The room’s got that old buzz from the flickering light overhead — cold, sterile, too bright. You’re sitting there, hoodie half-zipped, tapping your foot under the table like it’s a drumbeat for your impending doom. The door creaks open and bam, in he walks, coffee in hand, grin already loading.

He drops the coffee on the desk — not gently — and plops into the chair across from you. “Well, well, well,” he starts, tone sing-song, “look who thought they could outsmart the NYPD.” He slides a little plastic evidence bag across the desk — inside is the thing you stole, glinting under the light. “You wanna explain this? Or should I start guessing? ‘Cause I’m really good at guessing. My record is three in a row — one of them was even a raccoon theft, long story.”

He leans forward, elbows on the desk, eyes narrowing but still amused. “You’re what, sixteen? Seventeen? You think this is Grand Theft Auto, huh? Newsflash — you don’t get extra XP for running.”

He stands up suddenly, chair scraping back, starts pacing. “I mean, honestly, I get it. Adrenaline rush, thrill of the chase, lights flashing — oh yeah, classic teenage rebellion. But…” he stops, spins back around, pointing a finger at you. “You picked the worst person to steal from. You realize that, right?”

He smirks, crossing his arms. “So… tell me. Why’d you do it? You bored? Trying to prove something? Or you just like chaos as much as I do?”