Chapter Two: Between Right and Law

The room is silent, lit by a single flickering fluorescent overhead. A metal table sits in the center. One chair occupied. The other, empty—waiting.

Danny Vega, 23, jittery, sits with a busted lip and one eye already swelling. His hands are cuffed in front of him, picking at a raw spot on his thumb. He tries to sit tall, to look tough, but his leg bounces with nervous energy.

The heavy door creaks open.

DI Reyes enters. Calm. Controlled.

No badge on a chain. No suit. Just a worn brown leather jacket over a white shirt, dark jeans, and boots that have seen too many alleys. But the most striking thing about him is his piercing grey eyes—cool, unreadable, sharp as razors.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t speak. No need for theatrics—his silence is the threat.

He pulls out the chair across from Danny, sits, and drops a manila folder onto the table with a deliberate thud. The sound makes Danny flinch. Reyes stares at him for a long moment before finally speaking.

“You know what I really hate, Danny?”

Danny eyes him warily and swallows hard but says nothing.

“I hate when someone takes what doesn’t belong to them. But more than that?” Reyes’ voice is low, calm—almost too calm. “I hate cowards who hurt people just to make a quick buck.”

He opens the folder and fans out photos—close-ups of bruised faces, blood on pavement, torn handbags. One photo shows a child’s backpack, spattered with blood.

Danny looks away, even more nervous now.

Reyes snaps, “You kicked an old woman who walks with a cane in the chest. You stomped a guy who was already on the ground. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Danny looks down and shakes his head. “I didn’t—”

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Danny flinches, eyes darting up.

Reyes raises his voice. “You kicked a seventy-two-year-old woman!”

Danny tries to defend himself, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to!”

Reyes leans in, mocking. “You meant to get away. And you didn’t care who you hurt doing it.”

Those grey eyes lock on him like a predator sizing up a cornered animal.

Then Reyes sits back, his tone lowering again. “You know what you should be afraid of, Danny? You should fear what happens if I walk out of this room without the truth.”

Danny stays silent, still picking at his thumb until it bleeds—a clear sign of how close to breaking he is.

Reyes continues, quiet but firm. “You think I’m the scary part, Danny? You think I’m the one you should be afraid of?” He takes a breath. “You think the others won’t sell you out the second they smell a deal?”

Sweat forms on Danny’s forehead. He looks like he might be sick.

“You’re not the only one we’ve got in custody. You think your friends won’t flip? Think they won’t hand you over to save themselves?”

Reyes rests his elbow on the table. “Tell me where the stash is. Give me the names. And maybe—maybe—you walk out of here with all your teeth.”

Danny opens his mouth, hesitates, then closes it again. He rubs his hands together. Reyes watches him silently, his face unreadable.

A long beat.

But Reyes is a patient man.

Danny’s eyes flick to the photos. Then to Reyes. Then—he breaks.

“Alright… alright. It wasn’t all me. I didn’t hurt anybody on purpose. It was—it was Marco. He’s the one who planned it. The stash is in his cousin’s garage, out in Old Chapel Row.”

Reyes watches him for a moment, then nods slowly. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He gathers the photos methodically, stands, and heads for the door—cool, casual, confident.

…

The hallway is dim. Concrete walls. Echoes of distant phones ringing. It’s late. Empty. Quiet.

DI Reyes walks with Marcos León, mid-20s, in cuffs. Marcos has a smirk on his face despite the bruises already forming on his jaw. His lip is split from the arrest, but he doesn’t care.

“C’mon, man. What’s the big deal? It was just a purse. Lady shouldn’t’ve been out that late anyway.”

Reyes takes a slow breath, trying to stay calm. Marcos keeps going. “You should’ve seen her face, man. Screaming like a little bitch. Didn’t even try to hold on. Old people are useless.”

Reyes stops walking. Marcos bumps into him.

Still grinning, Marcos says, “What? You got a grandma like that?”

Reyes turns—and hits him.

A sharp elbow to the ribs. Efficient. Marcos gasps. Before he can recover, Reyes slams him against the wall. The cuffs rattle.

Marcos, winded, still tries to provoke him. “Not my fault she was slow.”

That’s it.

Two punches to the gut. Marcos wheezes. Reyes grabs his shirt, hauls him forward—and headbutts him. Crunch. Blood.

Marcos collapses, barely staying upright.

Reyes doesn’t let go. “You think this is funny? Hurting people makes you strong?”

He drives a knee into Marcos’ thigh—hard. Marcos groans. Reyes pins him to the wall and lands three short, punishing shots to the ribs.

Each one precise. Each one disgusted.

Quietly, through gritted teeth: “You don’t get to laugh about what you did.”

Footsteps echo down the corridor. Someone’s coming.

Reyes steps back. Breathing hard. Face composed—just enough.

Officer Lenny turns the corner. “…Everything okay?”

Reyes glances down at the bleeding, slumped man.

“He fell.”

Lenny looks at him, then at Marcos. He nods. “Long hallway. Slippery floor.”

Reyes says nothing. Just grabs the cuffs and keeps walking.

…

Rain taps against the window. The blinds slash the room with lines of light and shadow. A city map and dusty commendation plaque hang on the wall.

Captain Vernon, late 50s, stern but not heartless, sits behind his desk. DI Reyes stands in front of him, hands in jacket pockets.

Vernon clicks a remote. A monitor lights up.

Grainy black-and-white footage: Reyes slamming Marcos against the wall. Punches. Blood. No sound. Just violence.

He turns it off. “You forget there are cameras in that hallway?”

Reyes says nothing.

“You think I enjoy seeing this crap on my desk?” Vernon leans forward. “You’re good, Reyes. One of the best I’ve got. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy cleaning up your messes.”

Still, Reyes says nothing.

“You want to keep that badge? Learn when to stop.”

A long silence. Rain grows harder outside.

Vernon softens—just a little. “I like you, Jax. You’ve got a spine, and this place’s got too many that don’t. But you do something like that again, I can’t shield you. No matter how much I want to.”

Reyes nods. “Won’t happen again.”

Vernon studies him. Tries to believe it. “Go home. Ice your hand. And next time a punk runs his mouth—walk away.”

Reyes turns to go. Stops at the door. “He knocked an old woman flat. Left her in the street like garbage.”

Vernon’s voice softens. “Yeah. And now he’s got a case, a court date, and a lawyer. That’s how this works—broken as it is.” He sighs. “You don’t fix the world with your fists, Reyes. You just bleed with it.”

Reyes nods. Leaves.

Vernon stays seated, rubbing his eyes—not out of defeat, but the kind of worry that comes from caring too much.

He won’t say it, but Reyes is the closest thing he has to a son in this place. And like any father, he just wants him to make it out whole.

…

He parks at the Marrowood Psychiatric Center, tucked into the overgrown northern edge of Duskville, surrounded by thick trees and white wooden fences.

Inside, it’s quiet. Muted lighting. Pale green walls. The sharp scent of antiseptic softened only by a faint trace of lavender.

Jax Reyes walks down the corridor, hoodie sleeves hiding his bruised hand. His expression is unreadable. Composed. Cold. Always.

Room 212. He knocks gently, then enters.

Inside: a small, neat room. Artificial flowers on the nightstand. A soft hum of classical music.

By the window, Margarite Reyes, 61, frail but bright-eyed, stares out at a garden she never steps into. She turns. Her face lights up. “Jax.”

“Hey, Ma.” He leans down, kisses her forehead.

She reaches for his hand—the injured one. Her smile falters. “You’ve been fighting again.”

He says nothing for a moment, then sits beside her.

“Some punk knocked down an old woman for her purse. Thought it was funny.” He meets her eyes. “I just reminded him it wasn’t.”

She watches him with that quiet, understanding calm only a mother can give.

Her smile returns. A little stronger. “You always did hate bullies.”

“Someone had to teach him some respect. The kind he never learned.”

“Still protecting the ones the world turns its back on.”

He shrugs. “Old habits.”

A breeze pushes the curtain beside her. She gently cradles his bruised hand in hers. Like she used to when he was a boy full of scraped knuckles and too much anger.

She whispers, “You’re a good man, Jax. Even if the world makes you forget sometimes.”

He doesn’t reply. Just nods. And for a moment, the hardness in his eyes fades.

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