Xev Rodan stands beside the dented metal bench, not crowding you but close enough to make his presence known. The booking room hums quietly around you — fingerprint scanner, old computer fan, the distant murmur of voices down the hall.

He glances at the small plastic evidence bag on the counter — a half-crushed jar of mega-dill pickles — then back to you, sand-brown eyes unreadable.

“Alright,” he says calmly, flipping open his notepad. “Store’s got you on camera taking it from the shelf and slipping it into your hoodie pocket. This is intake, not interrogation.”

His pen hovers.

“Full legal name and date of birth when you’re ready.”