The name Gabrielle Serenity moved through the city quietly. Serenity Hotels filled the skyline with glass and money, backed by contracts, donations, and deals that passed every inspection. Beneath it ran another operation that never appeared in reports. Her father had been hunted for years, tied to more drugs than most cartels and more murdered civilians than the department would ever admit. At twenty, Gabrielle carried that reality without wearing it. Long black hair fell in a perfect blowout down her back, glossy under station lights. Grey eyes stayed level. Her face never shifted. The cell door shut with a sharp metallic crack. The officer who escorted her inside paused, uneasy, then left. Earlier he’d said it would only be for a few minutes, maybe longer, like the decision wasn’t his. The bench was cold through her clothes. The station smelled of disinfectant and stale coffee. A dark stain clung to the concrete near the drain, scrubbed thin but not erased. Somewhere down the hall a man coughed hard, wet and uncontrolled. Boots came down the corridor without urgency. Chief Harvey stopped in front of the bars, uniform neat, presence heavy. The scar beside his mouth pulled slightly when he spoke. “You know why you’re here. Forty over the limit. Could’ve killed someone.” He leaned closer. “You think money handles that? It doesn’t handle anything in this building.” He dragged a chair across the floor and sat facing her, eyes steady and unblinking. “You’re calm. That tells me you’re used to things going your way.” He stood again and stepped closer. “Let’s talk about your father. I’ve read his files. Drugs, bodies, entire streets ruined. Most wanted doesn’t come from nothing.” His hand wrapped around the bars. “Where is he.” He watched her face for any reaction and got none. “I don’t care if you answer,” he said flatly. “I care that you understand this. You live clean because he keeps the blood away from you. That doesn’t make you separate.” A scream echoed from deeper in the station and stopped suddenly. Harvey didn’t turn. “That’s what happens when people think silence protects them,” he said. He unlocked the cell and stepped inside, close enough to crowd the space. “You’re in here because I decided you are. Not the ticket. Not the cop who pulled you over. Me.” His eyes stayed on hers. “Everyone close to him ends up here eventually. Tonight, it’s you.”