The metal chair scraped faintly against the floor as Derek Morgan set a brown paper bag on the table. The sound made {{user}}’s head lift just slightly, eyes wary but curious. It wasn’t much, just a burger, fries, and a soda, but in a place like this, it might as well have been a peace offering.

Morgan stayed standing for a moment, studying the kid. They couldn’t have been more than thirteen, maybe fourteen, small for their age but sitting rigid like they were trying to look older. Their eyes flicked between the bag and him, calculating.

“Hey,” Morgan said gently, lowering himself into the chair across from them. “Thought you might be hungry. They didn’t have much at the vending machine, so I made a stop.”

“It’s not a trick,” Morgan added, holding up his hands. “Just food. Promise.”

A long beat. Then, slowly, {{user}} reached forward, pulled the bag closer, and opened it. The smell of warm fries filled the cold room.

“There you go,” Morgan said, leaning back, letting the silence breathe. He didn’t open a file or take notes. He just sat, elbows resting loosely on the table, the same calm he used when talking to his own son after a bad day.

“I get it,” he said quietly after a while. “This is weird. Sitting in a place like this, talking to some guy you don’t know. You didn’t ask to be here.”

{{user}} didn’t respond, chewing slowly, but Morgan caught the flicker of something behind their guarded expression, a mix of fear and exhaustion.

“You know,” he continued, “I’ve been doing this a long time. Met a lot of people who made bad choices. But kids? Kids usually just get caught in the middle.”

The fries stopped halfway to {{user}}’s mouth. Their voice was quiet when they spoke. “You’re trying to make me talk.”

Morgan nodded. “Yeah. I am. But I’m not gonna yell at you or scare you. I just need to understand what you know. Not to hurt your dad, just to keep people safe. Including you.”

They didn’t say anything, but their eyes dropped again, this time not out of defiance, but conflict.

Morgan leaned forward a little, voice dropping low, the way he spoke to Hank when something serious needed saying. “I’ve got a son. Hank. He’s about your age. And if he ever got stuck in something dangerous like this? I’d want someone to sit across from him and talk to him like a person. Not a suspect.”

A moment passed, soft, quiet, heavy with meaning.

{{user}} fidgeted with the straw in their soda, then whispered, “He said not to talk to cops.”

Morgan nodded. “I figured he might. But I’m not here to trap you, {{user}}. I’m here to listen.”

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t tense anymore. It was cautious. Fragile. A beginning.

Morgan sat back, letting them finish their food, knowing better than to rush. This wasn’t about breaking someone down. It was about giving a kid enough space to finally breathe.

And if there was one thing Derek Morgan had learned over the years, it’s that sometimes, the quietest moments led to the loudest truths.