writes him off. Also, he could be the guy who cries at a movie and swears he didn’t — contradictory, lovable, annoying.

Lester Freamon

Freamon is the quietly terrifying genius who will sit in a corner and slowly untangle the city’s entire web of corruption while you blink. Methodical, patient, a collector of tiny triumphs (ledgers, coded phone calls, the smell of old books), he’s the kind of detective who makes you feel like your sloppy case notes are an insult. He’s wry, low-key funny in a “you think you found something, kid?” manner, and maybe secretly enjoys model ships or woodwork or something oddly calming. Don’t underestimate his brown suit and deadpan face — he will ruin your alibi in a nice, efficient way.

Reginald Cousins

Reginald (yes, Bubbles!) is heartbreaking and hilarious and stubbornly alive — an informant, addict, and survivalist of the human spirit all rolled into one messy package. He’ll trade you a life story for a cigarette, cry about a stray cat, and then out-scheme a cop with a crooked grin; he’s scrappy and incredibly resourceful. He loves small rituals (counting things, sweeping, odd habit of nicknaming everything) and somehow his kindness keeps popping through the cracks. Also, he has this terrible habit of telling the truth when it would be easier not to — which gets him in trouble and also makes him heroic.

Omar Little

Omar is mythical in boots — terrifying, principled (in his own outlaw way), and the kind of guy who whistles a tune like he’s announcing doom. He robs drug dealers with an ethics code straight out of an ancient text: don’t snitch, don’t harm innocents, and for the love of whatever, don’t touch kids. He’s both a ghost and a headline, moving through Baltimore like it’s his living room while also being impossibly tender with a rare smile. Oh, and he carries a shotgun like a gentleman carries a cane — with menace and flair.