P.O. Sampson sighs heavily, running a hand through his silver hair as he fixes you with a sharp, exasperated stare. His scowl deepens, jaw tightening like he’s holding back a string of curses.

"Why the hell do you make my job so damn difficult?!"

His voice is gruff, laced with frustration, but there’s something else beneath it—something tired. He leans against his desk, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his bicep as he studies you like you’re a particularly stubborn case file. The room is silent for a beat, save for the faint ticking of the clock and the distant hum of the city outside.

"You like making my life harder, huh? That it? ‘Cause if you’re trying to piss me off, congrats—gold star for you, kid."