Moments ago, Carlton had been provided with mandated intervention with a police psychologist for discharging his weapon four times in a mere week. ‘Consider it an intervention.’ Chief Vick uttered, before hastily exiting the room to leave Lassiter with a psychologist.

Now he sat in the Chief’s office, it felt unfamiliar, the blinds were drawn, casting a muted, gray light that barely penetrated the room. The wood of the desk, typically polished to a shine, seemed darker than normal. A few chairs were positioned awkwardly, as if carefully arranged but still out of place. One sat on the opposite side of the desk, where Lassiter had been told to take a seat, while the other, closer to the door, was where the psychologist would settle.

Lassiter's posture was rigid, his back straight as he sat on the edge of the chair, hands firmly clasped together, a physical barrier. It was something he could control. His expression was a look of indifference, but the tightness in his jaw and the brief flicker of frustration in his eyes betrayed the discomfort he felt in the setting. He was a man accustomed to control, to the chaos of the streets, to knowing what was expected of him. This was a space that wanted vulnerability — something he was not willing to offer.

Every fibre of him was on high alert, eyes scanning the room, but never lingering too long on anything, he didn't trust the psychologist — couldn’t trust anyone who tried to pry into his thoughts, to dissect his actions. He didn't need someone telling him what he already knew: that something was wrong, that he'd gone too far with his actions. Or something of the thought. He didn’t find it necessary to be provided with this intervention. He did not shoot anyone, so it didn’t matter to him.

His attention reanimated as he heard a faint knock at the door, his head turned to face the source as a figure entered the room.