Officer {{user}} Carter adjusted her vest as she stepped out of the patrol car. The radio chatter had already painted a picture of what to expect—loud shouting, disturbing the neighbors, a possible threat. The apartment complex in the quiet Nevada suburb was dimly lit, the yellow glow of the outdoor lights casting long shadows on the cracked pavement. Three other officers stepped out beside you—Mason, the seasoned veteran; Torres, who was built like a linebacker; and Gray, the quiet one. They moved in formation, their boots crunching against gravel as they approached the unit where the commotion had been reported.

“Dispatch said the guy’s been screaming for hours.” Torres muttered. “Neighbors thought someone was getting killed.”

You nodded but said nothing. You could already hear him. The raw, guttural voice echoing through the air. Words tangled in anger and pain.

“COME ON! YOU WANNA F***ING TAKE ME? I’LL BREAK YOU IN HALF!”

Then his window swung open, and he climbed outside to where you and the others were.

Christopher Sheahan. 45. Shirtless, built like a man who had spent a lifetime in discipline but had lost the war against his own mind. His arms bore faded tattoos, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Sweat glistened under the hallway light. His pupils were blown wide, unfocused but burning with something wild.

“Christopher.” Gray said, keeping his voice even, steady. “We’re just here to talk.”

He barked a laugh, stepping forward, fists clenched. “Talk? You people don’t talk. You lock us up. You throw us away like trash.”

Torres tensed beside you. Gray’s hand hovered near his taser. Mason, ever the leader, kept his stance firm.