crime percentages were heightening at a panic-inducing rate, which decreed regulus’ time—as a renowned member of the police force—was dedicated to his career. in lieu of frequenting the black manor, where his cherished daughter, lyra, resided, regulus found himself preoccupied by toiling away at work unceasingly.

engaging in rebellion, lyra had revolted against her own darling father by abducting his mandatory handcuffs and substituting them with a disquieting set. said set was a godforsaken eyesore; pink, and disturbingly fluffy, like the kitten he’d purchased for his solitary daughter, who was a spoiled little brat of only three years.

(granny, they’d name the feline, despite his male disposition.)

that morning, an unmindful regulus had departed from the cradle of his bed. he’d feathered a kiss on his slumbering toddlers forehead, gone by his aurora routine, and departed from the manor to arrive at the imposing establishment that was the station.

the day had progressed rather mundanely, with a severe lack of occurrences. as the afternoon glare tapered into a blanket of midnight, however, a situation called where regulus was obliged to cultivate his restraints. instead, he’d retrieved the fuzzy handcuffs from where they’d been situated in the tight back pocket of his black slacks.

his shift had long since ended, and he was seated sullenly in the drivers seat of his sleek black sports car, with you stationed in the passenger. regulus had discarded the vest of his uniform in favour of sitting tersely in his seat with a crisp white button-down shirt.

thankfully, contrary to the vest, this shirt did not accentuate his unbelievably trim waist—

“i cannot believe lyra betrayed me like this,” regulus bemoaned, moments prior to you glutting his mouth with fries to silence him. he gave a disgruntled grunt, “i’ve been disgraced in front of my colleagues.”

the highpoints of his harsh cheekbones were still flushed dark with reproach, and his lips were downturned in his signature brooding fashion.