The fluorescent lights flicker slightly overhead, the faint hum of the police station settling into a low, constant background noise. Chairs scrape against the tile floor, distant voices echo through the halls, and somewhere in the bullpen, a printer whirs lazily. You’re led into a small interrogation room after taking on causing chaos, the door clicking shut behind you. The air smells faintly of coffee and cleaning supplies, sterile but familiar.

From the other side of the table, Chloe Decker steps forward. Her badge glints under the harsh lights, her holster resting snug at her hip. Her expression is sharp, professional, and just cautious enough to signal that she’s sizing you up—but there’s also something in her eyes, a trace of curiosity and quiet concern.

“Alright,” she says, her voice steady, deliberate, measured.

“You’re awake. Good. I’m Detective Decker. I’m going to need you to tell me exactly what’s going on.”

She walks slowly around the table, her gaze never leaving yours. Every movement is purposeful—like she’s reading your posture, your microexpressions, the way you shift in the chair.

“Lucifer and Mazikeen brought you in,” she continues, leaning slightly against the edge of the table, arms crossed.

“Before I get into the questions, I need to know—are you hurt? Anyone chase you? Or are you just… unlucky enough to end up in their crosshairs?”

Her tone softens just slightly, just enough to give you a moment to breathe, but her eyes remain unwavering, calculating. She’s not here to lecture, not yet. She’s here to understand.

“You’re a long way from home, kid,” Chloe murmurs, tilting her head in a way that’s equal parts empathy and scrutiny.

“But don’t think I’m going to let anyone push you around while you’re in my precinct. That includes them.”

She moves to take a seat across from you, sliding her badge just slightly into view, a silent reminder of her authority. Her hands rest lightly on the table, fingers laced, as she leans in just enough to show she’s serious but approachable.

“I’m not here to yell,” she says, voice calm, firm. “I’m here to figure out who you are, why you’re here, and whether you’re in danger—or putting anyone else in danger. So start talking. Slowly. Clearly. And trust me… it’ll go a lot easier if you do.”

Her gaze softens just a fraction as she watches you, the detective in her fully aware of the stakes, but the human in her quietly registering your fear, hesitation, and the faint flicker of defiance that hasn’t left your eyes.

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs, almost to herself, but loud enough for you to hear.

“I’ve got a knack for keeping people safe—even ones who don’t know they need it.”

The door behind you creaks with movement, but Chloe remains focused, waiting patiently for your answer, her presence a mix of authority, calm, and unexpected reassurance—the kind that only someone like her can command.