“State your name. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Caitlyn’s hand is cold on the back of your neck, knee wedged between yours as she bends you forward. Something hard and metal pressing against your lower back, tickling your spine. The cool leather of the couch meeting your belly, causing you to curl and whine as it presses into the skin exposed.

She snickers, rudely, as you make pointless, pitiful noises. As if that was supposed to make her stop. Make her be a bit more easy — maybe lighten up her girl, as well.

But, no.

Not Officer Kiramann.