"What are you doing?"
"Checking detainee, sir. Making sure he wasn't a danger to himself."
Troy narrows eyes.
"I didn't tell you to do that."
"Protocol, sir. Welfare checks every 15 minutes."
Troy can't argue. Protocol.
"Fine. Get out."
Jerome walks to the door. Pauses. Looks back. Eyes meet. One second. Silent communication.
Jerome nods slightly. I understand.
Branson blinks slowly. Get ready.
Jerome leaves, closes the door, stands in the hallway, hands shaking. First time in 9 months. Hope inside.
Troy sits across from Branson.
"Your friend Garrett seems concerned."
Silence.
"He's a good cop. Follows orders. Doesn't make trouble. Smart."
Troy leans back.
"Unlike you."
Checks watch. 11:12 a.m. 48 minutes until the ceremony.
"Chief Branson Callaway taking over."
Says name slowly. Branson Callaway. Pauses. Looks at Branson. Something flickers. The name. Same first name. Dismisses it. Coincidence. Branson is common.
"Know what I heard? The new chief is an outsider. FBI guy. Internal affairs coming to clean the house."
Troy laughs.
"He'll quit in 6 months like the last two. The system doesn't change. Too many people with power. Too much history."
Branson's voice is quiet.
"You sound confident."
"I am. My family built this department. Three generations. Grandfather, father, me. We know how things work."
"And how do things work, Sergeant?"
Troy stands. Walks to the door. Hand on handle.
"We protect our own. Don't let outsiders tell us what to do. Don't let people like you disrespect us."
Branson's voice is calm.
"I hope you enjoy the ceremony, Sergeant."
Troy frowns.
"What?"
"The ceremony at noon. Hope it's memorable."
Troy stares, suspicious.
"Why would you care?"
Branson just looks, a slight smile.
Troy's unease grows. Something about this guy. The way he talks, stays calm.
Troy shakes it off.
"Whatever. Sit tight."
Walks out. Slams door. Lock clicks.
Jerome waits in the hallway. Sees Troy leave.
Troy stops. Looks at Jerome.
"You got ceremony duty?"
"Yes, sir. Noon. City Hall."
"Good. We'll go together. I'll drive."
Jerome's stomach drops. He hoped to stay. Be ready when Branson needs him. Can't refuse.
"Yes, sir."
They walk toward the parking lot.
Jerome glances back at the station building. Branson is there alone but not helpless. Jerome knows that now.
11:22 a.m. 38 minutes until the ceremony.
38 minutes until Troy's world collapses.
Inside the interrogation room, Branson sits in darkness. Spotlight off now. Troy turned it off before leaving. Hands still zip tied, arms aching, but his mind is sharp, focused.
He looks at the camera. Red light is steady, recording everything. Every word Troy said, every threat, every illegal action, all documented.
Branson closes his eyes. Breathes steady.
38 minutes. Then everyone knows.
11:25 a.m. Troy returns to the interrogation room, carries coffee for himself. Nothing for Branson. Power move.
Sits across the table, sips slowly, eyes on Branson.
"Okay, Mr. Callaway, let's talk for real now. You didn't come here to report a broken window. I know it. So, tell me, what were you really doing?"
Branson keeps his voice steady.
"I told you my car was vandalized."
Troy sets the coffee down, leans forward.
"Honda Civic 2015, worth maybe $8,000. The window costs $200. You drove 30 minutes here for a $200 window."
"That's my right."
Troy smirks.
"Right. Let me check something."
Opens laptop. Types "Branson Callaway" into the database.
Screen loads. No criminal record. No warrants. No priors.
Troy frowns. Too clean. Suspicious.
Searches deeper. DMV records. Credit check. Address: middle-class Atlanta suburb. Occupation: consultant. Credit score 780. No debt.
Troy looks up.
"Consultant? What kind?"
"Business process optimization."
"Fancy." Mocking. "But you drive an old Civic. Wear cheap clothes. Doesn't match."
Silence.
Troy stands, circles the table. Intimidation.
"I can keep you here for 48 hours without charging you. Say you were uncooperative. Suspicious. The judge believes me, not you. You'll miss work, appointments. Got a family?"
"No."
Troy stops.
"Loner. More suspicious."
Sits back down. Leans close.
"Last time. Why are you here?"
Branson pauses. Slight surrender.
"Okay. Truth."
Troy's eyes light up. Listening.
"I'm looking for work. Heard Atlanta PD hires civilian consultants. I wanted to see the station first."
Troy leans back.
"That's your story. You came to look around?"
"I didn't know the dress code. I apologize."
Branson shrugs.
"Check the website. Job postings for consultants."
Troy checks. Opens Atlanta PD website. Job posting section. Civilian consultant positions listed.
Troy's confidence wavers. There are postings.
"Did you apply?"
"Not yet. I wanted to see the environment first."
Troy stares, trying to read him. Maybe he's telling the truth.
Checks watch. 11:38 a.m. 22 minutes until the ceremony.
Stands.
"All right, I believe you this time."
Walks behind Branson. Cuts the zip tie. Plastic falls.
Branson pulls hands forward. Rubs wrists. Red marks deep.
Troy sees them.
"I don't care."
"You're free, but don't come back. Apply online."
Branson stands slowly.
"Thank you."
Troy leads him out, down the hallway, back to the lobby.
Jerome near the exit sees Branson walking free. Eyes meet briefly.
Branson nods slightly. Not yet. Soon.
Jerome understands.
At the front desk, Philip hands over the backpack.
"Don't come back," Philip mutters.
Branson takes it, checks inside. Everything there. Laptop, phone, wallet, ring safe inside.
Walks toward exit. Stops at door. Turns back.
"Sergeant Brener."
Troy turns.
"What?"
Branson is calm. Slight smile.
"I'll see you again very soon."
Troy frowns.
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing. Have a good day."
Pushes through the door. Steps outside.
Troy watches. Uneasy feeling.
Philip approaches.
"What did he say?"
"Said he'll see me soon. Think he's planning something?"
Troy shakes head.
"Nah, weird guy. Probably unstable."
Unease lingers.
Checks watch. 11:42 a.m. 18 minutes until the ceremony.
"Garrett, we need to go."
Jerome follows to the parking lot. Climbs into Troy's truck.
Engine starts. Troy pulls onto the street. Heading to city hall. Two blocks ahead.
Jerome is silent. Body cam secured. Waiting.
Outside the station. Branson walks one block. Turns into an alley. FBI van waiting.
Door slides open. Branson climbs in.
Agent 5 looks up.
"Chief, you okay?"
Branson rubs wrists.
"Fine. A little sore. Worth it. We got everything. Assault, false arrest, intimidation."
Branson looks at 12 monitors. Footage from eight cameras. Four agents.
Screen one: Philip spitting.
Screen two: Troy shoving.
Screen three: zip tie too tight.
Screen four: Rachel filming fake video.
All recorded. Timestamped.
Branson smiles.
"More than enough."
Agent 5 hands him a suit. Black, pressed, white shirt, red tie, polished shoes.
"15 minutes, chief. Car ready."
Branson removes hoodie. Disguise off. Puts on suit. Transformation. Victim to authority. Powerless to powerful.
Looks in a small mirror. Invisible man to chief.
Agent 5 checks the watch.
"12 minutes. Should move."
Branson nods.
"Let's go."
Outside. Black SUV waits. Engine running.