The fluorescent lights of the 43rd Precinct flickered with a rhythmic, sickly yellow hum, casting long, harsh shadows across the scuffed linoleum floor. It was 2:15 AM, and the ambient noise of ringing phones and muffled shouting created a chaotic symphony. Officer David Miller—a heavily built man in his early thirties with a military buzz cut and an aggressive, jutting jawline—shoved his suspect through the heavy double doors.
The suspect, Marcus Vance, was a study in contrast. In his late forties, with sharp features and an immaculately tailored, though now slightly dusty, charcoal suit, Vance did not look like a typical midnight arrest. He moved with a calculated, infuriating calmness. Miller had pulled him over for a broken taillight, but Vance’s refusal to answer questions or exit the vehicle immediately had escalated into a physical extraction.
"Keep moving," Miller barked, his hand gripping the collar of Vance’s expensive jacket.
Vance didn't struggle. His eyes, dark and analytical, swept the precinct, noting the placement of every security camera—the one above the booking desk, the one angled toward the holding cells, and the dome camera directly above them.
"Officer Miller," Vance said, his voice smooth and devoid of panic. "I highly recommend you check my inner left breast pocket before you proceed any further. You are making a critical error in your timeline."