The shattered glasses did not hide his fear.
Several response officers moved closer.
Isaiah raised both hands.
“He’s a child.”
“Step away from him.”
“No.”
“Sir.”
“No.”
The supervisor’s tone hardened.
“You need to move.”
Isaiah looked at Marcus.
Then back at the officers.
“If you take him, I go with him.”
“You are not in a position to negotiate.”
“I’m his father.”
The supervisor stared at him.
Then nodded toward two officers.
Isaiah was restrained.
Marcus screamed.
“Dad!”
“I’m here!”
They pulled them apart.
That was the first moment Isaiah truly lost control.
Not when his face hit the pavement.
Not when the baton rose.
When Marcus reached for him and could not reach far enough.
“Dad!”
“I’m right here!”
“Don’t let them take me!”
“I won’t leave you!”
But they did take him.
Not far.
Just into another vehicle.
Still too far.
The crowd became louder.
Witnesses were demanding names.
Asking questions.
Showing phones.
That was when the supervisor gave an order Isaiah would remember forever.
“Collect every recording.”
The crowd reacted.
“What?”
“You can’t take my phone.”
“I recorded the whole thing.”
The supervisor repeated:
“All footage is evidence.”
Isaiah watched through the vehicle window as officers moved into the crowd.
Some people surrendered phones reluctantly.
Others refused.
One man tried to upload his recording.
An officer grabbed the device.
A woman shouted that her phone belonged to her business.
Nobody cared.
Vance stood near his cruiser, speaking quietly with another supervisor.
Every few seconds, he looked toward Isaiah.
The confidence was returning to his face.
They were erasing the witnesses.
Isaiah understood.
If the recordings disappeared, the remaining physical evidence was a melted baton.
A powerful child.
An injured officer.
And a father with no institutional credibility against an official report.
Marcus would be labeled dangerous.
Isaiah would be blamed for hiding him.
Their lives would disappear inside procedures nobody outside could see.
Isaiah pressed his forehead against the reinforced window.
Think.
He had taught Marcus control because panic made heat unpredictable.
Now Isaiah had to follow his own rule.
Observe first.
React second.
Across the street, Alvarez Market sat almost empty because everyone had moved outside.
The faded green awning moved slightly in the wind.
Isaiah’s eyes followed it.
Then stopped.
A small black dome sat underneath the corner.
Security camera.
He knew the store owner, Tomas Alvarez, hated replacing technology. The camera had probably been there fifteen years.
Old equipment.
Local storage.
Not connected to the city network.
Isaiah looked at its angle.
Directly toward the curb.
Directly toward Vance’s cruiser.
Directly toward where Isaiah had fallen.
His heartbeat changed.
There was still evidence.
And Vance did not know.
Isaiah forced himself not to look at the camera again.
That was critical.
If anyone saw him staring, they might follow his eyes.
Instead, he leaned back and closed them.
For the first time since the incident began, he allowed himself one thought.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
They had not lost yet.
Isaiah and Marcus were transported to the Central District Processing Center.
They were separated immediately.
Isaiah demanded a lawyer.
No response.
He demanded to know where his son was.
No response.
He demanded medical care for his shoulder.
That request finally received attention because the swelling was obvious.
A nurse examined him.
“Possible dislocation.”
“Where is my son?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s ten.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
The nurse stopped.
Isaiah softened his voice.
“Please.”
She looked toward the door.
“I heard they took him to pediatric evaluation.”
“Is he hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
That was something.
Not enough.
But something.
Hours passed.
Isaiah sat alone in an interview room.
Eventually two investigators entered.
One placed a tablet on the table.
“Mr. Cole, we need to discuss your son.”
Isaiah said nothing.
“You understand Marcus is unregistered.”
Still nothing.
“That creates serious problems.”
“My lawyer.”
“We’re trying to help.”
“My lawyer.”
The investigator sighed.
“Did you instruct Marcus to attack Officer Vance?”
“No.”
“Did you know he could generate directed thermal energy?”
“My lawyer.”
“Mr. Cole.”
Isaiah leaned forward.
“You are asking me questions while my ten-year-old son is being held somewhere in this building.”
“Yes.”
“You won’t tell me where he is.”
“He’s safe.”
“You won’t let me see him.”
“Not yet.”
“You won’t show me the evidence you claim supports these accusations.”
“We have an officer’s statement.”
Isaiah almost laughed.
“That is not evidence of sequence.”
The investigator’s expression changed.
“Sequence?”
“Yes.”
“What happened first.”
“We know what happened.”
“No.”
Isaiah leaned back.
“You know what Vance told you.”
The investigator studied him.
Isaiah saw uncertainty.
Small.
But present.
“Is there something we’re missing?”
Isaiah thought of the camera.
He said nothing.
Not yet.
He needed to know whether they already had it.
“Do you have footage?”
The investigator did not answer.
That answered everything.
No.
They did not.
Isaiah smiled faintly.
The investigator noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
At eleven that night, attorney Maya Benton entered the room.
Isaiah almost stood too quickly.
Pain shot through his shoulder.
“Marcus?”
“Alive. Frightened. Physically okay.”
Isaiah exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours.
“Have you seen him?”
“Yes.”
“Did they hurt him?”
“No.”
Maya sat.
“They’re trying to classify the incident as an unprovoked thermal assault.”
Isaiah laughed bitterly.
“Of course they are.”
“They say Vance approached you for a lawful inquiry, you became combative, and Marcus attacked when the officer tried to restrain you.”
“That is completely false.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Three witnesses called me.”
Isaiah stared.
“They kept copies?”
“Not exactly.”
Maya leaned closer.
“One woman’s video uploaded automatically before her phone was seized.”
Isaiah felt hope rise.
“Do you have it?”
“Partial.”
“How partial?”
“Starts after you’re already on the ground.”
His hope fell.
It showed Vance with the baton.
It showed Marcus warning him.
But not the beginning.
The city could still claim Isaiah had attacked first.
The first minute mattered most.
Isaiah looked at Maya.
“There’s another camera.”
She became still.
“Where?”
“Alvarez Market. Green awning. Southwest corner.”
“Did anyone else notice it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Does the city know?”
“No.”
Maya stood immediately.
“Then we don’t call them.”
Isaiah looked up.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting there before somebody else remembers it exists.”
Tomas Alvarez had owned the market for twenty-three years.
At 11:42 p.m., Maya knocked on the locked glass door.
Tomas appeared holding a mop.
He recognized her from a message Isaiah had once sent during a neighborhood dispute.
“What happened?”
“Camera footage.”
His expression changed.