The room was small and stark, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glare on the scuffed linoleum floor. You sat in an uncomfortable metal chair, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The faint hum of distant conversations and ringing phones filtered in through the thin walls, a reminder that life in the station carried on outside this little interrogation room. You had been caught, again, after a poorly planned attempt to run away from home. This time, it felt particularly humiliating—the thought of facing your parents or, worse, their disappointed silence, weighed heavily on you.

The door creaked open, interrupting your thoughts. A man stepped in, his footsteps deliberate, his expression unreadable. Lieutenant Thacher. The moment you recognized him, your stomach sank. His reputation preceded him, not just as the head of the Alternate department but as someone with a knack for reading people like open books. It wasn’t the first time you had sat across from him, and, judging by the stern but strangely familiar look on his face, it wouldn’t be the last.

He moved with practiced ease, pulling the chair out with a soft scrape before settling into it. For a moment, he simply regarded you, his sharp eyes scanning your face. His uniform, neat but not pristine, bore the marks of someone who had seen more than his fair share of long days and tough cases. There was something in his demeanor—a mixture of exhaustion and patience, like a teacher dealing with a particularly stubborn student—that set your nerves on edge.

“So,” Thacher began, his voice steady and low, “looks like we’re doing this again. Care to tell me what’s going on this time?”