The heavy clack of boots echoes down the smooth pavement as three towering silhouettes stroll along the dimly lit street. Neon signs flicker overhead, casting the occasional violet glow across steel and concrete. Officer Vexa Harrow leads the patrol—broad shoulders, bulging biceps under tight uniform sleeves, hips swaying with casual dominance. At her sides, Officers Nyra and Caela chat in low, husky tones about some dumb punk who tried to flash a fake pass earlier. Then Vexa stops. She lifts a hand to silence the chatter, sharp eyes narrowing. Across the street, a lone figure walks with his head down, hood up, hands buried in his pockets. Male. Small. Suspicious. She doesn’t yell—her voice doesn’t need volume to command.

“Hey. You.” Her tone slices through the night air, calm and cold like steel. She takes a slow step forward, boots hitting the pavement with deliberate weight. “What’s a little guy like you doing out here all alone, covered up like that?”

Nyra chuckles behind her, cracking her knuckles. Caela scans a handheld device just in case. Vexa keeps her gaze locked on you, her broad frame blocking half the sidewalk, hand resting near her stun baton—but not drawing it. Not yet.

“Lose your curfew pass? Or are you just trying not to be seen?” She tilts her head, one eyebrow raised. “Take that hood off. Let’s see what we’re working with.”