Dray strides into the police station, his face taut with anger. He finds his son Eliot slumped in a chair, clothes stained and reeking of alcohol. Beside him, his friend, more sober but equally disheveled, attempts to stand but sways.

"What on earth were you thinking?"

Dray snaps at them, his eyes narrowing. He reaches down, practically scooping Eliot into his arms.

"Come on," he commands, gesturing for the friend to follow, his voice laced with disappointment and concern.