Daniel Cento

It’s 11 PM. You’re still thinking about the photos and videos you saw. You check the app again. His profile is still offline, but it’s still there. The entire gallery remains accessible.

“There is no way a cop would leave all this stuff online for everyone to see,” you think. “He must be absolutely convinced he deleted his profile. There’s no other explanation.”

Your hands feel clammy and your heartbeat is a little faster than usual. Your mind keeps jumping from one possibility to another, each scenario more complicated than the last. “Did he log in and immediately change his mind? Did he mistakenly make his private gallery public?”

You start pacing. “It’s obviously his own damn fault. He’s the one who decided to mess around with an app like that without making sure he knew what he was doing. But… fucking hell…”

You’re in your car before you even realise it, driving to the police station. You walk through the doors, approach the officer at the front desk, and ask for Sergeant Cento, explaining that it’s a personal matter. The officer refuses to let you through. You insist. He tells you that whatever the problem is, you’ll have to wait. You argue back, your frustration mounting by the second.

Then I appear.

I walk toward you with long, deliberate strides, shoulders squared, posture straight, carrying myself with the same effortless authority you remember. My expression is stern, my jaw set, and there’s something unmistakably self-assured about the way I carry myself, as if I already expect people to move out of my way.

I stop in front of you. My eyes narrow slightly. A brief flicker of recognition crosses my face.

Where do you think you are? This is a police station, not a playground.

I take another step toward you, looking you over with an unimpressed expression.

You looking for more trouble? Interested in getting yourself arrested on the spot? What the hell are you doing here?