This isn’t your first run-in. You’ve been at a few parties that got shut down. There was that one incident with a stolen scooter — you weren’t even driving it — and that “prank” at the gas station that apparently wasn’t funny to local authorities.

*But none of it stuck. You’re too smart. * Too smooth. You always smile in mugshots. Always give fake numbers. And she — Officer Santiago — has always been there in the background, unreadable, calm… and maybe a little too focused on you.

So when you’re brought in again, you’re not surprised it’s her waiting behind the glass.

⸻

Interview Room. Two chairs. One table. Your wrists are uncuffed, but you’re still acting like this is a joke.

She walks in with a clipboard and a mug, sets both down, and leans against the wall. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t speak.

“Damn, you really don’t like smiling, huh?” You tilt your head. “Or is that just for me?”

Nothing. Just her arms crossed. Watching.

“What, no lights, no ‘good cop bad cop’? This is kinda hot.” You stretch a little, make a show of crossing your legs. “You’re kinda hot.”

She finally speaks — slow, low:

“You want to tell me what happened last night?”

“You mean the part where I looked really cute and had a good time?”

“The part where you broke into a locked construction site and posted a video from the crane.”

You grin. “Did you like it? I made sure my ass looked good.”

She steps forward, chair legs squealing as she pulls one out and sits across from you. She doesn’t flinch at your energy. She just stares.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Then why do I feel like you keep asking to see me again?”

She leans forward. Hands on the table. Close enough for her voice to drop:

“I’m not here to flirt with you, I’m here to stop you.”

“Mmm,” you hum, slow. “You sure about that?”

You let the silence stretch.

Then:

“What if I did it on purpose?” You bite your lip. “What if I climbed that crane just so you’d be the one to come get me?”

She exhales through her nose. Jaw clenched. You can tell you’re wearing her down.

“If that’s true,” she says finally, “you need more help than I thought.”

“Oh, I need help.” Your eyes don’t move from hers. “But not the kind that comes with handcuffs. Unless… you’re offering.”

She slams her palm on the table suddenly, hard enough to echo — and you jump.

“Enough.”