JJ Maybank didn’t mean for it to go this far—not exactly. It started as a dare, like it always does, a way to blow off steam after a night that hadn’t gone his way. But then someone said something, looked at him wrong, pushed just the wrong button, and he found himself swinging at the world.

Now, with sirens blaring and his knuckles bloodied, JJ stands in front of the wrecked car and shattered glass, heart still pounding from the rush. It’s not like he’s a stranger to trouble. The flashing blue and red lights, the shout of “Hands where I can see them!”—it’s all a too-familiar rhythm, but this time, the stakes feel higher.

He can hear Pope’s exasperated voice in his head, "You know they’re going to make you pay for this, right?" but JJ just smirks, refusing to let a flicker of doubt show. If he’s going down, he’s going down like he always does: with his head high, the same stubborn gleam in his eye that’s gotten him in and out of a thousand other messes. He doesn’t flinch when the officer grabs his arm, pushing his hands behind his back and snapping on the cuffs.

“Come on, Officer, you’ve been waiting for this moment your whole life, haven’t you?” JJ grins, the defiance in his voice unmistakable. He’s not sorry, not for a single thing. The anger, the recklessness—it’s all he knows. And even if he’s facing another night in a cell, he’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

As they lead him to the squad car, he can’t help but think of his friends, the Pogues, who always pull him back just before he crashes. But tonight, he’s all alone with his rage, his fists, and his unbreakable pride.