The cops gave me that look—the kind that said 'What the hell were you thinking?'
I just told them the truth.
There was a guy getting his lungs deflated.
Didn't know why it. Just that I couldn't walk past it.
Apparently, that explanation doesn't earn you a pat on the back.
Unlike my first 'fight' with Flash back at school—this time, I didn't get to scoot out with just a slap on the wrist.
Maybe it was the hour.
Maybe it was the fact the brute looked more worn-out than me.
Either way…
Here I am.
At the station.
Telling out my part of the story. Again. This time written. With a pen that worked only half the time.
And what are the chances—Officer Stacy was on shift.
He spotted me from across the station, his face unreadable for a beat… then it settled into a tight-lipped scowl of "not this kid again."
I just give him an awkward semi-friendly smile.
Officer Stacy stepped up, set a firm hand on my shoulder—just enough pressure to feel like a warning, not a gesture of comfort.
"Taylor. Zavala." he calmly but firmly told the two officers flanking me. "I'll take it from here. Go grab some coffee or pretend you're working."
They didn't argue. Just gave me a look that said 'good luck, kid'. Great.
"Let's go" he said, and started walking.
No cuffs, no yelling. Just that quiet authority that said sit down and shut up before you make this worse.
I followed him to his desk, already bracing for the lecture that was definitely loading in his lungs.
---
Now I'm sitting across from him in a chair that creaks if you even think about moving. The thing's probably been here since before Captain America.
Officer Stacy smelled like clean laundry and faint baby powder—subtle, but unmistakable. Beneath it, maybe a trace of his wife's floral perfume clung to his uniform, the kind of scent that lingered from a hug goodbye.
Stacy's got my scribbled testimony in hand, reading it for what has to be the third time. Maybe fourth.
The silence drags. His eyes flick between me and the paper, jaw working like he's chewing gravel.
Finally, he sets it down with a sigh and looks at me.
"You've got a talent for showing up in the worst places at the worst times" he gruffed.
"I... you could say that. Yeah."
"That guy you beat up? Fractured rib."
"Yeah, well... He was using that rib to beat another guy."
"Was he armed?"
"If you count his fatty fists. Then yeah."
He leaned back, arms crossed, giving me that tired cop stare like he's seen this movie too many times and already knows the ending. "Ever consider just calling 911? Let the professionals do their job?"
"I did. Just thought I'd keep the guy alive until you all got there. It's not like I wanted to fight."
"But you did anyway."
"I... Yeah. Obviously." I paused. "Didn't feel like watching a man die."
He sighed again, longer this time. "Warren… I don't need to pull your file to know the kind of stunts you pull. The fire, the alley before that, now this." He leaned forward, his voice quieter but harder. "Keep playing hero like this, someone's gonna wind up in a morgue. Maybe even you."
I bit down on the inside of my cheek. "So I should've just walked away?"
"You should've called it in and stayed out of it."
I slammed my fist against the arm of the chair. Not hard enough to break it, but loud enough to make the desk creak.
"He was getting stomped. Could barely breathe."
The anger flared, sharp and sudden, but just as quick, I reeled it back in. Exhaled through my nose. Lowered my voice.
"Sorry. That was… my bad."
I knew he was just doing his job. And somewhere beneath the stern glare and badge, I knew he gave a damn.
In a weird strict-dad kind of way.
I'll-ground-you-because-I-care kind of way.
But still. Would it kill him to not treat me like some brain-dead delinquent?
He stared at me. Long. Quiet. A few seconds longer and I might've apologized again—just to break the tension.
He just said flatly. "You're not a cop. You're a teenager with a hospital bill and a death wish."
I met his eyes without blinking. My fist curled under the desk, nails pressing into my palm.
"What would you have done?"
He paused—just for a second—but it was enough.
Then, he broke eye contact, looking down at my statement. "We'll file it under defense of another," he muttered, pushing the paper back across the desk. "No charges. Not today. But if there's a next time, you won't be so lucky. Is that clear, Warren?"
"...Clear as water, Officer Stacy. Thanks." I said, rising to my feet.
He stood too, grabbing his coat. "Come on. I'll drive you home."
"uh... No thanks? I can walk."
"I'm sure you can. But I'm still driving."
I didn't have a comeback for that.
Not one that didn't sound petty, anyway.
So I huffed a breath through my nose, somewhere between annoyed and grateful. No point arguing.
And followed him out into the night.
---
And just like that, I was in the passenger seat of a squad car, watching the city blur by in streaks of orange and white.
For a while, neither of us said anything. The silence wasn't awkward… just heavy. Like there was a third passenger riding with us—quiet, but loud in the way that silence gets when you've got thoughts clawing around your head.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of me.
"You got kids?"
He didn't answer right away. Just glanced at me, quick and unreadable, before turning down a side street.
"Yeah."
"Cool." I said quietly. "Figured. You had that dad vibe."
I hesitated. "How many—?"
"Don't." he cut in, firm but not angry. "Don't dig into my personal life, kid."
I leaned back, a little stung at that, looking out the window again. "...Alright. I was just makin' conversation."
He didn't reply right away. Then, softer than before. "Four. Three boys, One girl. She's the oldest."
I looked at him again.
Not because he said it harshly—he didn't.
Neither did he say it like he was bragging. Just stating a fact. But it landed different.
Suddenly, this wasn't just some cop driving me home like a neighborhood screw-up.
This was a tired dad, driving another kid who maybe reminded him too much of his own.
"Cool." A small silence between the two of us. So I decided to break it again. "Also, I think I already met your daughter. Gwen, right?"
He shot me a look. Not angry, but sharp. The kind of look that said 'careful where you're steering, kid'.
"…Yeah." he said eventually. "That's her."
"Uh—hey, I didn't mean anything by it. Met her on an Oscorp field trip. Heard from a friend she got an internship there, so I figured she's smart and all that. She's cool. That's all."
His hands stayed steady on the wheel, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—maybe a smile, maybe a warning.
"She is. And she doesn't need people like you hovering around."
That got a dry chuckle out of me. "Relax, officer. I'm not hovering. Just... breathing in the same general area."
"Try breathing somewhere else."
"Noted."
Didn't say anything else after that.
Didn't need to.
---
We finally pulled up to my house. I caught the flicker in his eyes—just a flash of surprise before he masked it behind that usual tight-lipped cop face.
Maybe he thought I lived in a junkyard, or under a bridge. Something about this quiet, too-big house didn't match the kid he had to drag out of trouble.
"That's where you live?" he muttered. "Huh. No wonder. Parents must've spoiled you."
I gave him a half-hearted laugh. "Eheh... not exactly."
He glanced at me, reading more than I wanted to give.
I opened the door and stepped out. "Anyway. Thanks for the ride, Officer Stacy."
I gave a small wave—not mocking, just… casual.
"Stay out of trouble, Warren" He said. Not as a threat. Not even as a lecture. Just something close to concern or... care.
Then he drove away, headlights cutting through the dark as the engine faded down the street.
---
I sighed and opened the front door.
The usual silence greeted me—familiar, heavy, but never comforting.
I limped through the living room, every step dragging more than the last. Somehow, the moment I crossed the main door, all the weight I'd been holding off came crashing down.
"I've been waiting for you, brat."
The voice was rough, gravelly—like someone who chewed nails for breakfast and washed it down with whiskey. It came from behind me.
I froze. "Who—?"
I barely had time to turn before something hit me. Hard.
THUD.
Everything spun. The floor rushed up. Then—
Darkness.
_______________________________________
Word count: 1.517
Hey there, dear readers.
I'm back!
Well, sort of. I'm enjoying this sudden motivation rush I got.
What do y'all think? Is the dialogue good enough?
What about the relationships between Wade and the others characters?
Are some characters out of character...?
Please comment it. Or leave a review.
I'll be reading you all.
And thank you tons for all the support.
Sincerely, Author.