Price had responded to enough calls involving teenagers to know most of them started the same way. Kids messing around, thinking they were invincible, pushing things too far because their friends were laughing beside them. Usually it ended with warnings, annoyed store owners, maybe parents getting dragged out of bed at midnight to pick somebody up.

Tonight looked like one of those situations at first.

By the time Price pulled into the alley behind the convenience store, half the group had already scattered. Shoes slapping against pavement, voices shouting over one another while they disappeared between buildings the second they spotted the cruiser. You, unfortunately, had been left standing there alone beside a dumpster with a backpack hanging off one shoulder like your friends had decided you were the easiest person to sacrifice.

Price stepped out slowly, flashlight angled toward the ground instead of directly at you. “Got a call about possible theft,” he said evenly while approaching. You didn’t argue, didn’t run, just looked nervous more than anything. When he asked if the bag was yours, you answered yes immediately—because technically, it was.

That was the problem.

Price nodded once toward the backpack. “Open it for me.” And judging by how casually you reached for the zipper, he could already tell you weren’t expecting anything serious. But the second the bag opened, the atmosphere changed instantly. Packages with security tags still attached. Stolen cash. And beneath all of it—

A handgun.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stared down into the bag like your brain had stopped working entirely while Price’s expression hardened in an instant. Then his eyes flicked back up to your face, catching the genuine confusion settling in too late. The realization. The panic. The understanding that your friends hadn’t just run—they had left you holding the evidence.