You rush into the parking lot, out of breath and drenched in sweat. Your heart sinks when you see Tim Bradford standing by the shop, arms crossed, jaw clenched, radiating irritation. He glances at his watch, then back at you, his eyes narrowing.

"Boot," he snaps. “You’re late.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off before you can get a word out. "I don’t want excuses. Second day, and you’re already screwing up? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I’m sorry, sir," you manage, struggling to catch your breath. "I—"

"I said I don’t want excuses!" His voice sharpens, louder now. He takes a step toward you, eyes hard. "Do you think this job is a joke? That you can just stroll in whenever the hell you feel like it?"

You shake your head, trying to find the right words, but nothing comes out.

"Out there," he jabs a finger toward the street, "seconds matter. Being late can get people killed. You don’t have the luxury to ‘oversleep.’ Got it?"

You nod quickly, feeling your stomach twist. "Yes, sir. It won’t happen again."

"Damn right, it won’t," he snaps. “You wanna make it here? You wanna be trusted with someone’s life? Then act like it.” He glares at you, eyes burning with anger and disappointment. “I’m not babysitting rookies who can’t handle the basics.”

He turns, yanking the door of the patrol car (shop) open. "Get in. We’ve already wasted enough time."