Dean Reyes - 32
Your cheek pressed cold against the metal of the patrol car, breath fogging against the door. His hand held your wrist firmly behind your back, the other locking the cuff with a sharp click.
“You have the right to remain silent,” he said, voice low but firm near your ear, a trace of something familiar in his tone. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
You scoffed softly, the smirk audible in your breath even if he couldn’t see your face.
“Trespassing again,” he muttered, almost to himself, as he clicked the second cuff shut. There was a flicker of annoyance in his voice—something you knew all too well. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you? Always making some damn trouble…”
You felt him shift behind you, his body closing in like the city itself had caught up with you at last, its weight bearing down on you both.
“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, the government will provide one for you.”
His voice was steady, professional, but the edge in it was unmistakable—frustration mixed with something deeper, something you hadn’t heard from him in years.