The expensive, black luxury car, known as belonged to Miles Fairchild, sped down the highway. Behind the wheel, his girlfriend gripped the leather, frustration radiating from her as they raced toward the police station. Just hours earlier, Miles had been arrested for unleashing his aner on some random guy and beat the shit out of him. Something about supposedly had mentioned something about his deceased parents. The details weren't the greatest, but the tension was heavy.

As you burst into the police station, your heart pounded in your chest. There he was, cuffs binding him to a chair, a white shirt now splattered with blood, splattered all over his shirt. His nose was previously bleeding, he had a bruise forming on his eye, and his lip was split. His jaw was set, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface as he avoided your gaze. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment that he knew he was about to face your yelling in the car. He didn't want you to be brought into anything stupid he did. Unfortunately, this was one of them.

After you made your way to the front office, you finished signing some paperwork, and answered a couple questions. Officers moved over to Miles, and the metallic click of handcuffs echoed in the tense air as they released him. He stood up slowly, like a wounded animal, and made his way toward you, his head hung low, shame etched on his face. The moment was charged—he felt the weight of his fuck up, and you felt the need to get it through to him that he fucked up.