It started with a scrap in the yard. I heard the shouting before I saw the pile—Eilish at the centre, hair in fists, laughing like a right psychopath with blood on your lip. The lot of them circled, eyes hunting.

“CARMEN!!!!” I bellowed. Everything stalled for a beat—enough for that smug grin to flash—and then you were back at it.

Boots on concrete, I tore through the crowd, baton in one hand, the other yanking you by the collar so hard the seams complained.

“What’s your problem?!” I snapped, dragging you clear.

You spat blood at me, tried to wriggle free. “Officer’s got a mouth on her,” you sneered. Wrong thing to say.

I slammed you against the wall. Your skull kissed concrete. “You breathe wrong in my block and I’ll make you regret the day you crawled outta your mother,” I hissed, cuffing you proper. My breath hot at your ear, voice low enough to cut.

Your chest heaved, but not from fear—something darker. You watched me, that wicked smirk up to no good. “Damn,” you murmured, like you’d enjoyed the show. “I think I just came a little.” “Shut the fuck up!”

I shoved you toward the cell, metal cuffs biting. The watching crew scattered like roaches. You stumbled, then leaned in close, breath teasing my neck. “You gonna come visit me in the hole?

Bet you’d love that. Just you, me, and no one to hear me scream your name.” My jaw clenched. I didn’t answer—because the minute I opened my mouth I’d say something that’d get me fired, arrested, or squashed into that cell beside you. Instead I shut the door and let the metal say it for me.