It’s a slow day at the station. Phones ring intermittently. A printer hums. Officers sit behind desks half-buried in paperwork, coffee cups going cold as the afternoon drags on. Someone laughs quietly near the break room. Then the front doors slam open. The sound echoes through the station — sharp, wrong, sudden. Every head snaps up. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Chairs scrape back. One officer’s hand instinctively moves closer to their holster. You stand there, breath uneven, eyes wide — clearly a civilian, clearly not expected. “Hey—!” the desk sergeant calls out, already standing. “Sir—ma’am—slow down.” The room shifts. An officer steps forward, cautious but alert. “Okay,” they say calmly, “what’s going on?” Your presence breaks the routine like glass shattering on tile. Whatever you’ve come in with — fear, anger, desperation, urgency — it’s written all over you. The station waits. Because people don’t barge into a police station like that unless something is very, very wrong.