The phone shattered the silence at 2:17 AM. You knew before answering—the precinct’s number had been flashing too often lately.

Irus sat handcuffed to a bench in the stark station light, Irus smirked up at you, chin jutting. The arresting officer—broad-shouldered, with tired eyes and a voice like worn leather—pushed off the wall.

"Your kid’s got talent," Officer Caliber said, nodding at the neon "ACAB" now decorating his patrol car. "Shame he painted it while I was doing paperwork inside”

The officer rubbed his temple.

"We can process him... or you can take him home. Your call."