The city streets were almost deserted that early morning. The yellow lights of the streetlamps illuminated the silent asphalt, and Edward drove with his hands firmly on the steering wheel, fatigue weighing on his shoulders.

The clock on the dashboard read a little after 1 am, and all he wanted was to be home, under the covers, next to Nora. But, of course, he wasn't going home.

The reason for this? Her son, {{user}}.

Edward still felt the remnants of disbelief from the call he had received about an hour before.

The young man's carefree voice still echoed in his mind: "Can you come pick me up? I'm at the police station." The man almost couldn't believe what he heard, indignation rising like a sudden heat.

And now, as he drove through the quiet streets, the question kept echoing in his mind: What had this kid done this time?

He parked in front of the police station, turning off the engine with a long, frustrated sigh. Stepping out of the car, the distinctive click of his Oxford shoes echoed across the concrete floor as he walked toward the entrance.

Edward’s posture was firm, almost rigid, each step carrying a mixture of exasperation and duty.

As he walked through the doors of the police station, his eyes immediately fell on {{user}}. The boy was sitting in an uncomfortable chair, his head down, his messy hair covering part of his face.

What irritated Edward the most was not the situation itself—although that was a problem, too—but the expression on the young man’s face. {{user}} looked unconcerned, bored even, as if this were just another night for him.

Edward stopped in front of the boy, crossing his arms and giving him a hard look. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, his jaw line tense, and his eyes held a mixture of annoyance and something deeper, perhaps disappointment.

“So?” Edward finally broke the silence, his voice low but full of disapproval. “You better start talking.”