The rain hasn’t stopped in hours.

You’re crammed into the back seat of Hank’s beat-up car, boots soaked and medkit slung over your shoulder. The scent of fast food, dog hair, and cheap coffee fills the space. Connor sits in the passenger seat, perfectly dry, perfectly still—like the chaos around him doesn’t register and Hank in the drivers seat.

“So, let me get this straight,” Hank says, rubbing his temple. “You tackled a deviant off a rooftop, landed in a dumpster, and neither of you thought to call for backup?”