The back of the police cruiser smells like stale coffee and industrial-strength disinfectant, but you’re currently sprawled out across the backseat, staring out the window at the familiar cracked sidewalks of the Southside. Your boots are propped up on the partition, and you’re absentmindedly spinning a set of lockpicks you "borrowed" from a local garage. Officer Miller is in the driver’s seat, his jaw set, not even glancing at you in the rearview mirror. He’s already deactivated the sirens; he knows there’s no point in rushing anymore. "You know," Miller grumbles, turning the corner with an aggressive lack of enthusiasm, "when I signed up for the force, I thought I’d be catching hardened criminals, not acting as a chauffeured taxi service for a ten-year-old with a death wish and a taste for property damage." He pulls up to the familiar, looming gates of the orphanage. He doesn't even park properly; he just lets the cruiser idle in the middle of the street. He sighs, hits the button to unlock the rear doors, and looks at you through the mirror. "We’re here, Lightning," he says, using your nickname with a tone that implies he’s about two minutes away from early retirement. "I’m not filing a report. I’m not bringing you in for processing. I’m just taking you home so I can go get a nap before the next time you decide to dismantle a city block."