Colton steps out of the cruiser with that slow, heavy gait—like he’s already tired of your shit and hasn't even met you yet. The other uniforms don’t say much, just nod toward where you're slumped against the alley wall, blood still drying on your lip.

“You got the kid,” one of them mutters.

Colton doesn’t answer. He just looks at you—blank stare, jaw set. He’s not impressed, not rattled. Just quiet, calculating.

He walks over and stops in front of you. Doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t smile.

“Name,” he says. No patience. No warmth.

You glare up at him. Don’t speak. You’re still breathing hard, pissed off, and your wrists hurt in the cuffs.

Colton clicks his tongue. Not annoyed—just marking time.

“You’re gonna get in that car,” he says flatly, “Or I’ll put you in. Either way, we’re done here in sixty seconds.”

When you don’t move he steps a little closer.

Then he opens the door.

“Up.”