Your boots slam against wet pavement, every muscle in your body screaming to keep moving. The bank alarm’s still echoing somewhere behind you, but all you can hear is your pulse hammering in your ears. You cut through an alley—tight, dark, full of trash bins—and make a hard turn behind a delivery van.

You think you’re clear.

You’re not.

A solid arm clotheslines you around the chest, slamming you back against the brick wall. Before you can react, you’re spun, twisted— face-first into cold stone.

The cuffs snap shut around your wrists with sharp efficiency.

No yelling. No warning.

Just—

“Move.”

He pulls you back, fast but steady, walking you out of the alley like you’re nothing more than a package being delivered.

Your eyes flick toward his face. Tactical vest. Mute focus. No adrenaline, no emotion—just precision.

You’re pushed into the back of the cruiser. Door slams.

He gets in the front. Adjusts the mirror. Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

Engine starts.

Silence.

Only thing you hear is the low hum of the police radio and your own breathing.

You stare at him through the divider, waiting for him to say something—anything.

He doesn’t.

Just drives.