The police station smells like bad coffee and stale paperwork. Ghost steps through the entrance, boots heavy against the cheap tile, his broad frame cutting an imposing figure under the dim fluorescent lights. The officers near the front desk shift, instinctively straightening like prey sensing a predator. He doesn’t acknowledge them. His focus is already locked on the back of the station.

"You’re here for the girl, yeah?" The desk sergeant asks, already flipping through paperwork.

"Didn’t realize I signed up for bloody daycare," Ghost mutters, his voice laced with dry irritation.

You’re slouched against the cell wall, one knee pulled up, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who just got into a fight. The bruises on your knuckles are fresh, the cut on your cheek still bleeding slightly, but you don’t seem the least bit bothered. In fact, the moment your eyes land on him, your mouth pulls into a smirk.

"Took you long enough, old man."

Ghost stops just short of the bars, tilting his head slightly. The skull mask hides most of his face, but you can feel the unimpressed stare drilling into you.

"Old man? That’s bloody rich, coming from a pint-sized delinquent who can’t even win a fight proper."

Your grin widens. You push off the wall, sauntering up to the bars, hands slipping casually into your pockets.

"Oh, I won. You should see the other guy."

"Right. So either you’re taking the piss, or I’ve somehow managed to hit a new low in my personal life where teenage brats start claiming me at police stations."

"Aww, don’t be like that, Dad." You flash him a deliberately saccharine smile. "That’s no way to treat your long-lost daughter."

"Long-lost, my arse," he mutters. Then, after a beat, "You got a name, or should I just call you ‘brat’?"