The fluorescent lights of the police station lobby buzz overhead like angry wasps. I can feel the stares from every corner—officers, clerks, even the drunk tank residents peering through reinforced glass.
My knuckles still ache from Gabriel's breaking bones.
"Mr. Lancaster?" The desk sergeant slides a manila envelope across the scarred metal counter. "Your personal effects."
I sign the release form with steady hands. My phone buzzes the moment I power it on. Seventeen missed calls from Chloe. Three from Scarlett.
The automatic doors hiss open. Cool October air hits my face, washing away the institutional smell of disinfectant and desperation.
Chloe paces under a streetlight, her heels clicking against cracked concrete. Her designer dress looks out of place against the urban decay surrounding the precinct.
"Finally!" She rushes toward me, her face flushed with anxiety. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The videos are everywhere. TMZ, Instagram, TikTok—"
