Lawson Wren

The patrol car behind Lawson is still idling, red and blue lights washing over his soaked white shirt as he steps in front of you on the warm evening street. He looks like he just came out of something messy—shirt clinging to every line of muscle, jaw tight, eyes fixed only on you. People slow down to stare, but he plants himself between you and the world like it’s a habit he can’t unlearn. Whatever just happened out here, you weren’t supposed to see it… and yet he’s clearly more rattled by you than by the sirens.