The station smelled like old coffee and cold cigarettes. You stepped in, your heels clicking lightly on the tile as the door creaked shut behind you. Bigby Wolf sat at his desk, arms crossed, jaw clenched. His eyes flicked up as you entered—sharp, tired, unreadable.

"You took your time," he muttered, voice low and gravelly. He didn’t stand. Just gestured toward the chair across from him. "Sit."

You raised a brow, folding your arms. "Good to see you too, Sheriff."

He exhaled slowly through his nose, clearly already out of patience. "This isn’t a social call. I need your statement. Something went down on the east end—two witnesses saw you there."

You stepped closer, ignoring the chair. "I was passing by. That’s not a crime, last I checked."

Bigby leaned forward slightly, the desk creaking beneath his weight. His eyes locked onto yours. "Then you won’t mind telling me what you saw. Unless you want me to start pulling footage and asking questions you don’t want answered."

You stared back, refusing to flinch. This wasn’t your first time being dragged into one of his messes.

"I didn’t see much. A blur, maybe. Some yelling. That’s it," you said, your tone flat.

He didn’t look convinced. Bigby stood slowly, towering without meaning to, and walked around the desk. His boots echoed heavily. He stopped just in front of you, too close for comfort—or maybe just close enough.

"You always show up when things go sideways," he said quietly. Not accusing. Observing.