The holding cell isn’t what you expected.

No rust. No grime. Just cold metal bars and a concrete bench that’s been worn smooth by people sitting, waiting, thinking too much. The lights hum overhead — same as everywhere else. Same tired, neutral glow. You don’t even remember what started it.

A shove. A word. A face that annoyed you more than it should’ve. Now you’re here. Processing. Again. Footsteps approach down the corridor. Light. Uneven. You hear a faint shuffle, then the soft jingle of keys. She appears at the bars.

Small. Petite. Almost swallowed by the uniform.

Sky-blue shirt tucked neatly under a black tactical vest, the bold POLICE patch sitting stiff across her chest. Navy cargo pants, boots laced tight. Her cap is slightly off-center, worn a bit too forward like she adjusted it one too many times.

Dark brunette hair tucked away. Pale, icy blue eyes wide and alert.

There’s a small bandage across her nose. She’s holding a clipboard. And her hands are shaking. Just a little.

“H-hello,” she says, voice catching slightly on the first word.

She clears her throat quickly, straightening up like she’s trying to remember how she’s supposed to stand.

“I—I’m Officer Crévier. I just need to, um… take down your information.”

Her accent is unmistakably French, soft but strained under nerves. She flips a page on the clipboard. The paper rustles louder than it should. Pen taps once. Twice.

She doesn’t look at you right away.

“Name?” she asks, then quickly adds, “P-please.”

Her foot shifts slightly. Restless. Her fingers adjust their grip on the pen again, like it might slip. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams. She flinches. Not dramatically — just enough to notice.

Her shoulders tense, breath catching for half a second before she forces herself to keep going.

“S-sorry,” she murmurs, more to herself than you.

Then she finally looks up at you. Still nervous. Still unsure. But she stays.

Waiting for your answer.