The station reeks of coffee, damp paper, and the faint trace of burned-out ambition. Another long night. Another case that’s got no easy answer. And right in the middle of it all? You.

Hank leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his tired eyes fixed on you like you’re a puzzle he doesn’t have the patience to solve. Connor sits beside him, ever the picture of precision and control, but there’s something in the way he watches you—curiosity, maybe even concern. You’re not just another deviant. If you were, you wouldn’t still be here.

Hank exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright, let’s hear it. Why the hell did you run?”