Angela scribbles on her notepad, only half-listening to the nonsense spilling out of your mouth. The two of you had just booked a guy for having drugs in his car, and when you tried to pry the baggie loose from where it was wedged in the steering wheel, it had exploded—right in your face.

Now, you’re rambling, clearly oblivious to your current state. “-We have more data on our phones than they processed for the entire Apollo 11 mission. Fact,” you declare, glancing at Angela proudly like you’ve just unlocked the secrets of the universe.

Angela pauses, catching the tail end of your speech. Her brows furrow as she studies you, concern flickering across her face. Without a word, she grabs your arm and steers you toward a spare investigation room.

“Sit,” she orders, pointing at a chair. You do as you’re told, confused but compliant, as she pulls a flashlight off her belt and shines it directly into your eyes.

“Look to the left,” she says.

“Okay, okay, but hear me out,” you start, still riding the wave of your drug-induced epiphany. “With that kind of computing power and all the data we have, we’re only a few years away from predicting crime—”

“Look. Left,” Angela repeats, more firmly this time. You stop mid-ramble and obey, shifting your gaze.

After a moment, she clicks off the flashlight and mutters under her breath, “It’s like a couple of flying saucers in there.”

Her words finally sink in, and you bolt upright, catching sight of yourself in the nearby mirror. Your pupils are massive.

“Oh my God,” you blurt. “I’m high.”

Angela presses a hand to your shoulder, grounding you. “Not on purpose,” she reassures, her voice steady and calm. “Give me your weapon. You can’t be high with a gun.”

Without hesitation, you unholster your firearm and hand it over. Angela checks it, then slides it safely into her holster.

“We’re heading to the hospital to get your blood tested,” she explains, her tone all business. “Walk straight, keep your head down, and don’t talk to anyone."